Mistress

Chapter 60

“Deputy Director Carney, please,” I say into a new prepaid cell phone I purchased an hour ago.

“May I say who’s calling, please?”

“His favorite reporter,” I answer. I take a breath and steel myself. You can do this, Ben. Act confident. Don’t act like you’re scared out of your mind. Keep the upper hand.

A moment later: “This is Craig Carney.”

“Hello, Mr. Deputy Director. It’s twenty-four hours later. You’ll recall I set a deadline.”

“I do recall that.”

“Did you read the article I e-mailed to your office?”

“I read a document that doesn’t remotely bear any relation to the truth, Mr. Casper.”

“Either way, I snap my fingers and it’s online, front and center, a pretty big headline. Should I snap my fingers, Mr. Deputy Director, or do you have something to tell me?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Will I like it?”

“I would if I were you, yes. But not over the phone. Come to my office.”

That’s about the least surprising thing he could have said.

“Your office? I don’t think so. Let me think a second.” I take a swig of the bottled water I’m holding. My mouth is dry as a sandbox. My heart is pounding so furiously that I can hardly hear myself speaking.

I take a couple of short breaths. The delay works for me, because he thinks I’m trying to come up with a place to meet. The truth is, I already have one.

“The Washington Monument,” I say. “One hour. Stand on the east side and face the Capitol. And Mr. Carney, this is just the two of us, right?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” I say, mimicking him. “If it’s more than the two of us, I snap my fingers. Know what I mean?”

Carney lets out a sigh. “It will be just the two of us, Mr. Casper.”

“Okay. See you there. Wear a Nationals cap.”

“Wear a what?”

“A Nationals baseball cap. So I know it’s you.”

“You’ll know it’s me.”

“Wear a Nationals cap and, come to think of it, have a Nationals pennant. Y’know, those things you wave?”

“Why do I need to do that?”

“Because I’m not going to appear until I see you. And from a distance, I won’t recognize you. So wear a Nationals baseball cap and be waving a pennant.”

“I don’t have either of those things.”

“You’re one of the most powerful men in the country, Mr. Carney. I’m confident you’ll make it happen. Do as I say, or in one hour, we publish the story. Oh, and I also set up a new e-mail address, under a fake name, of course, that is timed to send this article to the Post, the Times, and about ten other newspapers ninety minutes from now. Unless I stop it, of course.”

He doesn’t answer. Good. He’s letting me call the shots.

“One hour,” I say. “And give me your cell number.”

He does so. Then I hang up the phone. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, bend over at the waist, and vomit into a bush.