Mistress

“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.

Chapter 61

An hour later, I dial the cell number Craig Carney gave me.

“Hello, Mr. Casper,” he says when he picks up. “I’m here at the Washington Monument, as you can see. Where are you?”

Where am I? I’m among about five hundred people strolling the west side of the National Mall right now, looking at the many memorials. But he doesn’t need to know that. Like pretty much everyone else around here, I have a camera, only I’m not snapping pictures. I’m using it as I would a pair of binoculars, zooming in wherever I need to look, trying not to be too obvious.

“I want you to move to the other side of the monument, Mr. Deputy Director. Come around to the west side and face the Lincoln Memorial.”

“Okay, I’ll go around to the other side of the monument.”

I have a feeling he didn’t say that for my benefit. I think he’s trying to signal someone-FBI agents, CIA, Capitol Police, whatever-what he’s doing. He must be wearing a wire. That’s about as surprising as a hot day in August.

“You’re not waving the pennant, Mr. Carney. I told you to wave it.”

Okay, that wasn’t called for or necessary, but give me a break-I’m nervous here. I’m trying to convince myself I have the upper hand. This is high-stakes poker and I’ve never played anything but solitaire.

“Okay, are you happy now?”

“I’m just kidding. I don’t know if you’re waving the pennant or not. I’m not on the National Mall right now. Sorry about that. There’s been a change of plans.”

They say that a lot in movies, when there are ransom drops or other controlled meetings. There’s been a change of plans, delivered with much more bravado than I can muster right now, when I’m doing my damnedest to keep the tremor out of my voice. Hell, I’m trying not to piss my pants.

I say, “Go to the Foggy Bottom metro station and take the Orange Line to the Landover stop.”

“Landover? This is ridiculous.”

“Do it or become a national disgrace. The clock is ticking.”

I punch off the phone and listen to a tour guide tell me and a dozen other people what each of the pillars on the perimeter of the World War II Memorial represents. Interesting.

Even more interesting? What happens next. Due east, at the Washington Monument, Craig Carney is speaking into his collar. So that confirms he’s wired up, and he’s obviously telling his people that he’s on the move.