Mistress

“I’ve got something,” he says. “You were right, Ben. I checked Nina’s e-mail account first thing when I started this job, but I didn’t conduct a forensic examination. It turns out there are a couple of e-mails that were erased by a hacker.”

“E-mails they didn’t want anyone to see.”

“E-mails they didn’t want anyone to see.”

“And those e-mails are good?” I ask.

“Those e-mails are good.”

This guy’s repeating everything I say. Is Aaron Sorkin scripting this?

“When can we meet?” he asks.

Well, let’s see. I’ve got a manicure later today, then I was going to take in a show; tomorrow I have Pilates, and then I’m meeting some friends for brunch, and I’ve been meaning to organize my sock drawer…

“When can we meet?” I say, exasperated. “How about right freakin’ now, Sean!”

We make our arrangements. I’d rather not say what they are. I’m superstitious like that. In the movies, whenever the actors spell out for you what the plan is, you know the plan is going to fail or at least hit a serious road bump. If they just say to each other, Okay, here’s the plan, but then the scene fades out without telling you the details, you know the plan is going to succeed. Check it out sometime. I know of only one exception to this rule: in A Few Good Men,

Tom Cruise revealed that he was planning on coaxing Jack Nicholson into admitting he ordered the code red, and then the plan worked. (Coincidentally, that was an Aaron Sorkin script.)

Sorry, I’m starting to ramble again. It’s my nerves jangling about. Just when I thought I was on to something with the idea of the blackmail tape, just when I saw a way out, I’m back at square one, with Craig Carney all but laughing at me.

I jump on my bike and pedal down Connecticut Avenue, cognizant of the fact that the last time I went this way I nearly killed myself and smashed Jonathan Liu’s computer.

I stay to the right on Connecticut, as most of the cars on the road take the traffic tunnel. I reach Dupont Circle, which has an interior park area surrounded by a roundabout with several exits. In the park area inside the roundabout, people are lounging on the benches or catching a late lunch. I remember visiting Rome once and just sitting with a baguette and block of cheese and watching the kamikaze drivers merge from four lanes to one and honk at one another and narrowly avoid death. It was better than watching the Indy 500 on television.

One guy sitting in the park is staring intently into traffic and then looks at me and gets off the bench and keeps following me with his eyes. What the hell, buddy, you never saw someone ride a bike before?

The sound of the horn jolts me. Some asshole thinks he should be able to hang a right on Massachusetts without yielding to me, the cyclist. I hit the brakes hard and come to a stop. Before he executes his turn, the driver lowers his passenger window and curses at me, threatening to squash me like a bug.

Get in line, pal. There are entire governments that want me dead.

I look to my left, back at the park area. The guy who was watching traffic isn’t standing by the bench anymore. He’s moved to the sidewalk, closer to me.

And he’s looking right at me, peering at me. Like you’d stare at a guy you thought you recognized but couldn’t place.

His eyes widen. He’s placed me, all right.

He raises a radio to his mouth and shouts something out. I don’t recognize the language.

But it sure sounds like Russian.

Chapter 86

I don’t know what’s Russian for I found him! I found him! but whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that’s what this guy is screaming into his radio.

I start pedaling from a dead stop, following along Dupont Circle, on the run like Matt Damon in one of the Bourne movies, except he had a motorcycle. The guy is tracking me, staying on the park’s inner sidewalk but moving around its perimeter to see where I’m going to turn off. I pump my legs with every ounce of power I can muster, weaving between cars and drawing some objections from angry horns. I take the right on the roundabout at 19th Street and look back over my shoulder. The guy sees me, and he’s shouting into his radio and pointing in my direction, too.

I put my head down and pump those legs, maneuvering around a giant Pepsi truck and screaming at a couple crossing the street to get out of my way. Then I hear some shouting behind me and the sound of a car engine in full throttle. I glance behind me and see a black SUV closing the gap quickly. I have a head start, but I’m going maybe twenty miles an hour and the SUV’s doing about fifty and counting. This is not a fair fight. They have a car and automatic weapons. I have a bicycle and a winning personality.

In ten seconds, tops, they’ll reach me, and they’ll shoot me full of holes.

Matt Damon would figure out something. He’d ride the bicycle backward or jump in the car with the bad guys.