Mistress

He nods with pride. “Yeah, I got a nice, tight shot of that kiss. That was no friends’ kiss, either.”

He pulls a copy of that photo out of his bag. He showed it to me on his camera last night, but it’s the first time I’ve seen a printout of the photo.

A close-up photo of Anne Brennan, sitting inside the black sedan, planting a passionate, urgent kiss on Diana Hotchkiss.

He’s right-it’s no kiss between friends. It’s a kiss of two women who desperately miss each other. A kiss of two women in love.

Oh, Diana. I guess you’ll never stop surprising me.

The photo is enough of a close-up that you can’t see a whole lot more than their faces, but I saw a flash of orange when I peeked into the car last night, and Sean’s photo shows a bit of Diana’s clothing as well. And what seals the deal is the glint of steel on her wrist as her hand tenderly caresses Anne’s face during the kiss.

Diana was in handcuffs and an orange prison jumpsuit.

Diana wasn’t a spy working for the United States. Diana was a traitor. She secretly recorded a sexual romp with the First Lady and was selling it to the highest bidder. My guess is she was working with the Russians initially, but then got greedy and invited the Chinese in, too. Or maybe she was working with both all along, but didn’t tell one about the other. Who knows?

The details don’t really matter. What matters now is that I have to deal with it, and if I don’t do it right, I’ll either go to prison for life or be fitted for a coffin.

“What do you need from me now?” Sean asks.

I snap out of my funk. “I just want you to make that phone call.”

“Nothing else?”

“Only this and nothing more,” I say.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near the National Mall today, Sean. If this doesn’t work out, I’m either dead or under arrest. And you’ll be charged as an accessory.”

He makes a face. Telling him to stay away from excitement is like telling Kim Kardashian to stay away from a camera.

“All you’ve done so far is investigate the disappearance of Nina Jacobs,” I say. “Nobody can prosecute you for that. If you help me now, you could spend the rest of your life in prison. Or get killed in the crossfire.”

I walk over to the door and open it. Enough innocent people have died. If I’m next, so be it. But not Sean.

“Go,” I say.

He finally relents. As he passes me on his way out, he flicks the back of his wrist against my chest. “Hey,” he says.

“I know,” I respond. “Don’t get dead.”

Chapter 101

This ends here.

I always wanted to say something dramatic like that. But guess what? When it’s really happening, it ain’t so fun.

The sky is a sheet of powder blue this afternoon, bright and serene. I’m dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt I purchased earlier today. My forehead is greasy with sweat, and my shirt is stuck to my chest.

The crowd on the National Mall is swollen today. Could be that it’s nearing the end of summer and people are getting in their vacations before school starts in September.

Or maybe there are more “tourists” than usual because some of them aren’t tourists at all. I don’t kid myself. There are probably dozens of them stationed throughout the Mall, standing at the various memorials, watching my every move, communicating with one another, ready to pull the trigger the moment they see a simple hand gesture or hear a signal uttered into a mouthpiece. I probably have twenty targets on my chest.

And I’m making it easy. I’m standing still, about twenty yards from the Lincoln Memorial, looking over the Mall. This is my favorite place in the capital-it’s an inspiration, a tribute to the courage that so many people exhibited in defense of this country and of individual freedoms. This might be the last time I ever see it.

I walk up to the memorial. But I don’t see Honest Abe today. A blue tarp has been pulled down over his statue, along with a sign apologizing for the repair work that needs to be done and promising to have the memorial ready soon. It will be a disappointment to sightseers, but there are plenty of other things to see around here.

So I sit alone, halfway up the stairs of the memorial, looking over the reflecting pool and the Washington Monument while parents corral children and snap photos, while sightseers move from one memorial honoring heroic people to another.

Once upon a midday humid, while I pondered weak and stupid

Over motives of these gentlemen so adversarial,

I sat quietly frustrated as I nervously awaited

For a visitor to meet me at this grand memorial,

An inquisitor to greet me at this proud memorial-

Only this, and nothing more.

Well, a little more than that. The caller I’m awaiting, over whom I’m ruminating, has been long deliberating how to put me at death’s door. So after careful preparation, I’ll assess the situation, and I’ll pray my presentation leads to peace and not to war.

“Hello, Mr. Kutuzov,” I say to the smartly dressed man climbing the stairs.

And if I’m wrong, I’m nothing more.

Chapter 102