Mistress

“Your wife was having an affair with Diana Hotchkiss,” I blurt out. “Diana made a video of a sexual encounter with the First Lady and sold it to the Russians. They’re hanging it over your head so you’ll stand down while they invade Georgia and then every other former satellite, country by country, until they’ve rebuilt their Soviet empire.”

The president’s mouth opens and he steps back. His skin has gone pale, his eyes vacant.

That was my glimmer of hope. I can’t believe it never occurred to me before now.

The president didn’t know about any of this. He didn’t know about the video. He didn’t know the Russians were blackmailing the United States government.

“Craig,” he says. “What is he talking about?”

“Nothing,” says Carney. “This is preposterous.”

“If it’s preposterous,” I say, “then why did Carney lie to you about Diana Hotchkiss being dead? She’s alive, Mr. President. You eulogized her at the White House press briefing. I was there. But she’s not dead.”

“Diana?” The president looks at me, then at his CIA deputy director, his old, faithful friend. “Diana is…alive?”

“This is ridiculous, Mr. President,” says Carney.

“I’ll bet Carney was the one who told you she was dead,” I say to the president. “I’ll bet he was the one who asked you to mention her at the press conference. He wanted the Russians to think they had succeeded in killing her.”

The president’s eyes glaze over. He’s thinking back to that day. And he’s remembering it exactly as I’m saying. I can feel it.

“Mr. President, I can prove this. I have date-stamped photos of Diana from last night, handcuffed inside a government car. Even better, you can order a DNA test on the body in the morgue. That woman isn’t Diana Hotchkiss. It’s Nina Jacobs, of Downers Grove, Illinois. A DNA test will prove it. And I have e-mails that show that Diana set up this poor woman to be at her house at the time she was pushed off the balcony.”

“This man is a killer and a traitor, sir,” Carney says. “There’s no reason for you to listen to any of this. This man was trying to blackmail us. Now he’s trying to turn it around-”

“Is it true, Craig?” asks the president. “Is Diana still alive?”

“Mr. President-”

“Is. She. Alive?” The president’s face is changing colors.

Carney struggles to find words. But has no answer. He silently bows his head.

“It’s a…complicated situation,” he finally says.

“Christ almighty,” the president whispers. He runs a hand over his face. “Christ almighty. What have you done, Craig?”

“And I’ll bet it’s Craig Carney who’s been pushing you to lay low on the Russia-Georgia dispute,” I say quickly, not wanting to lose my momentum. “He’s cut a deal with the Russians behind your back, Mr. President. They think they’re blackmailing you, Mr. President, and you don’t even know it.”

“Mr. President,” Carney pleads.

“Mr. Carney,” says the president, his jaw clenched. “I want you to walk out of this room right now, stand out in the hallway, and talk to no one until I come out. Is that clear?”

For such a bright guy, the deputy director seems to have trouble following what I thought was a very clear command.

“Leave us,” says the president. “I want to hear what Ben has to say.”

Chapter 109

“The Russians approached Carney because he was the perfect choice,” I say. “He was CIA and he was one of your best friends. He was the perfect person to covertly deliver the message to you. But Carney didn’t deliver that message. He kept it to himself and some small team of thugs over at the CIA, who probably didn’t even know the details. He didn’t tell you, Mr. President, because he knew that no matter how embarrassing that video would be, no matter how politically damaging, you would never sell out your country.”

The president, customarily a commanding presence in any room, the hunter-gatherer sort, has wilted. He is ashen and uncertain, his hand against a wall. This is a lot for him. He’s considering the damage to his administration and his reelection campaign. He’s thinking of his wife. And he’s thinking that he has been betrayed by one of his closest and most trusted friends. What I don’t know is the order in which he’s prioritizing these things.

“Carney knew the video, if it ever got out, would ruin you politically, sir. Which would ruin him politically. He wants to be CIA director. So he made the decision all by himself.”

The president pinches the bridge of his nose, seemingly addressing a massive headache. “The explosion near the White House the other day?” he asks.

“That was the Russians, chasing me,” I say. “They were trying to kill me before I could find a copy of the video.” I watch him for a moment. “Let me guess. Carney took over that investigation, didn’t he? He probably told you it was al-Qaeda or something.”

The president doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

“And do you have this…video?” he asks, saying the last word as though he’s just swallowed a bitter pill.