Mistress (27 page)

I run with every ounce of my remaining strength to the south, where I find my Triumph parked on Independence Avenue. I can hear the police behind me, but I don’t know what they’re doing. They’ve found a man bleeding out on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and, for all they know, it’s the guy they were coming to arrest—me. I hope that will make them pause for at least a minute or two.

I’ll take any delay I can get. I hop on the Triumph, look to my left, and see uniformed officers pointing at me and shouting. The police vehicles won’t be far behind. I kick the Triumph to life and bolt onto Independence heading east, navigating between cars under the blanket of the overhanging trees, the joggers and walkers to the north and south paying me little attention on a beautiful summer afternoon. I’d love to check my watch for the time, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I tried to time things out as best I could, but if I didn’t, it’s too late to fix it now.

I hear the sirens behind me as I race the Triumph onto the Kutz Bridge, which carries me over the Tidal Basin. They’re probably wondering where I’m going so they can roadblock me up ahead. (Is
roadblock
a verb? It should be.) Anyway, I have many options, but at the fork with Maine Avenue, I stay left on Independence.

They’re not far behind now, but at the intersection ahead, I skid into a sudden left turn onto 15th Street—sudden for them, though it was always my plan. I draw some horns but complete the turn and hope I’ve left a mess behind me.

Any delay doesn’t last long. The cars in the opposite lane of 15th, southbound, pull over, and one of the squad cars catches up to me and pulls up alongside me, like when Chevy Chase was being chased in
Fletch
and he said,
Hey, Fred, how’s the herpes?
but I don’t think these cops would appreciate the humor and I have no intention of having a conversation, so—

I jump the curb, jump the tiny chain-linked gateway, and drive onto the pedestrian walkway, which is, thankfully, empty, and then cut onto the park grass to shortcut a right turn onto Madison Drive. (
Shortcut
might not be a verb, either.) The cops can’t follow my route by car, and Madison is one-way going west, so they’ll have to travel against the grain to chase me—just like when I was riding that bicycle, only this time, I have a little more horsepower propelling me.

It’s a short jaunt on Madison, avoiding cars coming directly toward me and unhappy to see me, before I hit 14th Street, but I’m not going to bother with a turn at that congested intersection. Instead I turn left early, jumping the curb again and heading north up the sidewalk, the Smithsonian looming across the street from me. They’ve got a new exhibit featuring photographs of Union generals from the Civil War I’ve been meaning to check out. Maybe now’s not the right time.

I hear sirens behind me, the squealing of tires, and I look back and see a squad car bearing down on me on the sidewalk. I have just enough of a lead to beat it to the next intersection, which is all I need.

I see a lull in traffic and jump the curb, cross the street, and hop onto the opposite sidewalk. I skid to a stop at the intersection, jump off my Triumph, and break into a headlong sprint.

Running to my own funeral, I’m afraid. But I’m out of options. And if this is the end, I’m going out on my terms.

The Mellon Auditorium, part of the Federal Triangle on Constitution Avenue, is a magnificent neoclassical structure built in the 1930s that served as the site for FDR’s reinstatement of the draft, the signing of the NATO treaty in the 1940s, and the signing of the NAFTA treaty in the mid-’90s. This afternoon, it’s the location for an awards ceremony hosted by the Boy Scouts of America.

I cross Constitution on foot and rush up the stairs, brandishing—yes, brandishing—my press credentials to the dark-suited man at the gate. He waves me past and I walk through a metal detector unscathed. I jog through the lobby and head toward the auditorium as I hear a ruckus behind me, shouting from outside. Cops, I assume, having spotted me entering the building. The man who just let me pass—a member of the Secret Service—is probably just beginning to realize that the cops might be talking about me.

I slow my pace as I approach the two Secret Service agents manning the door, keeping those press credentials out for them to see.

“Hi, Ben Casper,
Capital Beat
,
” I say. “I’m running late.”

The agent looks over the list to find my name. He won’t find it.

I turn back to look at the commotion as the cops reach the door.

“Oh, my God—does that guy have a
gun
?” I say to the agents, motioning back behind me to the front door.

The Secret Service agent blocking the auditorium door reaches into his jacket and takes a single step forward. I quickly push him aside and burst through the door into the huge, gilded auditorium.

“Alabama! Alabama!” the agent behind me cries out, which must be the current code word for “emergency.”

Inside, it’s all blue and red—the American flag, the Boy Scouts’ crest, the series of tables set up for a crowd of thousands, and the president and other dignitaries on the stage at the far end. The president’s authoritative voice echoes throughout the chamber.

I’m in full sprint mode. Secret Service agents from every corner of the room descend upon me. The president stops his address as agents to each side of him grab him and pull him down. I run down the center aisle as far as I think I can get and start shouting.

“Mr. President!” I yell out. “The Russian government is blackmailing you into letting them invade Georgia! The Russians are blackmailing you and the American people deserve to know!” The first agent to reach me tries to bulldoze me, but I juke him and miss the brunt of his tackle. I fall to the floor but keep my head up and shout, “I’m Ben Casper of
Capital Beat
! I have proof the Russians are blackmailing the president! I have proof and the government knows it!”

And then they pile on, one black-suited G-man after another, and I’m at the bottom of a rugby scrum. The entire room is in chaos, people jumping from their seats, somebody from the government taking the mike and appealing for calm. I can’t even see the stage in the front of the auditorium now, though I assume the president is no longer there. He’s probably not in the room at all.

“I have proof!” I shout. “I have proof and the president knows it!”

And then, before you can say
My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over,
the agents lift me off the ground and carry me horizontally out of the room. I keep shouting out the same phrases, “I’m Ben Casper” and “I have proof,” not so much for the scoutmasters in the room but for the reporters, most of whom know me and presumably have some level of respect for me—at least enough to allow me to dominate the headlines on this event. At least enough to make them ask questions. At least enough to make it difficult for the US government to sweep this all under the rug.

And that, in the end, is the best I can do. I don’t have the video, but I can accuse the administration publicly and hope it’s enough to stop what’s going on. It’s too late to stop what’s going to happen to me.

My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over.

The room is nothing but gray walls, a table, and two chairs. I was placed in here by two members of the Secret Service who didn’t say a word to me and pushed me through the door before locking it closed.

It’s chilly in here, but otherwise I’m comfortable—relaxed in a way that’s reminiscent of the way I felt at the end of final exams (though I don’t recall any final exams where people shot at me). I can’t change anything now. All the running and hiding and searching and strategizing is over. I did it. There’s no taking back what I said. I’ve given up all leverage with Craig Carney. He is free to bring the full weight of the federal government down on me.

But I got a few things in return. I got payback against a Russian billionaire and justice for Ellis Burk. I got twenty millions dollars that, unbeknownst to said billionaire, was wired into an account for families of law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty. And I stopped the Russians from controlling our foreign policy.

I’ve sat in here for three hours. During that time I’ve made some hard decisions. The first is that Ben Affleck has now fully redeemed himself for the whole J.Lo-
Gigli
disaster, especially after
The Town
,
which is one of my favorite movies. The second is that Andrew Dice Clay, however piggish he may be, is really not a bad actor.

The third is that I’d really prefer not to go to prison, but there’s not much I can do to prevent that now.

A large African American man enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is Ronald Hamilton, the top Secret Service agent protecting the president.

He cocks his head and gives me a scolding look. “Have you totally lost your mind?”

“Hi, Ham,” I say. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, your agents acted professionally and decisively.”

“That’s no consolation. You’re in a lot of trouble, son.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Ham.”

I wish I had a cool nickname like Ham. The only thing that came from Ben was Benji, like that annoying dog. I could handle T-Bone, which is what George Costanza wanted. But not Koko, which is what he got instead.

“You mind telling me what the hell you were shouting about in there?” he asks.

Actually, I do mind. Ham’s a good egg—mental note, possible future pun—and there’s no need to draw him into this mess.

“Ham, how long have we known each other?”

He cocks his head. “Maybe four years?”

“You ever know me to be crazy? Off my rocker?”

On second thought, I’m not sure I want to hear his answer.

“What’s your point?” he asks.

“My point is I had a good reason for doing what I did. I want to talk to the president, Ham.”

“No,” he snaps. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Well, then it will work
this
way. You give the president this message for me. I only said ‘blackmail’ in there. I didn’t say what the blackmail was. I could have, but I didn’t. So you tell the president, unless he wants me to talk to the press the first chance I get and reveal what the blackmail was, he and I need to have a chat.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Ben—”

“That’s it, Ham. Give him that message. It will be off the record, if that helps. But I’ll only talk to the president or to the reporters, the first chance I get.”

I get out of my chair and walk to the corner of the room, turning my back to him. After a moment, Ham gets out of his chair and leaves the room.

Another hour passes. In some ways it’s agonizing, the slow crawl of time in this barren room, but considering what I’ve been dealing with over the last ten days, this is like a stroll along the beach. I don’t have to make any more decisions.

The door opens again. I turn.

It’s CIA deputy director Craig Carney. And he doesn’t look happy. But he doesn’t really look angry so much, either.

Scared
is a better word.

He approaches me, getting so close to me that he could almost kiss me. Like Judge Reinhold, the close talker in that
Seinfeld
episode.

“There’s still a chance to salvage this,” he says to me. “I’m going to give you that chance. You’ve been under a lot of strain. You’re wanted for murder. People close to you have died. You’re under considerable stress. Everyone would understand that. You’re sorry for your irresponsible comments, and you need to check into a rehab institute for some much-needed rest and therapy. You will disavow what you’ve said.”

“No,” I say.

“And if you don’t, I’ll destroy you. I’ll put this entire thing on you, Casper. We’ll charge you with treason and ship you to Guantanamo Bay. I’ll put you in a cell with some towelhead whose life’s ambition will be to castrate you. And that’s to say nothing of the local charges for murder. You’ll spend a decade in agony. You’ll be begging for that day to come when we strap you to a gurney and stick a needle in your arm.”

I look away from him and try to block out what he’s saying, but even with my brain’s considerable ability to wander to bizarre and irrelevant places, it isn’t easy. This is essentially what he’s threatened all along.

“Oh, and that’s just the start,” Carney continues, speaking so quietly he’s almost whispering. “I’ll destroy everything and everyone you care about. Ashley Brook Clark? Dead. Diana’s friend Anne Brennan? Dead. I’ll do it. I have resources you couldn’t dream about. It’s your choice. Turn this car around right now. Right here.”

His eyes are boring through me. His cheeks are red with passion.

I clear my throat. “Since you put it that way,” I say.

“So we’re agreed?”

A noise at the door. The knob turning. Craig Carney’s eyes search mine.

And behind him, in walks the president of the United States.

“Mr. President,” says Craig Carney. “Sir, I think we have this all cleared up.”

The president, dressed in a suit and tie, his eyes squinting, focuses on me. “Hello, Ben,” he says.

“Hello, Mr. President.”

The president looks around the room, unimpressed. “Apparently, you wanted my attention. And now you have it.”

“Mr. President,” says Carney. “I think Ben here will tell you that he’s been under a lot of strain, and he’s made some statements that he regrets. He’s willing to publicly disavow those statements.”

President Francis looks at me for confirmation.

“That depends,” I say.

“Mr. President, I have this under control,” says Carney. “You don’t have to listen to any of this, sir. I’ll take care of this.”

And then it comes to me, like the parting of the seas—no, wait, that was Moses, that wasn’t really a revelation so much as a miracle from God—let’s try this again.

And then it comes to me, like a shot of sunshine piercing a dark cloud—that works—a glimmer of hope for me. I hadn’t really given this thought serious consideration. It might have been floating around the recesses of my brain, but it never got my full attention. How stupid I’ve been. How utterly naive I’ve been this whole time.

“Your wife,” I say to the president.

“That’s enough!” Carney shouts at me. “Mr. President, really—”

“What
about
my wife?” says the president, approaching me, fire in his eyes.

Carney raises his hands as though he were a referee separating boxers. “This man is a traitor and a murderer, Mr. President. I promise you I have this under—”

“What about my wife?” the president repeats.

“Mr. President—”

“Goddamn it, Craig, that’s enough. I want to hear what this man has to say.”

Carney goes silent, but he turns to me. His face is a shiny crimson and his eyes are trying to tell me something. They’re telling me to keep my mouth shut.

“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.”