Mistress (21 page)

I walk down Half Street and check my watch. It’s 6:45 on the nose. When I reach the intersection with N Street, I look over to the red awning just east of the center field gate at Nationals Park. Over the will call window, an electronic billboard advertises
GRAND SLAM PLAN—BUY 4 GAMES, GET 1 FREE!
Okay, guys, sure, now that you’ve finally put together a decent squad. Hell, it only took you eight seasons after bringing the franchise here from Montreal.

I kid because I care. I like the Nats, and I like the development of the Capitol Riverfront district by the Navy Yard since they arrived. Hell, I love having a hometown team to root for. I’m just saying, let’s get more consistency from that starting rotation and some left-handed hitting coming off the bench.

And now we join, already in progress, the reason I came here.

There he is, below the electronic sign, standing next to the will call window, dressed as I requested—in an orange Windbreaker. Maybe a little over the top, but I’ve never seen Alexander Kutuzov in person, and I wanted him to stand out from all the other fans heading into the Nationals’ 7:05 start against the Braves.

He’s a tall man, athletic, and very well manicured. He seems perfectly at ease this evening, probably because he’s a man of such mind-boggling wealth, or possibly because of his various hoodlums positioned—let’s see…two of them by the team store, two of them looking down on their boss from the second story of the parking garage, and others, presumably, who have done a better job of blending into the crowd. He’s probably got a whole army here. If they all bought tickets, the Nats could double their attendance tonight.

Me? I’m in disguise. I’m wearing a red Nationals T-shirt, under which I’ve added a fat belt that I picked up from a costume shop and that adds about thirty pounds to my frame. Oh, and they also sold me a wig that makes me bald on top and gives me bushy hair on the sides. Plus fake eyeglasses.

Maybe not the most convincing disguise under close scrutiny, but I’m not expecting any close scrutiny. In fact, my work here is done. I jump in a cab outside the stadium that has just been vacated by a pack of drunken college kids. The smell of stale beer lingers in the cab, but I don’t care. I put my head against the back headrest and listen to the cabdriver talk on his cell phone in some language I don’t understand.

Amazing how such a simple task has left me sweating through this T-shirt. But so far, so good. Alex Kutuzov dropped everything and flew out here, on six hours’ notice, to meet me. So I must be doing something right.

I pull out my prepaid cell phone and dial the number that Edgar Griffin gave me for Alex Kutuzov. I called Alex an hour ago. That was a short call. This one might be longer.

Let’s see if I can avoid screwing it up.

Alexander Kutuzov answers my call on the second ring. “Hello?” he says.

“Alex, I see you made it. Welcome to Nationals Park.”

He pauses. “Thank you, Mr. Casper.” His English is precisely delivered, the thick Russian accent notwithstanding. “Where are you?”

“Did you come alone, Alex, as I asked?”

“Of course.”

Of course
not
. But it doesn’t matter. I’m more than a mile away now, in a cab. “Did you bring what I asked, Alex?”

“I did.” He’s being cautious over a cell phone, as I’d expect him to be. He won’t say what it is, but I told him to bring a baseball glove and to stuff ten thousand dollars in cash into the finger holes of the glove. And to write my name on the glove.

“Turn it in at the lost and found at the guest services office. It’s right by you at the center field gate.”

After another pause, he says, “Then I will not be meeting you tonight?”

“We need trust,” I say. “If the glove is in the lost and found, we’ll have trust.”

And I’ll have some spending money.

“This arrangement is unacceptable,” he says.

“Well, okay, Alex, if that’s how you want it. I have another buyer.”

Yet another pause. Face-to-face, Kutuzov probably gets far with piercing stares and long silences. It’s not as effective over a phone, but it still works for him, I hate to admit.

“And what assurances do I have, Mr. Casper, that I will receive the only copy? How do I know you will not give another copy to your superiors, once I give you the money?”

My
superiors
? Who does he think my “superiors” are?

“You have only my word,” I say. “But you do have that.”

Another pause, but this time it’s so long that I begin to think he hung up on me. I consider asking him what he means by my “superiors,” but better I stay as mysterious to him as possible.

“Mr. Casper,” he says. “You are…living in fear, yes?”

Very much so, but I was beginning to feel like I had the upper hand. This guy’s confidence is making me second-guess myself.

“Do I sound afraid, Alex?” I say.

“Yes, you do. You sound very afraid. You sound like a man who is trying very hard to act as if he is not. But I can hear it in your voice. I am…accustomed to recognizing such things.”

I’ll bet he is. “I think you’re the one who’s afraid, Alex.”

“Do I sound afraid, Mr. Casper?”

I wish he did, but he doesn’t. Not the least bit.

“You went to a lot of trouble getting here on short notice, Alex.”

“Oh, I do not deny that I want the item you have. And I will pay you handsomely for it. But do not mistake that for fear, Mr. Casper. And it is critical that you and I understand each other on one particular point.”

“Please, Alex, I’m all ears.” I’m trying to keep up my bravado, but this guy’s a serious customer. I’m just a goofy reporter.

“Until you give me what I want,” he says, “you should remain in fear. Nothing has changed.”

“Your goons will still come looking for me? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to admit something like that over the phone, I assume. But that’s what he means. Until my copy of the video is in his hands, I still have a target on my back.

Boy, I wish I actually
had
a copy of that video.

“And Mr. Casper, if I learn that another copy has fallen into the hands of your superiors and you have played me for the fool, then believe me when I say I will not be pleased.”

“Fair enough, Alex. We understand each other.”

“You will find the glove at the lost and found,” he finally says. “And I shall look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Casper.”

“Sounds like a plan, Alex.”

“But do not test my patience,” he says.

I was really hoping that this conversation would end with me feeling good and him feeling worried. But he doesn’t sound worried. And I don’t feel so good.

“And until you deliver that item to me,” he adds, “you should sleep with your eyes open.”

Another restful night of sleep on a mattress about as thick as a piece of cardboard and only slightly less comfortable than sandpaper. I only had to wait about an hour to use the toilet and shower down the hall. I didn’t mind standing in line with my towel and toothbrush next to a mangy guy who kept asking me if I had any hemorrhoid cream (I didn’t), laxatives (nope), dental floss (sorry), or hemorrhoid cream (still no). I was just glad I got to use the bathroom before he did.

Now I’m back at the National Mall—maybe not the most creative choice, but I like it because there are so many people around and I’m close to the metro, where I can hop aboard and go in any number of directions on a moment’s notice. Even if they triangulate the call and figure out where I am, I’ll be long gone before they can get here.

I dial the number and assume—hope—he’ll answer, that he wants me to call.

“Hello, this is Craig Carney,” he says.

I glance around me but don’t see anyone pivoting in my direction or brandishing a firearm.

“Mr. Deputy Director!” I say into the phone. “It’s your old friend. How are you today?”

Nobody ever uses the word
brandish
unless it’s in connection with a weapon. Why is it you can brandish a sword or a revolver but not, say, a set of keys you just found in the couch cushions? I would brandish keys.

“I might ask you the same question, Benjamin. Sounds like you’ve fallen on hard times. Have you come to your senses yet?”

I do another once-over of the National Mall. Nothing that makes my spidey sense tingle. I’d hate to have webs shoot out of my wrists, but having that spidey sense to detect danger would be awesome.

“I haven’t lost my sense, Mr. Deputy Director. Maybe my dollars, but not my sense.”

He chuckles. “I gave you a chance, Ben. Remember that. And I’ll give you another one, but your options are growing more limited. I’m not sure I can keep you out of prison anymore. But you can avoid the death penalty and get your assets back.”

I shake my head, trying not to let him plant fear in the pit of my stomach. I was just starting to get my groove back yesterday. Alex Kutuzov may have shaken me a little bit, but he
did
come halfway around the world to meet me at Nationals Park, and, according to my friend who works security for the Nationals, there
was
a baseball glove bearing my name at the lost and found last night. So at least I have confirmation of the video.

I clear my throat before breaking the news to Craig Carney.

“Mr. Carney,” I say, “I have the video.”

If we were talking in person, I’d
brandish
the video, which I would have just taken out of my coat pocket. (I mean, if I actually had the video.)

Carney pauses a beat. He’s too polished to shout out
Holy shit!
or moan or cry, but even a smooth operator like the deputy director has to take a moment for this turn of events.

“Video?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. The video. The video that is bringing our federal government to its knees? Does that ring a bell?”

I’m enjoying this, I admit. But I have to be cognizant of the time. This is like in the movies when there’s a call from a fugitive, and on the law enforcement side, guys are scrambling to run the trace, and one guy is separating his hands in the air to indicate the call should be strrrrrrretched out, and then another guy whispers,
He’s somewhere in the city,
and finally they get a precise location, someone draws a circle on a map, and everyone bolts from their seats.

In
Mission: Impossible
,
they needed thirty seconds to locate Tom Cruise, but he knew that and hung up after twenty-nine. That always seemed unrealistic to me. Wearing totally lifelike masks of other people’s faces, sure, but a thirty-second phone trace? No way.

Anyway, back to reality, where the deputy director of the CIA is about to play dumb.

“I don’t know of any video, Benjamin. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Surprise! Still, my heartbeat skips up a notch, and I start pacing near the World War II Memorial. “Don’t bullshit me, Mr. Deputy Director. We both know there’s a video of the president and his mistress. And I have a copy.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but now that I’ve given him the detail, he’s probably shitting his pants.

“Son, I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but as usual, you’re in over your head. There’s no video of the president and some ‘mistress,’ because there
isn’t
any mistress. The president is faithful to his wife.”

He doesn’t sound like someone who’s shitting his pants.

I pause, but he doesn’t elaborate. He’s not being defensive. I don’t detect the slightest tremor in his voice, not a single indication that he is ceding the upper hand to me. If anything, he’s showing me the
back
of his hand.

“You’re good, Mr. Deputy Director. But I’m not buying your act.”

“Then publish the video, Ben. Play it on the evening news. Give it to one of your reporter friends. Be my guest.”

Now
I’m
the one shitting my pants.

I stare at my phone. What is he doing? I didn’t expect him to come out and admit the existence of the video, especially over the phone, but he’s not even trying to placate me. He’s not asking me what I want or where we can meet.

He’s telling me to go fuck myself.

I terminate the call and start running to the metro station. That conversation, to say the least, did not go as planned.

Is there a blackmail video or not?

I’m missing something…I’m missing something…

I get off the Red Line at the Van Ness stop, unlock my Rockhopper from one of the bike racks, then change back into biking gear in a fast-food bathroom. I do these actions robotically while my brain tries to unscramble this mess.

I thought I had this thing figured out. I thought there was a video. When I mentioned it to Alex Kutuzov, he jumped to attention. But Carney all but yawned. He actually dared me to publish it. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and I’m sure he can bluff with the best of them, but if there’s a video…he wouldn’t have acted that way. I must be missing something.

I dial Sean Patrick Riley, my Irish comrade, for an update. I’d given him a homework assignment and tried to convey to him the urgency of the matter. Let’s hope the lad came through.

“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.