Carney’s jaw clenches. I know what he’s itching to say:
“You look like the cat who ate the canary, Mr. Deputy Director.”
He blinks his eyes rapidly, digesting that comment. Damn. I think I was right the first time, and Ashley Brook was wrong. I should have gone with the hand-in-the-cookie-jar line. Another lesson to all of you-go with your first instinct.
After a long pause, which I have to put down as some of the best thirty seconds of my entire week, Carney clears his throat and comes forward in his chair.
“Young man,” he says evenly, but I detect a tremble in his voice. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you can get in by blackmailing the deputy director of the CIA?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Is it worse than a needle in my arm for murder? Remember, Mr. Carney, you all have done such a good job of fucking with my world that I don’t have much to lose.”
I get out of my chair and button my sport coat. It’s a new one I bought yesterday at J.Crew on M Street, as I continue my nomadic existence. It’s a denim job, a more casual look for Benjamin Casper, reporter turned fugitive.
“I have proof of your affair and I’ll publish it,” I say, framing my hands for the headline. “A conservative, law-and-order, family-values politician, now guarding our central intelligence, caught in steamy affair with top aide who killed herself in despair. Ah, but the police are also looking into the possibility that she didn’t jump, that maybe she was
I lean over the desk, so we can have a nice eye-to-eye parting. “The words
I straighten up, nod to a visibly shaken Craig Carney, and head for the door.
“You have twenty-four hours, Mr. Deputy Director,” I say. “Give me some answers, or you’ll be back in Des Moines selling tractors to farmers. And the president will be thinking of someone else as his next CIA director.”
When I leave the Hart Building, I run down 1st Street to the Capitol South metro station. I look behind me for any sign of men in black chasing after me, or cars following me, but don’t see any. It had been a risk all along, scheduling that meeting with Craig Carney, but I’m hoping my threats held him off for at least a few hours while he ponders his next move.
I spend an hour on the subway, jumping from one train to another, hoping to throw off anyone who might be following me. Everyone is a suspect-the kindly grandmother, the well-dressed young woman who looks like she’s headed to an interview, the homeless guy with food in his beard. Trust no one.
In between stops, I find an ATM and withdraw five hundred dollars in cash, then jump on another train before anyone can trace that transaction.
I spend the evening at a deli on 14th Street and look over the notes I’ve written up for the story on Craig Carney and Diana Hotchkiss. I was bluffing, of course, about having the article written, but I need to finish it now. The story is largely unsubstantiated; I also lied when I said I had proof of Diana’s affair with Carney. I don’t. I only have Diana’s word. In terms of editorial standards, I’d never sign off on this article without more confirmation. But I’m not worried at the moment about journalistic integrity. I’m more concerned with saving my ass.
Will I run this if Craig Carney calls my bluff? I don’t know.
No point in worrying about that yet. Just write it, Ben.
So I crank out a draft, e-mail it to Carney’s office and to myself for safekeeping, and close my laptop. I force down a roast beef sandwich, because being sleep-deprived
Now it’s nearing nine o’clock. The sun has fallen, but my spirits are slightly elevated with the completion of this article. It’s a chit. It’s something.
Then I pull out my cell phone-my original one, not the prepaid piece of shit I’ve been using. From my other pocket I pull out the cell battery. I saw in some movie that a cell phone can’t be traced if the battery is removed. So now I’m going to put it back in, just to check any messages, then get the hell out of here and move to another part of the capital before any black helicopters can swoop down on me.
