Mistress(49)

“Someone who shakes a tree, Ben, needs to be ready for what might fall on him.”

“Oh, I’m ready, Mr. Deputy Director. If you had the week I’ve had, you’d be, too.”

Carney takes some time with the almonds in his hand, making me watch him munching them one by one.

“Well,” he finally says between bites. “You seem to have some information that I don’t. I wish I could help you.”

You have to love these politicians. This is another thing they must teach you when you walk through the Capitol doors—how to say all kinds of things without answering the question. So far, this guy hasn’t admitted or denied that Diana is alive.

“I think Diana was a spy for the US government,” I say. “Probably CIA. And I think she was trying to infiltrate something and she was exposed, compromised, whatever—her cover was blown. So you faked her death to throw the bad guys off the scent. Maybe you were protecting her. Maybe you were protecting classified secrets. I don’t know. I don’t even really care, if you want to know the truth. Capital Beat has never tried to expose classified intelligence information. That’s not what we do.”

“Thank you,” he says. Even when he says thank you, it comes out like fuck you.

“But here’s the thing,” I say. “Someone must think that I know what Diana knew, because they’re trying to kill me. And someone’s trying to frame me for Diana’s ‘death’ and the death of Jonathan Liu, the lobbyist. I might even get blamed for the cop who was murdered in that ambush the other day on Twelfth Street—a good friend of mine, by the way. So now I do care, Mr. Carney. And I’ll run a wrecking ball through whatever I have to in order to save my life and clear my name.”

The deputy director leans back in his leather chair and narrows his eyes. I’ve just thrown a lot at him. But he doesn’t look surprised.

“That all sounds very intriguing,” he says. “But I don’t see how I could possibly be of assistance to you.”

“Oh, you can and you will,” I say. “And I’m going to tell you why.”





Chapter 55



“Oh, please do tell me, Ben.” The CIA deputy director seems amused. “I’m waiting with bated breath as to why and how I’ll help you—a reporter for some rag that nobody reads, pushing a story that nobody will believe.”

I’d really like to smack this douche bag. I’ll have to settle for scaring him.

“Mr. Carney,” I say. “You remember Gary Condit?”

Typical of his manner, he doesn’t move an inch, but the giveaway is a slight twitch of his eye.

“Congressman Condit didn’t kill Chandra Levy,” I go on. “All he did was sleep with her. Affairs happen all the time, and they sting you politically, but you almost always recover from them. You hold a nice press conference with your stoic wife at your side, humbly concede your imperfection with vague statements like ‘I’ve made mistakes’ or ‘I haven’t been perfect,’ throw in a reference to God and, if necessary, some rehabilitation or therapy—and voilà, you win reelection.

“But Gary Condit, he had the bad luck of having an affair with a woman who wound up dead. So even though he had nothing to do with her death, he was tainted by asso—”

“Do you have a point here, Mr. Casper?”

So now it’s Mr. Casper. “Oh, I just wonder how it’s going to affect your political career when it comes out that you had an affair with a woman who killed herself.”

Carney wets his lips. His face reddens, but he’s doing his best impression of a mannequin. It’s not hard for him. He’s had a lot of practice.

“Kind of a catch-22, isn’t it, Mr. Carney? I mean, if we’re supposed to believe she’s dead, then you have to stick with that story, right? So now it’s former congressman and current deputy CIA director Craig Carney having an affair with a woman who jumped off a balcony. How do you think you come off in that story? Good? Bad? Ugly?”

(Possible Clint Eastwood mind-scroll here. But I’m a little busy right now.)

Carney’s jaw clenches. I know what he’s itching to say: That affair with Diana ended years ago. Which, according to Diana, is true. But we both know that’s just a detail. He’ll have to admit to the affair to make that distinction.

“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.