Mistress(87)

He makes a face. Telling him to stay away from excitement is like telling Kim Kardashian to stay away from a camera.

“All you’ve done so far is investigate the disappearance of Nina Jacobs,” I say. “Nobody can prosecute you for that. If you help me now, you could spend the rest of your life in prison. Or get killed in the crossfire.”

I walk over to the door and open it. Enough innocent people have died. If I’m next, so be it. But not Sean.

“Go,” I say.

He finally relents. As he passes me on his way out, he flicks the back of his wrist against my chest. “Hey,” he says.

“I know,” I respond. “Don’t get dead.”





Chapter 101



This ends here.

I always wanted to say something dramatic like that. But guess what? When it’s really happening, it ain’t so fun.

The sky is a sheet of powder blue this afternoon, bright and serene. I’m dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt I purchased earlier today. My forehead is greasy with sweat, and my shirt is stuck to my chest.

The crowd on the National Mall is swollen today. Could be that it’s nearing the end of summer and people are getting in their vacations before school starts in September.

Or maybe there are more “tourists” than usual because some of them aren’t tourists at all. I don’t kid myself. There are probably dozens of them stationed throughout the Mall, standing at the various memorials, watching my every move, communicating with one another, ready to pull the trigger the moment they see a simple hand gesture or hear a signal uttered into a mouthpiece. I probably have twenty targets on my chest.

And I’m making it easy. I’m standing still, about twenty yards from the Lincoln Memorial, looking over the Mall. This is my favorite place in the capital—it’s an inspiration, a tribute to the courage that so many people exhibited in defense of this country and of individual freedoms. This might be the last time I ever see it.

I walk up to the memorial. But I don’t see Honest Abe today. A blue tarp has been pulled down over his statue, along with a sign apologizing for the repair work that needs to be done and promising to have the memorial ready soon. It will be a disappointment to sightseers, but there are plenty of other things to see around here.

So I sit alone, halfway up the stairs of the memorial, looking over the reflecting pool and the Washington Monument while parents corral children and snap photos, while sightseers move from one memorial honoring heroic people to another.

Once upon a midday humid, while I pondered weak and stupid

Over motives of these gentlemen so adversarial,

I sat quietly frustrated as I nervously awaited

For a visitor to meet me at this grand memorial,

An inquisitor to greet me at this proud memorial—

Only this, and nothing more.



Well, a little more than that. The caller I’m awaiting, over whom I’m ruminating, has been long deliberating how to put me at death’s door. So after careful preparation, I’ll assess the situation, and I’ll pray my presentation leads to peace and not to war.

“Hello, Mr. Kutuzov,” I say to the smartly dressed man climbing the stairs.

And if I’m wrong, I’m nothing more.





Chapter 102



“Hello, Mr. Casper,” says Alexander Kutuzov in that rich, textured accent. Up close and personal, he is rougher around the edges than I would have expected. He’s dressed in casual billionaire attire—a tailored yellow silk shirt with the cuffs rolled up, trousers, and a thousand-dollar haircut. But his skin is pockmarked and leathery; his nose looks like it’s taken a few hits; his forearms are scarred. He has amassed a fortune of more than twenty billion dollars, but he fought some battles getting there.

“You’re right on time,” I say. “You’re a very reliable fellow.”

A couple walks up to the monument and looks beyond us, wearing disappointed expressions. The National Mall has all sorts of great things to see, but surely one of their top choices was the statue of Honest Abe, now hidden behind a blue tarp.

“You have chosen a wise location,” he says. “Public enough to give you a feeling of safety. And yet private enough, what with the rehabilitation work on Mr. Lincoln, so that nobody is present to overhear our conversation.”

Actually, I just wanted a spot where there wouldn’t be innocent bystanders.

That and it’s close to my next appointment, if I ever make it out of here alive.

“Or perhaps not,” he says.

A jolt passes through me. “I don’t get your meaning.”

He turns and looks at me.

“Are you recording this conversation, Mr. Casper?” he asks.

I try to manage a chuckle, as though I’m amused. It comes out more like I’m clearing my throat. “Why would I record this? I’m breaking the law by making this deal with you. I could go to prison.”