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.
Chapter 108
“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.”