Truth Or Die Part 10

The gla.s.s, specially commissioned from Waterford and featuring an etched American flag on one side and a bald eagle on the other, had originally been a gift to Ronald Reagan from the president of Ireland, Patrick Hillery. In total, there were four gla.s.ses in the set, but after a visit to the White House by Boris Yeltsin a few years later, only three remained. The Russian leader notoriously couldn't hold his liquor, and since he was missing the thumb and forefinger on his left hand, he apparently couldn't hold the gla.s.s, either.

"What time is it?" asked the president, breaking the silence of the Oval Office. He was staring out the window by the east door, which led to the Rose Garden, his back turned to the only other people in the room, his two most trusted advisors.

Clay Dobson, the chief of staff, glanced at his watch. "It's approaching midnight, sir."

The president drew a deep breath and then exhaled. "Yeah, that figures...."

In less than twelve hours, the Senate confirmation hearing for Lawrence Ba.s.s to become the next director of Central Intelligence was scheduled to begin. With the extensive background check long since completed, confidence in the White House had been riding high. Since the days of George Tenet, no one dared use the phrase slam dunk anymore, but everyone was certainly thinking it.

Ba.s.s, the current director of intelligence programs with the NSC, did not keep highly cla.s.sified information on his unsecured home computer; he did not belong to an all-white country club; he drank socially, and sparingly at that; he paid Social Security taxes for his Guatemalan housekeeper; he did not secretly like to dress up in women's clothing; and he did not have a thing for little girls. Or, for that matter, little boys. Lawrence Ba.s.s, the early-to-bed-early-to-rise ex-marine and Silver Star Medal recipient, had been vetted back to his diapers. Checked and rechecked. Everything had come up clean. Spic-and-span. Spotless.

The president turned from the window, facing the room. "Tell me this much, at least," he said. "Are you absolutely sure what you've got is true?"

"As sure as we can be," said Dobson, glancing down at the file in his hands. He then watched as the president nodded slowly.

"So, basically what you're saying is ... we're screwed."

"That's one way to look at it, sir," said Ian Landry, sitting cross-legged on the far sofa. The White House press secretary then s.h.i.+fted to his bread and b.u.t.ter: the spin. "On the flip side, knowing there's a problem now sure beats the h.e.l.l out of knowing it after the hearing tomorrow. At least tonight we have some options."

"Who do you guys have in mind?" asked the president.

Dobson didn't hesitate. "Karcher," he said.

"Karcher? He wasn't even on the short list."

"That's not what the Times, the Post, and Politico will be reporting in a couple of days," said Landry, all but bragging.

"And what about Ba.s.s?" asked the president. "What am I telling him?"

With a quick nod, Landry deferred to Dobson. Golden parachutes were strictly the chief of staff's domain.

"You simply tell Ba.s.s that his support collapsed in the wake of the a.s.sault-rifle ban bill, and that he's the sacrificial lamb for the Republicans on the committee looking for payback," said Dobson. "I'll take care of the rest. After three months, he'll land on K Street clearing a million five a year. Trust me, he'll play along. He'll have no choice."

Tink-tinkity-tink. The president rattled his gla.s.s again, his eyes narrowing in thought. Five seconds pa.s.sed. Then ten.

"Okay," he said finally. "Wake the poor son of a b.i.t.c.h up."

Dobson and Landry both quickly a.s.sured their boss that he was doing the right thing. Then, even faster, they left the Oval Office before he could change his mind.

President Morris was p.r.o.ne to that sometimes. Uncertainty. As a Blue Dog Democrat from Iowa, he managed a straight-shooter persona in public, but behind closed doors, according to "unnamed sources," he had a tendency to agonize over decisions. His critics relentlessly seized upon this as the ultimate sign of weakness. A particularly scathing article in the New York Observer went so far as to attribute it to his height, or lack thereof. Only two presidents in the past century have measured under six feet tall, the article pointed out: Jimmy Carter and Bretton Morris.

But as he sat behind his desk and waited for Dobson to patch him in with Ba.s.s so he could break the bad news, President Morris felt something deep and strong in his gut. Something certain. That this night, of all nights, was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Clearly, Dobson hadn't shared the details of that file in his hands because what was in that file could embarra.s.s the h.e.l.l out of the administration, if not worse. Giving specifics to his boss meant knowing the truth, and knowing the truth meant accountability.

Rule #1: Presidents don't get impeached for the things they don't know.

So leave it at that, right? Lawrence Ba.s.s had been involved in something he shouldn't have been, and whatever it might be was enough to keep him from becoming the next director of Central Intelligence.

There was just one problem, one more thing the president didn't know. That file in Clay Dobson's hand?

There was nothing in it.

It was empty.

CHAPTER 31.

"WHO IS he?" asked Dobson, pausing before a sip of coffee. At nine a.m. the following morning in his West Wing office, he was already on his third cup of the day. At least three additional cups, if not more, would follow before noon. Always black. Just black. No sugar.

"Maybe it's better if you don't know," replied Frank Karcher, sitting on the other side of Dobson's desk with his thick arms folded. The current National Clandestine Service chief of the CIA never drank coffee. Nor did he smoke or consume alcohol. From time to time, though, he did give orders to have people killed.

This was the first time the two were meeting publicly, as it were, in Dobson's office. For the past two years, they had met in secret, a routine that had been no small feat given that the beat bloggers working the nation's capital made Hollywood paparazzi look like agoraphobic slackers. The empty parking garages after midnight, the abandoned warehouse in Ivy City-that part of their plan was over. It would now be expected that Karcher's name show up on the White House visitors' log.

Dobson forced a smile, an attempt at patience with his strangest of political bedfellows. "If I didn't need to know the guy's name, Frank, you wouldn't be sitting here," he said. "Your mess is my mess."

Karcher couldn't argue with that, choosing instead to simply scratch the back of his very large head before opening the file in his lap. This one wasn't empty. "His name is Trevor Mann," he began, summarizing in bullet-point fas.h.i.+on. "Former Manhattan ADA with an outstanding conviction rate ... left to become general counsel for a hedge fund ... apparently that didn't go too well."

"What happened?" asked Dobson.

"The firm was sued by one of its largest clients, the Police Pension Fund of New York City. This guy, Trevor Mann, discovered during the trial that the hedge fund managers were withholding evidence that should've been given to the prosecution. In short, the cops were getting screwed out of profits."

Karcher was about to continue when he glanced up at Dobson and suddenly stopped. There was something about Dobson's expression, although Karcher couldn't quite peg it. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Dobson lied. "Go on. Or better yet, let me guess. The lawyer grew a conscience and sold out the hedge fund managers."

"Something like that," said Karcher. "He ended up being disbarred. Now he's teaching at Columbia Law. Ethics, no less. Just finished his second year there."

Dobson took another sip of coffee, leaning back in his chair. He knew that Karcher, all six foot two and two hundred and forty pounds of him, could be a sick f.u.c.k with a short fuse, if provoked.

But Dobson also knew what they had in common, what had initially brought them together.

A complete and thorough understanding of leverage.

CHAPTER 32.

"FRANK, DID you ever take Latin?"

Karcher, a bit wary of the lack of segue from Dobson, slowly shook that large head of his. When he first enlisted in the army over thirty years ago, they had to special-order his helmet. "I'm a.s.suming you did?" he asked.

"Yeah, four years of it at Phillips Exeter Academy," said Dobson, fully aware of how pretentious that sounded. "And you know what the irony is? The only Latin expression that's ever had any meaning to me whatsoever in my job is one that most anybody would know without studying the language for a single G.o.dd.a.m.n day. Quid pro quo."

Karcher was well acquainted with the expression. He also knew where Dobson was heading with it. But before he could even open his mouth to mount his defense, Dobson went right on talking.

"Last night, I convinced the president of the United States to make you the next director of the CIA. You, Frank. Not the half dozen or so more qualified men at the top of the intelligence world, but you. I did this because this was our agreement, what you got in return for helping me with my plan. And everything was going well with that plan, wasn't it?"

Dobson paused. It was a rhetorical question, but he still wanted at least a nod from Karcher, something that would make it all very clear. Not that Karcher agreed with him. Screw that. Rather, that Karcher understood just who exactly had the leverage.

So let's see it, big boy. Tilt that huge melon of yours up and down like a good soldier.

And there it was, right on cue. It was the slightest of nods but a nod just the same, and for a proud man like Karcher, easily more painful than pa.s.sing a cactus-sized kidney stone.

Dobson continued. "So now you're here telling me that not only is the kid still alive up in New York, but there's also a new guy, the boyfriend of the reporter, who might know everything as well?"

"I'll take care of it," said Karcher.

"That sounds awfully familiar."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. I want you to do," said Dobson. "As in, whatever it takes to clean this up. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Quid pro quo, Frank."

"I got it."

The h.e.l.l he did, thought Dobson. "Quid pro quo!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I want my f.u.c.king quid pro quo!"

Karcher didn't say another word. Not even good-bye. He stood up from his chair and walked out of Dobson's office.

Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui.

CHAPTER 33.

PARANOIA, I was quickly discovering, has a sound all its own. Loud.

"Christ, do you hear that?" I asked as we walked south along Broadway after leaving the Oak Tavern.

Owen turned to me without breaking stride. "Hear what?"

"Everything," I said.

It was as if someone had grabbed a giant munic.i.p.al dial with two hands and turned up the volume on the entire city. The clanking of a construction crane overhead, the idling engines of the b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper traffic, the back-and-forth chatter of the people we pa.s.sed along the sidewalk-I could hear every single noise Manhattan had to offer, louder than ever before. And each one, I was convinced, wanted to kill me.

"It's actually pretty cool, if you think about it," said Owen.

That wasn't exactly the reaction I had in mind. "Cool?"

"Yeah. Three-point-eight billion years of evolution tucked away in your DNA," he said. "Survival instincts. Hear better, live longer."

We came to a stop at a DON'T WALK sign at the corner of Fifty-Eighth Street. My neck was craning like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist. We were out in the open, two sitting ducks. "Are you sure it isn't hide better, live longer?"

"I know how it must seem," he said, "but we're actually fine for a bit."

"What makes you so sure?"

"The Achilles' heel of the intelligence community," he said. "They only act on intelligence."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Our two friends from the park are too busy right now turning your apartment upside down. They want to know what you know. They'll comb through every hard drive you have; they'll hack your phone records, bank and credit card accounts, anything and everything. Then they'll wait and hope."

"For what?"

"For us to do something foolish," he said. "That reminds me. Can I borrow your phone for a second?"

"Sure," I said, handing it to him. "Hey! What the h.e.l.l?"

The kid promptly took my iPhone and dropped it down the sewer. Plop.

"Now we're fine for a bit," he said.

I got it. GPS. On or off, it's always on. In which case ...

"What about your phone?" I asked. I knew he had one on him.

"Let's just say my phone's configured a little differently."

The WALK signal flashed. It might as well have been a starter's pistol. Owen immediately took off, crossing Broadway and heading east on Fifty-Seventh Street. I was struggling to keep up with him in every sense.

"Where are we going?" I called out.

"I told you," he said over his shoulder. "I need to make a stop. It's close by."