I thought I had this thing figured out. I thought there was a video. When I mentioned it to Alex Kutuzov, he jumped to attention. But Carney all but yawned. He actually dared me to publish it. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and I’m sure he can bluff with the best of them, but if there’s a video…he wouldn’t have acted that way. I must be missing something.
I dial Sean Patrick Riley, my Irish comrade, for an update. I’d given him a homework assignment and tried to convey to him the urgency of the matter. Let’s hope the lad came through.
“I’ve got something,” he says. “You were right, Ben. I checked Nina’s e-mail account first thing when I started this job, but I didn’t conduct a forensic examination. It turns out there are a couple of e-mails that were erased by a hacker.”
“E-mails they didn’t want anyone to see.”
“E-mails they didn’t want anyone to see.”
“And those e-mails are good?” I ask.
“Those e-mails are good.”
This guy’s repeating everything I say. Is Aaron Sorkin scripting this?
“When can we meet?” he asks.
Well, let’s see. I’ve got a manicure later today, then I was going to take in a show; tomorrow I have Pilates, and then I’m meeting some friends for brunch, and I’ve been meaning to organize my sock drawer…
“When can we meet?” I say, exasperated. “How about right freakin’ now, Sean!”
We make our arrangements. I’d rather not say what they are. I’m superstitious like that. In the movies, whenever the actors spell out for you what the plan is, you know the plan is going to fail or at least hit a serious road bump. If they just say to each other, Okay, here’s the plan, but then the scene fades out without telling you the details, you know the plan is going to succeed. Check it out sometime. I know of only one exception to this rule: in A Few Good Men, Tom Cruise revealed that he was planning on coaxing Jack Nicholson into admitting he ordered the code red, and then the plan worked. (Coincidentally, that was an Aaron Sorkin script.)
Sorry, I’m starting to ramble again. It’s my nerves jangling about. Just when I thought I was on to something with the idea of the blackmail tape, just when I saw a way out, I’m back at square one, with Craig Carney all but laughing at me.
I jump on my bike and pedal down Connecticut Avenue, cognizant of the fact that the last time I went this way I nearly killed myself and smashed Jonathan Liu’s computer.
I stay to the right on Connecticut, as most of the cars on the road take the traffic tunnel. I reach Dupont Circle, which has an interior park area surrounded by a roundabout with several exits. In the park area inside the roundabout, people are lounging on the benches or catching a late lunch. I remember visiting Rome once and just sitting with a baguette and block of cheese and watching the kamikaze drivers merge from four lanes to one and honk at one another and narrowly avoid death. It was better than watching the Indy 500 on television.
One guy sitting in the park is staring intently into traffic and then looks at me and gets off the bench and keeps following me with his eyes. What the hell, buddy, you never saw someone ride a bike before?
The sound of the horn jolts me. Some asshole thinks he should be able to hang a right on Massachusetts without yielding to me, the cyclist. I hit the brakes hard and come to a stop. Before he executes his turn, the driver lowers his passenger window and curses at me, threatening to squash me like a bug.
Get in line, pal. There are entire governments that want me dead.
I look to my left, back at the park area. The guy who was watching traffic isn’t standing by the bench anymore. He’s moved to the sidewalk, closer to me.
And he’s looking right at me, peering at me. Like you’d stare at a guy you thought you recognized but couldn’t place.
His eyes widen. He’s placed me, all right.
He raises a radio to his mouth and shouts something out. I don’t recognize the language.
But it sure sounds like Russian.
Chapter 86
I don’t know what’s Russian for I found him! I found him! but whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that’s what this guy is screaming into his radio.
I start pedaling from a dead stop, following along Dupont Circle, on the run like Matt Damon in one of the Bourne movies, except he had a motorcycle. The guy is tracking me, staying on the park’s inner sidewalk but moving around its perimeter to see where I’m going to turn off. I pump my legs with every ounce of power I can muster, weaving between cars and drawing some objections from angry horns. I take the right on the roundabout at 19th Street and look back over my shoulder. The guy sees me, and he’s shouting into his radio and pointing in my direction, too.
I put my head down and pump those legs, maneuvering around a giant Pepsi truck and screaming at a couple crossing the street to get out of my way. Then I hear some shouting behind me and the sound of a car engine in full throttle. I glance behind me and see a black SUV closing the gap quickly. I have a head start, but I’m going maybe twenty miles an hour and the SUV’s doing about fifty and counting. This is not a fair fight. They have a car and automatic weapons. I have a bicycle and a winning personality.
In ten seconds, tops, they’ll reach me, and they’ll shoot me full of holes.
Matt Damon would figure out something. He’d ride the bicycle backward or jump in the car with the bad guys.
But I have a trick or two, a couple of advantages. One, I know this town better than they do.
I skid into a hard right turn and head down Sunderland Place, a narrow street with cars parked on both sides and, helpfully, a UPS truck unloading near the intersection with 19th. An oncoming Mercedes honks its horn and I veer to my right and hop up onto the sidewalk just as I hear the black SUV’s tires skid forcefully at the intersection of 19th and Sunderland behind me. I’m pedaling like crazy and blowing out air and listening, listening, as the SUV guns forward again but then meets a serious horn objection from the driver of the Mercedes, who is probably wondering why this SUV is traveling west down a one-way eastbound street.
That’s advantage number two: my bike can go places their car can’t.
The extended horn tells me the Mercedes driver isn’t planning on putting his car in reverse, not when he’s the one going in the right direction on the one-way street and there’s not enough room for the SUV to get around it. I keep my head down low, but I doubt they’ll try to shoot at me from this far away. I sneak a look back and see the SUV whip backward onto 19th and then head south, out of my view.
So I’m totally safe, right? Like in the slasher flicks when the woman hears the noise upstairs but checks every room and doesn’t find anyone, then relaxes and thinks, I guess it was nothing! only to find the man in the hockey mask with the ice pick standing behind her.
The Russians, speeding south on 19th, are almost certain to turn right on N Street and take it over to 20th and make another right, so they can head back up north to look for me. It won’t take them long…
I hit 20th, part of a three-way intersection with New Hampshire Avenue, a street that cuts diagonally across. I maneuver through the intersection, drawing some car horns, and take the hard left on New Hampshire as I hear braking and squealing tires to my left. The Russians’ SUV is swerving around other cars, almost at the three-way intersection. They see me. I know they see me.
In a close call, I choose The Departed over Good Will Hunting, but both are top five Matt Damon movies okay stop, Ben—
I hop onto the sidewalk on New Hampshire, my head down, and pedal with everything I have. Chaos behind me at the three-way intersection, horns honking, people shouting, metal crunching. New Hampshire is another one-way street, so once more, the Russians will have to drive the wrong way down a one-way street to catch me. There’s a lot of traffic passing me and I hope it poses enough of an obstacle that it buys me some time.
Because now I have an idea. Matt Damon would think this is cool.
I pass Firefly on the right. I went there once wit
h Diana, blue-cheese dates and the mini pot roast, she talked the waiter into bringing a couple of beer-battered pickles, even though neither of us ordered the burger, Diana could do things like that—
Focus, Ben.
I have a prepaid phone in my pocket and I pull it out with some difficulty, and the earpiece is still attached and I shove it into my ear and dial furiously, a phone call that might save my life—
Rat-a-tat-tat and they’re shooting at me, and the building behind me absorbs the gunfire, bullets hitting brick, and dammit ANSWER THE PHONE, ANSWER—
I can hear them behind me, the SUV’s engine gunning southwest toward me, there’s no way I can outrace them, but if I can just buy some time, if I can just get to Ward Place—
The Informant! showed Damon’s growth as an actor—
The phone picks up and I shout into my earpiece, completely out of breath, but I repeat the same words over and over again, Twenty-Second, southbound—
And then two magical words that will wake them up, two radioactive words I shout over and over and over—
A woman is racing with her stroller to get out of the line of fire and I narrowly avoid her and pedal as hard as my legs can go, but they’re coming up behind me, I can hear them, they’re maneuvering around oncoming traffic and everyone has dived to the pavement for cover and I hear more gunfire, bullets pelting a parked FedEx truck, thump-thump-thump, and then I skid into a right turn at Ward Place, a tiny, narrow street—
Ward, don’t you think you were a little hard on the Beaver last night?
—and I pump-pump-pump those legs, and moments later, the SUV brakes hard and skids near that turn, and I forgot all about The Talented Mr. Ripley—
Ward Place is another one-way street, eastbound, which means once again they’ll have to travel against oncoming traffic. But there isn’t any traffic on Ward Place.
Other than their desire to follow the rules of the road and maintain a spotless driving record, the Russians have nothing stopping them from speeding down this street and closing the gap in a matter of seconds.
Chapter 87
Ward Place is a short, narrow connecting street, so I’m maybe halfway down before the SUV rights itself and motors down toward me. From the north sidewalk, I jump the curb onto the street and then hop onto the curb on the south side. Their guy with the machine gun is on the right, on the passenger side, so he won’t have an angle on me from that direction, he’ll have to switch sides, any time I can buy is precious—
Must have the precious, they stole it from us, sneaky little hobbitses.
—Come on, 22nd, come on, 22nd, come on—
Chunks of brick explode off the building over my head, they don’t have a good angle but it’s not going to stop them, someone is shouting and WHERE THE HELL IS THE CAR TRAFFIC, nothing’s stopping these guys, every second they’re closer, closer, closer, Closer is one of my favorites, Natalie Portman in a pink wig in a strip club—
—Focus, dumbshit—
—Jessica Alba in Sin City—
—and now the machine-gun fire is nonstop, splintering buildings and smashing car windows and pummeling metal—
—Closer, please, Hannibal Lecter to Clarice—
Clo-ser!
And I swerve left into the final bend on Ward Place as bullets ricochet off the columns on the corner building. The SUV can’t turn as nimbly and smashes into a parked car, costing them a few seconds, I’ll take any seconds I can get, because 22nd is just up here—
I make the left turn onto 22nd, heading south down a northbound one-way street. I ride under a hotel awning, upsetting a concierge and some arriving guests, as I hear tires screeching and horns honking and—smash—metal crunching, and I dare to look back and, yes, the SUV has collided with an oncoming car as it turned onto 22nd, but it will right itself soon enough and refocus, like that creepy Terminator who got blown to pieces but then re-formed—
Have you seen this boy?
Pandemonium on a busy street, the asshole in the black SUV going the wrong way, every car letting him know it with their horns, but ultimately, no driver wants to play bumper cars, and they’ll get out of his way.
Time, I need time, where is it, where is it, I’m on 22nd, where the fuck is it—
My legs are burning, sweat fills my eyes, horns are honking, and tires are squealing as the SUV stops and starts, stops and starts, weaves around oncoming traffic, but I can hear them, I can hear them, and now all the cars seem to get it, and they’re pulling over to get out of the way of the asshole SUV, like the Red Sea parting, so now I have Charlton Heston as Moses in my head, this better not be the last image in my brain before I die—
They have a clear path to me, the engine guns forward as they close the gap, only seconds now, only seconds—
Bullets spraying buildings and cars and windows, people ducking for cover, where is it, where is it, where the fuck—
As I reach the intersection with M Street, gigantic green military trucks converge from both directions on 22nd, cutting off the intersection, followed by black sedans and some MPD squad cars. A helicopter appears overhead, seemingly out of nowhere.
Finally.
I skid into a left turn onto M Street, out of the line of fire, as I hear another set of tires skidding—the SUV’s, as it approaches the intersection. I ride behind the barricade to stay safe and watch.
The SUV has stopped about fifteen, twenty yards short of the barricade at M Street. Behind it, another set of cars, sirens blaring, is speeding down 22nd to form a back end to the barricade.
I stand over my bike, panting with relief. The Russians are surrounded.
People on the streets scurry for cover. Soldiers in full combat gear jump out of the trucks and aim their weapons at the black SUV. MPD police officers draw their weapons and do the same. Everyone is shouting at the Russians.
Turn off your engine! Drop your weapons! Place your hands on your head and exit the vehicle!
(And from now on, be nice to Ben Casper!)
Nobody’s approaching the vehicle. Not yet. Everyone is standing their ground. The helicopter looms overhead, maybe fifty feet or so in the air.
The police are directing bystanders to clear out, forcing cars to the south of the barricade to U-turn and get some distance. I get pushed away, too, but about a block down, I climb onto the roof of a parked car so I can watch. I think I’ve earned that right.
Several agents in plain clothes have joined the fray, talking into radios and, like everyone else, aiming their weapons at the bad guys. These guys are Secret Service. They’re here courtesy of the two magical words I used in my 911 call.
White House. I told the operator the car was headed for the White House. It tends to get the government’s attention.
The SUV remains idling in the middle of 22nd Street. Government agents continue to shout orders at the Russians, but so far, no movement in the SUV.
A standoff.
Every minute that passes brings additional law enforcement vehicles to the scene. There’s got to be twenty of them by now.
“Party’s over, guys,” I say to myself. “Give it up.”
And then the black SUV bursts into a ball of orange flame, an internal combustion so powerful that the doors, the roof, everything blows apart. The last things I see, before the force of the blast topples me from the roof of the parked car, are the green military trucks flying backward, bodies hurtling through the air, glass sailing in every direction.
And then I hit the pavement hard, facedown, followed closely by the clang of metal crashing to the ground and the unforgettable whump of human bodies landing in the street.
Chapter 88
I open my eyes. I don’t know how long I was out. I raise my head and think, This is what mass chaos looks like.
People are scattering. Everyone is shouting. Sirens are blaring. Multiple helicopters are overhead now. Fighter jets are patrolling the skies. Fire and rescue trucks are arriving.
Bodies lie everywhere. I’m too f
ar away from the epicenter to have a good sense of the number of casualties, but some of the bodies, thank God, are moving. Others are prone.
The air is thick with the smell of fire, gasoline, smoke. Of death.
I get to my feet on wobbly legs. I’m in one piece. I shake my head and shards of glass fall out of my hair. The street is littered with broken glass.
I start toward the wreckage, to offer any help I could possibly provide, but police officers are already pushing people away from the scene and setting up blockades.
There’s nothing I can do. Not here, anyway.
I look up at the sky, at the cloud of black smoke hovering above the spot where the Russians’ SUV once sat. The thugs inside that vehicle were blown to pieces, no doubt. And that, clearly, was the point of this overkill. This wasn’t just a suicide, a cyanide pill crushed between the teeth to avoid interrogation by the enemy. No, these assassins didn’t just want to avoid capture.
They wanted to avoid identification.
The Russians, and Alexander Kutuzov, have covered their tracks well.
Chapter 89
Two hours pass. I watch helplessly from the police barricade as emergency medics treat patients feverishly, as they haul some others away silently, with less urgency. Buildings adjacent to the explosion have suffered damage—broken windows and collapsed storefronts.
There’s no reason for me to stay. I’m not providing any help. I’m not solving any problems. But maybe it’s time I did.
I get on my bike and pedal away from the pandemonium. Rescue vehicles are speeding past me in both directions. I pray that they will succeed in their mission. But contrary to the hope that strangles my heart, that burns through my chest, I know that innocent people have died back there. More deaths attributable to me. I brought the Russians to that barricade. I caused that barricade.
I find the house easily, burned into my memory. There were many visits over the years, but one in particular sticks out, less than a month after Mother died. It was just a simple lunch out on Andrei’s back patio, sausages and kebabs on the grill. It was the first time, other than Mother’s funeral, that I had smelled fresh air since her death.
Mistress Page 20
