Mistress

by James Patterson

  Okay, maybe that last one is less inspirational. But notice there are no presidents in there. Not since Detective Liz Larkin said that I learned all that presidential trivia as a way of bonding with Father. That isn’t true. I just thought it was interesting information. I wasn’t bonding with Father. Screw him. I don’t need him. I’ve done just fine without him. I’m never going to recite another piece of presidential trivia as long as I live. No more poems they liked or shoes they wore or dogs they owned.

  Never again. Write it down. The only president I’m going to worry about is the one occupying the White House right now, who has breached his oath of office and is fucking with my world.

  I haven’t slept, in case you hadn’t noticed. I gave up trying last night about four in the morning, and, unable to leave this hotel—with police all over the capital hunting me—I have done nothing but pace the floor in this tiny, dirty room for hours on end. It’s probably a good rehearsal for federal prison, which, if this call doesn’t go well, is probably the best outcome I can expect. The worst is a coffin.

  Game on, Ben. Don’t fuck this up.

  I pick up the prepaid phone. I dial the number and place the phone to my ear.

  One ring. Two. My empty stomach churns on adrenaline. My hand can hardly hold the phone.

  Don’t screw this up…don’t be like Mikey—

  “Hello.” The word is delivered in an icy, flat tone, dripping, of course, with the thick accent.

  I take one deep breath. “Mr. Kutuzov, it’s Ben Casper.”

  “Ah, Mr. Casper.” Meester Kahsper.

  “We have some business to discuss,” I say.

  “Do we, now? I must tell you, Mr. Casper, that I am having my doubts about you. When you first contacted me, I assumed that you had come into possession of a very important item. Now I am not so sure.”

  “Well, you should be sure, Alex. I have the video. And I have a digital file rigged to be e-mailed to every news outlet in North America if anything happens to me.”

  “I see,” he says with amusement coloring his tone. Like he doesn’t believe me.

  “I want twenty million dollars wired to a specific account, Alex. And when I receive it, you have my assurance that the video will remain confidential.”

  Kutuzov clucks his tongue. “No, no, Mr. Casper. I think not. My friend, I know you are trying to find this video. But I now believe that you have been unable to obtain it. I believe you were—bluffing, as you Americans say? You were bluffing me previously.”

  That’s true. I was. And I’m bluffing now, too.

  “I’m not bluffing now,” I say.

  “Then tell me what is on the video,” he says. “Prove to me that you have a copy.”

  That’s basically the same thing Craig Carney said to me yesterday, and I failed the test. I hope I pass this time. Because if I don’t, I have no way out.

  “It’s a sex video of Diana Hotchkiss with the First Lady, Libby Rose Francis,” I say.

  And I hold my breath. This is the moment. Right or wrong. Live or die. It sure would be nice if I actually had that damn video file.

  Kutuzov releases a sigh.

  “Give me your account number,” he says, sounding like he’s lost a little bit of the confidence in his voice.

  Chapter 100

  I pace the room another half hour. My legs are unsteady and my limbs are tingling with dread.

  Give me your account number, Kutuzov said.

  So this time, I guessed right about the video. The clues were there for me all along. Operation Delano. I was right that the original Operation Delano was a plan to blackmail President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. But I was wrong about the reason.

  I forgot about his wife, Eleanor. The rumors, to this day, are unconfirmed, but in many circles it’s accepted as fact that Eleanor Roosevelt was a lesbian. Stalin must have heard those rumors, too. He was trying to dig up proof that FDR’s wife was gay so he could use it as leverage at the Yalta summit—as blackmail.

  In the 1940s, that would probably be damaging information.

  (For the record, this doesn’t count against my moratorium on presidential trivia.)

  Anyway, fast-forward almost seventy years, and it’s Operation Delano 2.0. The Russians get proof that Libby Rose Francis has a girlfriend named Diana Hotchkiss. In this day, would it be a damaging political scandal for the president to admit that his wife is a lesbian? Haven’t we come further than that as a nation?

  Apparently, President Francis doesn’t want to be the test case.

  And who knows what’s on that video? If it’s graphic sex—I pause here to recall all Diana’s sex toys in her bedroom closet—it would be enough to scare any politician. That, I assume, is the straw that broke the camel’s back from the president’s point of view. He couldn’t survive a video making its way around the Internet of his wife doing kinky things with another woman.

  I jump at the sound of a loud rap on my door. My pulse explodes into a pounding throb. Who even knows I’m here? I search for a means of escape—

  Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

  There isn’t a window in this place, nowhere to hide—

  “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door; only this, and nothing more”—

  “It’s Sean!” he calls out. “It’s Sean, Ben.”

  I put my hands on my knees and wait for my breathing to resume. Deep breaths, Ben. Deep breaths.

  “Hey,” he says when I let him in. He takes a moment to appraise me. “What were you saying just now?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything.”

  “Something—it sounded like that Edgar Allan Poe poem. ‘The Raven.’”

  I take a breath. “I said that out loud?”

  “You did.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Did you sleep last night?”

  “Not a wink.” I close and lock the door behind him. “You’ve got an untraceable phone to make your call?”

  “Yes. For God’s sake, how many times are you going to ask me?”

  “That’s a big help to me, Sean. Really.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Sean takes a look around my fleabag hotel room and probably thinks, well, nothing of it.

  “So?” he asks. “Did you guess right about the video?”

  “Yep.”

  “Jesus. A sex video of Diana Hotchkiss and the First Lady?”

  I nod my head.

  “And you figured it out just by what you saw last night in that car?”

  “I should have figured it out long ago,” I say. “But yeah, last night did it for me. And your photos from your zoom lens are even better than the view I had.”

  He nods with pride. “Yeah, I got a nice, tight shot of that kiss. That was no friends’ kiss, either.”

  He pulls a copy of that photo out of his bag. He showed it to me on his camera last night, but it’s the first time I’ve seen a printout of the photo.

  A close-up photo of Anne Brennan, sitting inside the black sedan, planting a passionate, urgent kiss on Diana Hotchkiss.

  He’s right—it’s no kiss between friends. It’s a kiss of two women who desperately miss each other. A kiss of two women in love.

  Oh, Diana. I guess you’ll never stop surprising me.

  The photo is enough of a close-up that you can’t see a whole lot more than their faces, but I saw a flash of orange when I peeked into the car last night, and Sean’s photo shows a bit of Diana’s clothing as well. And what seals the deal is the glint of steel on her wrist as her hand tenderly caresses Anne’s face during the kiss.

  Diana was in handcuffs and an orange prison jumpsuit.

  Diana wasn’t a spy working for the United States. Diana was a traitor. She secretly recorded a sexual romp with the First Lady and was selling it to the highest bidder. My guess is she was working with the Russians initially, but then got greedy and invited the Chinese in, too. Or maybe she was working with both all along, but didn’t tell one
about the other. Who knows?

  The details don’t really matter. What matters now is that I have to deal with it, and if I don’t do it right, I’ll either go to prison for life or be fitted for a coffin.

  “What do you need from me now?” Sean asks.

  I snap out of my funk. “I just want you to make that phone call.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Only this and nothing more,” I say.

  He doesn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near the National Mall today, Sean. If this doesn’t work out, I’m either dead or under arrest. And you’ll be charged as an accessory.”

  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.”

  “True,” he says. “Still, indulge me and let me check you for a recording device.”

  “A sign of good faith?” I ask. “Cooperation?”

  “You could think of it that way.”

  “Maybe I’m not feeling cooperative,” I say.

  Kutuzov gives me an icy smile. “Victor,” he says.

  Before I can ask him what he means, or who the hell Victor is, I hear a thwip pierce the air and the stair immediately below where I’m sitting explodes. I jump up and tumble over to my side. Kutuzov enjoys a good laugh at my expense.

  I look back at the place the bullet landed. An inch or two to either side and one of my feet would have been blown off. An inch or two higher and I’d be singing with the Vienna Boys’ Choir.

  I look around the Mall. I have no idea where that bullet came from. But the sharpshooter’s marksmanship is unquestionable. Kutuzov has made his point.

  Kutuzov, who has remained as still as a statue this entire time, turns and winks at me. “Perhaps now you are feeling cooperative?”

  I nod my head and get to my feet, the adrenaline dump now catching up with me. My heart is pounding, and I’m standing here wondering if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. To which the answer is, Absolutely.

  “You win,” I say, raising my trembling hands. “Check me for a wire.”

  He nods in the direction of the reflecting pool, where a large gentleman suddenly moves toward us.

  “My associate will check you,” Kutuzov says as he gets up and walks away.

  My pulse rockets in my throat. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer. He just winks at me and bounds down the stairs.

  And his “associate” walks up the steps toward me.

  I love you, Mother, I whisper, in case they are the last words I ever speak. But he’s not going to kill me, right? Kutuzov wouldn’t have come here personally if they were just going to kill me. Right?

  He would’ve just had his sharpshooter, Victor, kill me.

  Right?

  The man walks up to me and reaches inside his jacket. I hold my breath and savor it. I’ve come to enjoy breathing. I’d like to keep doing it.

  He removes a long wand from his jacket. “Please raise your arms,” he says in a thick accent. He reminds me of Drago from Rocky IV, only he’s not as handsome. But he has a similar sense of humor. I’m waiting for him to say, I must break you.

&
nbsp; I stand up. He runs the wand over me, with no sound coming back. No hits. No signal coming off me. Then he pats me down for a microphone. I feel like I’m going through airport security in Leningrad. He leaves no corner of my body unchecked. He even checks my prepaid cell phone, which I have turned off. He can search and probe all he wants. He’s not going to find anything.

  Because I’m not recording this.

  He walks past me up the stairs. I turn and watch him as he pulls back the blue tarp covering the monument and checks behind it.

  Once he’s finished back there, he walks back down the stairs, passing me without comment, and gives a curt nod to Alex Kutuzov. Kutuzov then comes back up the stairs and rejoins me.

  “Thank you,” he says. “You are quite right. You’d have no sound reason for recording this. But you can understand my concern. I must…exercise discretion.”

  I say, “Of course,” like I’m cool. But I’m not. I shouldn’t have come here.

  “Now,” says Kutuzov, “we talk business.”

  Chapter 103

  “You are nervous,” says Alexander Kutuzov. “You are shaking.”

  I wish I had a good comeback. That’s what Bruce Willis would do. He’d squint and arch his eyebrows and say something icy smooth. “Icy smooth” would be a good slogan for mint gum. I wish I had some gum right now, because it calms me down. You always seem more at ease when you’re chewing gum.

  “I understand the local police are pursuing you with great urgency,” Kutuzov says.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty much out of friends,” I say.

  “Well, you have one now.” Kutuzov turns to me. “Miss Diana, she warned me that she had stowed away the video for her reporter friend as a measure of insurance. We looked ourselves and could not find it. We knew you were looking for it, too. And so, Benjamin, you were my adversary. And I took measures to…prevent you from obtaining it.”

  “‘Measures,’” I say, mimicking him. “You mean like firing machine guns at me? Are those the ‘measures’ you mean, Alex? The ones that killed my friend Ellis Burk and six other law enforcement officers?”