Mistress

by James Patterson

  He pats my leg. “You are upset. I understand. And if it helps, I apologize. But we must put such matters in the past. You have won, Benjamin. You have found the video despite my efforts to stop you. For this, I congratulate you.”

  Somehow, the praise doesn’t seem so sincere coming from this guy.

  “So now, Benjamin, we move on to better times. I want you to be happy, my friend. Happy and wealthy. I trust you have confirmed the wire transfer to the account you specified? Twenty million dollars?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It will certainly help my quest for happiness.”

  “Indeed it will. You are being rewarded handsomely to keep this video confidential.”

  I rub my hands together and try to sound authoritative. When I get nervous, my voice tends to go up an octave, which is pretty much the opposite of cool. “You understand what I said before, Alex. If anything happens to me, if a bullet accidentally finds its way into my skull, that video goes viral. It gets released to every media outlet in North America.”

  “I do understand that,” he says. “You were very clear on the phone this morning. You are very clear now. If I kill you, the video becomes public.”

  Yeah, but I wanted to say it again. It’s what will keep me alive.

  “But you understand,” says Kutuzov, “that if you have second thoughts about our agreement and decide to release this video, you will die a painful death.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.” If I were chewing gum, I’d blow a bubble right now. That would look cool.

  I turn toward Kutuzov, who grabs my shirt with one hand and tugs me close to him. I’ve hit a nerve with him, obviously.

  “Listen to me, my little friend. Do not mistake what has happened in the past for the future. You were in hiding, and we lacked adequate time to prepare, and still you only narrowly escaped us. Those bullets that killed your friend the detective were within inches of you, yes? And never again will you have a barricade of police and Secret Service agents saving you. Had they not arrived yesterday, you would have been dead within seconds. Do not mistake what I can do.”

  Kutuzov releases my shirt with a push. This, and no other reason, is why we are meeting face-to-face. Kutuzov could have wired my money with the tap of a keystroke and flown back to Russia. But he wanted to deliver this message personally. He wants me to live in mortal fear of him.

  “That’s a helluva way to talk to a friend,” I manage.

  Kutuzov looks me up and down. “Do you require another reminder from Victor?”

  I show my palms, like stop. “No, no. You made your point.”

  After a moment, Kutuzov shows me another cold smile. “Very well, then, Benjamin. If I kill you, you release the video. If you release the tape, I kill you. Mutually assured destruction, yes?”

  A term from the Cold War. How appropriate.

  Kutuzov claps his hands. “You have heard my warning and I trust you understand its sincerity. So now we are done. Yes?”

  Kutuzov offers his hand to me. I don’t care what Victor does with his next bullet, I’m not shaking this asshole’s hand.

  “No,” I say.

  I just have one thing left to say to him. It’s what Robert De Niro said to Dennis Farina at the end of Midnight Run. If these are the last words I ever utter—and they might be—I might as well go out quoting one of my all-time favorites.

  “There’s something I’ve always wanted to say to you,” I tell Kutuzov. “You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter 104

  Alex Kutuzov’s smile evaporates. He jumps to his feet. His mind is racing. He can’t reconcile his disbelief with my confidence.

  “It’s real,” I say. “You should say something.”

  Jay Mohr’s line to Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire when he fired him at lunch. Now I’m feeling better.

  “You just confessed to being behind the deaths of those cops,” I say. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that’s a crime in America.”

  Kutuzov’s eyes race over me. “You did not record this conversation,” he says, panicking. “We checked. We took every precaution.”

  “That’s true,” I concede. “I didn’t record this.”

  “Then it is simply your word against mine.”

  “It’s really just your words, Alex.”

  Kutuzov removes a small handgun from the pocket of his pants. I didn’t even know he had it. He points it at me and starts speaking furiously in Russian.

  “Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” I say, but he’s not talking to me.

  “Explain this!” he shouts at me. “Or I’ll kill you now.”

  “You shoot me,” I say, “and you’re liable to lose a lot of those humanitarian awards.” Chevy Chase to Joe Don Baker in Fletch. This is like a buffet for me.

  “Nyet!” he shouts, again not to me. But I know a little Russian. His name is Andrei Bogomolov.

  “Explain what you say,” Kutuzov says to me, sweating now, his hand trembling as he approaches me with the gun aimed at my head.

  “I didn’t record this,” I say again. “But you did, Alex.”

  His eyes widen. He knows I’m right. He’s been wearing a wire so his entire team, including the sharpshooter, Victor, can listen in. That’s why he had to walk away when his goon checked me for a recording device. The detector would have gone off because of Alex’s wire, which is probably tucked under his shirt and taped to his chest.

  “You’ve been sending an electronic signal to your people all around the National Mall,” I explain. “The Metropolitan Police Department intercepted that signal, Alex. Everything you’ve said to me is on tape now. Amazing, the technology law enforcement has.”

  “You’re bluffing,” he spits, trying to show disdain but unable to hide his growing fear. “These are all lies!”

  He’s talking to me, but he’s really talking to his team listening in. They aren’t loyal to him; they’re loyal to the Russian government. And Alexander Kutuzov needs to convince them that he hasn’t just become a very big liability—a man who is about to be arrested by the DC police, a desperate man who would confess to Operation Delano in order to save himself from the death penalty for killing DC cops.

  And then I hear the sweetest sound, the melodious song I’ve been eagerly awaiting.

  The sound of police sirens. Metropolitan Police squad cars racing to the National Mall.

  “Here they come,” I say. “They recorded the entire thing and now they’re here to arrest you. You better start thinking about that deal you’re going to cut.” I raise my voice for that last comment to make sure his team hears it.

  “Lies!” Kutuzov shouts. “The police are after you, not me.”

  “Okay, fine, Alex. Let’s both sit here and see which one of us they arrest.”

  He stares at me. I stare at him. For a glorious moment, it seems that time has stood still.

  But it hasn’t, and with each passing moment, those sirens get louder.

  “Quite the pickle you’re in,” I note. “You think the cops will take the death penalty off the table if you tell them about Operation Delano?”

  And then something happens. Kutuzov touches the earpiece in his left ear and shouts, “Nyet!” as the goon by the reflecting pool breaks into a full sprint to the south. A number of other people on the National Mall—the rest of the Russian team—scatter in various directions. Somebody, somewhere, is ordering the team to disperse.

  Kutuzov, in full panic now, waves his pistol around and unleashes a flurry of appeals in Russian. I assume he’s telling his team that I’m lying, that I’m bluffing. And he would be correct. The DC cops aren’t working with me. They didn’t record anything. The only reason they’re speeding toward us is an anonymous call that Detective Liz Larkin just received from an untraceable phone used by a crusty Irishman and former Chicago cop informing her that wanted fugitive Benjamin Casper could be found at the Lincoln Memorial. They’re coming here to arrest me.

  But Kutuzov doesn’t know that. And neither does his team. Th
ey have to make a decision and make it fast, because those sirens are getting louder.

  “I will kill him!” Kutuzov shouts toward the Mall, and I assume he means me, but before he can turn in my direction, another crisp sound pierces the air, another thwip. The back of Kutuzov’s head explodes and his eye vomits blood. His knees buckle and his body rocks back and forth before he falls, face-first, down the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial, bouncing two or three steps before coming to a rest.

  The sirens are upon us now, the sounds of the police vehicles crunching over the grass. I squat down next to Alex Kutuzov’s lifeless body.

  “That’s for Ellis Burk,” I say to him. Then I turn and run.

  Chapter 105

  I run with every ounce of my remaining strength to the south, where I find my Triumph parked on Independence Avenue. I can hear the police behind me, but I don’t know what they’re doing. They’ve found a man bleeding out on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and, for all they know, it’s the guy they were coming to arrest—me. I hope that will make them pause for at least a minute or two.

  I’ll take any delay I can get. I hop on the Triumph, look to my left, and see uniformed officers pointing at me and shouting. The police vehicles won’t be far behind. I kick the Triumph to life and bolt onto Independence heading east, navigating between cars under the blanket of the overhanging trees, the joggers and walkers to the north and south paying me little attention on a beautiful summer afternoon. I’d love to check my watch for the time, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I tried to time things out as best I could, but if I didn’t, it’s too late to fix it now.

  I hear the sirens behind me as I race the Triumph onto the Kutz Bridge, which carries me over the Tidal Basin. They’re probably wondering where I’m going so they can roadblock me up ahead. (Is roadblock a verb? It should be.) Anyway, I have many options, but at the fork with Maine Avenue, I stay left on Independence.

  They’re not far behind now, but at the intersection ahead, I skid into a sudden left turn onto 15th Street—sudden for them, though it was always my plan. I draw some horns but complete the turn and hope I’ve left a mess behind me.

  Any delay doesn’t last long. The cars in the opposite lane of 15th, southbound, pull over, and one of the squad cars catches up to me and pulls up alongside me, like when Chevy Chase was being chased in Fletch and he said, Hey, Fred, how’s the herpes? but I don’t think these cops would appreciate the humor and I have no intention of having a conversation, so—

  I jump the curb, jump the tiny chain-linked gateway, and drive onto the pedestrian walkway, which is, thankfully, empty, and then cut onto the park grass to shortcut a right turn onto Madison Drive. (Shortcut might not be a verb, either.) The cops can’t follow my route by car, and Madison is one-way going west, so they’ll have to travel against the grain to chase me—just like when I was riding that bicycle, only this time, I have a little more horsepower propelling me.

  It’s a short jaunt on Madison, avoiding cars coming directly toward me and unhappy to see me, before I hit 14th Street, but I’m not going to bother with a turn at that congested intersection. Instead I turn left early, jumping the curb again and heading north up the sidewalk, the Smithsonian looming across the street from me. They’ve got a new exhibit featuring photographs of Union generals from the Civil War I’ve been meaning to check out. Maybe now’s not the right time.

  I hear sirens behind me, the squealing of tires, and I look back and see a squad car bearing down on me on the sidewalk. I have just enough of a lead to beat it to the next intersection, which is all I need.

  I see a lull in traffic and jump the curb, cross the street, and hop onto the opposite sidewalk. I skid to a stop at the intersection, jump off my Triumph, and break into a headlong sprint.

  Running to my own funeral, I’m afraid. But I’m out of options. And if this is the end, I’m going out on my terms.

  Chapter 106

  The Mellon Auditorium, part of the Federal Triangle on Constitution Avenue, is a magnificent neoclassical structure built in the 1930s that served as the site for FDR’s reinstatement of the draft, the signing of the NATO treaty in the 1940s, and the signing of the NAFTA treaty in the mid-’90s. This afternoon, it’s the location for an awards ceremony hosted by the Boy Scouts of America.

  I cross Constitution on foot and rush up the stairs, brandishing—yes, brandishing—my press credentials to the dark-suited man at the gate. He waves me past and I walk through a metal detector unscathed. I jog through the lobby and head toward the auditorium as I hear a ruckus behind me, shouting from outside. Cops, I assume, having spotted me entering the building. The man who just let me pass—a member of the Secret Service—is probably just beginning to realize that the cops might be talking about me.

  I slow my pace as I approach the two Secret Service agents manning the door, keeping those press credentials out for them to see.

  “Hi, Ben Casper, Capital Beat,” I say. “I’m running late.”

  The agent looks over the list to find my name. He won’t find it.

  I turn back to look at the commotion as the cops reach the door.

  “Oh, my God—does that guy have a gun?” I say to the agents, motioning back behind me to the front door.

  The Secret Service agent blocking the auditorium door reaches into his jacket and takes a single step forward. I quickly push him aside and burst through the door into the huge, gilded auditorium.

  “Alabama! Alabama!” the agent behind me cries out, which must be the current code word for “emergency.”

  Inside, it’s all blue and red—the American flag, the Boy Scouts’ crest, the series of tables set up for a crowd of thousands, and the president and other dignitaries on the stage at the far end. The president’s authoritative voice echoes throughout the chamber.

  I’m in full sprint mode. Secret Service agents from every corner of the room descend upon me. The president stops his address as agents to each side of him grab him and pull him down. I run down the center aisle as far as I think I can get and start shouting.

  “Mr. President!” I yell out. “The Russian government is blackmailing you into letting them invade Georgia! The Russians are blackmailing you and the American people deserve to know!” The first agent to reach me tries to bulldoze me, but I juke him and miss the brunt of his tackle. I fall to the floor but keep my head up and shout, “I’m Ben Casper of Capital Beat! I have proof the Russians are blackmailing the president! I have proof and the government knows it!”

  And then they pile on, one black-suited G-man after another, and I’m at the bottom of a rugby scrum. The entire room is in chaos, people jumping from their seats, somebody from the government taking the mike and appealing for calm. I can’t even see the stage in the front of the auditorium now, though I assume the president is no longer there. He’s probably not in the room at all.

  “I have proof!” I shout. “I have proof and the president knows it!”

  And then, before you can say My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over, the agents lift me off the ground and carry me horizontally out of the room. I keep shouting out the same phrases, “I’m Ben Casper” and “I have proof,” not so much for the scoutmasters in the room but for the reporters, most of whom know me and presumably have some level of respect for me—at least enough to allow me to dominate the headlines on this event. At least enough to make them ask questions. At least enough to make it difficult for the US government to sweep this all under the rug.

  And that, in the end, is the best I can do. I don’t have the video, but I can accuse the administration publicly and hope it’s enough to stop what’s going on. It’s too late to stop what’s going to happen to me.

  My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over.

  Chapter 107

  Once upon an evening late, having signed away my fate,

  I reluctantly await my ruthless punishment’s arrival.

  I have sorely taxed the patience of the governmental agents;


  I have severed my relations with those holding my survival

  In their hands, for I depend on two conditions, truth

  and honor—

  Only that, and nothing more.

  The room is nothing but gray walls, a table, and two chairs. I was placed in here by two members of the Secret Service who didn’t say a word to me and pushed me through the door before locking it closed.

  It’s chilly in here, but otherwise I’m comfortable—relaxed in a way that’s reminiscent of the way I felt at the end of final exams (though I don’t recall any final exams where people shot at me). I can’t change anything now. All the running and hiding and searching and strategizing is over. I did it. There’s no taking back what I said. I’ve given up all leverage with Craig Carney. He is free to bring the full weight of the federal government down on me.

  But I got a few things in return. I got payback against a Russian billionaire and justice for Ellis Burk. I got twenty millions dollars that, unbeknownst to said billionaire, was wired into an account for families of law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty. And I stopped the Russians from controlling our foreign policy.

  I’ve sat in here for three hours. During that time I’ve made some hard decisions. The first is that Ben Affleck has now fully redeemed himself for the whole J.Lo-Gigli disaster, especially after The Town, which is one of my favorite movies. The second is that Andrew Dice Clay, however piggish he may be, is really not a bad actor.

  The third is that I’d really prefer not to go to prison, but there’s not much I can do to prevent that now.

  A large African American man enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is Ronald Hamilton, the top Secret Service agent protecting the president.

  He cocks his head and gives me a scolding look. “Have you totally lost your mind?”