Truth Or Die Part 31

"That's right, of course! And I'm Trevor Mann."

"Yes, I believe you said that already." Beverly nodded toward my drink with a patient smile. "Are we celebrating something, Mr. Mann?"

"Ha! More like commiserating, I'm afraid. Problem is, I'm down here in DC by myself, so I have no one to commiserate with."

"Well, I'm told I'm a good listener," she said.

G.o.d, she's good at this. She makes it look so effortless.

"Oh, it's nothing," I said with a sloppy wave of my hand. "I mean, it's something, but I really shouldn't say anything."

"Yes, that's probably best," said Beverly.

With that, I tossed back the rest of my whiskey as if it were liquid courage. No, better yet, a truth serum.

"On second thought, what the h.e.l.l. It's going to be in all the headlines soon enough," I said, before leaning in to whisper, "Can you two keep a secret?"

CHAPTER 93.

IT WAS almost too easy. Like pushing a big b.u.t.ton.

Suddenly, Shahid Al Dossari wasn't so eager for me to get lost. "Can I buy you another round, Mr. Mann?"

And they say women are gossips.

I happily slid into their booth while Al Dossari flagged the c.o.c.ktail waitress. As I exchanged glances with Valerie, she broke character for a split second to give me a nod. So far, so good. Now bring it home. Or, at least, that's how I took it.

"What were you drinking?" Al Dossari asked me as the waitress arrived with pep in her step. She knew a good tip when she saw one.

"Double Johnnie Black on the rocks," I said.

"Not anymore. Make it a double Johnnie Blue, neat," he said.

I was fairly convinced that his c.o.c.ksure money-is-no-object upgrade was more for Beverly Sands's benefit than mine, but I wasn't about to object. All things considered, if I was pretending to be loaded, it might as well be with top-of-the-line real whiskey.

"So where were we?" asked Valerie.

"Mr. Mann was about to take us into his confidence," said Al Dossari.

"First of all, Mr. Mann was my father. Call me Trevor," I said. "Second ..." I paused for a moment a la an alcohol-induced memory lapse. "Actually, I can't remember what number two was, but in any event, here's why I'm stuck here in DC. Of course, it involves politics. Do you guys follow politics?"

"Sure, a little," said Al Dossari. And by "a little" it was clear he meant "a lot."

I let out a deep sigh. "Stop me if this bores you, but apparently the CIA has invented some new interrogation method that makes waterboarding look like a day at the beach. Problem is, it's killed a bunch of prisoners, hordes of them. Even bigger problem, at least for the president, is that his new CIA director is involved."

"Wait," said Valerie as if confused. "Didn't I see on the news that the new CIA director wasn't going to take the job? I remember because he was standing with his twin daughters and they were adorable."

"That's right, but this is the new new CIA director, the one the president is about to announce," I said. "That's on the hush-hush, too. I think his name is Archer."

It was probably more from wishful thinking than anything else that I paused for Al Dossari to jump in and say "Karcher" to correct me. That would be too easy, though. He remained silent as the waitress returned with my twenty-five-year whiskey.

"Anyway," I continued, "the Times has the story and I've been asked to stay down here to do some interviews on the Hill once it breaks on Monday." I grabbed the lowball of Johnnie Blue, raising it high. "So, as they say in synchronized swimming ... bottoms up!"

Beverly Sands lifted her drink to mine with a laugh. Trevor Mann, the reporter from the Times who very possibly had a drinking problem, was nonetheless entertaining. Right, Shahid?

She turned to him, her look wondering why he wasn't joining in the cheers. And for the first time, we got a hint of something. He looked distracted. Downright uncomfortable.

"Are you okay?" asked a concerned Beverly Sands. "Shahid?"

"Huh?" He snapped out of it, raising his champagne. "Oh, I'm sorry ... cheers."

We clinked gla.s.ses, and I waited for some kind of follow-up question from Al Dossari. Valerie was waiting, too. Maybe he needed a command performance from me to be sure of what he'd heard.

Or maybe this was all for naught. The link was only between Karcher and Brennan, and as for Al Dossari, he was simply the CIA's patsy. A sort of post-9/11 Lee Harvey Oswald. Only, in this case, for real.

Suddenly, Al Dossari began sliding out of the booth. "Will you two excuse me for a moment?"

CHAPTER 94.

VALERIE AND I both watched as he walked toward the men's room in the back of the bar. We were seeing the same thing. I a.s.sumed we were thinking it, too.

"He's not going to the bathroom, is he? He's calling Brennan," I said. "Or maybe even Karcher. One of them, right?"

Valerie grimaced, a twinge of guilt. "No, he really is going to the bathroom," she said. "In fact, he's going to be in there for a while."

"How would you know?"

She nodded first at his champagne gla.s.s and then at her purse. "When he stood to shake your hand," she said. "It's like liquid Ex-Lax, only a h.e.l.l of a lot stronger and quicker."

"Why?" I asked. Why would she spike his drink?

"Technically, it's our third date," she said. "In Shahid's mind, it doesn't end with us playing Boggle. This way, he won't even want a peck on the cheek."

"I was wondering about that," I said. "You know ..."

Up shot one of her eyebrows. "Whether I'd ever have s.e.x with a mark?"

"Do you guys really call them marks?"

"Yeah, strange, right? Targets of an undercover sting operation never caught on."

"So you really haven't-"

"Is that really only your second whiskey?"

"Sorry, I was just curious."

"For the record, the answer's no," she said. "Not to say he didn't try on dates one and two. But love of my country only goes so far."

The c.o.c.ktail waitress returned to pour some more champagne. Valerie quickly placed her hand over Al Dossari's gla.s.s. "I think he's done for the night," she said politely.

I glanced toward the back of the bar as the waitress walked away. "What happens now?" I asked. The plan she and Crespin had concocted only got me to the table.

"What happens now is that you tell me who your silent partner is," she said.

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant. I also know that whoever this guy is, he's CIA, or perhaps ex-CIA at this point. There's no other way you could have those recordings."

"No other way?"

"Prove me wrong."

"If you know he's CIA, what difference does his name make right now?"

Valerie eyed me for a moment. We'd known each other for less than a day, but it was hard to ignore a certain foxhole mentality. Like it or not, we were in this together.

"You want trust? I'll give you trust," she said. "Remember when Crespin and I looked at each other during one of your recordings?"

"Yes. You tried to pretend it was nothing-"

"But it was obviously something, you're right," she said. "Thing is, it was Karcher who initially tipped us off about our man on the toilet right now, that he was funding a known terrorist. So I became Beverly Sands to cozy up to Shahid Al Dossari, and-lo and behold-we just confirmed it. Shahid's money has been moving in and out of an Al Qaeda operative's account as recently as last week. Bingo, right? Except for one problem. According to one of your videos and the date stamped on the bottom of the screen, that operative has been dead for over a year."

Sometimes you just say the first words that come to your mind no matter how trite. "Holy s.h.i.t."

"That's right, holy s.h.i.t," she said. "Pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n brilliant, too. Developing that truth serum takes big bucks, and it's not like the CIA can go to Congress for it. So what does Karcher do? He uses the hotshot lawyer, Brennan, to make it look like one of his clients is funding a terrorist with Saudi money. Instead, what Karcher's really doing is funding himself."

"But Al Dossari would have to know, right?"

"It would seem that way."

"That's the part I don't get, then," I said. "Wouldn't Karcher be throwing Al Dossari under the bus? Without the recordings from the black site, you guys would still have Al Dossari on funding terrorism."

"Yeah, that's the brilliant part. All the NSA does is provide the proof. Then we hand everything-including Al Dossari-back over to Karcher," she said. "The CIA will take it from here, he'll tell us, and then it's out of our hands."

"Then what, though?" I asked. "It's not like Karcher can't drop the ball."

"No, of course not. A few months from now we'd probably hear that Al Dossari has flipped and is now Karcher's newest mole in the Middle East, or something like that. And we'd believe it, too, because we'd have no reason not to."

"But now you do."

"Which brings me back to your friend," she said. "As much as you need to trust me, I need to trust him. And I can't do that if I don't meet him. So tonight, literally ... I need you to bring me back to your friend."

"What about your date?" I asked. "We just can't leave him."

"Oh, no?" Already she was halfway out the booth. "When he's finally able to leave the bathroom, the last thing he'll want to do is explain what took him so long. Trust me," she said. "We're doing him a favor."

CHAPTER 95.

IN TWO minutes flat, we were in the backseat of a DC cab heading off the Beltway past Dulles Airport and out to Arcola. I really should've gotten a to-go cup for that Johnnie Walker Blue.

The driver, whose disposition most closely resembled an ingrown toenail, initially told us that Arcola was out of his territory, especially after midnight. A crisp Ben Franklin later, he suddenly had a brand-new territory. Money is the biggest b.u.t.ton of them all.

"Inside or outside doors?" asked Valerie.

I turned to her. "Inside or outside?"

"My mother was afraid to fly when I was a kid, so we drove everywhere for vacation. She had this thing, though. We could never stay in a hotel with doors that faced outside," she said. "Too dangerous."

"By any chance, does your mother know what you currently do for a living?" I asked.

"If she were still alive, she wouldn't like it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"Cervical cancer. When I was in high school," she explained. "And since we're in the sympathy card aisle, my father then died of lung cancer during my senior year in college."

"Jesus."

"Tell me about it. Of course, if they were both still alive, it's not like I could actually tell them what I do."

"And what is that, exactly? I mean, of all the NSA secrets that Edward Snowden leaked, I didn't hear anything about agents like you."

"Yeah, little Eddie really complicated things, didn't he?"