Truth Or Die Part 37

OWEN DIDN'T bother saying the actual words. That would've been redundant. One glance at him, the look on his face, was all it took.

What did I tell you, dude?

All I could see in my mind was the picture of Dr. Wittmer and his good ol' college chum, Clay Dobson. And all I could hear now was Dobson's voice telling someone in his office that Wittmer should've been killed sooner.

Of course, that someone was Frank Karcher-or Karch, as Dobson kept calling him in between rounds of cursing him out. For two guys in cahoots with each other, they sure weren't seeing eye to eye on much. Cover-ups are a b.i.t.c.h.

"Jesus," I said. "How ...?"

"Well, I was the director of intelligence programs with the NSC," said Ba.s.s, who somehow managed to convey that without a hint of bravado. It was merely fact. Same for the way he claimed he'd been able to hide the bug in Dobson's office. "I just dropped it in his pencil holder when he wasn't looking."

Ba.s.s fell silent again so I could keep listening, but all I had were more and more questions.

"What about Landry?" I asked. Was the press secretary involved as well?

"Best we can tell, no," said Owen. "There's at least a half dozen times when the two are alone in Dobson's office together and nothing ever comes up."

"Anybody else?"

"Just Prajeet Sengupta," said Owen.

The Indian doctor? "I thought you told me that was all bulls.h.i.t."

"Not all of it. Like with any good lie, there's always a bit of truth. Sengupta exists, he's a real person," said Owen. "Come to think of it, the Iranian guy from Stanford is real, too."

I clearly didn't follow. Ba.s.s paused the recording, his thumb shifting to another file. He pressed Play.

For the next minute, with the flags around the monument whipping in the wind above us, I listened to Dobson on the phone with Sengupta asking about his friends in college, specifically if there was anyone from the Middle East.

"Sengupta was Dobson's man for the serum, botched as it was," said Owen. "Turns out, Sengupta has a brother back in India doing twenty years for drug trafficking. Or at least, he was until Dobson intervened with Indian intelligence officials. The serum in exchange for time served. The brother's now a free man."

"So Dobson discovers an Iranian roommate and invents the story about him," I said.

"Yeah, and of all things, the guy-Ghasemi-actually did go back to Iran. According to Stanford alumni records, he owns a software company in Tehran-but of course, that wouldn't prevent him from moonlighting for the nuclear program, right? Dobson had all the angles covered," said Owen. He then turned to Ba.s.s. "Except one."

Ba.s.s raised his palms as if to deflect the credit. "I knew nothing about this serum, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was up. Especially when I heard Karcher's name to replace me."

"You were right. h.e.l.l, you were both right," I said, giving Owen his due.

So why didn't they look happier about it? Or even happy at all?

That was when I realized what they had already figured out. And to think, I was the only one with the law degree.

CHAPTER 110.

"d.a.m.n," I muttered.

Owen nodded. "Yep."

The recordings. "They're inadmissible. Not only that, they're illegal," I said.

Owen nodded again. "Yep."

"I don't care," said Ba.s.s.

"He really doesn't," said Owen. "Believe me, I've tried to talk him out of it."

"Out of what?" I asked.

Ba.s.s shrugged. "So maybe I risk doing a little time. It will be worth it to implicate Dobson. And once the investigation starts, something else will have to turn up," he said. "The truth will come out."

I had every intention of making a great counterargument, beginning with the reason why Owen hadn't wanted to go public in the first place. He wanted Dobson dead to rights. We both did now. But I'd just come from the guy's office, where I'd seen up close and personal Dobson's ability to construct an alternate reality. Dobson was good at it. Too good. Without the recordings from his office, the odds of his seeing the inside of a jail cell were anything but a sure thing. He'd be ruined politically, but he'd probably still go free.

Yeah, that was the argument I was about to make. Point by point.

Instead, all I could do was listen to the echo of Ba.s.s's last sentence in my head. The truth will come out, he said.

The truth will come out.

I turned to Owen. "You still have the notebook from the lab, right?"

It took him a second to figure out what I was asking, but only a second. The kid was a genius, after all. And when I saw him smile, it was suddenly as if he could hear the same echo.

"I'd say three days. Two, if I don't sleep," he answered. "But then what? How?"

I reached into my pocket. Never had a prepaid cell phone been put to better use.

"Yes, Operator, could I please have the main number for the New York Times?"

Sebastian Cole couldn't take my call fast enough.

"Jesus Christ, you're alive!" he said. "I was starting to wonder."

"You and me both," I said. "But yes, I'm alive. Very much so. Now, do you remember that envelope I gave you? The one you were only supposed to open if I wasn't?"

"Are you kidding me?" said Sebastian. "I've been staring at it every day since you left. I was planning to kill you myself just so I could open it."

"I'll save you the time," I said. "Go ahead ... open it."

"Are you serious?"

"As the Queen Mother," I said. "And as you read what's inside, I want you to keep one thing in mind."

"What's that?"

"You ain't seen nothing yet."

CHAPTER 111.

INSIDE THE White House, dead presidents are nothing more than old paintings. The real currency is the almighty favor, and I'd just done a big one for the Morris administration.

"Thank you again, Trevor, for making this happen," said Dobson.

He had left the West Wing for the Westin and Sebastian Cole's corner suite, where I greeted him at the door with a firm handshake and the a.s.surance that "this"-as in, this meeting and what it was in exchange for-was in everyone's best interests.

The deal I'd brokered was simple. I told Dobson that I'd already gone to Sebastian at the New York Times with the recordings of the serum being used at the black site in Stare Kiejkuty. But a lot had changed since that visit, most of all the revelation by Dobson that the CIA had a mole in the Iranian nuclear program who stood to be exposed. With Karcher now dead and his draconian operation disbanded, there was a choice to be made. A bombsh.e.l.l of a story for the Times versus our country knowing whether Iran had the bomb.

What was an American patriot to do?

Convince the Times editor to stand down, that was what. And in return, Sebastian got unfettered access to the president and his full cooperation for an unprecedented series of in-depth interviews culminating in a book detailing his first term in office. Guaranteed bestseller on the Times list itself. Number one with a bullet.

This meeting was simply to iron out the details.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I asked. I pointed over at a credenza. "They just brought up some fresh coffee, if you want."

Of course he wanted it. Death, taxes, and Dobson chugging caffeine. "Sure," he said. "Black, no sugar."

Right on cue, Sebastian came over to shake hands, launching immediately into a conversation with Dobson about the last time they'd seen each other. It was last year's White House Correspondents' Dinner, just a few months after President Morris took office. Jimmy Fallon was hilarious.

"I thought the president was in good form, too," said Sebastian, or something like that. Whatever it took to keep Dobson occupied.

"Here you go," I said, returning moments later with the coffee. "Black, no sugar."

Dobson took a sip. He shot a glance at the mug.

"I know, it's a little strong, isn't it?" I said. "Too strong?"

Which was like asking a guy if your handshake was too strong. What's he going to say?

"No, not at all," he said. "It's good."

"Good," said Sebastian. "Shall we sit down?"

He led the way over to the hotel's modernist take on a living room area-one couch opposite two armchairs, a black lacquered table in the middle. There were no place cards, but once Sebastian sat down in one of the armchairs, it was only natural that Dobson would take the couch. Better yet, he sat right in the center. Center stage, if you will.

"Nice room," said Dobson, looking around.

You should see the other one, dude.

Or, at least, that was what I pictured Owen saying through the wall while watching on his laptop.

The kid really had a thing for adjoining rooms.

CHAPTER 112.

FROM THE other armchair, I watched and listened as Dobson laid out in detail the ways in which Sebastian would be able not only to conduct the one-on-one interviews with the president but also to travel with him once he began his reelection campaign.

"Not the press bus, Cole," said Dobson. "I mean shotgun, right there next to the man. We're talking the kind of access that would make Bob Woodward s.h.i.t his pants with jealousy."

Sebastian smiled and nodded. In fact, that was pretty much all he allowed himself as he deftly used the cover of his proper British upbringing to come off as agreeable as possible. Owen had made it very clear.

Faster than aspirin but slower than eye drops.

"Clay, do you want some more coffee?" I asked. Five minutes in and I'd already poured him one refill.

Dobson shook me off. "No, I'm all set," he said.

We'll see about that, I so wanted to say.

Instead, I simply peeked at my watch and shot a glance over at Sebastian. Finally, and once and for all.

It was time to hear the truth.

"So, any questions so far?" Dobson soon asked. It was clear he was only being polite. This was his end of the bargain, the quid to Sebastian's quo, and he was sure he'd delivered in spades.

And, in fact, he had. Desperate men know no boundaries.

Sebastian sat back in his armchair, folded his legs, and used the few seconds of complete silence that followed to make it very clear that, yes, he actually did have some questions.

"Have you ever told a lie?" he asked.

Dobson's reaction was as expected, his eyes narrowing to an incredulous squint. "What kind of a question is that?"