Andrew Kaplan - Carrie's run

“I want to stress again that thanks to the excellent work of New York’s Counter-Terrorism Bureau in close cooperation with their counterparts in the FBI, this terrorist plot against our city was completely foiled without a single officer or innocent civilian being harmed. There was no loss of life and no damage done to property. This was a superb example of what we do every day to protect our citizens,” the mayor said.

“Acts like he did it single-handed,” Sanders muttered.

“He’s a politician. Taking credit for something they had nothing to do with is what they do best,” Saul said.

“He didn’t even know about it till about an hour ago,” Sanders said with a grimace. He looked at Carrie. “By the way, you were right. They were going after the Brooklyn Bridge. We found a schematic in the truck.”

“How?” Saul asked.

“Looks like they were going to park the truck right next to one of the suspension towers,” Sanders said.

“Would it have worked?”

“I have no idea. Probably take a team of structural engineers to figure that one out, but maybe.” He shrugged. “Right in the middle of evening rush hour. They would’ve killed a lot of people.”

Estes looked away from the TV and directly at Carrie.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Dima’s dead,” she said. “I needed to interrogate her. I have a lot of questions, David,” she said, looking into his eyes. “A lot.”

He looked around.

“Is there a place we can talk?” he asked one of the nurses.

“There’s a chapel down the hall,” she said.

“C’mon,” he said to Carrie.

“Maybe I should come,” Saul said, watching them.

“Give us a minute, Saul,” Estes said, and walked down the hall. After a second, Carrie followed. They walked into an empty room with folding chairs and, on a sideboard against the far wall, a cross and a menorah.

“I needed to see you,” he said. “We left a lot unsaid.”

“I can’t think about that now, David. I really can’t. I knew this woman. I knew her. She was a stupid, pretty party girl who liked to drink and seduce men, and the only reason she was working with us was the money. Her fantasy wasn’t some jihadi paradise bullshit, it was a rich good-looking guy who would take care of her. So what in the hell was she doing here? How did that happen? You tell me.”

“I don’t know, but I think we both know you’re not going to let it go till you find out.”

She took a breath. “You got that right. Why did you come?”

“I had to see you.” He looked around the room. “But not here. I’m at the New York Palace on Madison. Room 4208. You can see Saint Patrick’s and Rockefeller Center.”

“I’m not a damn tourist, David. I don’t care.”

“Look,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I have to meet with Cassani and the mayor and the Secret Service guys. My job is such bullshit sometimes. Don’t think there aren’t times when I envy the people under me who do the real work. Come by tonight and we’ll talk.”

“Am I still in exile to Intel Analysis? Maybe you don’t like me, but Yerushenko does.”

“We’ll talk,” he said, heading for the door.

She and Saul were sitting at a table in the Marriott’s modernistic bar. Although it was almost midnight, the bar was crowded with businessmen and sleek, unbelievably slim women. The noise level was high, too high to hear the TV behind the bar showing NBA highlights.

“You want to tell me about it?” Saul asked.

“No,” she said, poking the lime slice in her margarita with her fingernail. “Because then you might feel you had to do something about it.”

“And you don’t want me to?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

At the bar, there was a sound of loud laughter. Someone called out, “Did you see Dwyane Wade’s lay-up, man? Effing unbelievable.”

“Come on, Carrie. I told you to enlighten him,” Saul said. “I didn’t say have an affair.”

“I’m not having an affair,” she said, still toying with her drink.

“Then what is happening?”

She looked directly at him. “None of your damn business. Besides, whatever I did, or whatever you think I did, there are people alive today in New York, maybe even some of the people in this room, because of what I did. So don’t lecture me, Saul. I don’t deserve it.”

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t.” He took a long sip of his single-malt Scotch. “You did a helluva job. Everyone did.”

She shook her head, setting her long blond hair moving. “We were lucky. When those FBI guys started shooting around the HMTD, I cringed. One bullet in that stuff and they’d’ve blown up half of Brooklyn.”

“Luck counts too. Napoleon said he’d rather have lucky generals than smart ones.”

“Good for Napoleon,” she said, and put her hand on his arm. “Don’t try to be my father, Saul. I have a father and believe me, one is way more than enough. You know, if I had to choose between being captured and tortured by the Taliban or reliving my childhood, I’d have to think about it a really long time.”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “And you’re right. I am a little protective of you. I’m the one who recruited you. I’m not sure I did you any favors.” He stared up at the TV screen. Basketball images flashed, something about LeBron James. “Do you care about him?”

“Do you mean am I sexually attracted to David? Yes, but give me some credit. There’s a little more to me than that,” she said, finishing her drink.

“I give you a lot of credit. What happened today was your doing. I’m not just protective of you because of guilt. You’re good, Carrie. Damn good.”

She looked around and grabbed her jacket. “This thing isn’t over. There are too many questions that need answering. You know what I have to do?” she said.

He nodded.

“Beirut,” he said.

“You see?” she said, getting up and squeezing his shoulder. “You do understand me.”

“And Estes?”

“That,” she said, “is the sixty-four-million-dollar question.”

“Be careful,” he said, motioning to the waitress for another Scotch.

“Why? What should I be afraid of?”

“Getting what you want.”

She took acab from the Marriott to the New York Palace, the trees in its courtyard strung with lights. I’m like a hooker, going from hotel to hotel, she thought, entering the lobby with its ornate grand staircase. They should have hookers review hotels, she thought, smiling to herself. They spend more time in them than anyone.

She walked straight to the elevator and took it up to the forty-second floor. When she knocked, David Estes opened the door. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie and was holding a glass of red wine.

“You’re right,” she said, walking in and taking off her jacket. “You can see Rockefeller Center.”

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Do they have tequila in those little bottles in the courtesy bar?” she asked.

“Lemme look,” he said, and went over to the console. He came back with a mini bottle of Jose Cuervo and a glass. “You want ice?”

She grimaced. “Cuervo. You’d think in a fancy place like this, it’d be a little more interesting. Cheers,” she said, opening the top and drinking it straight from the bottle.

“Cheers,” he said, taking a sip and putting down his wine. He put his arms around her. Pulling her close, he kissed her hard, his hands sliding down to her bottom and pulling her tight against him. She kissed him back, then pushed him away.

“Is this what you wanted to talk about? Maybe you should just put the money on the dresser first,” she said.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. I can’t stop thinking about you. My marriage ended because of you. Whatever you are to me, believe me, it’s not a whore,” he said.