James Patterson - Truth or Die

All that mattered, though, was that the choice was Al Dossari’s. He’d picked the location. He might have gotten suspicious had Valerie led him there.

Excuse me, had “Beverly Sands” led him there.

At the twenty-minute mark, I checked the same prepaid cell I’d used at Brennan’s house to see if there was any follow-up from Valerie. Word of a delay or even a change of venue.

Neither, though. No new texts.

Finally, about a half hour after Valerie had first sent me the address, I looked up to see her walking in with him. Right away, I could tell he was really getting off on watching the other men jealously checking out his date. Yeah, that’s right, boys, she’s with me...

Tick-tock. Valerie’d had only an hour after leaving NSA headquarters to get dolled up again as Beverly. This, after initially telling Al Dossari that she had a previous engagement after Brennan’s party. No wonder the guy was smiling like the devil. This surprise nightcap was the next-best thing to a booty call. And undoubtedly, in his eyes, the night was still young.

How was Valerie handling that, I wondered? After all, Al Dossari had to have certain expectations by this point. Would she ever take one for the team, so to speak, like Joan did on Mad Men ? No, she’d never. She couldn’t, right?

For Christ’s sake, Mann, let’s keep the focus....

As they passed the bar, I bent down to pick up something I’d pretended to drop. When I straightened up, I glanced over my shoulder to see them grabbing a booth in the back. All according to plan. Give them a little time to settle in with their bottle of champagne — nice and relaxed — and then...

“Hey!” I blurted out, stopping in front of their booth with a double take. “It’s Annie Oakley!” For good measure, I raised my arms as if shooting a shotgun, spilling some of my drink in the process.

I watched as Valerie pretended not to recognize me at first. Al Dossari, on the other hand, wasn’t pretending. All the better.

“Remember?” I said. “We met earlier today at Josiah Brennan’s little soiree. Trevor Mann? The Times ?”

“Oh, of course,” said Al Dossari, sliding out of the booth to shake my hand. “Nice to see you again.”

If that were only true. His pained expression was practically screaming, Of all the damn bars in this town, you had to be in this one? Drunk, no less?

Make that very drunk.

I turned back to Valerie. “Hey, really, nice shooting today. Just excellent!” I said. “Wait, what’s your name again?”

“Beverly,” she said. “Beverly Sands.”

“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.

God, 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 hell. It’s going to be in all the headlines soon enough,” I said, before leaning in to whisper, “Can you two keep a secret?”

It was almost too easy. Like pushing a big button.

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 cocktail 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 cocksure 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 à 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 glasses, 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?”

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 assumed 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?”