James Patterson - Truth or Die

“Al Dossari called him?”

“Late last night,” he said. “When he was finally feeling better, I presume.”

“What did he say?”

“Everything you told him at the bar.”

“But as soon as he heard my name...”

“That was the best part. You’d think Karcher would’ve told Al Dossari he’d been played by you, but he didn’t. He just thanked him for the heads-up.”

“It actually makes sense,” I said. “Karcher knows I don’t work for the Times. The paper doesn’t have the story.”

“And speaking of stories that aren’t real...”

Of course. “Al Dossari must have told Karcher how he first met me.”

“Exactly,” he said. “After Karcher hung up from Al Dossari, he immediately woke up Brennan. Naturally, Brennan made sure to call him right back from the secure line in his study.”

Only, thanks to Valerie’s handiwork, the NSA could listen in on that conversation, too.

“I can only imagine Brennan’s reaction,” I said.

“To tell you the truth, I think he was more upset about not actually being interviewed for the Times than he was at the prospect of spending the next ten to fifteen years folding laundry.”

“That’s a lawyer for you,” I said. “Prison is what happens to other people.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, nice work last night. Valerie tells me you play an excellent drunk.”

“I’ve had some practice.”

“She also told me about Owen, that he’s suddenly gone missing.”

“First things first, if you don’t mind. Why didn’t you guys just tell me you knew who he was?”

Crespin didn’t hesitate. “When gauging an asset, it’s always good to know up front if what he’s telling you is true.”

“I take it I’m the so-called asset in that sentence?”

“It’s just the way we do things.”

“So you can probably guess my next question.”

“Yes,” he said. “But the answer to that one makes things a little trickier.”

A little trickier? Did he really just say that?

I’d spent the night, what was left of it, sleeping in the NSA’s version of inside doors. I was in a safe house somewhere in DC on the heels of a road trip taken with a boy genius from the CIA who thought he was curing Alzheimer’s, only to discover he was really helping to create what would’ve been the ultimate interrogation tool if it weren’t for the fact that it happened to have a fail rate of forty percent. And by fail , I mean fatally.

Which would explain why the men responsible for all this were going to such extreme lengths to ensure they were never found out. And by extreme , I also mean fatally.

But now, so I was being told, things were about to get... wait for it... a little trickier.

I stared back at Crespin. “No, it’s actually simple,” I said. “You either can or can’t tell me how you know about Owen.”

“I admire that, I really do,” he said, once again without any hesitation. “Despite everything you’ve been through, you’re still capable of seeing the world in black and white.”

“Not everything is gray.”

He cocked his head. “Look around you, Mr. Mann.”

I was surrounded by cinder-block walls and concrete floors. There was the metal chair Crespin was sitting in, as well as my metal cot. Even the blanket I’d been given. All gray.

And Crespin wasn’t even being literal.

“Are you trying to change the subject?” I asked.

“No, I’m only giving it perspective,” he said. “I know about Owen Lewis because of your friend Claire Parker.”

He looked at me as if he’d just thrown a verbal grenade into our conversation. But I wasn’t sure why. After all, “I also know about Owen Lewis because of Claire Parker,” I said.

“Yes, I realize that. So now comes that trickier part I promised you.” He uncrossed his legs, his back straightening. “Claire worked for the NSA.”

Ka-boom.

It was as if all the blood had been suddenly flushed from my head. I felt dizzy, the room spinning. A big, gray blur.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I don’t think I need to say it again.” No, he didn’t. “To be very clear, Claire was everything you thought she was, a national affairs reporter for the New York Times. She was a gifted journalist who only wrote the truth. But as I’m sure you’re aware, doing that — especially doing it at her level — takes sources.”

“You were one of her sources?”

“No, not me personally. Someone else within the NSA. The division is called Tailored Access Operations, if that means anything.”

“And in return?”

“You mean, what did she do for them?”

“Give something, get something... right?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “At least, not in the way you’re worried about. I think you know that Claire would never burn any of her sources. That’s not what she did for us.”

“Then what exactly did she do?”

Before Crespin could answer, though, we were both looking at Valerie leaning against the doorway again. She was back.

In one hand was a piece of paper, in the other a laptop.

So much for a cup of coffee.

“You need to see something,” she said.

I assumed she was talking only to Crespin, especially when she walked right past me to hand him the piece of paper. He read it, glanced up at Valerie, and read it again.

Instead of handing it back to her, however, he handed it to me.

The reason was as clear as the e-mail address in the upper left-hand corner. It was mine. I was looking at a printout of an e-mail sent to me by Brennan, except I’d never seen it before.

That was when I noticed the time stamp: 5:34 a.m. Brennan had only sent it a half hour earlier.

Trevor, change of venue for our interview today if that’s ok. Too many distractions here at house. Mallard Café at 33rd and Prospect at 11? They do a mean Sun brunch. — JB

“There’s your answer, by the way,” said Crespin.

Answer to what? “What was the question?” I asked.

“What Claire did for us,” he said. “You’re looking at it.”

That hardly cleared up anything, and he knew it. The guy had coy down to a science.

Valerie to the rescue. “Josiah Brennan didn’t send the e-mail,” she explained.

I looked down again at the paper. There was Brennan’s e-mail address underneath mine, the same address he’d been using since first confirming our supposed interview.

“If he didn’t send it, who did?” I asked. But I already knew the answer before the words had even left my mouth. “Karcher?”

“Yes,” said Crespin. “And Brennan has no idea.”

“How do you know?”

“Karcher used a certain spyware virus. As soon as you read an e-mail from him, he can then assume your identity, basically controlling your entire e-mail account. The reason we know this is because we use the same virus.”

“I still don’t get the connection to Claire,” I said.

Valerie looked over at Crespin as if to say Go ahead, boss, you’re the one who brought it up.

Crespin thought for a moment. Finally, “Imagine you’re in London to interview a certain cleric before he’s deported from the UK to Jordan,” he said. “The cleric has little trust in an American journalist — or any American, for that matter — but he’s eager to speak his mind. The international stage can be intoxicating, and no one serves up the limelight better than the New York Times . A neutral location is agreed upon, almost always a hotel, and the cleric has one of his body men search you even though they’re not quite sure what they’re looking for. A recording device? It’s an interview. Of course you have a recorder. And as far as they can tell, it looks exactly like any other recorder they’ve ever seen.”