Okay, I’ll take the bait. “Is that true?” I asked.
“It must be,” he said. “I read it on the Internet.”
Valerie, still fixated on her laptop, smiled. She was listening the whole time. Note to self: The NSA is always listening.
Crespin took his seat back at the table. I wasn’t sure what exactly he was talking about, although I got the feeling that was by design.
He continued: “You see, people like to say that information is power. But inside these walls — copper shielded or not — we like to say something else. The real power? It’s not information. It’s misinformation.”
As if on cue, Valerie leaned back in her chair. Whatever she’d been doing, she was done.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered.
“What?” I immediately asked. It was simple reflex.
But she wasn’t talking to me. Just Crespin. And as he stared back at her, he did something I’d yet to see him do. He smiled.
“Karcher to Brennan or Brennan to Karcher?” he asked.
“Both,” said Valerie.
I’d had enough of feeling like the odd man out. “Maybe one of you can tell me what’s going on?”
“Sure,” said Crespin. “But first I have to ask you something. How good are you at pretending you’re drunk?”
Chapter 92
“What are you having?” asked the bartender.
“Second thoughts,” I was tempted to say. Instead, “Double Johnnie Black on the rocks,” I told him.
This one drink would be my prop, a big ol’ glass of whiskey in an unsteady hand to suggest that I’d had plenty more where that came from. The fact that I was already looking pretty ragged from raw nerves and lack of sleep would only add to the effect.
What had Brennan said to his guests on the patio, his quote from Will Rogers? You never get a second chance to make a good first impression.
It wasn’t quite as catchy, but Jeffrey Crespin had his own saying for what I was about to do. “You only get one shot at this, Mann, so I’ll ask you a second time. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
“Absolutely,” I lied.
From my end seat at the bar in a place called Shadows in Georgetown, it wasn’t Brennan I was waiting for. As hangouts go, this was hardly his scene. Hip and chic, all right, but not enough power brokers. Law students instead of lawyers, congressional staffers instead of congressmen. Plus, way too many Eurotrash guys with one too many shirt buttons undone.
Maybe that was why Shahid Al Dossari had chosen the place: the international flavor. That, and the de rigueur “dark and sexy” lounge lighting. Shadows was clearly saving the owners a ton of money on their electric bill.
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?”
Chapter 93
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.