“You were right. Hell, 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
“Damn,” 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 Bass.
“He really doesn’t,” said Owen. “Believe me, I’ve tried to talk him out of it.”
“Out of what?” I asked.
Bass 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 Bass’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 assurance 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 bombshell 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 shit 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.