Fatal Conceit (19 page)

On the Sunday-morning political talk shows, Vonu expanded a little, saying, “These terrorists—masquerading as patriots—are trying to disrupt U.S. attempts to mediate a political solution” between “disgruntled” Chechen factions and Russia. When the sole member on one of the panels who occasionally was critical of the administration renewed the question of whether Al Qaeda
was involved, Vonu openly scoffed. “Al Qaeda Al Qaeda Al Qaeda,” she said, smiling and shaking her head as though scolding a not very bright student. “Let's trot out the big bad bogeyman of Al Qaeda to sell newspapers and television ads, shall we? Our Russian friends will back me up on this one; Al Qaeda was not behind this attack. It just seems to me that some people have a hard time accepting that other forms of terrorism exist that aren't Islamic extremism–motivated or somehow connected to Al Qaeda. The terrorists behind this attack are little more than warlords and organized crime syndicates who don't want to see a legitimate, democratically elected government in power in Chechnya.”

Rod Fauhomme made the rounds, too. He complained that the congressional hearings were “clearly a partisan attempt to discredit the administration in the run-up to the election. The president's opponent took a big hit in the last debate, which happened to be on foreign policy. The opponent knows he has no foreign policy experience, and unlike the president would be lost in the current situation. So all he—through his proxies on the congressional committee—can do is invent straw men and attack while cooler heads are handling the situation in cooperation with the Russian government. It's the difference between statesmanship and gamesmanship.”

Karp picked up the television remote and clicked on the twenty-four-hour news channel just as a photograph of Allen appeared above the text:
BREAKING NEWS
!
CIA DIRECTOR ALLEN DEAD IN NEW YORK HOTEL
.
So it's out
, he thought, but in the next instant his attention was diverted by what sounded like a brawl in the reception area outside his office, followed by a sort of wild scrabbling at the door before it cracked open.

Standing up, Karp could see Darla Milquetost valiantly fighting to keep the intruder out. “I don't care who you think you are; you can't just barge in on Mr. Karp!”

The tall blond woman on the other side of his receptionist
ignored the shorter woman and yelled over the top of her head. “Karp, we need to talk!”

“You need to make an appointment like anyone else!” Milquetost complained. “You are such a rude person!”

“Beat it, Darla, this is important,” Ariadne Stupenagel said, using her greater size to leverage her way past and into his office.

Darla clutched Stupenagel's elbow as she looked at Karp. “Shall I call security?” she asked hopefully.

Karp shook his head. “No, thank you, Darla. Sorry, Ariadne, but I'm not in the mood to deal with the media just now . . .”

Stupenagel pointed past him to the television screen. “It's about Sam.”

“Sam?” Karp replied with a frown.

“Sam Allen. We were old friends,” Stupenagel explained. “I talked to him Friday, and I think you might want to hear what I've got to say before it appears in my newspaper tomorrow.”

Still frowning, Karp nodded at his receptionist. “It's okay, Darla, let her in.”

Milquetost glared up at Stupenagel. “Okay, but I'll be right outside if you change your mind.” She let go of the journalist and left the room.

Karp shook his head. “You really do need to quit antagonizing Mrs. Milquetost. She's just doing her job.” His voice faded as Stupenagel crossed the room and sat down in the leather chair across from Karp's big mahogany desk and crossed her long legs. “First, I want your assurances that this goes no further, particularly in regard to the slimeballs in the press,” she said. “This is
my
story.”

“So this is about getting a scoop,” Karp replied with a frown. Just then Ariadne's normally tough-as-nails reporter's eyes welled up with tears; she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

“Hey, Ariadne, I'm sorry. You said he was a friend, I wasn't thinking.” He grabbed a box of tissues as he walked around his desk and handed her one.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Sorry. I got a call a half hour ago from a friend who works at the hotel. I just . . .” She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. “I couldn't believe it. I just saw him Friday.”

“Yes, you were saying that I should hear,” Karp said as the intercom suddenly buzzed, followed by Milquetost's annoyed voice.

“Mr. Karp, your wife is here to see you.”

Karp looked at Stupenagel, who said, “I called her. I know about Lucy.”

The door opened and Marlene walked in. Stupenagel stood and the two women embraced. They'd been friends since they were college roommates at Smith. Stupenagel had been the wild child while Marlene was more conservative due to her strict Italian Catholic upbringing in Queens, but still the unlikely pair had formed a lasting bond.

Marlene was aware of the love-hate relationship between “Stupe” and her media-averse husband, but she knew even he had a grudging respect for her talents as an investigative journalist. And several times in the past, she had “done the right thing” and held stories or passed on information—sometimes against her aggressive journalistic principles.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Karp said when Marlene broke away from her friend. “I take it you're here due to whatever Ariadne has to say about General Allen's alleged suicide.”

“It wasn't a suicide,” Stupenagel spat. Suddenly, the tears were gone, replaced by a fierce glare. “I've known Sam a long time. He wasn't the type . . .”

“People change. I'd guess he was under a lot of—”

“Sam was the sort of man who thrived on pressure,” Stupenagel retorted. “But even if not, I talked to him two days ago. He wasn't suicidal, though he certainly had a lot going on in his personal life, and he was damn mad about the Chechnya situation and prepared to do something about it at the congressional hearings.”

Karp and Marlene listened quietly for the next twenty minutes
while Stupenagel told them about her conversation with Allen. The more she spoke, the grimmer their faces became.

When she was done, Marlene let out a low whistle. “Well, if what he said about Al Qaeda being involved is true, and someone high up is lying about this ‘trade mission' and the failure to respond to protect American lives, I can understand why the administration wouldn't want this to come out in the hearings right before the election. You think he was killed to prevent any deviation from the administration's version?”

“It's the only thing that makes sense to me,” Stupenagel replied.

“I don't know, Stupe,” Karp said. “You say he was being blackmailed—supposedly by someone in the administration—to keep his mouth shut or his wife would find out about his affair. Maybe the choice between lying at the hearing or putting his family through hell was too much for him so he took pills as a way out?”

“And killing himself wouldn't be putting his family through hell?” Stupenagel shook her head. “You would have had to know the man, but he was going to tell the truth and was prepared to take his lumps.”

Marlene abruptly got up from her chair and walked over to the window behind Karp and looked out at the streets. “I knew there was something fishy about the whole explanation regarding what happened in Chechnya. And this proves it, at least to me. I think you're right, Ariadne; I don't think he killed himself. But those sons of bitches put my daughter in harm's way, and if I can prove it . . .”

Both women turned expectantly toward Karp. “I have to admit that something wasn't right when I went to the hotel this morning. Clay and I both felt it,” he said. “I'm waiting on the toxicology results and Fulton's investigation, but I think you're right; this wasn't a suicide. But intuition and even Allen's telling you he was being blackmailed is a long way from proving who would have been behind it. I'd rather the killer, or killers, not know that we're on to them. So, you going to run with the story?”

Stupenagel considered the question, then shrugged. “I'm going to write up what I got,” she said. “But it's pretty dicey. Sam can't back me up and my editor may be a little hinky about saying that he was killed because of what he was going to say at the hearing. I need corroboration, a second source; so I guess that buys you a little time.” She looked up at the television and did a double-take that caused Karp and Marlene to look, too.

The photograph of a young woman now appeared with the headlines about Allen's death. “That's Jenna,” Stupenagel said.

“Who?” Karp asked.

“Sam's girlfriend, Jenna. Sam showed me a photograph . . .” Her voice trailed off as she listened to the newscaster.

“FBI officials are asking the public for help in locating this woman, Jenna Blair,” the newsman said. “According to an FBI spokesperson, she may have been the last person to see General Allen alive and is being sought for questioning. Anyone having information is asked to . . .”

“Think she knows something?” Marlene asked.

“I don't know,” Stupenagel replied. “But even if she doesn't, I'd say we better find her before whoever was blackmailing Sam does.” She turned to look at Marlene. “Care to do a little investigative work with your old buddy?”

Marlene's eyes narrowed. “You bet.” Both women again looked at Karp. “Any thoughts, Butch?” his wife asked.

Karp thought about it and nodded. “Yeah, starting with a telephone call to Jaxon.”

“That's a start,” Stupenagel said. “I think we're going to need all the help we can get.”

B
LAIR WOKE UP, STRETCHED, AND
rolled over to look at her smartphone on the nightstand. She stuck out her lower lip and pouted when she didn't see the usual “good morning, sweetheart” text she got from Allen whenever they were apart.

Eight o'clock. Oh, well, he had to get going by five to meet his buddy at West Point and he's preoccupied with the congressional hearing. I'm sure he spaced it. Still, a girl's got to put her foot down. No good-morning text and last night he couldn't stay awake long enough for me to get out of the shower.

In fact, he'd already gone to bed, lights out, when she emerged from the bathroom after her shower wearing an emerald green satin shift he particularly liked on her. The screen on her computer had gone dark in sleep mode but she noted that it was still recording the signal sent from Sam's webcam. Thinking he might be awake, she moved the mouse and her screen blinked on. His chair was empty and the room was mostly dark; there was only enough light coming in the windows to cast shadows.

“Sam?” she'd said quietly, not wanting to wake him if he was asleep.

There was no answer. She turned off her computer. “Good night, my love, sweet dreams,” she whispered. She didn't have
classes or work in the morning and could sleep in, but she was tired and went to bed. Then she started thinking about the conversation they were going to have and was soon wide awake, tossing and turning in the dark.

Blair was not at all as sure as he was that nothing was going to happen on Monday that they couldn't deal with. She wasn't worried about what he was going to say; probably nothing worse than that he'd decided he couldn't see her until after his confirmation hearings. But
she
was going to have to tell
him
that she'd slept with and spied on important men for money and had been about to do the same with him. She would have been willing to bet her soul that she knew who had the greater sins to confess and the guiltier conscience.

At first she had tried to believe that she could get away with not telling him about her recent past. She never heard from any of her former “dates,” and didn't expect to, as she was one of the skeletons in their closets. But as the weeks passed and summer had turned to autumn and their love had grown, the weight of her secret dragged on her conscience. He kept talking about a future together, even hinting at marriage. “Or just knock around here with me and the kids . . .” She wanted all of that, but she knew that the strain of keeping her secret, always living in fear that he would find out, would ultimately destroy their relationship whether or not he ever learned the truth.

And if it ever came out in the media, it would destroy him and his career. She could visualize the
New York Post
headline: CIA D
IRECTOR
M
ARRIES
“P
RETTY
W
OMAN
.”
Only it wouldn't be funny and it wouldn't end like a fairy tale.
She knew she had to tell him and let him make the decision. Still, she hesitated, in part to hold on to him for just a little bit longer, and in part not wanting to hurt him while he was under such pressure with the “situation” in Chechnya.

It had consumed him since he got the news while they were staying at the Shenandoah Valley bed and breakfast. They were
sitting on the inn's front porch admiring prize Morgan horses grazing and racing in the pastures while enjoying the sunset when the call came from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. “Yeah, what's up?” he asked, then frowned and sat up. “What time did this happen?” he asked, looking at his watch. Then he cursed. “Why am I just now hearing about this?” Apparently he didn't like that response any better. “Goddammit, I don't care if it's a ‘State Department and National Security Agency matter,' we're the goddamned Central Intelligence Agency and we need to get on top of this now! Check the satellites, and if we have any sources on the ground, I want to know what they know and I want to know it yesterday. Is that clear?” He looked at his watch again. “I'll see you in two hours, that's 19:45, and I want to know why it took them two hours to let us know.”