Part 25 (2/2)

Of course, that was according to Claire, who had, in fact, interviewed him for the Times. She said he reeked of coffee and c.o.c.kiness.

”Clay Dobson?”

”Exactly,” said Owen.

”Okay, so Wittmer went to school with the president's chief of staff,” I said. ”What are you suggesting?”

”A connection.”

”Or maybe it's just a coincidence.”

”Yeah, except for one thing,” he said. ”There are no coincidences in politics.”

That sounded a lot like an Aaron Sorkin line, but I wasn't about to debate it. ”What kind of connection?” I asked. ”Do you mean, like, orchestrated?”

”Of course not,” said Owen, as facetious as I was incredulous. ”Nothing illegal ever happens in the White House.”

Point taken. Multiple points, actually. Arms for hostages ... s.e.x with an intern and then lying about it under oath ... a certain botched burglary at a hotel only a handful of miles from where Owen and I were standing?

Suddenly, the only thing I could hear in my head was the voice of then-senator Howard Baker during the Watergate hearings, asking one of the most famous-if not the most famous-political questions of all time.

What did the president know and when did he know it?

Then again, maybe we were getting a wee bit ahead of ourselves.

I leaned in again, staring at the images of Wittmer and Dobson. ”It's still only a picture,” I said.

”You're right,” Owen replied. ”It's possible that it's nothing. Of course, it's also possible that Lawrence Ba.s.s really did want to spend more time with his family instead of running the CIA.”

I'd forgotten about that. Owen hadn't. We'd watched the announcement Ba.s.s had made with his wife and two young daughters in the East Room of the White House. The guy had been the president's pick to become the next director of the CIA. Not only was he pa.s.sing that up, he was resigning from the National Security Council.

Still. Forget Aaron Sorkin. This was starting to feel more like an Oliver Stone fever dream.

”So, now ... what? Ba.s.s is somehow connected, too?” I asked.

Only, this time, I could hear it in my own voice. That incredulous tone was missing. Owen could hear it, too.

”Just for the sake of argument,” he said, ”what if there really was a path to the White House? How would we follow it?”

Between the two of us, I was the only one with a law degree, but you could've fooled me, the way he asked that question. Because lawyers-the good ones, at least-never ask a question they don't already know the answer to.

I wasn't the only one with Watergate on the brain.

”For the record, you don't look anything like Dustin Hoffman,” I said.

Owen gave me a quick head-to-toe. He smiled. ”Yeah, and you wish you looked like Robert Redford.”

BOOK FOUR.

PANTS ON FIRE, EVERYTHING ON FIRE.

CHAPTER 78.

CLAY DOBSON gazed across the clutter of his large oak desk, locking eyes with his 9 a.m. appointment while doing everything he could not to break into a s.h.i.+t-eating grin.

It wasn't easy.

The morning had already brought the good news from Frank Karcher that their little problem in New York had been taken care of-right here in their own backyard, no less. The kid and the reporter's boyfriend were both dead.

Of course, so was his old college chum, Wittmer, but there was a reason Dobson had had cameras placed inside and outside Wittmer's home. He'd never fully trusted the guy. Wittmer was weak.

So, too, was Lawrence Ba.s.s.

That was what made this meeting with him such a lay-up, thought Dobson, the former small forward for the Princeton Tigers basketball team. Dare he think it, a slam dunk.

After all, Ba.s.s hadn't b.u.m-rushed him out on Pennsylvania Avenue or cornered him with a clenched fist in the men's room at the Blue Duck Tavern, where all the political heavyweights fed both their stomachs and their egos.

Instead, he'd made an appointment. An appointment? That was like knocking on a door instead of kicking it down. Total milquetoast. No b.a.l.l.s.

”I'd like an explanation, Clay,” said Ba.s.s, sitting with legs crossed on the other side of the desk.

Even that was weak, thought Dobson. He'd like an explanation? No, you dolt, you demand an explanation!

Yeah, the decision to sandbag Ba.s.s, the former director of intelligence programs with the NSC, was looking better by the second. He would've made a lousy head of the CIA, not that he ever really had a shot at the gig. Ba.s.s was simply a decoy, the fall guy who would pave the way for Frank Karcher.

”Trust me,” said Dobson, folding his arms. ”Karch is not the loose cannon you think he is.”

”So it's really going to be him?” asked Ba.s.s. ”The rumor's true?”

”This is Was.h.i.+ngton, Larry. What rumor isn't?”

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