'-you should know that my own exposure or lack of exposure is hardly the point. The national security risk exists either way.'
'Can you really tell the difference between one and the other?'
'Just give me the tapes. I'll make sure they're properly disposed of. And you might have noticed, I'm pretty well connected in Washington.'
'You're kidding, right? You're a lobbyist. That's, what, one level higher on the food chain than a telemarketer?'
'I'm talking about influence. And if you don't think I have it, you're not paying attention. I'd say you deserve a promotion for what you've done. The posting of your choice. Maybe an assignment to the National Security Council, how would that be? The national security adviser is a personal friend. You'd have his ear, you could see how policy is really made. From the inside.'
Ben looked at Ulrich's ego wall. His urge to hit the guy had evaporated, leaving behind a sediment of dull nausea and a nameless feeling of being somehow… tainted.
'I've seen it,' he said. He turned and walked toward the door.
'Wait,' Ulrich said. 'What about the tapes?'
Ben didn't answer. He opened the door and kept on walking.
Ulrich hurried to his side. 'Then tell me what you want,' he said, his voice low. 'Money? The government was prepared to pay a hundred million to have those tapes back. You can have that, too.'
Ben hit the down button in the elevator bank. His head hurt. He wanted to be alone.
'Just tell me what you want,' Ulrich said.
A chime sounded. The elevator doors opened. Ben stepped inside.
'I'll let you know,' he said.
'Wait, you can't just walk away. We're talking about the property of the U.S. government. You can't-'
The doors closed. Ben hit the button for the third floor. He'd take the stairs from there.
He considered that phrase, property of the U.S. government. He wondered if Ulrich intended, or even recognized, its sudden ambiguity.
39
More Inside Ben walked through downtown D.C., feeling exhausted, adrift. This thing had seemed so straightforward at first. Why didn't it now? Nothing had really changed. There were tapes. If the tapes got out, it would be a terrorist recruitment bonanza. He'd been tasked with locating the tapes, and he'd carried out his orders. He hadn't managed a neat, final conclusion, there was no real victory to declare, but under the circumstances he'd achieved the best possible outcome, or anyway the least bad one. The information he'd uncovered had enabled Uncle Sam to avoid a checkmate in favor of a stalemate. And for purposes of keeping those tapes under wraps, a stalemate was just as good as a win.
So why did he feel so… empty? And unclean?
What had Larison said? How can there be a conspiracy when everyone is complicit?
He called Hort. One ring, then, 'Where have you been?'
'Sorry. I couldn't check in earlier.'
'Damn, son, don't make me hear from Larison before I hear from you. I'm old enough for that kind of shit to give me a heart attack.'
'You heard from Larison?'
'I left him a note with the diamonds. I needed to tell him what you gave him wasn't the genuine article.'
Ben was so surprised he shook his head as though to clear it. 'What?'
'Yes, I know that's a surprise. I'll brief you on the rest when you're ready.'
'They were fake? Do you know what he would have done if he'd realized?'
'I told you, I'll brief you-'
'I'm ready right now.'
'Where are you?'
'Downtown D.C.'
'I'm at the Pentagon. Platform, Farragut West Station? That's four stops for me, I'll be there in thirty minutes.'
'I'll be waiting.'
He clicked off. For some reason, beyond the obvious fact that Hort had put him in danger without warning him of it, it bugged him that Larison hadn't gotten what he was supposed to. Maybe it was a brothers-in-arms thing. Maybe it was because what Hort had done felt exactly like the kind of manipulation Larison had warned him about. He wasn't sure. All he knew was, he didn't like it.
Hort showed up on time. 'Are you hungry?' he said, walking over to the wickets, where Ben was standing. 'I don't know about you, but I could use a good steak.'
They headed west on K Street, then north on Nineteenth, against traffic both ways. It was a small thing, but Hort had trained Ben never to give the opposition something for free, and Ben wasn't surprised he lived what he taught. After about five minutes, they arrived at a place called the Palm. White-linen-covered tables and booths, polished wood floors, cartoons of the celebrities who'd eaten there plastered on the walls. Seated maybe a hundred people and looked pretty full. The manager greeted Hort as 'Colonel Horton.' Told him not to worry that he didn't have a reservation. Ben wondered what it was all about. Hort didn't ordinarily debrief him at places like this one. Whatever. The aroma of well-seasoned steak was suddenly incredibly inviting.
They ordered a pair of sixteen-ounce New York strips. Hort chose a bottle of wine, too, a California Cabernet from a place called Schlein Vineyard.
'I don't get it,' Ben said quietly after the waiter had departed. He had to suppress his irritation. 'How could you give Larison fakes? Isn't he going to find out and just release the tapes?'
'I can't guarantee that he won't. But I couldn't guarantee it the other way, either. Overall, I think we're safer if he gets his payout as an annuity instead of as a lump sum. A modified version of your proposal.'
'Safer for whom? You know what he would have done if he'd figured it out while we were still together?'
'You would have handled that.'
'Come on, Hort, what was it, three days ago you were telling me I wasn't at his level?'
'Yet.'
'Yet. I caught up to him in three days?'
'You were supposed to be just the courier. If you'd known, it would have affected your demeanor. Larison would have spotted that. So you would have been in more danger knowing than you were in ignorance. It was a calculated risk. And from the results, I'd say it was the right one.'
Ben shook his head, wanting to say more, not knowing what. It was true, it had turned out well. And it wasn't the first time he'd been sent into the shit without knowing everything he would have wanted to, or felt he was entitled to. But still, that feeling of being… manipulated. It was settling in more deeply.
'I guess,' he said, after a moment. 'But I'll tell you, having seen the guy in action twice now, I wouldn't want to piss him off unnecessarily.'
'You forget. I know him.'
Ben thought of that phrase Hort had used on the flight from Manila: I know people. At the time, he'd thought he understood. Now he realized Hort hadn't been talking about contacts, or at least not only. He was talking about people's natures. He wondered, uncomfortably, what Hort thought he knew about him. Ben could be manipulative when he needed to be-he had been with Marcy Wheeler, in fact-but it had never been second nature to him. The thought that Hort's whole approach to everyone he knew involved assessment, and maneuver, and exploitation, and the realization that Hort probably wasn't atypical in that regard, at least among a certain class of player… it was making him feel naive, and concerned, and disgusted, all at the same time.
The waiter brought the wine. Hort tasted it and nodded. The waiter filled their glasses and moved off.
Hort raised his glass. 'Good work.'
They touched glasses and drank. Ben barely tasted the wine. What he really wanted was a hot shower. And
