PRESENT DAY
Inside the interview room, the man Jake thought of as Jones said, "So all that's in the book, everything you just told us?"
Jake lit another Lucky Strike. He took a drag and let the smoke out slow, savoring the taste. "Pretty much."
"Like I told you," Smith said, "that book will never get published."
Jake glanced at his Rolex. It was 10:20 a.m. He'd burned up almost two and a half hours talking to these clowns. "Then I guess you have nothing to worry about."
"It's not us who needs to worry."
"You think I should be worried?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
Jones reached down to an attaché case on the floor at his feet and laid a government form on the table. A photocopy actually. He slid it across to Jake, who saw his own signature at the bottom of the page. "Recognize that?" Jones asked.
Jake nodded. "An SF 312, a classified information nondisclosure agreement."
"Signed by you when you first hired on with the Bureau."
Jake didn't remember signing the form, but he didn't doubt its authenticity. He'd signed about a thousand forms on his first day at the FBI, before shipping out for Quantico. "Are you accusing me of illegally revealing classified information?"
"Depends on what's in that book."
"I just told you everything I know."
"Your wife, Stacy, she was there too, right?"
"You know," Jake said, "if you're trying to play good cop, bad cop, one of you actually has to play the good cop."
"I guess we should bring your wife in," Smith said, "and talk to her too."
Jake took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked it hard at Smith's chest. It hit his tie and flung burning ashes all over his shirt and suit coat.
"Motherfucker," Smith shouted, jumping to his feet and knocking over his chair. The ashes left black streaks on his white shirt as he brushed them off. He started around the table at Jake.
Jones stood and blocked him. "Take it easy."
Jake hadn't moved.
After several seconds of staring, Smith righted his chair and sat down. Then Jones sat. "We need to get a copy of the book."
Jake looked at his watch again. 10:30.
"Why do you keep looking at your watch?" Smith said. "You got somewhere else to be?"
"Just worried about missing my favorite TV show."
Jake's two interrogators looked at each other. Then Jones said, "So how can we get a copy? Our agency has a certain...vetting process for books that may contain sensitive material."
"My father is a private citizen. I'm pretty sure the First Amendment exempts him from your vetting process."
"But it doesn't exempt you," Smith said. "You're a government employee. And so is your wife."
Jake slid another cigarette from his pack and picked up his Zippo. He smiled when he saw Smith tense. "We haven't written any books."
"You supplied information for one."
"No, we didn't," Jake said. "Stacy and I both filed detailed reports after the attempted assassination of President Omar. As I understand it, those reports are classified. But I doubt that's a problem for you."
"We've read the reports," Jones said. "And they are classified, which makes your dissemination of the information contained in them a federal offense."
"Yes, it would," Jake said. "Fortunately—"
The door banged open and another man entered the room. He was dressed just like Smith and Jones. And he carried an iPad. "They're holding a goddamned press conference."
Smith and Jones said, "Who?" at the same time.
The new man set the iPad on the desk in front of them, then pointed at Jake. "His father and Max Garcia. At the National Press Club. All the cable news channels are carrying it live."
Everyone stared down at the iPad. On the screen was a live news feed of Gordon McCay and Max Garcia standing side by side behind a lectern, the front of which bore the words:
NATIONAL PRESS CLUB
WASHINGTON DC
Gordon was holding up a hardcover book. The resolution on the iPad was sharp enough so that Jake could read the main title, 'GOVERNMENT ASSASSINS', but he couldn't make out the subtitle. He knew what it was, though.
The caption crawl at the bottom of the screen read, "Explosive new book claims CIA behind JFK assassination and attempted assassination of President Noah Omar."
The man Jake called Smith pounded his fist on the table so hard the iPad nearly jumped off. "Son of a bitch!"
***
Jake stood outside the anonymous office building in downtown Washington, DC, where he had been held quasi-illegally for the last few hours. He lit a cigarette and called his wife.
Stacy answered on the first ring. "Are you watching it?"
"Just a glimpse," he said. "I had to step outside."
"To smoke?"
"My last pack, I promise."
"Where have I heard that before?"
Jake took a final drag and flicked the cigarette into a storm drain. "Good call having it at the National Press Club."
"Gordon has been a member for years."
"Really?"
"He's full of surprises."
"You can say that again."
"I'm recording it for you," Stacy said.
"Think I'm coming home early."
"You should have taken the day off."
"The Bureau owes both of us a ton of vacation," Jake said. "Let's go somewhere."
"What kind of blowback do you think we'll get?"
"Nothing we can't handle. We saved the president's life."
"Come on home, baby."
"On my way," Jake said.