The book! No matter what happened with other complications surrounding it, there were all those months of hard work to be considered and salvaged. It was being published as he sat there, and he was pleased that it was. His regret, as the hands on the kitchen clock relentlessly ticked off his life, was that he hadn’t gone forward the way he’d originally intended, written it as a novel based upon Russo’s tales. Geoff Lowe had been instrumental in that decision, too, and he thought back to that lunch with Lowe after having met at the party.

“I’m telling you,” Lowe had said at that lunch, “you’ve got one hell of a best-selling nonfiction book here, Rich. A novel? Waste of time.”

“But it’s based on one man’s word, Geoff, a former mafioso in the witness protection program. I can’t corroborate what he’s told me.”

“You don’t need corroboration,” Lowe countered. “The guy has led the life, walked the walk and talked the talk. His word is as good as anyone’s. It’s not you attesting to the truthfulness of it. All you’re doing is being a good journalist, recounting his recollection of events and filling in some blanks when necessary.”

They discussed it throughout lunch. Toward the end, Lowe said, “Look, I have a good friend at Hobbes House in New York. You know who they are.”

“A publisher. Conservative nonfiction.”

“Exactly. I have a friend there, the top editor, Sam Greenleaf. If you change your proposal to nonfiction, I know Sam will bite.”

“I thought I’d submit it to other publishers, maybe those who liked what I’d submitted to them before.”

“But who didn’t buy what you wrote. Right?” Marienthal had given him a thumbnail sketch of his writing career.

“Right.”

“So why blow a golden opportunity?”

Marienthal’s expression was quizzical.

“Hobbes House. The bird in hand, Rich. Let’s say I can sell it there right away. And let’s say I can get old Senator Widmer to base hearings of his subcommittee on intelligence on the book. Let’s say you can convince Mr. Russo to come and testify at those hearings, and I get Widmer to agree. Can you even imagine what publicity that would generate? Conservative books are hot these days, have been for years. Coulter-”

Marienthal’s eyes rolled up into his head.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she’s a loony, off the wall, but her books make all the best-seller lists. There’s Bill O’Reilly. Hannity.”

“Geoff,” Marienthal said, “you’re dredging up the wrong examples. I’m not a conservative. I don’t like those people. I’ve been a liberal all my life.”

“I’m willing to forgive that,” Lowe said with a deep chuckle. “It doesn’t matter what you are, Rich. Like I said, all you’re doing in this case is being a good journalist.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Marienthal said.

“You do that. In the meantime, come up with a nonfiction proposal I can send to Sam Greenleaf. No obligation. You can dismiss whatever comes of it. But at least it will give you an idea of what the market will bear. You have an agent?”

“No.”

“Great, then I’ll be your agent, at least with Hobbes House. No commission. The truth is, Rich, I really like you-despite your being a liberal. I think we have a lot in common. I’d like to be helpful, that’s all.”

Lowe paid for lunch and they parted ways. A week later he called with an offer from Hobbes House. It was structured in such a way that the advance would go up as certain events fell into place, with the largest increase occurring when and if Louis Russo agreed to testify before the Widmer-chaired committee. The contract and all the other information released about the project would say it was to be a novel, a work of fiction, in order to preserve secrecy about its real form until it was time for the book to be published.

Marienthal discussed it with Kathryn.

“I’m thrilled for you,” she told him, “but what about the political fallout? This will be devastating to President Parmele. You don’t want to do anything to hurt him, do you?”

“That’s not my concern,” he replied.

“But what if what Russo says isn’t true?”

“That’s not my problem, either. Geoff says I’m just a journalist reporting on an eyewitness to history. Think of what happened when journalists had their say at book length with Nixon, with Clinton, with Kissinger and all. Think of the journalistic reputations and money made with such books. Geoff is right. I think I really lucked out meeting him, Kathryn. He’s a terrific guy, a top aide to Senator Widmer. He got me the offer from Hobbes House and he doesn’t want a cent for doing it. I’m telling you, this is the break I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

She realized her arguing was fruitless and not very supportive to boot. She kissed him, and they celebrated with an expensive dinner at Bistro Bis in the Hotel George, where they drank too much wine and fell into bed intending to make love, but too fatigued and elated to summon the energy.

Thinking back to that evening as he sat in Winard Jackson’s kitchen, the soft sounds of Just Friends in the background, he realized that evening had been celebratory in every sense of the word. He had his first book contract, and judging from the enthusiasm of the publisher and his editor, Sam Greenleaf, it had best seller written all over it. The struggle was over.

But on this morning, months later in a friend’s basement apartment, his mood was hardly one of celebration. He’d been so blinded by ambition that he hadn’t taken a moment to step back and see what was really going on, the use he was being put to, the manipulation of him by others with their own self-serving agendas. Kathryn had seen it. His father had seen it. The only one who hadn’t seen it was Richard Marienthal, and he was too wrapped up in his pursuit of glory and money to listen to them.

Louis Russo had been murdered because of him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against that painful truth. The old mafioso had killed men in his criminal career, but didn’t deserve to be gunned down to help sell a book-and maybe bring down a president in the bargain.

Had Russo told the truth when he claimed to have assassinated the Chilean dictator at the behest of the CIA, on orders from its chief, Adam Parmele? It didn’t seem to matter anymore whether Russo had lied or not. His story was between the covers of a book, to be read and judged by all those who plunked down their money in bookstores or online.

His mind cleared in synchronization with the increasing brightness outside. His options narrowed to one, it seemed. The book would make its way without his help. There would be no public appearances, no signings, no interviews in which he’d have to justify what he’d written. And there would be no hearings, certainly not involving him. The tapes were his and would remain his. One day, maybe, he’d destroy them.

He looked into the living room where the large canvas shoulder bag containing the tapes and other research materials rested against a chair. Trash them now, he told himself. Burn them, or go out and find a Dumpster. Pull the tapes from their cassette cases and cut them into strips, make confetti of them. Find a big magnet and run it over them, scrambling Russo’s words, true or false.

But the clarity that had made a temporary stop in the kitchen was obscured again by uncertainty. He couldn’t destroy what he’d worked so hard to possess. He stood, feeling very old as he did, and walked slowly into the cramped room that would be his bedroom, at least for that day. Fully clothed, he fell on the bed, drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and was asleep within seconds.