“Pierce,” Rispel said. “I was just going—”
He slammed his palms onto her desk and leaned all the way over it, putting his face just inches from hers. “What the fuck is going on, Lisa?”
Flecks of spittle hit her and she might have flinched—might have reverted to their past dynamic. But she’d imagined this eventuality and had mentally rehearsed it. So without even attempting to conceal her disgust, she wiped her cheeks, looked into his eyes, and said firmly, “Sit down, Pierce.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I said—”
“Put your ass in one of those two guest chairs right now, or I will call security and have you escorted from my building.”
He looked at her, his mouth agape but for once nothing coming out of it.
“Sit,” she said again. She realized she had deliberately addressed him in the same way she did her cocker spaniel, and that she had enjoyed doing so. She reminded herself to keep her ego in check.
After a moment, he straightened and took a step back. To save face, he said, “You better have a damn good explanation.” He sat.
She knew perfectly well what had brought him, but there was no upside, only risk, to going first. “Explanation for what?”
He reddened, and for a second, she thought he might go into another tirade. But he didn’t. He must have known she was serious about having him escorted out. And he must have been afraid of his current position. She had him. He might try to bluff, but she had him. She felt herself wanting to relish the knowledge, and suppressed the feeling.
“It’s a shitshow in Seattle,” he said. “The press is crawling all over the US Attorney, Meekler. The district judge is receiving death threats. There are QAnon protesters in front of the damn courthouse, claiming some sort of deep state conspiracy to release a rich pedophile! So please. Just tell me. Where the hell is Schrader?”
It was what she had been expecting. “That’s why I was going to call you. I thought this was you. Some kind of Plan B.”
He looked half-desperate, half-incredulous. “You’re saying you had nothing to do with it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Are you saying the same?”
He went pale, and his lips moved as if to form words, but nothing came out. She wondered if he was going to be sick.
“Lisa,” he said. “Look, I’m not upset. Maybe it’s good. I just need to know what’s going on, okay?”
“You seem upset.” Don’t toy with him. That’s not the point.
“No. No. Just . . . agitated. But . . . come on. Who else could have done this?”
“Are you joking? Are you seriously asking me who could have been motivated to acquire a set of doomsday blackmail videos involving prominent Americans? And who could have had the means to do it?”
He shook his head as though to clear it. “You’re saying . . . FSB?”
“Of course. And if not Russia, China would be my next guess.”
He put his hands to his temples. “This can’t be happening. It can’t.”
“Pierce. Listen to me. We need to prepare for the very real possibility that whoever is on those tapes is now subject to blackmail by the FSB or MSS. Those people need to be warned. We need contingency plans.”
He laughed slightly hysterically. “Contingency plans? There are no contingency plans for something like this. Do you know who we’re talking about?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“For starters? Try the president of the United States.”