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“Possibly from the FBI?” McCarthy asked innocently.
“That’s probably it, Mr. President,” Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan chimed in. “No telling what the FBI said to those people, or vive-ah-versa.”
Secretary Cohen thought: That’s vice versa, you cretin, not vive-ah-versa .
Then she thought: So Mulligan’s part of whatever is going on here.
What the hell is going on here?
And then she noticed that McCarthy was looking at her carefully, as if he expected her to say, “I’m sorry, but in the letter I took to President Martinez—the one he said you wrote, Mr. McCarthy—there were specific references to taking Abrego to the Oaxaca State Prison.”
She said nothing.
“Get Schmidt and Crenshaw in here,” the President ordered.
“Right now. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“You don’t want to talk to them on the telephone, Mr. President?” Special Agent Douglas asked.
“If I did, Douglas,” the President replied sarcastically, “I would have said, ‘Get Schmidt and then Crenshaw on the phone.’ ”
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said, and walked to a telephone on a sideboard to summon Schmidt and Crenshaw.
The President turned to the secretary of State.
“You don’t know anything about this Oaxaca Prison?”
Cohen was aware that McCarthy seemed very interested in what her reply would be.
“Just what I’ve heard and seen here, Mr. President,” she said.
“Then I don’t see any point in taking any more of your valuable time, Madam Secretary. If I need you later, I’ll call.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Cohen said, and stood up and walked out of the Oval Office.
When the door had closed, the President asked, “McCarthy, do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“I have no reason to believe she’s not, Mr. President,” McCarthy said. “But I just thought it might be wise to ask her to keep what she heard here to herself.”
“Yeah,” the President said.
“Should I bring her back in here, Mr. President?”
“No. You can tell her as well as I can that she goddamn well better keep what she just heard in here to herself.”
McCarthy caught up with the secretary of State as she was about to get in her limousine.
“Madam Secretary!” McCarthy called. “A moment, please.”
She turned to face him but didn’t speak.
“The President asked me to tell you he hopes you understand that what took place in the Oval Office just now has to be kept between us.”
Cohen nodded but didn’t reply.
“And let me say I appreciate your wisdom in not getting further into the business of what was and what was not in the letter you took to President Martinez,” McCarthy said.
Again she didn’t reply. But her eyebrows rose in question.
