“What are you implying, sir?” Brubaker’s face appears genuinely puzzled.
“I’m not implying anything. I asked you a question.”
“Why would I be consorting with agents of our enemies?”
“Interesting you chose the word ‘agent,’ Scott. What do you know about your friend and occasional lover Melanie Jacobs?”
Brubaker’s reaction to this question is much as the president expected: a pro, his expression is immobile, his face as responsive as if it had been carved from granite.
He doesn’t know how to respond, the president thinks. “Take your time Scott, because it better be good. You only get one shot at this.”
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Mr. President. We’re good friends and, yes, sometimes lovers when she’s in town. Last I heard that isn’t a crime.”
“You’re right. It isn’t – unless she happens to be an agent of a foreign nation.”
“What? What are you talking about?’
“Well, Scott, it appears that your friend, or lover, or whatever you choose to call her, is an Iranian agent. We have retrieved materials that implicate you as the source of information which she has passed on to her government.”
“This is bullshit,” Brubaker blurts out. “I don’t buy any of this.”
“And I’m not selling, Scott – I’m telling. Now, I really don’t care who you’ve screwed. I just want to know who your sources are that caused Ms. Jacobs to take such an interest in you. If you continue on playing the role of the knight in shining armor for your sources, then I have no other choice but to implicate you in crimes against the United States. Am I making myself clear, Scott?”
The Post reporter who had so confidently walked through the Oval Office door now finds himself facing charges of treason. Brubaker’s mind springs into action. Whoa. Why should I protect the chief of staff and the vice president? They’re the traitors, not me. I really don’t have much of a choice here.
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