The Garden of Betrayal (37 page)

Reggie nodded guardedly. Wayland, behind him, looked as if he might spontaneously combust. The chief turned his gaze on me.

“And you. I heard from the mayor that he got four phone calls about you tonight, inside of an hour. One from a prominent local businessman, one from our esteemed governor, one from our junior senator, and one from ‘an influential foreign ambassador.’ I’m a little curious about that last category. I heard about guys getting skyhooked out of the shit by all kinds of people, but never by ‘an influential foreign ambassador.’”

I shrugged. Walter and Shimon had both been busy on my behalf, as promised. Ellison glared at me a moment, as if he might demand some further explanation, but I kept quiet, and he let it go.

“Live and learn, I suppose. You’re not planning to write a book about all this at some point, are you, Mr. Wallace?”

“No.”

“Or get yourself a guest shot on
Larry King Live?”

“No.”

“Or whisper into a well in the middle of the woods at midnight when you’re a hundred years old?”

“No.”

“Good. Because the mayor and I reviewed that possibility, and we agreed on certain contingencies. So, if I hear one echo of one word from that well …” He shook his head and smiled, communicating the pleasure he’d take in punishing any indiscretion I might commit.

“You won’t.”

“Okay, then.” Ellison lifted his glass and used it to make the sign of the cross in Reggie’s direction. “Go with God, Irish, and take the Jonah with you. Talk to Belko, make sure he’s on board. And know this. You give me the tiniest excuse at any point in the future—the
tiniest
fucking excuse—and I will crush you like a bug. There’s no room in this department for a detective with a wild hair. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The chief polished off his whiskey and then looked at Wayland.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “don’t just stand there. Open the door.”

Reggie and I didn’t say anything until we were outside. He pulled out his cigarettes and offered me the pack.

“Thanks, but one every twenty years is my limit.”

“I enjoyed that,” he said, tipping his head toward the building behind us as he lit up. “I haven’t seen Ellison get bent over in a long time.”

“Being political cuts both ways. You worried about retaliation?”

“Nah. Open secret that he failed his last physical with a bad ticker. They’ll give him a big send-off at the next Academy graduation. I can stay clean for six months.” He buttoned his coat. “Come on. My car’s over on Madison. We’ll buy a bottle of Jameson and go visit Joe in the hospital. You can tell us both how you fixed the mayor. He’ll get a kick out of that.”

Shimon’s truck was parked across the street. I glanced at it and then back at Reggie.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“You need to get home? I’ll run you up to the hotel first, and we can talk on the way.”

“No,” I said. “It’s over.”

He took another hit from his cigarette, staring at me.

“Over, over? Or over for me and you?”

“Over for me and you.”

“You promised to keep me in the loop,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where you’ve been the last couple of hours, or who you’ve been talking to, but if you’re getting ready to do something crazy, you have to talk it through with me first.”

“I wish I could,” I said, feeling bad about not being able to confide in him. “I’m more grateful to you than I can ever say, but the situation’s changed.”

“You gave me your word.”

“And I’ll keep it if you want me to. But I’m involved in stuff now that you can’t be involved in, with people you can’t know. You have to believe that I’m thinking about your best interests here, Reggie. I don’t want to compromise you.”

I must have glanced toward the truck again involuntarily, because he turned his head and followed my gaze. Ten seconds ticked past. He put his cigarette in his mouth and turned up his collar.

“I read about Rashid in the afternoon paper,” he said. “Some kind of Israeli spy, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Which tells me something about the guys who saved our bacon this afternoon, and about the identity of the ‘influential foreign ambassador’ who called the mayor on your behalf, right?”

I shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t press. There was no way I could put Reggie and Shimon together without unforeseeable and potentially disastrous consequences. They were operating by an entirely different set of rules.

“Things go to shit, and how can you be sure you won’t be the fall guy?”

“I know too much at this point.”

“Great. So they’ll put you in the river.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe you aren’t thinking clearly.”

I caught his arm by the sleeve and shook it gently.

“This is what’s happening,” I said. “This is what I have to do. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. Right now, you have to walk away.”

He pursed his lips and then sighed deeply.

“You talk to Claire?”

“Not yet. But I’ll bring her up to speed tonight, before I go any further.”

“Make sure you listen to her,” he said, looking at the van again. “She’s a smart woman.” He extended his hand. “And remember that I’m around if you ever need backup.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. “I appreciate it.”

“Good luck.” He broke our grip and punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Call me when you’re done. We’ll have a beer.”

Walter got up to answer his front door, leaving me alone in his study. I was sitting in one of the club chairs, staring into the embers of a dying fire. His house staff had been dismissed for the day. Voices sounded in the hall. Clifford White entered the room, Walter behind him. White was wearing a navy suit and a red tie; his wispy gray hair looked windblown. He arched an eyebrow when he saw me, lips compressing. The loathing I felt at the sight of him was a physical sensation.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Wallace would be joining us. Are you getting him involved on the political side now?”

“A miscommunication,” Walter said, closing the study door and leaning against it. “Or, more precisely, a misdirection. The truth is that I don’t have anything urgent to communicate regarding Senator Simpson’s campaign. But Mark has a subject that he’d like to raise with you.”

“I’m managing a bid for the Republican presidential nomination,” White objected warily, turning his back to the fireplace so he could see us both simultaneously. “I don’t have time for extraneous matters.”

“I think you’ll have time for this. Mark?”

I extracted a single sheet of paper from my inner jacket pocket. I’d dressed formally, in the black suit and black tie I’d worn to bury my son. I unfolded the paper and slid it across the coffee table toward White.

“What’s this?” he demanded, fumbling for his reading glasses.

“A photocopy of a signature card for a Cayman bank account. I believe that’s your signature, Mr. White.”

He gave the form a cursory glance. It was authentic—Shimon and his people had worked quickly.

“So?”

“So, the money in that account came from a firm called Ganesa Capital. The principal of Ganesa is a man named Karl Mohler. You know him?”

“No reason why I should. My finances are handled by advisers.”

White was slick, absent any tells that I could spot.

“Mohler had SEC problems a few years back. Your former firm, Struan, Ogilvy and Cohn, represented him. Maybe you know him from that connection.”

“Regretfully not. We represented a lot of people.” He tossed the paper back onto the coffee table, took off his glasses, and looked at Walter. “I have no idea what Mr. Wallace is driving at, but I’m done here. I don’t have time for nonsense.”

Walter stared back at him silently.

“Mohler’s an interesting guy,” I continued. “His firm provided the funding for the Nord Stream terrorism, his associates were responsible for the murder of Rashid al-Shaabi, and a woman he’d worked with in the past provided me with the same counterfeit Saudi depletion data that Senator Simpson is counting on to get him elected president.”

“Mr. Wallace sounds delusional,” White said coolly. “I’m leaving now. Step away from the door, please, Walter.”

It was the reaction I’d expected. I was itching to signal Walter to comply, sick of White’s denials, but the deal I’d done with myself was that I’d make every effort to cajole White into cooperating peaceably before letting matters progress.

“Some of it I can prove, and some of it I can’t,” I admitted. “One thing I know for sure is that you’re involved with Mohler up to your neck. And you should know that Mr. al-Shaabi’s friends—his real friends—agree with me. They’re very upset, and they’re inclined to respond. I’m the only one who can help you with them at this point, and I’m willing to help only if you admit your culpability and confess the details.”

White deigned to turn his head in my direction, a sneer on his lips.

“I’m a former deputy cabinet secretary. I’m not scared of a gang of Jew hoods who’ve put two and two together with your assistance and come up with seventeen.” He looked back to Walter. “Move, or you’ll be hearing from the police.”

Walter glanced at me.

“Mr. White,” I said softly, honoring my commitment to myself despite my revulsion for him. “I feel morally compelled to urge you to reconsider your position.”

“Really,” he said, mimicking my intonation. “And I feel equally compelled to urge you to kiss my ass.”

I shrugged, and Walter stepped aside. White pulled the door open forcefully. Ari was immediately outside, blocking his exit. White took a startled pace backward. He looked toward Walter.

“What …” he began.

Ari swatted him lightly on the side of the neck, behind his ear. White staggered, lifting a hand to touch the spot. His index finger came away spotted with a single drop of blood.

“Who the hell is he?” White rasped at Walter, voice conveying more anger than fear. “And what the hell did he just do?”

“I’m a friend and colleague of Rashid al-Shaabi,” Ari announced, stepping into the room. “A man who wept at his death.” He shoved the door shut with his elbow and then opened his hand to reveal a miniature syringe. “You’ve been poisoned, Mr. White. And unless you receive the antidote very soon, you’ll be as dead as my lamented friend within fifteen minutes.”

White looked from Ari to Walter to me contemptuously. He drew himself up, smoothed his clothes, and then rushed the door. Ari caught him by the arm, spun him around as if he were a child, and shoved him gently back into the center of the room. White backed to the fireplace, eyes wide.

“You’re lying. This is a trick. You wouldn’t dare poison me.”

“Wrong,” I said. “I warned you to reconsider. Ari, please tell Mr. White exactly what’s about to happen to him.”

“The poison is a neurotoxin,” Ari explained calmly. “It acts at the extremities and radiates inward. Your hands and feet will begin tingling, as if they’re going to sleep. Your limbs will tremble and weaken. Eventually, the poison will reach your chest.” He drew his finger in a wide circle around his body, spiraling inward. “Your diaphragm will stop, and you’ll feel as if you’re suffocating. Your heart will race, trying to deliver more oxygen to your brain, but the paralysis will continue spreading, and your heart will seize. From the time you stop breathing, you’ll have four or five minutes left to live. Four or five excruciatingly unpleasant minutes.”

“That’s bullshit,” White yelled, saliva flying from his mouth. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“The reason we use this particular poison is that it’s impossible to identify without an extremely broad and very expensive toxicology scan,” Ari continued. “Most doctors just assume a heart attack, particularly with a decedent your age.”

“You mentioned a pain in your left arm,” Walter interjected emotionlessly. “You clutched at your chest before you collapsed and complained of a crushing sensation. I dialed 911 immediately, but the paramedics arrived too late to help.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” White repeated weakly, as if it was a mantra. “You wouldn’t. I’m an important person.”

“Wrong tense,” I corrected curtly, anxious for him to start talking. “We already have. You’re wasting time, Mr. White, and you don’t have much time left. You need the antidote if you’re going to avoid permanent nerve damage. Tell us the truth about your connection to Mohler.”

White glowered at us. Sixty seconds passed. His hands began clenching and unclenching, and I could see his left leg starting to shake.

“None of it was my idea,” he blurted furiously. “It was all Narimanov. Now give me the antidote.”

Narimanov
. My world spun a final time and then righted itself. I’d been worried that I wouldn’t know the truth when I heard it, but Narimanov’s name resonated instantly. He was involved in the energy business, he had political influence, and he had more than enough money to back the schemes we’d uncovered. He’d even courted me—and, God help me, I’d liked him and seriously considered working for him. I wondered what sort of monster could smile and chat with a man whose son he’d had killed.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Narimanov’s ex-KGB, like Putin. He was trained as a deep-cover agent, his mission to penetrate Western business circles. Former KGB men run everything over there now, and they hate America because we stripped away their empire. They want their empire back, and they think now is the right moment to make America pay. I’ve told you what I know. Give me the antidote.”

White was leaning heavily on the mantelpiece, seeming unsteady on his feet.

“Sit,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Conserve your strength. You’re not
getting the antidote until you’ve given us more details. Why provide me with the false Saudi information? And why back Senator Simpson for president?”

White complied without protest, slumping into a chair. His legs were twitching uncontrollably, and he looked terrified.

“Nothing’s ever straightforward with the Russians. It’s like that stupid chess game Narimanov plays, all feints and fakes and unexpected attacks. The Kremlin is trying to establish a global monopoly on energy supplies. Narimanov and other Russian government agents control vastly more reserves in South America and Africa than anyone knows. They’ve bought people everywhere: politicians, businessmen, and journalists. The Middle East is the big prize. Simpson’s role was to stir things up, to make the Gulf States unhappy enough with the United States that they’d consider looking elsewhere for a protector. But the Saudis and Kuwaitis and the rest would only take Simpson seriously if it looked like he had a shot at winning. Your job was to publish the Saudi data and to make the case that shortages were imminent. Walter and his club were supposed to provide Simpson’s financing. We thought it would be enough to secure Simpson the Republican nomination. He’s a gifted natural speaker with a good conservative voting record, and he’s not entirely stupid. The only hard part was trying to get him to keep his dick in his pants. He’s like every other goddamned politician I’ve ever known, hot for anything in a skirt.”