Twelve Days (18 page)

“I know.” Duto had been DCI at the time. The Federal Aviation Administration had even considered banning American carriers from flying to Mumbai. But the Indian government protested and promised to improve security, and the FAA backed down. “So who has the shooters now?”

“They’re in the bath.” Meaning the Navy was holding them offshore. “They’re Lebanese. And we’re a hundred percent sure they’re Hezbollah.”

“They’re talking?”

“They’re
bragging
.”

For the first time, Duto wondered if he and Wells and Shafer had made a mistake. Maybe they couldn’t connect Mason to Duberman because the connection didn’t exist. But no
.
The thread they’d followed was real.

“If Tehran thinks we’re going to invade on false evidence, they’d have every reason to shoot down our planes. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that
they haven’t even hinted at making a deal since we hit them? That they went straight to the wall?”

“Interesting theory, Senator.” The chill was back in her voice. As much as saying:
I tried to make you see reason. And I failed. We’re done.
“Two choices here. I go back to POTUS, tell him you’ve accused his largest campaign donor of treason without evidence. Get it in the record. When we hit Iran, find all that HEU you say doesn’t exist, that file magically finds air.”

“WikiLeaks?”

“Call me old-fashioned, but I just love the idea of it on the front page of the
Times
. Terrible way for a distinguished public servant like you to end his career. Second choice, we pretend this was a bad orange-flavored dream.”

The threat snapped Duto’s shoulders back, puffed his chest. Fight or flight. The amazing part was that for once his conscience was clear. He’d told the truth. He’d tried to warn her.

Last time he made that mistake.

“Do what you like, Donna. But I promise I’m gonna figure out where Duberman scored that uranium.” Duto raised his voice. “Then I’m going to call you and tell you. Just you and me, face-to-face. Then I’m gonna turn you around and bend you over so hard you won’t sit for a month. Like I did to Whitby.”

All the guards, hers and his, were listening openly, not even pretending they hadn’t heard. Kyle trotted toward them.

“Get that, buddy? Do I need to repeat it?”

“
Enough
, Senator.” Kyle inserted himself between Duto and Green, close enough for Duto to see what was left of the spinach Kyle had eaten for dinner. Duto hoped beyond hope that the guard would put a hand on him. He still worked the heavy bag four days a week.

Green guided Kyle aside. “No worries. We’re done here.”

Duto stepped back as Kyle hurried Green to her Tahoe. The rest of her guards followed. Doors slammed. Forty-five seconds later, the last
of the SUVs crunched out of the parking lot and turned onto the turnpike, running lights flashing, no sirens.

Duto watched in silence, replaying snatches of the conversation, his adrenaline fading. Had he really threatened to quote-unquote
bend over
the National Security Advisor? In front of two dozen witnesses?

They better find that
uranium.

VOLGOGRAD

T
he woman who called herself Salome wasn’t alone. A man stood beside the bed. His face was faintly asymmetrical, the left side wider than the right, like he’d had an accident that surgery hadn’t fully fixed. His right hand hovered over his hip. His eyes stuck to Wells’s hands.

A pro.

Wells stepped toward the bed.

“Close enough,” Salome said.

“All friends here.”

A smile spread from Salome’s lips up her cheeks to her eyes. North like a warm front. While it lasted, she was pretty. Alive. Then it was gone. She looked at him as coolly as a research scientist checking out a chimp.
Don’t mind this old needle, Mr. Chips. Won’t hurt a bit . . .

In happier news, they’d left the window curtains open. So they didn’t plan to kill him. Not here, anyway. A tour bus idled in the parking lot below. As Wells watched, an old couple tottered toward it, hand in hand. He thought of Anne and all the lives he’d left behind.

“Mason told me you were trouble,” Salome said. Her English was measured, almost too perfect, a hint of eastern Mediterranean. She could
have passed for first-generation American, the accent left over from her native-speaking parents. She wore only a wedding ring, no nail polish or makeup. All business.

Except the smile.

“You come see me in person, I guess I’m moving up the ladder.” Wells figured he’d take his best shot first. “You work for Aaron Duberman.”

She shook her head, not so much denying what he’d said as declaring it irrelevant.

“For money, or because you’re crazy?”

She muttered in Hebrew and a pistol appeared in the guard’s right hand. That fast. Too bad. At least now Wells knew what he was up against.

“Be more polite,” Salome said. “Who looks out for you? A broken-down CIA man and a senator no one trusts.”

“I’ll worry when I see you throw carrots on the carpet to distract me.”

Wells saw she didn’t get the reference. So she hadn’t been at Buvchenko’s.

“I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of seeing you again,” Wells said. “Salome? That’s your name?” A biblical reference, but Wells couldn’t remember the details. “Your real name?”

“As real as any.”

Ask a stupid question . . .
Still, Wells was content to joust for the moment.

“And you’re Israeli?”

“Why do you keep bothering me about this?”

“You’re asking why I’m trying to stop a war?”

“I don’t want war.” She winked.

Wells couldn’t read her at all. She was playing with him like a cat batting a mouse. “If you’re worried about bugs, I never got here last night.”

“I’m not worried. You know, my friend here thinks I shouldn’t talk to you at all. He wants to shoot you in the face and be done with it.”

“Lucky for me you’re in charge.”

“It seems so.”

They looked steadily at each other, the only sound the rumbling of the bus outside. Wells couldn’t deny the truth: He felt
connected
to this woman. They were both endless travelers, perpetual outsiders who had spent their lives in crummy hotel rooms, giving fake names to anyone who asked. They both knew how easy lying became after you’d done it too much, how boring
the simplicity of truth became.

“You came all the way to Volgograd to tell me you weren’t going to shoot me in the face?”

“And see you for myself, the man who killed five of mine. But mainly I came to tell you it’s over.”

The fact that she felt the need to say so suggested otherwise. “Buvchenko told you I was here.”

“Of course.”

Had the Russian supplied the uranium, then? Wells thought not. Then he would be a prisoner at the mansion, or more likely another target on the firing range. No, Salome had asked Buvchenko to watch out for Wells, and if he appeared to find out what he knew. No matter which direction he went, she was a step ahead.

“Last night, after dinner, he called you, told you I was asking about you. You said, hold me overnight, you’d come to Russia.”

“I appreciate your”—she hesitated, trying to remember the word—“perseverance, yes? But understand, you only make trouble for yourself and your family.”

Family.
The magic word. What she had come to say. Wells stepped toward her. The guard lifted his pistol.

“Listen,” she said. “You promise Buvchenko a million dollars? I pay ten. You don’t know anything. Not even my name. You think these men in Washington look after you, but if Mason hadn’t been a fool, you would be dead already.”

“Concrete shoes.”

“A joke to prove your bravery. What I tell you, bravery doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe I came here knowing you’d come for me. Maybe there’s a Delta squad one room over.”

She smiled, but this time her eyes stayed cold. “You’re not that clever. You run here and there, hoping for a clue. How does the song go? Know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em—”

“If you’re so confident, why threaten my family?”

“Don’t you see they mean nothing to me?” Her voice was level, a teacher trying to stay patient with a not-very-bright student. “A whole country is in danger if Iran gets the bomb. I mention Evan and Heather only to remind you that you have something to risk, too. Because I know your life doesn’t matter to you. Only the mission.”

What she was really saying was that she felt the same. That they
were
the same. But they weren’t. She was a fanatic. She saw the world in abstraction.
Us. Them. White. Black.
Who would close her eyes to reality if it didn’t agree with her mind’s vision. Wells was the opposite. He lied to the world, yes, but alone he drank truth until it filled his belly and choked his throat.

“Everything I read says Iran doesn’t even
want
the bomb anymore,” Wells said. “They’re giving it up. All this for nothing.”

“If you believe that, I don’t know how you’ve survived so long.”

“If I could get to my gun, I’d show you.”

She laughed.

In the distance a siren whistled,
ooh-ooh, ooh-OOH
. Then another. Wells wanted to believe the sirens were a coincidence. He knew better.

No wonder she wasn’t in a hurry.

—

Salome murmured something to the bodyguard. He didn’t answer. She spoke again, a tone that brooked no argument, and this time he tucked his pistol away.

“You think the Iranians are nice people? You know they shot down that plane.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s true. You should
help
us, John. These men, they’re your enemy, too. Look how they made the United States bleed in Iraq. How they treat their own people.”

The sirens rang louder. Wells saw two police cars swinging into the parking lot. A black SUV followed. Now more sirens in the distance, a beat that needed remixing.

Salome pushed herself off the bed. Two quick steps to the window. She tipped her nose to the glass like a cat that had spotted a particularly tasty bird.

“Your welcoming party. A Muslim convert comes to Russia to meet an arms dealer? FSB will love that. So fortunate for the motherland that Buvchenko did his duty, told them you were here. Or maybe you tell them you’re American, ex-CIA? Even better. They’ll hold you a month, more, before all this gets sorted. So, good. You stay here, your son is safe.”

She had him. Running was impossible. He had nowhere to go. He would have to give himself up, talk the FSB into letting him call home. Duto still had Kremlin contacts. Once the Russians knew who he was, maybe they’d figure a one-way ticket to the border was the easiest way to deal with him.

Maybe.

The guard muttered.

“My friend asks you to step into the bathtub while we take our leave.”

Wells shook his head. The guard pointed the pistol at Wells’s feet.

“A Russian jail with a hole in your foot. No fun.”

Wells knew she was serious. He went to the tub, his muddy shoes staining the white plastic. At least she hadn’t made him turn on the water. This woman had outplayed him twice now.

“Good luck.” She smiled, the real smile, the one that warmed her face. She stepped into the bathroom, raised her right hand to his face, ran her fingers along his chin. Then touched her flat palm to his chest. The warmth of her skin stunned him. “Allah will protect you, I’m sure.”

The words lifted the spell. Wells didn’t like the glancing reference to his religion. Or the intimacy she’d presumed. He pulled her hand from his chest. “Touch my son, I’ll kill you.”

“Of course you will.”

Then she was gone.

—

The room door closed. Wells waited a few seconds before going to the window. The police didn’t seem to be in any rush. They stood in the parking lot, rubbing their hands against the cold. Wells counted nine in all, plus a German shepherd, sniffing the air as one of the uniformed officers stroked its head.

The shepherd bugged Wells. He wasn’t sure why, and then he was. The dog answered a question he hadn’t thought to ask. Salome knew how dangerous he was. She didn’t have to risk seeing him in this little room. She could have met him at Buvchenko’s mansion, where he could be controlled more easily. Why here?

Cops brought dogs to find explosives.

Or drugs.

Wells pulled open the drawers of the cheap wooden dresser. Empty, empty, empty. The nightstand, too. He flattened his cheek to the carpet, peered beneath the bed. There. A bundle the size of a brick, wedged against the bed’s center support. He snaked his arm under, tugged it out. It was brown, plastic-wrapped. Heroin.
A kilo or more.

No wonder Salome hadn’t bothered to shoot him. Wells didn’t work for the agency. He couldn’t claim diplomatic immunity. He’d spend the rest of his life in a Russian prison. Another name for hell on earth.

Wells wished they’d left him something less dangerous. Like a grenade.

Outside, another SUV rolled up. Two plainclothes officers drifted toward the front entrance. Wells grabbed his backpack, checked the
peephole to be sure that Salome wasn’t still in the hall, stepped out. The hotel was a simple rectangle with a single internal north–south hallway. The guest elevators occupied the north end, three doors from Wells’s room. Wells ran the other way, south.

The hallway ended at a gray-painted door with a push bar. A red sign warned
“
Emergency Exit! ALARM!”
in Russian and English. Wells didn’t think so. The hotel wouldn’t want sirens screeching every time a guest took the fire stairs. Anyway, he had no choice. Just ditching the brick down a trash chute wouldn’t be good enough. The cops would scrub the hotel when they didn’t find the heroin in his room. He had to make it disappear permanently.

Wells pushed the bar. No alarm. He scrambled up the stairs two at a time, quads burning, heart pounding. Past the fifth floor, the sixth. To the fire door to the roof. Atop the stairs, he found a fire door wedged open with a VCR tape. Old-school.

Outside, a mess of crumpled cigarette butts and empty vodka bottles. Wells ran for the rusty metal flues that rose side by side from the center of the roof, pumping inky black smoke into the gray sky. The smokestacks extended about six feet off the roof and had old-style mushroom caps mounted loosely atop the flues to keep rain and snow from pouring inside.

Wells carried a butterfly knife in his backpack. As he reached the flues he pulled it out, flipped it open. He had never been quite so conscious of time passing, of the seconds escaping with every motion. How long before the cops downstairs moved? Two minutes? Three? How much time had he used already?

The smoke was greasy and lukewarm after its trip up the flue. Wells reached under the cap, sliced at the bag. A river of brown poison poured down the steel pipe into the furnace below. Where it belonged. When the bag was empty, Wells tossed it down the chute, dropped in the knife, too. He ran for the door, leapt down the stairs. His hands were black
now, slick with oil sludge. He didn’t want to leave a trail. He balled them up, didn’t touch the railing. He took the stairs in twos and threes, half running, half falling.

At the third floor, he stopped. If the cops had already reached the hallway, he would have no choice but to go downstairs and surrender in the parking lot. But the corridor was quiet. He ran for his room. The electronic lock on its door beeped green. No doubt the cops had made the clerk downstairs disable it. They were on their way up. He’d beaten them by seconds.

In his bathroom, Wells washed his hands to clean off the grease and whatever heroin residue might be stuck on them. As he finished, he heard footsteps, Russian voices mumbling. The door creaked open. Something skittered across the carpet. Wells saw it in the bathroom doorway. A green sphere. A grenade, and then another.

Wells almost laughed. He’d asked for a grenade. The Russians had seen fit to give him two. He spun, went to his knees, clapped his hands over his ears, and squeezed his eyes closed. If the grenade was a standard frag, he was dead, but if it was a flash-bang, a concussion—

The explosion seemed to come from
inside
his head. He was nowhere, and then in the hills north of Missoula, caught in a massive thunderstorm. He ran for cover as the skies exploded again—

No. Not Montana. Russia. Wells opened his eyes, found himself back in a shadowy version of the bathroom. Spiderwebs shrouded his eyes. A whistling scream filled his ears. He reached for the toilet and hung his mouth open, trying to vomit, failing. Only a thin trickle of spittle hung from his mouth. He knew the police had to have followed the grenades into the room, but the idea of turning his head to see them was impossible. He stared at the stained white bowl until men pulled him up, jerked his arms behind his back, cuffed them tight.

They shoved him in the chair in the corner. With his hearing gone, he watched the search play out like a silent movie, a comedy starring one smart dog and a bunch of dumb cops. The shepherd walked through
the room, didn’t alert. His handler took him out, brought him back in, tried again. When he still didn’t alert, the handler got into a heated argument with the guy who seemed to be in charge, a tall thin man who wore a suit and thick black plastic glasses that would have passed for hip in Brooklyn. Wells didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying: