Twelve Days (31 page)

He reached up with a fleshy hand. “Ms. Green,” he said. “I’m Fardis.”

Either he
was the world’s best liar, or he didn’t know. Green didn’t know which was worse. “Can we have a moment, Colonel?” she said to Muscoot. As the Frenchman retreated, Green pulled Rodgers close.

“No pleasantries. Ask him if he knows. If he doesn’t, tell him. Make sure he understands that we’re blaming his bosses for killing five hundred civilians.” No matter how good Behzadi’s English, she wanted this stretch of conversation in Farsi so she could be certain he understood.

Rodgers squatted beside the wheelchair, spoke for about thirty seconds. Behzadi shook his head,
no no no.
He interrupted, but Rodgers talked over him. After a few seconds more, Behzadi reached out and grabbed Green’s wrist with his right hand. She pulled back, but he held her tight, his grip strengthened by a lifetime working the wheelchair.

“I didn’t know of this,” he said in English.

She wrenched her arm away from Behzadi and squatted down beside Rodgers. International diplomacy at its finest. “You don’t even deny your side did this?”

Behzadi spoke for a minute in Farsi. When he was done, Rodgers said, “He doesn’t know who did it. He says he wishes that this hadn’t happened, civilian deaths are always a tragedy, but it doesn’t change the reality that an invasion would be a disaster for both our countries—”

The worst possible answer. Green felt a surge of pure fury. She wanted to tip the wheelchair over. “You were human for thirty seconds, now you’re back to toeing the party line.”

“Leave us,” Behzadi said to Rodgers. “I speak English well enough for this.”

“Donna?”

Green nodded. Rodgers stepped back.

“All right. Speak, then.”

—

“Iran has no need to apologize. Your country provoked all this. Your President. On false evidence. As you must know.”

“Prove it. Let us in.”

“Never.”

“When I left Dulles last night, I was in a good mood. Had my speech all planned out. I wanted to tell you, what the President’s said publicly is true. That we have our differences with you, but we’re not interested in regime change. Occupying Iran. We learned that lesson. We just want to be sure that your nuclear program isn’t a threat. Give us a chance to see
for ourselves and this ends.” She shook her head. “Turns out you don’t want it to end.”

“I don’t make these choices—”

“I know you don’t. I don’t know if you’re a bad guy or not, Fardis. I don’t even know what you came here to say. At this point, I don’t care either. Here’s what I know. You’re just a guy with no legs who wastes my time while your bosses blow up planes full of Americans.”

Green stood, walked around the wheelchair, spun it to face the ramp. “Roll on home now, and tell Rouhani and everyone else they have two days to agree to what the President has asked. Otherwise, we’re coming in. To Natanz, Fordow, every other factory you’ve ever built. We’re going to figure out exactly what you’ve put there. How much uranium you’ve made. Then we’re going to blow them up. Every last one of them. Then, if you’re lucky, we’ll leave.”

Behzadi stared at her in silence.

“Your English good enough to pass that message on, Fardis? Or you need a translation?”

“You’ll regret this. You think you frighten me? And eighty million of my people? You think we don’t know what to do with Americans? I saw your guards at the embassy begging for their lives with my own eyes.” Behzadi pointed at his eyes. “Those brave Marines. I watched them piss themselves.”

Before she could do something truly foolish, like tip the wheelchair, Green walked away.

The last, best hope for peace.

TEL AVIV

D
uberman’s office had the windows the outer suite lacked, overlooking the city to the south and the flat sea to the west. The winter sun hung low over the water, reminding Wells that this day, too, was mostly done. So many lost hours in this chase, so few left.

Duberman leaned against his desk. He was bigger than Wells expected, handsome, with a wide, square face. His brown eyes were flecked with something lighter. Leonine. He wore linen pants and buttery brown shoes, a plain white shirt, a simple wedding ring.

The man next to him carried a stubby pistol on his hip, the only weapon openly displayed so far in this mansion. The bodyguard was in his early fifties, with a trim body, a hollow face, and eyes as mirrored as if he were wearing sunglasses. He would shoot them without question if Duberman gave the order, Wells knew.

Duberman grinned like they were gamblers who had shown up at his casino with a million dollars each and a reputation for bad luck. “Mr. Wells. Senator Duto. A pleasure. I’m Aaron. This is Gideon.” The bodyguard shook his head. “Excuse him. He doesn’t like strangers.”

Duberman’s voice carried a touch of Southern twang. He’d grown up in Atlanta, Wells remembered. Like the room and the clothes, his voice broadcast an easy, overwhelming confidence. Wells wondered whether the attitude had come with the money or vice versa. He wanted to hate the man, but he had nothing to grip yet. Duberman was a thousand-foot rock face with no visible holds.

Gideon mumbled in Hebrew. “He’d like to search you,” Duberman said.

“Sure.” Though Wells didn’t want to be frisked again. He sensed Gideon would be unafraid to get up close and personal.

“No,” Duto said. He knew about the knife. “He’s got the gun. We were searched outside. Enough is enough.”

Duberman said something in Hebrew to Salome and she answered, presumably explaining that they’d been thoroughly checked already. Wells realized that her personal bodyguard, the one with the scars, wasn’t around. He ought to be. Wells couldn’t imagine an errand more important than this meeting. But asking about him would only call attention to the fact that Wells had noticed his absence.

“All right. No frisk.” Gideon muttered something else, and Duberman smiled. “But know he’ll shoot you even faster then.”

The office was thirty feet long, divided into three sections, with Duberman’s desk in the center, a couch on one side, a square wooden table on the other. Duberman led them to the table and they sat, Wells facing Duto, and Duberman Salome. Like bridge teams.

“Mr. Wells. Senator. I’m sure you won’t try to tape this meeting. If you do, know that this room has a jammer that disables microphones. Also, your mobile phones will not work here. Only the outer suite.”

“Great,” Duto said. “We can focus on work.”

Duberman ignored him, leaned toward Wells. “Let me start by asking, do you think your religion is playing a role in your efforts here? Maybe subconsciously.”

Wells knew Duberman wanted to provoke him, but he rose to the
bait anyway. Duberman had insulted his faith, his honor, and his intelligence all at once.
Maybe subconsciously
suggested that Wells couldn’t understand his own motives.

“You’re Jewish, but your casinos stay open on Friday nights.”

“That’s business.”

“So is this, for me. I don’t want you to trick the United States into war.”

“And that’s all.”

Wells decided to believe that Duberman’s question was sincere. “I came to Islam to survive. In a place where I was the only American, surrounded by people who wanted to destroy my country. I needed something to hold on to and I had to choose, their religion or their hate. I chose their religion.”

“All right. I respect that.” Duberman spread his hands as if to push away the unpleasantness he’d created. He radiated charm like a banked furnace. “You strike me as a plainspoken man.”

This close, Wells saw the unnatural tightening of the skin around Duberman’s jaw, the fullness in his cheeks. “It’s good.”

“What’s that?”

“Your face-lift.”

“Thank you. For what I paid, it should be.”
You’ll need more than that to rattle me
, his smile said. “You know our former operations officer is no longer with us. Early retirement.” A sly joke. They all knew Wells had killed Mason. “We have a vacancy. I doubt the new DCI will invite you back to Langley. And you’ve seen my resources.”

Could Duberman really be pitching? He was using a classic technique. Unbalance Wells by opening the conversation with an unpleasant question, then dismiss it and focus on what they had in common.
E and E,
Wells remembered an instructor at the Farm telling him.
Empathize and emphasize.

“Even if we disagree about Iran, we have plenty in common. We both know the world would be safer without certain members of the Saudi
royal family. Those Hamas cowards who live in Qatar and let their people serve as human shields. Salome tells me you have unique talents. The fact you’ve stayed alive for the last month suggests she’s right.” Duberman was laying on the flattery thick now.

“Mainly, I’m lucky.”

“You would have complete operational freedom. We, the three of us, would choose projects together. But after that you’d make every decision. Hire one person, a hundred, none. I can give you whatever resources you need. Salome has spent years setting up safe houses and communications all over the world.”

The offer tempted the way a syringe of heroin might. A bubble of sweet venom at the tip.
Try me. Once. Once can’t hurt.
Wells wondered if Duberman had planned this offer all along or whether he’d invented it when Salome told him that Wells hadn’t come alone.

“You’re serious.”

“Why not? I’d rather have you working for me than against.”

“Killing people you don’t like.”

“We both know that’s not what this is.”

Wells looked at Salome. “You on board? We’d be working closely.”

She gave him a real smile, the one that lit her face. “Oh, I think so. Look how much Mason pulled off. And that was Mason.”

“What about Iran?”

“Forget Iran,” Duberman said. “It’s done.”

“Maybe not.” Wells nodded at Salome. “We have her CIA contact. Jess Bunshaft.”

Duberman didn’t blink. “So? My customers come from all over. China. Russia. I know who has money problems, who likes little boys, who’s an addict. Of course she talks to the CIA sometimes. I admire you, Mr. Wells. Truly. But you have no chips left.” Duberman looked at Duto. “He’s the only one who can protect you, and his enemies are even bigger than yours. You played as best you could, but the cards didn’t come. Let’s move forward. Please. For all of us and our families.”

Families.
The threat, again.

“My turn to ask a question.”

“Anything.”

“The Iranians say they don’t even want the bomb. Why are you so sure you’re doing the right thing? I’m sure you heard what happened today. Two more planes, five hundred more dead.”

“Do you think that means we should trust Iran
more
, John?”

Wells didn’t have an answer.

“What do you know about me? Besides that I’m rich.”

“That you’re
very
rich.”

“I was lucky to be born. My parents were Austrian. Nathan and Gisa. They came to America from Shanghai. I know, I don’t look Chinese.” A wisp of a smile. A joke he’d made before. “They spent World War II in Shanghai. Before that, they lived in Vienna. They had a store on the north side of the city that specialized in trinkets and cameras. I never understood the connection, but that’s what they sold. Silver candlesticks and Leicas. One day they saw the future goose-stepping in from Munich. They’d been successful. The kind of Jews the Nazis hated.”

Salome said something in Hebrew. Duberman nodded.

“Right. How silly of me. The Nazis hated every Jew. The ones who prayed, and the ones who didn’t. The ones in Berlin who spoke perfect German and the ones who never left their
shtetls
. The homosexuals and the ones with families of ten. The rich and the poor. They were all guilty of the same crime. They all received the same punishment. You see?”

Wells nodded.

“You think so, but you don’t. Anyway. My parents had a piano, an apartment. They sold all of it in two weeks, took whatever they could get, so they could pay for visas and passage to China. Shanghai was practically the only place left still taking Jews by ’38. The United States sent an ocean liner filled with them back to Europe. No more refugees, Roosevelt said. Except if they knew physics. Those Jews were fine.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t. Why would you? Your friends from Afghanistan, it’s not on their curriculum. So. Shanghai was still open. Nathan’s parents, Gisa’s brother Josef, they said,
Don’t go. The Germans want to scare us. Steal our money. They’re jealous. Hitler doesn’t mean those terrible things. He’s playing to the crowds. We’ll keep our heads down and this storm will pass. Like all the others.
You know what happened to those people, John?”

Wells didn’t want to answer, but Duberman’s stare insisted the question wasn’t rhetorical. “They died.”

“Todt.
The Austrians were even more thorough than the Germans. Not one person my parents knew in Vienna survived. So excuse me when I tell you that when the Iranians publish maps that don’t show Israel, that when Ahmadinejad”—Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the former Iranian president—“says the Holocaust didn’t happen, that the Jews must be eradicated, I listen. If I can manage it, those people will never have a nuclear weapon. Not now. Not ever.” He leaned forward, squeezed Wells’s biceps. “I want you on our side, John. The right side.”

Duberman smiled like he believed Wells might agree. Maybe he did. All those billions would bolster anyone’s confidence.

“Can I have a minute alone? To think.”

“In here? You want us to leave—” Duberman shook his head in puzzlement.

“No, of course not. Bathroom’s fine.”

Duberman nodded at a door on the wall behind Duto. “Right there.”

“You can’t seriously be considering this,” Duto said.

“Worried you’ll need a new errand boy, Vinny?”

—

Wells closed the bathroom door, eyed the tired face in the mirror. Duberman had made a surprisingly persuasive pitch. Asking Wells about Islam had been a brilliant move. The question had planted a seed of doubt. Was it possible he was anti-Semitic? No.
No.
He knew himself that much, anyway.

What would Shafer say?

Don’t let him play you, John. You can’t
let him start a war on faked evidence. End of
story. Anyway, he isn’t the only one who remembers the
Holocaust. Israel doesn’t depend on anyone else to defend itself.
If it needs to attack Iran, it will.

Then, maybe, Shafer would smirk. And sing:
I’m starting with the man in the mirror / I’m asking him to grab his knife . . .

“Shut up,” Wells mumbled, unsure if he meant the words for Shafer, Michael Jackson, or himself. He turned on the tap, leaned over, and lapped from the sink like a dog, letting the water skid across his face, down his neck.

He left the taps on as he pushed his jeans down to expose the blade and handle attached to his legs. He pulled off the tape, snapped the pieces together. The assembled knife was five inches long, half blade, half handle. Any shorter and it wouldn’t have been useful. But even at five inches, it was too big for Wells to hide in a pocket.

He had a nylon sheath tucked into his underwear. He pulled up the left leg of his jeans, strapped the sheath low on the inner calf, just above the nub of his ankle. An ankle sheath made a slow draw, but Wells feared Gideon would spot the knife anywhere else. He double-checked to be sure the jeans hid it. He flushed the toilet, washed and dried his face. Stepped out.

“You all right?” Duto said.

“Never better.”

“And have you decided?” Duberman said.

“I’ll do it.”

“John—” Duto said.

Salome muttered in Hebrew.

“You’re serious.”

“That I am.”

Duberman stood, extended his hand. “Welcome.”

—

Wells left him hanging. “Just one condition. That you confess to the President.”

“That’s funny.” But Duberman wasn’t smiling.

“Or if that’s too much, tell us where you got the HEU. We’ll pass it on. Keep your name out.”

Duberman’s hand sank to his side with the slow finality of a castle gate dropping. He stared at Wells, an angry god who couldn’t believe that a mortal had refused his wish. Behind him, Gideon the bodyguard put a hand on his holstered pistol.

“I made a serious offer, John. I don’t appreciate this.”

Wells felt a familiar itch in his fingers. “Then we should go. We have a plane to catch.”

“Mossad may feel differently.” Duberman gave Wells a gargoyle’s stone grin. “I promised you safe passage. And you’ll have it. Right to them.”

“Come on, Aaron.” The words were meaningless, a way to buy a few seconds as Wells figured out how to get to his knife and corral Duberman before Gideon shot him. He could imagine his move, could
see
it—

He’d take a big step forward with his left leg, almost a squat, pulling up his jeans, exposing the knife. He’d reach down and across his body with his right hand as he grabbed Duberman with his left and reeled him in—

But Gideon was too close, and watching too closely. Wells couldn’t make the combination work without an extra second or two. A diversion.

Duto stood. “I’m not leaving without him. And you can’t keep me. Embassy knows where I am.”

“You’re right,” Duberman said. “Israel can’t keep you. But it can send you home. Alone.”

Duto reached down, flipped the table over, sending it toward the
bodyguard. The distraction Wells needed. As the heavy wood cracked against the floor Gideon turned to Duto and drew his pistol—

And Wells lunged forward, came up with his knife, squeezed his left hand around Duberman’s arm, pulled him close. Duberman was strong enough for a man past sixty, but against Wells he had no chance. Wells twined his arm across Duberman’s chest, twisted him so that Duberman’s body hid his own. Gideon half turned toward Wells. But he didn’t raise the pistol. He didn’t have a clear shot.