The Wolves Read online

  If the next mistake didn’t kill him.

  Still, captivity grated. Wells had grown up among the twelve-thousand-foot Bitterroot mountains and endless blue sky. He’d spent much of his adult life in the Hindu Kush. He’d always been an outsider, literally and figuratively. Free will might be an illusion, but he treasured it nonetheless. Now he was locked in the belly of a steel whale. Even his sleep was not his own. Though the Reagan never shut down entirely, the majority of its officers and crew worked days and slept nights, a standard twenty-four-hour circadian cycle. The brig was no exception. Its lights snapped on each morning precisely at 6 a.m. and turned off at 10 p.m.

  The lack of news also frustrated him. He had no idea what had happened to Duberman, or the repercussions of the shooting on Wellington. Did the cops know about Wells? Were they even now searching for him? Five minutes on the Internet would have answered every question, but his escorts told him that they’d wind up his neighbors in the brig if they let him near the ship’s computers.

  As the days blended into something approaching pure time, Wells took to marking them off as prisoners always had, a new scratch on the steel wall behind his head just before the lights went out. Eight months. Two hundred and forty days, give or take. An unperson serving unpunishment for an uncrime. At the President’s whim. A government of laws and not of men, John Adams had written more than two centuries before, but then Adams had never been sent to molder on a floating island.

  —

  NIGHT TWENTY-TWO. Wells closed his eyes, found himself at the Sha Tin track, watching a dozen huge geese race around the turn. Peretz and Makiv were the two lead jockeys. Peretz stood, waved. Hey, brother—

  Not your brother. No one’s brother—Wells grabbed a pistol and fired—

  The pistol let loose a stream of water.

  I’ve heard of silencers, but that’s ridiculous—Peretz grinned and raised his own pistol—

  The lights snapped on. The track disappeared in the shine of bare steel.

  The brig. The Reagan. Awake. His subconscious hadn’t read the memo about forgetting Wellington Street. Wells rolled to his feet, raised his fists. Good news rarely came this late at night. If Barnett planned to dump him overboard, he’d take as many guys as he could with him. Six thousand? That all you got?

  The door slung open. Barnett stood alone, unshaven, his eyes tired and narrow. He held Wells’s T-shirt and khakis in a freshly folded pile.

  “Laundry service, Captain?”

  “Get dressed. New orders. Your ride’ll be here in fifteen.”

  “At three a.m.? You want me out of here at this hour, better call for backup.”

  “Not a trick. I don’t get it either, but there’s a Greyhound with your name on it.”

  “A Greyhound?” Wells thought of his cross-country bus trip.

  “C-2. Cargo plane. Not the sexiest ride, but it’ll take you to Clark Air Base in Manila—”

  “I thought the Philippines kicked us out of Clark—”

  “Changed their minds. They don’t like China either.”

  “Then where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Anyone could be waiting for Wells in Manila. Assuming he made it there. Wells had the momentary certainty that a crew inside the Greyhound was waiting to toss him at thirty thousand feet, see if he could teach himself to fly on the way down. His clothes were a good sign, unless they weren’t. Make him disappear, and his khakis, too.

  “This crew brings mail for us all the time. You can trust them.”

  “Sure I can.”

  “Look, just tell me who to call. Soon as you take off. I give you my word—”

  “As commander of this vessel, yeah yeah yeah.”

  Barnett pushed Wells’s clothes at him. “Forget it, then.”

  Wells had provoked the reaction he’d hoped to see. Barnett was miffed. Because he genuinely believed that Wells would be safe. Wells wondered what had happened. Had someone else killed Duberman? Had Shafer or Duto figured out where he was, forced the President to let him go? Or—

  “Has the President resigned?” Wells said.

  Barnett looked baffled. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “I put a gypsy curse on him and I wondered if it worked.”

  “Do me a favor, get dressed.”

  —

  THE GREYHOUND looked like something from World War II, an ungainly twin-engined bird, snub-nosed and wide, four vertical stabilizers and stubby wings. “This thing flies?” Wells said. “From this deck?”

  “Greyhounds have run cargo to carriers for fifty years,” Barnett said. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the real story on this.”

  Not from me. Wells was the plane’s only passenger. Good. An airman checked his seat belts professionally, but without much interest. Barnett had told the truth. Whatever awaited Wells in Manila, this flight would be safe enough.

  The cargo bay door whirred shut. The plane shuddered as the engines spooled up and the props spun. The C-2 taxied into position and rumbled across the deck. It didn’t fall into the ocean, so it must have taken off, though Wells couldn’t tell exactly when. It seemed to be aviation’s equivalent of a four-cylinder Accord: safe, reliable, underpowered.

  Aside from a brief patch of turbulence, the three-hour flight passed uneventfully. Somewhere along the way, Wells must have slept, because he opened his eyes to find an airman tapping his shoulder. “Clark Air Base. Outie outie.”

  Wells followed the airman onto a cracked tarmac. A hangar loomed in the dark, two civilian jets parked just outside. They were CIA specials, both white, both lacking any identification except tail numbers. Two men waited for Wells, the human equivalent of the jets, compact, muscled, and wearing sunglasses around their necks despite the darkness.

  The taller paramilitary extended a hand. “Mr. Wells. I’m Mr. Black. This is Mr. Blue.”

  “Inventive.”

  “Thank you.” The answer was so perfectly deadpan that Wells didn’t know at first if Black was in on the joke. “Flight okay?”

  “I get antsy when guys like you act polite.”

  “Makes you feel better, I’m only doing it on orders. This way.” Black led Wells toward the larger of the two jets, a G5. Its cockpit and cabin lights were on and a Jetway was already in place. Black waved Wells up the steps.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re airborne.”

  “Now.”

  “A stop in Anchorage to refuel. Then Andrews.”

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. Not for the first time, Wells found himself stunned by the power of the U.S. government. From a cell in the middle of the ocean to the homeland in less than a day, no explanation given, no passport required.

  “What’s at Andrews?”

  “My job is to get you there, full stop.”

  “Has something happened to Duberman?”

  “Who?”

  “Your phone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need your phone. To make a call.” Wells spoke slowly, being a jerk now, not caring. “No call, no jet.”

  “How about I do it—”

  “Promise, all that gay porn on your browser, your secret’s safe with me.”

  Black fished an iPhone from his pocket.

  Shafer picked up on the first ring.

  “Ellis.”

  “John.” For a change, Shafer sounded genuinely excited. “Where are you?”

  “Just landed in Manila. POTUS had me on an aircraft carrier.”

  “We would have found you.”

  Maybe. “I’m here with two guys who want me to get on another plane. They claim we’re going home, Andrews. You know anything about it?”

  “I do not. But give me the tail number.”

  Wells did.

  “See
you soon.”

  —

  EIGHTEEN HOURS LATER, the G5 touched down in Maryland. They had crossed the international date line over the flight, gained twelve hours, so it was around noon, a beautiful late spring day in the mid-Atlantic. Not that the sun did Wells much good. The Gulfstream was nice, but he’d hardly slept. He shuffled like a zombie to the tarmac, where four men in suits waited. Wells pegged them as FBI or Secret Service. They guided him to a black Suburban and set off, emergency lights flashing. Wells didn’t bother asking where they were taking him. He was unsurprised when they came up 295 and over the Anacostia and ten minutes later swung onto West Executive Drive, the White House looming.

  Duto and Shafer waited in the Oval Office anteroom.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Shafer said.

  “How’d they get you out of Hong Kong?” Duto said. “Garry Wright swore up and down he had no idea—”

  “He didn’t. MI6 picked me up, put me on a boat, handed me over. Long story.”

  “Doesn’t sound that long.”

  “I guess not. You have any idea what this is about? I haven’t seen a newspaper or a website in a month. Something happen to Duberman?”

  The door to the Oval Office opened, and Donna Green waved them in. “Gentlemen.”

  Again the President sat on the yellow couch in the center of the room. Again a pitcher of water and glasses waited on the center table. But this time, the President’s posture felt different to Wells. Not quite defeated, but worn. Like he was done acting. Good. Wells couldn’t take another just-trust-me performance.

  “Please, sit.”

  “That was a neat trick with MI6,” Wells said. “Sir.”

  “You were treated all right?”

  “Held illegally, incommunicado, no trial, no hearing. Aside from that, it was fine. Sir.”

  “You killed Duberman’s guards in Hong Kong last month.”

  “I’m not answering that. Sir. Unless you’ve suspended the Constitution here, too. Sir.”

  The repeated sirs were provoking a tic around the President’s right eye.

  “Why are we here?” Shafer said.

  The President looked to Green.

  “Must be bad if you don’t want to tell us yourself,” Shafer said.

  “The Kremlin has asked for asylum on behalf of Aaron Duberman,” Green said.

  Shafer cupped a hand to his ear. “Ring-ring. Hello? Yes. I see. Cluck you, too. Adios.” He pretended to hang up. “Sorry. Those were the chickens.”

  “Chickens?”

  Shafer pointed a finger at Green, though everyone in the room knew it was meant for the President. “Coming home. To roost.”

  “Do I get to tell you what happened now?” Green explained that Paul Kutsunov, the Russian ambassador to the United States, had called two days before to tell her Duberman was applying for political asylum in Russia. Based on its review, the Kremlin believed he had a well-founded fear of persecution, Kutsunov said.

  “I said, ‘Well-founded or well-funded?’ He didn’t think that was funny. I told him we didn’t think that Aaron Duberman made a credible political prisoner. Considering he’s the biggest donor in the history of American politics. I said I didn’t know why he thought Russia would protect him, considering how Russia has treated Jews over the years.”

  “Not bad,” Shafer said.

  “He said that if we had contrary evidence, the Kremlin would gladly examine it. But not in private, since as a rule asylum hearings are public in Russia. Which is nonsense. He said Aaron Duberman’s human rights were his only concern. He said that even before the Kremlin made a final decision, it had given Duberman preliminary protected diplomatic status—”

  “Something else that doesn’t exist—” the President said.

  “And the Kremlin would view quote-unquote interference with Duberman as equivalent to action against one of its own diplomats. He will have our full protection. I told him I hoped Duberman would enjoy the winters in the Moscow. And that was that.”

  “I guess your first move is to inform the Russians about our friend’s role in our little Iranian misadventure,” Shafer said. “Let them know who they’re dealing with.”

  “Of course they know—” The President stopped himself, leaned toward Shafer. “I’m tired of your attitude, Ellis.”

  “Me, I’m tired of you holding people without trial. Was John ever going to see a judge? Or was this a permanent vacation?”

  “Eight months,” Wells said, “if I didn’t get moved to another carrier the night before we landed.”

  Shafer and the President stared holes in each other until Duto clapped his hands and startled them both.

  “I take it we all view this the same way,” Duto said. “The Russians know what happened. They’ve decided to play banker of last resort for our friend. In return, he’s letting them use his casinos as honey traps. They figure you won’t go public, because you haven’t so far. Duberman knows this will end badly, but he doesn’t see any other options. Especially with John running around shooting his bodyguards.”

  “More or less,” Green said.

  “I further take it that they are correct?” Duto said to the President. “That you still won’t go public? That you intend to ride this ship all the way down.”

  The President looked at Wells. “I want you to kill him.”

  “I’m right here,” Duto said. “At least wait until I take a piss to put out the hit.”

  “Bunch of comedians.”

  “No, that’s Graham Greene,” Shafer said.

  “Yesterday I was locked up in a floating dungeon because you were protecting your buddy,” Wells said. “Now he’s gone too far, and the Russians have you scared to use the agency, so you come running. Everybody’s favorite off-the-books option. And I’m supposed to pretend we’re friends.”

  “What can I say? I was wrong. I didn’t think—”

  “That it would leak? That someone would figure out how to use it?”

  “I understand how it looks—”

  “Just tell me,” Wells said. “You ever plan to take care of Duberman?”

  The President’s silence was the only answer Wells needed.

  “You get to clean this one up all by yourself.”

  “John,” Green said. “However we got here, this is what you wanted, right? Nobody in your way. Line him up, take him down however you like. You finally get the guy at the top.”

  “Not quite.” Wells stood, turned for the door.

  Green opened her attaché case, came out with a slim file. “I wondered if the Russians really are protecting Duberman or just bluffing. So I asked Garry Wright to check our surveillance on the FSB station over there. Look for an uptick in action, new faces. NSA pulled some files, too.”

  “I care because—”

  Green handed the file to Wells. “Anyone you know?”

  She obviously knew the answer, because Wells didn’t have to look past the first photo. Mikhail Buvchenko. He hadn’t even bothered to disguise himself, not that he could. He was big enough to be visible from space. Wells wondered why the Russians were using Buvchenko. He wasn’t a real FSB officer. The answer could only be that they knew of his connection to Salome and Wells.

  “What happened to the Red Notice?”

  “Best guess, they gave him a diplo passport.”

  “Donna tells me if he’d had his way, you’d be doing time in a Russian prison right now,” the President said.

  And if you had yours, I’d be doing it in the Pacific Ocean.

  “Two for the price of one,” Green said.

  “Could you lay it on any thicker?” Wells said.

  But Green and the President had pulled the winning card from the bottom of the deck. Wells wanted Buvchenko even more than he wanted the President to pay. “I’ll think about it.” Wells kn
ew as he spoke that he’d already agreed. Like any good whore, he was only arguing over price.

  “Take your time.”

  —

  INEVITABLY, after they left the White House, Shafer dragged Wells back to Shirley’s. The bar hadn’t improved. In fact, Wells could have sworn that no one in the place had moved in the four months since their last trip. Again they sat at the bar and Shafer ordered a shot for himself and Bud for Wells.

  “Do me a favor and don’t get sloppy this time,” Wells said.

  “I wasn’t sloppy.”

  “You practically confessed your love for Orson Nye.”

  “I only said he smelled good.” Shafer sniffed at the shot. “Speaking of, should I be concerned about the faint odor of turpentine I’m picking up out of this?”

  “At your age, a preservative is probably helpful.”

  “The answer I hoped to hear.” Shafer put the glass to his lips. “Umm. Wonderfully terrible. So how do we do this?”

  “I didn’t hear myself agree to anything.”

  “We all did.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of being used?”

  “Never.”

  Wells tried to imagine weaknesses in Duberman’s security. None came to mind.

  “What about Orli?” Shafer said.

  “I told you, from what Roberts said, she was on board.”

  “Was,” Shafer said. “Maybe she reconsidered after two guys she knew got shot in the street. If we can find a way to talk to her without him finding out—”

  “She’ll go running back to him.”

  “Worst case, that leaves us where we are now.”

  “Fine. You have any way to reach her?”

  Shafer raised his empty glass. “Matter of fact, I do.”

  16

  BEIJING

  Duberman had made Buvchenko promise the FSB wouldn’t let Cheung hurt any girls. Instead, he and the Russians would trick Cheung into thinking that he’d had sex. The drugs and booze would erase Cheung’s memory. As added leverage, Duberman would tape Cheung admitting his pedophilic desires.

  You’re sure he’ll say what he wants, Buvchenko said.