The Wolves Page 8

  “Probably why no one noticed at the time. But somebody heard about it, got a look at his records, HIPAA and all. Good ol’ Simon told his doc he’d been doing coke two days straight. Something about an HIV test, too, unprotected sex with multiple hookers.”

  “A good time was had by all,” Duto said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Anybody can start a rumor.”

  “The person who told me had seen a copy of the ER report. With all the details, the treating doc, even his insurance card. Lo and behold, two days later Barnett’s out of the race.”

  “Guess he didn’t want to debate the finer points of medical privacy laws.”

  “Guess not. That quick, your biggest worry from the left is gone. Meanwhile, the Veep’s Colombia/Cuba mistake makes him a laughingstock all week.” A recording of a meeting with the German Foreign Minister revealed the Vice President repeatedly mistaking the two countries.

  “Overblown, you ask me.”

  “What I’m trying to figure out is where that tape came from,” Robinson said.

  “The Germans leaked it to get us back for pushing them on Ukraine.”

  “I asked Klaus”—Klaus Fischer, the German ambassador to the United States—“and he swears it’s not so. And he wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this, anyway. He says it came from the White House. I’m asking myself, why would the White House leak a story that makes the Veep look bad? Any ideas, Vinny?”

  They were close to the green now. The caddies were well ahead, out of earshot. They knew when they weren’t wanted. The Blue Course was beautifully designed, each hole masked from its neighbors, offering the illusion that every two- or foursome had the course to itself. Still, Duto heard the sharp pings as clubs struck balls, soft congratulations, an occasional curse.

  If he were President, the course would belong to him alone.

  And Robinson’s words confirmed what Duto already knew. He was winning. Of course, not a single vote had been cast yet. But behind the scenes, Duto and his rivals were fighting over the big donors. To have any chance, a candidate had to raise tens of millions of dollars to hire staff, charter airplanes, rent hotel rooms, buy television ads. Most of the early money came from just a few thousand donors who wanted to join together around a candidate, avoid a nasty nomination fight that would give momentum to the other party.

  What Robinson was really telling Duto was that he understood that Duto was clearing the field. And that he supported the play. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought it up. Duto couldn’t stop a grin. “I’m just trying to represent the good people of Pennsylvania.”

  Robinson stopped walking. “How long have we known each other, Vinny? Since I was selling helicopters to the Colombians and you were running missions that got them shot down. So don’t blow smoke up my ass. I’m starting to believe the rumors.”

  “What rumors are those?” Time to tread lightly. Duto didn’t want to burn the White House.

  Yet.

  “That you have the President’s lady parts in a vise and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you happy.”

  “You could have figured that out watching CNN.”

  “That it’s about Iran.”

  Duto waited for more, but that one word seemed to be all Robinson had. Robinson was one of the most connected guys in Washington. Duto would have expected him to be closer. Duto really was running good, the general crackdown on leaks working for him. Nobody at Langley wanted to risk a prison term for talking to a friend.

  Duto still needed to be careful, though. A flat denial would be too obvious. Instead he offered a corner of the truth. “I warned Donna Green that our intel on Iran wasn’t as good as what the agency was telling them. That she was going out on the ledge.”

  “You weren’t the only one saying that. So why’d the President make you the crown prince and give you the entire community to run?” The intelligence community.

  “Maybe he likes me.”

  Robinson smiled. “He hates your guts.”

  “People change.”

  “Biggest lie yet.”

  “Maybe I memorialized my warnings.”

  A satisfied rumble came from somewhere in Robinson’s throat, the sound of one predator respecting another. “You put it in writing? If that HEU had turned out to be Iranian, the White House would have crucified you.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “How come you were so sure?”

  Duto rested a hand on Robinson’s arm. “Instinct. That’s all I can say.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Robinson shook his head, letting Duto know he didn’t believe a word. “Anyway, to the victor goes the spoils. And I’ll make sure my friends know how I feel.” A list that included hundreds of wealthy African Americans, and every top executive in the defense industry.

  “That means a lot, Trevor.”

  Robinson waved over the caddies, his way of telling Duto he’d said what he needed to. As he lined up over his putt, Duto’s phone buzzed. A Maryland number that he knew belonged to Donna Green. He sent the call to voice mail. The National Security Advisor could wait.

  A moment later, the phone buzzed again.

  “Putting here,” Robinson said.

  “Sorry. Gotta take it.” Duto clicked through.

  “The President and I need to see you this afternoon.”

  Duto figured they’d found out that Wells was heading for Hong Kong. He suspected they’d tracked Wells despite their promise to leave him alone. “Another three-way, Donna? Have some mercy.”

  “When can you be here?”

  Duto had no plans to give up the last of his round. It was nearly three. Four holes, a shower, a cigar with Robinson on the back deck, traffic—“Say six.”

  “I know you’re playing golf, Vinny.”

  “Fine, five.” He’d forget the cigar.

  —

  AT 5:15, he stepped into the Oval Office. The President and Green stared, unsmiling, at him from the couches in the middle of the room. Didn’t they know their anger only fed him? They’d made this mess. Duto had no reason to help them. Truly he’d warned them.

  Let them hate him.

  “Glad you could spare a few minutes,” the President said.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Did you know Wells is going to Hong Kong?”

  “You said you wouldn’t track him.” An answer that ignored the question.

  “He made a reservation under his own name for a flight from L.A. tonight,” Green said.

  “Then I assume he wanted you to know he was going.”

  “Are you helping him?”

  “John Wells doesn’t need my help.” Another non-answer.

  “Are you helping him?”

  “No.” Not directly. I mean, I’m not going over there. Not a lie. Just a narrow interpretation of the truth.

  “Because I’m about to ask the CIA to get him out of there—”

  “Bad idea. Everyone in the DO”—the Directorate of Operations—“knows his name. It would make for questions you don’t want to answer.”

  “You do it, then,” Green said. “We’ve given you everything wanted.”

  “Why are you still here, Donna? Everybody knows he made you sign a resignation letter.” Everybody didn’t know. Duto was guessing.

  But Green sat up like Duto had slapped her, and he knew he’d guessed right.

  “He must figure you’re still useful. Wish I knew why—”

  “Enough,” the President said. “You’ll not speak to her that way. Not in here.”

  “He can speak to me however he likes,” Green said. “I know what he is.”

  The words failed to sting. What am I? No different than your boss. Or anyone who believes he has the right to sit in this room.

  No different than anyone who’s tasted power and wants more.

 
“Just so I’m clear,” the President said. “You won’t tell the agency to help us.”

  “You’re clear.” The conversation was probably being taped. Duto didn’t care.

  “You won’t go to Wells, ask him to stay out of this.”

  “You ought to know he won’t listen to me. As far as he’s concerned, he gave you three months to deal with Duberman, you didn’t, he’s going to do it himself.”

  “We haven’t had a shot.”

  “You haven’t tried.”

  “We’re just pulling ourselves out of this ditch,” the President said. “I’ve apologized to the Brits, the Germans, the Turks, even the Saudis. Donna’s been to Iran twice, productive conversations—”

  “Productive because you’re telling them to do whatever they want.”

  “If something happens to Aaron Duberman, it’ll all come undone.”

  Don’t you see it’s come undone already? You’re lucky to have survived this long. I don’t know exactly how, who, when, but soon enough somebody will smell your weakness and jump it. But Duto would let the President have his illusions. Every day, the man helped him closer to the nomination. And when the truth finally came out and the world asked him why he hadn’t spoken earlier, he would have his answer ready: The President asked for my silence. I agreed. I saw the harm he’d caused, and I wanted to give him a chance to undo it.

  The man sitting across from him would have no answer. Because Duto would be telling the truth.

  “Who runs your errands if Duberman kills Wells?” Green said.

  “You think that—” Duto broke off. “John’s John. I can’t control him and neither can anyone else. I suspect he’s gonna eat a bullet one day, but that’s his business.”

  “At least promise me that the station in Hong Kong won’t help him. No missions.”

  No missions didn’t mean no gear, so Duto was fine with that promise. “Okay. Otherwise, the agency stays out of it. You feel differently, call Langley yourself. Anything else? Because I have Nats tickets tonight and I don’t want to miss the first pitch.”

  Duto pushed himself off the couch.

  “We’re done helping you, Vinny.”

  We’ll see. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll show myself out.”

  —

  WHEN DUTO WAS GONE, Green sank back in the couch, rubbing her arms. She felt as though she’d been flayed. “He’s already measuring the drapes.”

  “It’s a long road. His ego will run away with him, he’ll make a mistake.”

  Then Green had a thought she didn’t want. Say you’re right? How exactly will Vinny Duto’s fall help you? Or me? Or the country, for that matter? She’d served the President for nearly a decade, and served was the word. Eighty hours a week, fifty weeks a year, solving his problems. For her trouble, three months before, he’d pulled out his sword and made her fall on it. The worst night of her life. She wasn’t sure what she hated more, the resignation letter or the fact that she still served in spite of it. Now she feared the President was mistaking his desire to stay in office for the interests of the nation he supposedly served. They were dancing like bears on a log and she wasn’t sure why.

  “You’re sure it’s all worth it?”

  The President gave her the same hard eyes he’d just trained on Duto.

  “You think I should walk out of here, Donna? Let that blowhard have it? Because I promise you that will never happen. You don’t think I’m right for this job—” He inclined his head to the door.

  She wanted to call his bluff. What was left of his credibility would collapse if she resigned. He wouldn’t last a month. But she couldn’t. The Veep was a genial joke. And Duto frightened her. She had felt his sulfurous anger up close, the joy he took in destroying his enemies. In destroying her.

  Besides, after all the time she’d spent aboard the SS President, she had no choice but to go down with the ship. “How are we going to stop Duto if we can’t even stop Wells?”

  The President surprised her with a laugh. “Pathetic, isn’t it? I’m not the first guy in this office who lost the CIA, but I suspect I’m the first who had it shoved down his throat by the former director.”

  “The fact you can still mock yourself makes me feel slightly better.”

  The President reached for the buzzer that called the Oval Office steward. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

  Two minutes later, they were each sipping sour-mash whiskeys, doubles. The world seemed slightly more manageable. A welcome illusion. The President raised his glass. “To Vinny Duto. Maybe he’ll have an accident on the way to the game.”

  “Choke to death on a hot dog. Which would still leave us dealing with Wells.”

  “Have to ruin the moment. Can we ask the Chinese to send him back at the airport?”

  “They’ll want to know a lot more than we can tell them.”

  “What about one of the other agencies? FBI, DIA, the Park Service? Ranger Rick. Stop, or I’ll say stop again. Or is that the London bobbies?”

  “Hey.”

  “Hey what?”

  “You just gave me an idea.”

  She explained.

  “Think they’ll bite?” the President said.

  “I think it’s our best option. We’ll tell ’em because Wells is ex-CIA, we don’t want to get the agency involved—”

  “True enough. Can they get guys in place before he lands?”

  “If they want. If we ask nicely.”

  The President raised his glass, considered the whiskey inside. “I know what you think, Donna, but it’s a long game.”

  “Is that meant to make me feel better?”

  6

  HONG KONG

  Hong Kong lay fifteen time zones ahead of California, and more than seven thousand miles across the Pacific, a fifteen-and-a-half-hour flight. Wells’s Cathay Pacific 747 went wheels up Saturday night, didn’t land until Monday morning. The sun rose behind the jet, sailed past, set again. A day lost in the netherworld. If the nuclear apocalypse ever came, these long-haul flights would land in the radioactive rubble with what was left of humanity bleary-eyed and wondering why their phones weren’t working.

  Wells had spent more of his presidential ransom on a business-class ticket. Still, he slept fitfully, B movies rubbing his consciousness when he closed his eyes. He needed to quiet himself. Adrenaline bred sloppiness. Sloppiness bred mistakes. And Wells knew how dangerous Duberman could be. Not just because of his money. A lot of executive types ordered underlings into danger but wouldn’t face it themselves. But in Tel Aviv Duberman had proven his courage. He hadn’t blinked when Wells put a pistol to his head.

  At Hong Kong International Airport, Wells offered his real passport to the immigration agent and stepped through unchallenged. No doubt he had just set off an alarm that the National Security Agency would pass to the White House. So be it. Wells had two more passports in different names, with credit cards to match. Plus the cash. John Wells wouldn’t be appearing again in Hong Kong. With the agency not an option, the White House would need to call in the Chinese to track him. Wells didn’t see the President taking that step.

  Wells walked out of the air-conditioned arrivals hall, found himself in the subtropics. The late-morning sun glared down on the boxy red Toyota sedans that made up Hong Kong’s cab fleet. As he stepped into the taxi line, Wells saw his error. He was used to traveling light. He could hardly run countersurveillance hauling a twenty-six-inch suitcase and a garment bag filled with brand-new suits. The idea itself was comic, out of a parody of a spy movie.

  Wells doubted he was facing watchers. Still, good tradecraft was good tradecraft. He handed the dispatcher a $100 HK note. “I need a driver who speaks English.” The dispatcher stepped into the line of cabs, spoke to three drivers. At the fourth, he stopped, waved Wells over.

  Wells stowed his bags in the trunk
, slipped in front beside a chubby fiftyish man who wore oversized tinted glasses with black plastic frames. Lin, Hong Xi Henry, according to his hack license. Many Hong Kongers used both Chinese and English names.

  “Where to, sir?” Henry sounded like he could be a host for the BBC.

  “Peninsula.” With its fleet of chauffeured black Rolls-Royces, the Peninsula was the most famous hotel in Hong Kong. It was actually located on the city’s mainland or Kowloon side, not Hong Kong Island. If Hong Kong was the Asian version of New York City, the island played the role of Manhattan, and Kowloon the outer boroughs. Ferries, car tunnels, and subways connected the two districts, but they gave off very different vibes. The island was home to Hong Kong’s tallest skyscrapers and priciest real estate. It was corporate and clean, filled with bankers and lawyers. But most of the city’s population lived on the mainland side. Especially north of the harbor, Kowloon was overwhelmingly Chinese and chaotic. Its streets were narrow and crowded, littered with paper scraps and trampled bottles, redolent with the smells of tea and fish and diesel smoke. Hong Kong had a miserable shortage of affordable housing, and many Kowloon residents lived in apartments that could have passed for prison cells. If Wells had been Chinese, he could have disappeared into its most densely packed neighborhoods. But few white people lived in those districts, and Duberman’s mansion was on the island, anyway. So Wells would have to spend a lot of his time on the island. But he planned to rent rooms on both sides.

  “Beautiful hotel,” Henry said.

  Hong Kong had built its airport on an artificial island twenty miles west of downtown Kowloon. A relatively uncongested highway connected the airport with the mainland, giving Wells a chance to check for tails. He eyed the rearview mirror as they drove along a bridge bracketed by a hill on the right, gray water to the left, the eastern edge of the Pearl River Delta. Henry had the taxi pinned at the speed limit, 110 kilometers an hour, about seventy miles.

  “Faster, please,” Wells said. Henry didn’t argue. The Toyota sped to 120 kilometers, tailgating a van in the passing lane—the right lane. Hong Kong followed British road rules. Vehicles drove on the left, and steering wheels were on the right.