“Go ahead.”
“I would only point out that an ingot of this quality, this, whoever did this, it’s not their first time at the rodeo.”
“You say this from personal experience?” the President said. James Shaham made a singularly unlikely cowboy.
If Shaham knew he was being mocked, he didn’t reveal it. “This feels like they’ve had several runs. Four or five at least.”
“So what you’re telling us is that there’s more HEU out there.”
“I don’t know how to define out there, sir, but produced. Of course, I could be wrong, sir. This is based on instinct, not evidence. I always prefer evidence.”
“Thank you, Doctor. If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside.”
Shaham walked out on shaky legs.
As the door shut behind him, Green murmured, “Rawhide.” Nothing more. The report hadn’t put anyone in a joking mood.
The President looked at Hebley. “General. Let’s save Shaham for a minute. I haven’t seen you since your trip to Paris. I’d like to hear firsthand what you thought about Assefi.” The Iranian ambassador to France.
“Sir. These conversations are always difficult. With the translators present. But as best as I could tell, he had no idea what I was talking about. He asked me more than once for more information. It was a short conversation, no more than twenty minutes.”
“What did you think of him personally?”
“Assefi’s polished. No beard. Hand-tailored suit. More Persian, less Iranian, is how I’d put it. Best we can tell, they figure they need a couple guys like him to give the Europeans cover to keep doing business with them. As I said, he seemed perplexed.”
“Did that change your overall view of the situation?”
“No, sir. Both when I was at the Pentagon and now, I believed that the Iran power structure is highly concentrated. It’s hard for us to understand. We have so many different constituencies, power is genuinely diffuse. You, Congress, lobbying groups, Pentagon bureaucracies, multinationals, et cetera. In Iran, Afghanistan, I saw it up close, in the end a handful of people make the decisions. Assefi, Rouhani, they’re useful as front men, doesn’t mean they know what’s really happening, much less can change it.” Rouhani was Hassan Rouhani, the president of Iran.
“So how would you reach the men who can?”
“We need to get their attention. We’ve seen it again and again, especially since Syria, these regimes believe we’re not going to act. They think they can bluff us.”
“Just to review.” The President tented his hands together. “We have an unknown source of weapons-grade uranium. The man who tipped us, the agent you called Mathers, supposedly a Revolutionary Guard colonel, he’s disappeared.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We don’t have any independent corroboration. No signals intelligence, no human source, nothing from our allies. Nothing. We don’t even know this man’s real name. Nor do we have a photo.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“But this source has provided us with four major pieces of intelligence, and they’ve all proven correct. Including, today, bomb-grade uranium that our own experts say doesn’t seem to have come from any known nuclear program.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. President.” This from Jake Mangiola, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “If I may. The Iranians can easily allay our suspicions if they let us inspect Natanz and the other plants.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” the President said drily. Mangiola flushed. “Just so you know, tomorrow morning Donna is going to call Rouhani to see if he wants to talk to me directly. If he will, I’m going to tell him that we have direct evidence that his government is trying to move nuclear material to American soil, and he must allow the United States directly to inspect his enrichment plants. I have to try.” The President paused. “Assuming the Iranians choose not to pull down their pants for us, what do you have for me, Jake?”
For the next twenty-five minutes, Mangiola and Kenneth Belk, the Secretary of Defense, offered a menu of choices with steadily increasing casualty counts, from cyberattacks to missile strikes on enrichment plants to a sustained bombing campaign against military and even civilian targets. The President remained impassive throughout, hidden behind his hands.
“We’re presuming for now that a full-scale invasion is off the table, though the planners have spent some time on that, too,” Belk finally said.
The President pushed his chair away from his desk. He wanted a cigarette, but he wouldn’t let these generals see him smoke. Smoking was weakness.
The silence in the room stretched.
“No,” the President finally said. “None of it’s right. What do we have? Three pounds of uranium.”
“It came from somewhere,” Hebley said.
“I agree. I’ll even buy it’s Iranian. But we have to start with something that tells the world this is a crisis without killing a lot of people. I want awe, not shock. Nobody’s forgotten Iraq, WMD. I want room to escalate. A lot of room.”
“What about a blockade?”
“I don’t mean to joke,” the President said, “but it sounds so Cuban Missile Crisis. The cyber stuff is worse. I will destroy your Internet. I know it’s real, but it seems silly. I want something they’ll see in Tehran.”
“Like a drone strike,” Belk said.
“Except the opposite,” Green said. “Drone drops one bomb, kills a bunch of people.” She leaned forward, hands on her skirt. “But maybe—” She broke off.
“Donna?” the President said.
“I might have something.”
26
ISTANBUL
In 1971, a psychology professor at Stanford University chose seventy-five students to play prisoners or guards in a mock jail in a campus basement. By the second day, the guards were spraying prisoners with fire extinguishers, keeping them naked, locking them in closets. The experiment was supposed to last two weeks, but the abuse became so severe that the professor ended it after six days. More than forty years later, the Stanford Prison Experiment remained a milestone, proof that power corrupted.
But Wells saw a second moral, one more relevant to him at this moment. After a single day, the amateur guards at Stanford had defined prisoners as defiant or compliant. They focused on the troublemakers and ignored the rest. Full-time corrections officers never let down their guard, even around supposedly model prisoners. But the men watching Wells were soldiers-turned-mercenaries, not jailers. They knew Wells was dangerous. But he’d given them no reason to mistrust them. He hadn’t resisted in any way. On the contrary, he’d followed their orders without complaint.
The guards still took plenty of precautions. They made him face the wall when they entered the cell, so they could check the cuff on his right hand. They’d never unlocked him. And they never brought firearms into the cell. Instead, they wore Tasers, single-shot stun guns. Even if Wells could grab a Taser, he could disable only one guard. The backup would disarm him.
But—even after only six days—the guards had become slightly less vigilant. They put food directly in front of Wells. They came within arm’s reach when they took his waste bucket. Most important, they no longer watched him in pairs. A single guard entered, leaving the door open, his buddy down the hall. Sloppy. Lazy.
Wells would make them pay.
—
The day before, Mason had come back. “Why did Shafer stop calling?”
Wells shook his head.
“He’s gone to ground. You signaled him.”
“You heard the message I left. It sound like code?”
“Tell me how you got involved with this.”
Wells didn’t argue. He wanted to keep Mason happy, and he suspected Mason already knew most of the story. He explained, skipping only his trip to Panama. Montoya and Singh would have to look out for themselves. Sop
hia Ramos was innocent.
Mason didn’t look surprised at anything Wells said. “Langley help?” he said.
“Not as far as I saw.”
“Seventh floor didn’t want to hear.”
“I wasn’t there, but Shafer said they actively pushed back. I had to guess, I’d say Shafer’s figured out you grabbed me, decided his best play is laying low. That with the juice you have at Langley, he can’t stop this, and if he tries, he’ll only get me killed.”
“From what I know, that’s not Shafer’s style. Or yours.”
So Mason wasn’t even bothering to deny that the group he worked for had some connection inside. Wells decided to let the thread lie. Better if Mason didn’t realize the importance of what he’d admitted.
“Guards tell me you’ve been a good boy,” Mason said.
“I just want my family safe. It’s not about me anymore.” Wells knew they both understood the implication.
Mason dug Wells’s burner phone from his pocket. “So let Shafer know he’s doing the right thing. Elliptical. Obviously, don’t say ‘hostage.’ Nothing like that. Nothing he can take to anyone.”
“Your theory is correct, something like that.”
“Ad-lib it. I trust you. Circumstances being what they are.” Mason dialed, slid Wells the phone.
The call went straight to voice mail. “Ellis. Just want you to know the target’s practically in my sights. Stay cool, keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll handle it. Talk soon.” Wells clicked off, tossed Mason the burner.
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Don’t suppose you want to explain what this is really about.” Since I’m dead anyway.
Mason shook his head.
“Or should we call your boss? Ask her if you’re allowed to talk?”
Mason’s silicone lips tightened, all the answer Wells needed. “It’s about the truth, John—you don’t mind if I call you John? Doing what we should have done already.”
“From over here, it looks like tricking the United States into war. Killing a station chief.”
“Tell me you’ve never shot an American.”
But of course Wells couldn’t.
“You knew the whole story, you might even help. Too bad.” Mason walked out.
—
Mason had the swagger of Usain Bolt three strides from the finish line. Wells knew his own sell-by date was close. For now, the scales still tilted in favor of keeping him alive, leverage to keep Shafer quiet. But Mason or whoever was in charge would decide soon enough Wells was more trouble than he was worth.
So. Time to go. Or die trying.
Wells had to trust that if he failed, they wouldn’t hurt Evan. He didn’t see why they would. Dead, Wells was no threat. Evan would be in greater danger in the short run if Wells escaped. Soon as he got free, Wells would call Shafer, have him ask the FBI to cover Evan and Heather and Anne.
He spent the first part of the night putting together his plan, the second half crafting the weapon he needed. He had learned the rhythm of his captivity, could distinguish day from night. He had seen only the two guards, one in his late twenties, the other close to forty. He doubted there were others. Anyone else who was here would have given in to the temptation to look him over. The older guard was in charge. The younger did the scut work, removing his slop bucket each morning for cleaning.
They looked in on him four times a day, every six hours. The younger guard brought him breakfast and dinner. The older checked Wells at lunch and in the late evening, around midnight. Otherwise they left him alone, his cell door deadbolted from the outside. Theoretically, they could be watching him constantly through the spy cam. Wells guessed it fed a laptop nearby, wherever they lived and slept. He doubted they bothered. The chain binding Wells was so short that he could take only a single step in any direction. Watching him in here would be nearly as boring as being him.
With no toilet, and the bucket washed only once a day, the cell smelled fierce by the time the younger guard arrived each morning. They hadn’t allowed Wells to shower or shave. He had toilet paper and a few wet wipes, but he couldn’t imagine how he smelled and looked. Even in Afghanistan, he’d never felt as filthy as he did now, with only stale air and flies for company. He wasn’t sure how the flies got in, but they did.
—
On the other side of the bricks, the highway noise picked up. Wells hadn’t slept, but he felt stronger than he had in years. This time he wasn’t facing a raggedy Somali militia, or a Delta sniper who’d snapped after too many tours. Mason was a traitor. And Mason had threatened his son.
The Quran’s first verse flashed through Wells:
You alone do we worship, and You alone we seek for help.
Guide us to the Straight Path.
The path of those whom You bless, not of those whom
You have cursed nor of those who have gone astray.
He didn’t know how to find Mecca in here, so he decided to face the door, his own mihrab. He closed his eyes, knelt, offered the regular dawn prayer. When he was done, he raised his head and imagined Anne, in North Conway, her deadline to him irrelevant now. He hoped she was sleeping peacefully. Not thinking of him. She’d made the right choice. And he knew what she’d say to him now, if she saw him here. Nothing from the Quran. Four words. Her state’s motto. Taken from a letter a Revolutionary War general had written in 1809:
Live free or die.
The slop bucket was between his legs. Wells wrinkled his nose against the smell, pushed down his shorts, crouched over it. In case anyone peeked on the monitor before coming to check on him. In this unpromising but necessary posture, he waited for dawn.
—
The footsteps came minutes later. The deadbolt popped back. The door creaked open. Still squatting above the bucket, Wells leaned forward to cover himself. The young jailer stood in the doorway. He was wiry, ropy muscles, no fat at all. Nearly as tall as Wells. Like a tennis player. Wells imagined he’d have tennis-quick reflexes, too. He moved on the balls of his feet. The Taser rested on his right hip. Wells would have to move decisively, without hesitation, to have any hope of surprising him.
“Good morning.” His voice was low, marbly. Eastern European. He frowned as he realized he’d interrupted Wells over the bucket.
“Stomachache.”
The jailer stepped back into the hallway, locked the door. He returned with toilet paper and a bottle of water. By now Wells had his shorts up. The guard tossed him the roll and the bottle. Good. Already he thought of Wells as sick. Weak. Walking in on a stranger on the toilet was inevitably distracting. Most important, Wells had a reason that the bucket was at his feet instead of its usual spot in the middle of the cell.
“Thank you.” Wells cleaned himself as best he could, tossed the paper in the bucket.
The guard twirled his finger. Wells faced the wall, pressed his left palm against the bricks, lifted his right arm out and away. The guard came wide to his right side and tugged hard on the chain that held the handcuff. Wells grunted as the steel bit his wrist.
The guard stepped away. “Turn.”
Wells turned around, facing out.
“Sick.”
“No, I’m fine.” But Wells knew he didn’t look fine, or smell fine. Not after six days in this room and twenty-four hours without sleep. He nudged the bucket with his toe. “Please, can you clean it—”
The guard stepped toward Wells, reached down for the bucket, pulled it up—
And the filthy mixture inside poured out the bottom. The guard looked down in shock as the stuff cascaded around his shoes—
Wells wrapped his left arm around the man’s waist, hugged him close. With his right hand, Wells reached into his shorts and pulled the five-inch pie-shaped piece of plastic that he had broken from the base of the bucket. He had spent hours whittling the plastic against his handc
uffs, making a homemade shiv, its sides letter-opener sharp. The four-foot chain gave Wells room to drive his right arm forward. The guard tried to spin out, but Wells held him firm and forced the knife into him, above the hipbone, aiming for the liver. The plastic blade didn’t cut as smoothly as a real knife, but the guy’s skinny frame left him unprotected. Wells sawed through skin and muscle until he reached the viscera underneath.
The guard screamed. Wells shoved in the blade as far as he could, then pulled it out. Bright red blood followed. The guard reached for the Taser on his belt. Wells let go of the knife, wrapped his right hand around the guard’s head. He drove forward with the crown of his skull and connected with the guard’s forehead, bone on bone. The world went white. But Wells stayed upright and conscious as the guard moaned and collapsed at his feet.
Wells grunted, breathed deep against the pain. At his feet the guard rustled, semiconscious. Wells turned the man’s head so the back of his skull lay against the floor. He lifted his heel and brought it down on the small bones of the man’s throat, firm, driving through, crushing his windpipe. A killing strike. The guard thrashed hopelessly.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor outside. Wells reached for the Taser. He came up with it as the second guard, the older man, arrived in the doorway, shouting. The guard turned and raised his pistol. Wells aimed the Taser for his chest and pulled the trigger.
Twin black wires exploded from the Taser. Powered by compressed nitrogen, the wires covered the fifteen feet between Wells and the guard in a fraction of a second. When they made contact, the metal barbs at their tips cut through the guard’s T-shirt and into his skin, completing an electrical circuit that ran across his chest. Fifty thousand volts passed through him. He dropped the pistol and went to his knees, yelling.
The company that made Tasers had once claimed they were nonlethal. No more. After hundreds of deaths, Tasers now carried prominent warnings of their potential to kill. They worked by causing muscles to clench uncontrollably. Every muscle. Even the diaphragm. Pulling a Taser’s trigger produced a five-second shock, nineteen pulses per second of electricity. A five-second hit was painful but not hugely dangerous unless the person being shocked was already close to cardiac arrest. But what most people didn’t know was that Tasers would pump out electricity as long as the shooter held the trigger. They had no override. And until the shock ended, the person being Tased couldn’t breathe.
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