The Wolves

by Alex Berenson

  “Nice of you to come all the way here to see me,” Duberman said. “With the Red Notice and everything.”

  “I didn’t think you’d tell. Since you have your own problems with the Americans.”

  “Fair enough. So did you come all the way up here to kill me? I warn you there’s a line.” Duberman laughed. His confidence surprised Buvchenko.

  “I might be the only one who doesn’t want to kill you.”

  “Gideon tells me I’m a fool for getting so close. I told him, ‘No one who wanted to hurt me would have spent twenty minutes slobbering over my Bugatti.’”

  Of course they’d watched him. “Beautiful car.”

  “My newest addition. I prefer the old red Ferraris with the ingénue eyes for headlights, but the Veyron has a certain appeal. Put wings on it, you could probably fly it.”

  “You’ve driven it?”

  Duberman laughed again. “I’d crash it in a second. I’ve ridden in it, though. Nine kilometers in all. On a test track near Milan. They bring it in on a truck, you sit next to an F1 racer who drives three laps to prove it works, they put it back on the truck. So you’re working for the FSB now? I thought you were freelance.”

  So much for Duberman believing Buvchenko spoke as a full FSB agent. “Every Russian works for the FSB, whether he knows it or not.”

  Duberman settled himself on a bench against the wall of the garage. “What’s so important to the FSB to inspire this visit, then?”

  “I knew the woman who worked for you, the one who called herself Salome. I supplied her. And I know John Wells, too.”

  “Lucky you.” No surprise in Duberman’s voice. So he knew the story, but wanted to hear Buvchenko’s version.

  “Back when the United States was threatening the invasion, Salome told me, look out for Wells. I told her he wouldn’t call me, he’s American and I don’t do business with them. But she was right. He came to Russia, said he was looking for highly enriched uranium. Bomb-grade.”

  “Like the stuff that made the CIA think Iran had the bomb.”

  “Funny you’d mention it.” Buvchenko smiled. We understand each other. “Yes, exactly like that. Wells and I had dinner, and that very night I called Salome. I could have killed Wells then, easily. He was at my house. Nothing he or anyone could have done. But she said, don’t. Let him go, we’ll set him up another way.”

  “Blame me,” Duberman said. “I thought killing him would bring attention. And that Wells would never find what he was looking for, anyway. He was cleverer than I expected. I hope you didn’t come all this way just to remind me of my stupidities.”

  “I came to tell you the Americans are going to kill you if Wells doesn’t kill you first.”

  “If that’s all you have to say, you’ve wasted your time.”

  “And that we can save you.”

  Duberman chuckled without a trace of humor. The noise echoed dully off the garage’s concrete walls. “The FSB does favors now.”

  “Of course there’s a price.”

  “You want my casinos? I doubt my shareholders would approve.”

  “Not the casinos. The people who gamble in them. And not only in Macao. Everywhere. Las Vegas, Monaco, the one you’re trying to build in New York. The generals, the CEOs, politicians, bankers. Most of all, the top men from the People’s Republic.”

  “Thousands of people.”

  “We’ll give you a list of the most important. They lose too much, drink too much, use drugs, you tell us. Put them in rooms where we can see and hear.”

  Duberman didn’t answer, the only sound the rain drumming the garage’s concrete walls.

  “So I’m clear,” he finally said. “You want me to turn my entire company into a giant honey trap for the FSB and the Kremlin. Not for one target, one operation, but forever.”

  “Correct.”

  “I promise you, most of my players are nobodies. Say you find a couple every month to go after. Where do you recruit them? At the baccarat table? With their bodyguards watching? And the PLA security officers? Or, what, you send hookers to their rooms?”

  “That’s our problem. You provide the information, we do the rest.”

  “You have anyone specific in mind?”

  “No one you couldn’t guess.”

  “Probably a few Russians on there, too. Enemies of the state.” Duberman laughed again, more life in him now. “Funny. The Americans came to me years ago. Less ambitious, but similar. ‘You help us, we help you.’”

  “You said no.”

  “Of course. It would have been suicide. The first whisper of this and I wouldn’t have a business.”

  “They didn’t argue?”

  “I was in a slightly different position back then.”

  Duberman got up, walked around the Bugatti, once, twice, a third time, slowly, examining it from every angle. The way he circled suggested resignation to Buvchenko. No matter where I go, I wind up back where I started.

  “So, Mikhail, what do I get in return for giving up what I’ve spent my whole life building? Aside from the pleasure of your company? All due respect, I have all the guards I need. In fact, I suspect having you around would make me an even bigger target.”

  They’d come to the crux of the offer. Buvchenko couldn’t take credit for the idea. It was Nemtsov’s.

  “As soon as you prove your desire to cooperate by helping us with an operation, our ambassador to America will ask for a meeting with the National Security Advisor. He’ll explain you fear for your safety, that you believe elements in the American intelligence community view you as a threat. You aren’t sure why. You’ve asked for answers, haven’t received them. You are now so worried that you’ve requested Russian citizenship and political asylum. The Kremlin expects to make a decision within a year. In the meantime, President Putin himself will be upset if anything happens to you. More than upset. Furious. Your well-being is now a matter of Russian national pride.”

  You’ll know right away, Nemtsov had said. If he doesn’t say no right away, he’ll say yes. Eventually.

  Duberman didn’t say no right away. He pressed his hands together, considered the idea. “The Russian government will protect me. Make me a refugee? Like Snowden?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So I’ll be stuck in Moscow. Or somewhere even less pleasant.”

  “No. You’d have a Russian diplomatic passport. Your family, too. All the privileges of the Russian state, none of the winters.”

  “And when the United States says this is ridiculous, a farce, that I’m in no danger—”

  “We would explain that you’ve provided specific information showing otherwise. If the United States disagrees, if it has information relevant to your asylum application, the Russian government will be glad to hear it. But such information would of course become public.”

  “You’d dare them to tell the truth.”

  “As of now, you face no criminal charges in the United States or anywhere. You’re a businessman whose casinos employ tens of thousands of people around the world. A major charitable donor. A man Russia would be glad to have as a citizen.”

  Gideon said something in Hebrew to Duberman. The interruption seemed to annoy Duberman, but he answered and the two men had a back-and-forth. Finally, Duberman raised his hand—Enough—and turned back to Buvchenko.

  “So I become Russian. Of course my assets will become the property of the state. Sooner or later.”

  Buvchenko shook his head. “Perhaps over time you’d donate to charities in Russia, groups for soldiers’ widows and the like. But that would be your choice. Better for us if your casinos run normally.” A lie, Buvchenko knew. The Kremlin’s greed would be boundless.

  “Widows and orphans. Good of me. And what would I tell my shareholders about my citizenship change?”

  “What business is it of theirs? I’
m sure all your lawyers could come up with an explanation, or a reason not to give one. You miss the forest, Aaron. You worry too much about your stock price, not enough about your heartbeat.”

  Another Hebrew interruption from Gideon.

  “Quiet,” Duberman snapped in English. But Gideon kept talking, and Duberman stepped around the Bugatti and put a finger in Gideon’s chest. Buvchenko didn’t need to know Hebrew to understand: You work for me, and don’t forget it. Gideon listened and nodded and stepped back and pulled his Sig and pointed it at Buvchenko. Before Buvchenko even had time to be frightened, Gideon swung the pistol down and away and fired—

  A pop that echoed in the garage—

  The hiss of a leak of pressurized air—

  And the Bugatti listed on its side.

  The door from the house flew open. Two men ran in, rifles up, but Gideon and Duberman yelled to them in Hebrew. They backed slowly out, their eyes wide in shock.

  Buvchenko understood their surprise. If one of his men had been insubordinate this way, Buvchenko would have broken his jaw to start, and gone from there. Duberman seemed stunned himself. He murmured and put out his hand. After a moment, Gideon laid the Sig in it and walked into the house.

  Then Buvchenko and Duberman were alone.

  Duberman tucked the Sig into his waistband. “Lucky me, he didn’t mess up the body, only the tire.” He rubbed a hand over the flattened rubber like he was patting a child on the head. “He thinks I should throw you off the side of the mountain. That no one ever wins a deal with the FSB.”

  “We’ll be partners. You keep your side of the bargain, we’ll keep ours.” Buvchenko had no qualms about lying this way. He had his own masters to please. “May I ask you something? Gideon, you’ve known him a long time?”

  “Before Orli gave me sons of my own, he was my truest family.”

  “Now you do have sons of your own. Maybe he doesn’t like that.”

  Duberman didn’t answer. Buvchenko knew he’d pushed too far, made the wrong play. He’d felt this way once in Grozny. He came around a corner, saw that he’d led his squad into a three-sided ambush. The feeling was not terror, but the sure knowledge of failure.

  The terror came next.

  “You need to leave, Mikhail.”

  “Sure. But remember, in the end, this house can’t save you, your guards can’t save you. Only a government can fight a government. You know it’s true. It’s why you tried to make America attack Iran in the first place.” He handed Duberman a slip of paper. “My number. When you’re ready, you call me.”

  —

  DUBERMAN LEANED AGAINST THE BUGATTI. In his heart and his head, he knew the truth. This offer was poison. The FSB hadn’t even bothered to send one of its own men. It had given him Buvchenko, a thug in an expensive suit who made his millions selling AKs to Africans.

  Back in the day in Vegas, Duberman had seen this game. Guys started with second mortgages. Then pawnshops. Then Jimmy the Roller. For most, Jimmy was the last stop, the lowest rung. But some jumped off the ladder into the void. To pay Jimmy, they borrowed money from guys who didn’t bother with nicknames. Miss one week of vig with those guys, you paid another way. You got in your car and drove a suitcase of heroin from Vegas to Chicago or New York. They sat in your house with your family as insurance against you taking off. If you messed up, got stopped, lost the drugs, they bailed you out. So they could bring you home. Then you watched them gangbang your wife before they shot you both in the head and dumped your corpses in the desert, a snack for the vultures.

  Duberman had heard the stories enough times to know they were true. He’d always wondered, why didn’t the losers just stop with Jimmy? Jimmy liked breaking bones. But he wasn’t a psychopath. He preferred money to pain. He’d proven as much when he let Duberman buy him out of the Saloon.

  For the first time, Duberman understood. The losers simply couldn’t accept the reality that had already hammered them into submission. This time, I’ll turn it around. Or else, maybe, they just wanted to buy whatever extra time they could, never mind the price.

  Then again . . .

  He wasn’t one of those guys. He wasn’t a cokehead who owed a loan shark a hundred grand. The FSB had come to him, not the other way around. And the plan had a certain crazy logic. The President had lied about Iran for months. The Russians would dare the President to come clean. He wouldn’t. After that Duberman would be worth plenty to the Russians, and Buvchenko was right. They protected their assets.

  Even better, Duberman already had a way to prove his value. Cheung Han. A Chinese general with a taste for young girls. The Russians would certainly be interested in Cheung.

  But who would he be then? A pimp, a procurer. In the service of Vladimir Putin.

  He was pacing without even realizing, round and round the garage and the ridiculous cars. Decisiveness was his great secret. Lesser executives hesitated. Demanded more information. For forty years, Duberman had followed his gut. To Vegas, Reno, Macao. Everywhere he’d gone, he’d won. Until the last three months, he hadn’t realized how simple his life had been. Strange to be past sixty and yet know so little about yourself.

  Bill Gates and his other super-wealthy peers immersed themselves in the world’s problems. Malaria. Women’s rights. Not Duberman. He had cocooned himself away. Until, with Salome’s help, he decided to start a war. Imperial ambition.

  Even then, he would have won if not for Wells.

  Of all the games in his casinos, he found roulette the stupidest, a white ball skidding over a spinning wheel, red to black and back. The players leaning close, believing they’d won, then shaking their heads as one last jump took everything away. Duberman felt like one of them now. Or the ball itself. He was sick of thinking, of being imprisoned in this nine-figure castle on a hill.

  The door to the house swung open, and Gideon stepped through. This problem, at least, Duberman could handle. “Close the door, come here.” He didn’t speak again until he stood face-to-face with Gideon. “What was that?” Without waiting for an answer, Duberman swung, a straight right cross. He was past sixty, yes, but he worked out every day and had taken testosterone supplements for years. Gideon didn’t try to protect himself. The punch caught him on the chin, knuckles on bone, sent him stumbling back.

  “I’m sorry, Aaron. Truly. I lost control.”

  The only other time Duberman had seen Gideon so upset was when the doctors told him they were out of treatments for his son, that all he could do was enjoy the months Tal had left. He’s not dying, Duberman had said. I don’t care what it costs, but we’ll save him.

  Tal was alive today, married, three sons of his own.

  “Quitting, Gideon? Too hot for you? Melted your promises?”

  Gideon went to a knee like a knight before a king. “Never. But you say no to this. You say no.”

  “You give me orders?”

  “You can’t dance with these people. You think you know, but you don’t. You let them in, they destroy you. Destroy everything.”

  “So what, then, I wait here until Wells gets to me, or the President decides it’s time?”

  “The worst is that you’ll lose your honor, too. You won’t even recognize yourself.”

  “Why are you so sure I can’t beat them?”

  “What will you tell Orli?”

  Gideon had a point there. Orli’s parents were Russian émigrés. She hated the country, its government, everything about it. How would he explain to her that he was now working with the FSB? For the FSB?

  He could wait, he supposed.

  “If you’d done your job and taken care of Wells in Tel Aviv, none of this would ever have happened.”

  “Talk to Orli, at least. See what she says.”

  “You’ve made your speech and I’ll think about it. Now out. Leave me.”

  11

  After his failed effort to r
ecruit Roberts, Wells trudged toward the skyscrapers that lined Victoria Harbor. The thought of going back to his apartment and trying again to spy on Duberman’s mansion made him feel weirdly like the stalker that Duberman had said he was. We’re so perfect for each other. If you would only see.

  Past midnight, the island’s central business district was mostly empty, the action on the other side of the harbor. Kowloon. Wells suddenly wanted crowds and noise. Let Duberman have the Peak. Wells would stay close to the ground, where he belonged.

  The MTR was closed for the night. Wells hailed a cab and five minutes later was speeding through the Cross-Harbour Tunnel for the crash pad he had rented off Jordan Road. He’d found the place through Craigslist, a sublet from an American student going home after two semesters studying Chinese at the University of Hong Kong. Looking to book flight ASAP! Any reasonable offer considered! the ad said. Wells offered eighteen hundred dollars in cash for the month left on the lease. The guy agreed without even asking to see a passport.

  “Had enough of Hong Kong?”

  “It’s an amazing city, but it grinds you down after a while.”

  “Aren’t you worried I’m gonna trash the place? Cost you your security deposit?” A joke. The furniture consisted of a stained air mattress, a leaky refrigerator, and a chipped wooden desk.

  “What are they going to do, sue me in Chicago?” The kid tossed Wells the keys. “Big for the front gate, little for the front door. Go nuts.”

  “I will.”

  —

  WELLS HADN’T BEEN BACK SINCE. The place was even smaller than he remembered. Nine feet by ten at most. Dirtier, too. Stale cigarette smoke infused the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling. The perfect safe house. No one in the world knew it was his. Though Wells wished he’d invested in a new air mattress. And a can of Lysol. He propped himself against a wall, fished out his newest burner.

  One ring, then—

  “That bad, huh?” Shafer’s voice had roughened in the years that Wells had known him. Yet he still sounded permanently amused, cheered rather than frozen by his cynicism. Like a late-night sports talk radio host who proudly rooted for losers and would dump any team that became too good.