The Wolves

by Alex Berenson

  “Where’s the phone?”

  “The new burner? Charging.”

  “Have you checked any of these?”

  “Just in local public databases. Three came up blank. But the first two share a prefix with a public number for the Russian consulate, so I’m guessing they’ll route there. The third didn’t go anywhere.”

  “The fourth?”

  “The fourth is for an Indian restaurant in Prince Edward.” Regina gave Wells the pad with the numbers. “I’ll be back with the phone in a few minutes, sooner if I find anything else—” She disappeared.

  An Indian restaurant. The receipt in the wastebasket. Wells realized what was bothering him. The blank invoices from the car shop. Why keep so many of them? Why have them at all?

  He found them under the pile of Russian corporate records. They were old-fashioned repair invoices, twin carbon-copy sheets with a box above for estimates, space below for the actual charges. The company’s name and address were printed in black at the top in Chinese and English: Dah Chong Excellent Automotive, 51 Hip Tong Street, Wong Chuk Hang, Hong Kong: SERVICE ALL MAKES, ALL MODELS.

  Wells grabbed a pencil, lightly scrubbed across the paper, hoping for a phone number, an address, a name. Nothing. He handed the sheet to the case officer translating the property records. “Where’s this?”

  “Wong Chuk Hang? South coast of the island. Near Aberdeen. Nothing place. The police academy is down there. And Ocean Park—that was the biggest amusement park here until Disneyland came.”

  Wells pushed the second invoice at Shafer. “Can you think of any good reason why I would find blank receipts for a garage on Hong Kong Island in a safe house in Kowloon?”

  Shafer pulled open his laptop, typed so hard that Wells worried he’d break the keys. Three minutes later, he turned the screen toward Wells. Fifty-one Hip Tong Street was the corporate address for Dah Chong Auto PLC. Along with another company, this one with a name that was a six-digit number, just like the one that owned the apartment Wells had raided in Kowloon.

  “Try too hard to be anonymous, leave a pattern,” Shafer said. He pulled up a fresh window on the laptop. Hip Tong was a dead-end street built into the southern slopes of the mountain range that ran across Hong Kong Island. A ground-level view revealed a narrow road pinched by cracked gray concrete mid-rises, a mix of parking garages and light manufacturing. Even by Hong Kong standards, the street was ugly and hyperfunctional.

  “Fifty-one,” Shafer said. The subject property, as real estate brokers liked to say, stood five stories, with rows of narrow balconies that fronted shuttered blinds. Wells guessed the upper floors held a sweatshop. Hong Kong still had some. Wells didn’t see any signs for the garage, though the building did have a steel garage door at its east end and a green Castrol sign.

  “Not exactly a quiet spot for a hide,” Wells said.

  “Seen many of those around? Plus keeping her on the island makes sense for them, if they’re not sure about her. They don’t risk bringing her through the harbor tunnels. And”—Shafer clicked back until the screen revealed Hong Kong Island’s south coast from Aberdeen to Stanley—“Lots of places to land a go-fast”—a motorboat—“pick her up for a three-hour tour.”

  If Shafer was right, the FSB had picked a tough spot to hit. The garage had only one street-side entrance. Drone surveillance would be difficult, and the dead-end street meant that anyone casing the place would be obvious to the people inside. Attacking from behind the building would mean crossing onto the mountain several hundred feet up and angling down. Or coming in low, following an alley hemmed by buildings on one side, the mountain on the other. If the Russians had anyone watching the back, the alley would be a deathtrap. And gunfire would attract a quick response from the cops bunked at the Police Academy, not even a mile away.

  Still, Wells knew he had no choice. He reached for his phone. Time to text Gideon.

  —

  BY THE TIME Wells finished explaining the situation to Gideon, the Toyota was approaching the southern exit of the Aberdeen Tunnel, which ran under Mount Cameron and was the fastest route between Hong Kong Island’s north and south coasts.

  “You think this is the place because of a piece of paper,” Gideon said.

  “A piece of paper I found in an FSB safe house. You want to be sure? Should have gotten Duberman to give you Buvchenko’s number.”

  Gideon pulled off at the first exit after the tunnel. To the south, Wells saw an Ocean Park cable car gliding through the night, full of Hong Kongers on their way home. It was nearly 10 p.m. Duberman and Cheung were supposed to meet in three hours.

  “You have pictures of the place? A map?”

  Wells handed them over.

  “Impossible.”

  “Let’s say tactically complex.”

  “Let’s say suicide.”

  “Look, we launched a drone maybe fifteen minutes before you picked me up. From the mainland side, so I’m not sure it’s overhead yet. And even if it is, we can’t expect much. The angles are terrible and this one doesn’t have the kind of radar that would let us see through walls. Still, we can let it spin, hope they move her, see if anyone comes out the front. We can wait all night.” And miss any chance at Duberman’s meeting.

  “Say it’s the right place. We don’t even know how many men are in there.”

  “It’s only ever been Buvchenko and the two FSB, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Why would that change?”

  As an answer, Gideon put the Toyota in gear, swung back onto Highway 1. After less than a mile, he exited to a service road parallel to the highway, turned onto Hip Tong. The street looked even shorter and narrower than it had in the photos. It dead-ended without even a cul-de-sac to make U-turns easier. It was clearly intended only for deliveries, garbage pickup, and ambulances, not random private vehicles. The good news was that it was empty, not another car or truck on it, much less pedestrians. Even if the Russians did have surveillance cams watching the garage entrance, a single pass ought to be safe.

  Gideon drove to the end of the street, turned the Toyota around, drove slowly back down. This time, Wells was on the garage side. He felt his senses freshening, his blood quickening. He held his pistol in his lap, twisted his head to stare at 51. Like a tourist on safari trying to spot a lion in the bush.

  The garage door was down but not padlocked. A dim line of light snuck out under it. To its left, a security door, its glass cobwebbed with steel. Above, twin security cameras. Wells looked up, for anyone who might be in the balconies, but they seemed to be empty.

  “Any ideas?” Gideon said.

  “Got to have a back door. I think I come in the front, noisy, you go in the back. You saw the lights. Somebody’s in there.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Ben said. “Why not call the cops from a burner? Report a kidnapped woman. Let them do the work.”

  A superficially smart play that Wells had already rejected. “None of us speak Cantonese—”

  “Someone at the station can do it.”

  “More important. The Hong Kong police, they won’t send in a SWAT team. Most likely, they think it’s a prank. Those calls are usually pranks. And this isn’t exactly Juarez. They send a car out, two cops, guys who maybe see five robberies a year. They knock on the door. Buvchenko answers, says no problem, come on in. Then he shoots them both and takes off. Maybe he takes Orli, or maybe he shoots her, too.”

  “He’d ambush the cops.”

  “You think he’s coming out with his hands up? You got me, boys. Well played.”

  Gideon barked in Hebrew at Ben. “He wants to know what we’re talking about.”

  “Tell him.”

  After a back-and-forth in Hebrew, Ben turned to Wells. “He says you’re right.”

  Of course. He knows. Wells leaned over to Gideon. “We going in? Or hanging out, hoping t
hey move her?”

  Gideon grimaced like he was having a Tourette’s attack and finally nodded. He parked on the service road beside Highway 1 while they came up with the barest plan. They would park the Toyota twenty yards down from Hip Tong, on the steep short road that ran between it and the highway. Wells would give Gideon a one-minute head start to navigate the alley behind the buildings. Then Wells would move in from the front. Ideally, Gideon would reach the back of the garage just after Wells came to the front door.

  “You’re sure there’s a way in back there,” Gideon said.

  “Has to be a fire door, at least a window.”

  “Maybe it’s locked.”

  “Then shoot your way in.” Wells had only one autopick and he needed it himself.

  Wells would start with the pistol, try to be quiet, but if he ran into resistance, he would open up with the H&K. As soon as Gideon heard shooting, he would come in from the back.

  Ideally, they would pin the Russians between them. If not, Wells would have to deal with them as they tried to escape to the street. Either way, they should count on being finished two minutes after Wells started shooting. One would be better. Automatic weapons drew cops like nothing else.

  “You think we get her away that fast?” Gideon said.

  “I don’t care if we get her away. We handle the Russians, she’s safe with the cops.”

  “Speaking of safe,” Ben said. “I’ll stay. I can drive.”

  “It’s okay.” The guy was nice enough, but Wells didn’t think he’d ever been in the field.

  “What if one of you gets hit, you need help getting to the car—”

  Maybe having a wheelman wouldn’t hurt. And Wells didn’t have time to argue. “Fine. But you stay with the car unless you hear one of us yelling for you.”

  Ben grinned like a peewee who’d been picked for the varsity. Wells wondered if he’d made a mistake.

  “Ready?” Gideon said. “Or you want to keep talking?”

  “Let’s go.”

  26

  Buvchenko and the FSB guys had talked about raping Orli most of the day.

  When Buvchenko pulled her out of the BMW, she kicked and punched wildly, banging her hand on the underside of the trunk lid. He looked down on her curiously. Like she was a noisy but unthreatening animal, a squirrel or fawn, that had somehow found her way into his house. She screamed, and he put a giant hand over her mouth and nose and squeezed until she stopped. He slapped duct tape across her lips, and he and Sergei taped her to a cheap but sturdy metal chair and shoved her in an oily back corner of the garage.

  “It’ll be all right,” Buvchenko said. She stared at the ceiling.

  The afternoon ticked by. For an hour or so, they played Durak, a Russian card game. Then they shifted to chess, Nikolai playing Sergei and Buvchenko at once. The garage was airless, stifling, and they were as bored as campers on a rainy day. They couldn’t even call anyone or use the Internet. Nikolai had made them turn their phones off. The call from the station was supposed to come through the garage’s landline.

  Sergei’s first suggestion was sly, almost offhand. It came after Nikolai had demolished him for the third straight chess match. He wandered over to the corner and stared at Orli with all the subtlety of a dog eying a T-bone.

  “Quit it?” Buvchenko said after a couple of minutes.

  “Look at her. We’ll never have another chance at a piece like this. I’ll bet she’s tired of that old Yid and his limp dick, anyway. Let’s show her how real men do it.”

  “Let’s just get her to the boat,” Nikolai said.

  “Can I play some games on my phone, at least?” Sergei said. Like rape and video games were interchangeable substitutes for each other.

  “As long as it’s on airplane mode.”

  Sergei distracted himself for a while pretending to be a dragon. Or maybe a guy who hunted dragons with a machine gun. Then he disappeared into the room at the back of the garage that served as an office and kitchen area. When he emerged, he was holding two dusty bottles of Smirnoff.

  “Look what I found.”

  —

  SO THEY DRANK. They drank to the success of the operation, which had already yielded the best intelligence on the Chinese air force in the FSB’s history. They drank to Russia. And for their third drink, Sergei raised his glass and said, “Let’s teach that thing in the chair a lesson. Something she won’t forget.”

  This time, Nikolai didn’t argue. He smirked.

  The more shots of Smirnoff they did, the more graphic Sergei’s suggestions became. “She’s stronger than she looks,” Buvchenko said. “She’ll make trouble.”

  “You can’t hold her, Mikhail? She probably weighs fifty-five kilos. If you’re not man enough, I’ll do it myself. Twist her arms behind her back until she knows not to fight.”

  “Say you break them.”

  “Then I break them. The boss can go first, then my turn. You last. Give her a kiss before you start, you’re romantic.”

  “Nemtsov won’t be happy.”

  “You think we’re sending her back to Tel Aviv? All these excuses. Worried about your khuy, Mikhail? Take a Viagra. I know you have them.” He looked at Nikolai. “Come on, boss. I’ve wanted one like this my whole life.”

  Buvchenko wasn’t even sure why he was trying to protect Orli. Maybe just because Sergei annoyed him so much. It wasn’t as if he’d never forced himself on a woman. In a village outside Gronzy, his squad, eight men, had once had their way with a mother and daughter. But the mother had tried to blow them up with a suicide vest, only it hadn’t gone off. Then the daughter had grabbed a knife and cut his sergeant in the arm. She was fifteen, maybe fourteen, who could tell with the Chechens? Anyway, they’d deserved their punishment. When his last soldier was done with them, Buvchenko shot them both. Give the mother the martyrdom she wanted. As for the daughter, he was saving her from misery.

  Orli was different. She’d come on her own, to protect her children. Yes, Nemtsov was probably going to tell them to dump her in the ocean along with her idiot husband, but they didn’t have to rape her first.

  —

  ORLI DIDN’T SPEAK RUSSIAN, but Buvchenko could tell she knew what they were saying. She shrank in her chair whenever Sergei approached. As they got into the second Smirnoff bottle, he took off his shirt, revealing pecs as big as hubcaps, and waxed so they shined under the garage’s fluorescents.

  He poured cups of vodka, no more shots, dirty plastic cups with Honda logos, and pushed them on Nikolai and Buvchenko. Buvchenko choked the stuff down, he knew Sergei would be watching. Nikolai’s eyes had turned hard and stony. His hand strayed to his crotch every time he looked at Orli, the motion smooth, unconscious.

  Nikolai went into the back to piss, and Sergei poured a fresh glass.

  “Let this one settle,” Buvchenko said.

  “Stupid. For her. Loosen her up.” He walked toward her and shook the cup, pantomimed drinking. She nodded. Sergei reached for the duct tape.

  Buvchenko pulled him back. “You want her to scream?”

  “Of course I do.” He reached over, tore Orli’s shirt neatly in half down the middle as she shook her head almost diffidently.

  Buvchenko couldn’t help but look. She wore a simple white bra, lace at the edges, almost modest. Her skin was tan all over, no evidence of bikini lines, her stomach flat and smooth, as if she’d never had a baby. The word beautiful didn’t begin to describe her. She made him think of a line from his sister’s Bible: The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

  Nikolai came back. “Oh,” he said. He trotted to the chair, knelt beside it, looked at Orli like she was a prize puppy he was thinking about buying. He put his hands on the edges of her bra, pulled them back to expose her nipples, and gently brushed them with the back of his hands. She held herself rigid and stared at Buvchenko. She’d evidently decided
that he was as close to a protector as she had in this room.

  Buvchenko wondered whether they would do it right then. But Orli’s eyes turned wide and panicked and she flung her head back and forth. Nikolai let go of her bra, kissed the tops of her breasts. He stood and walked out again. Buvchenko understood. Nikolai was married and had a daughter of his own. Still, Buvchenko knew Nikolai would overcome his reluctance soon enough. In an hour, maybe less, depending how quickly he drank, how cannily Sergei encouraged him.

  Buvchenko couldn’t stop the wolves. They’d have her.

  He might as well, too.

  27

  As Gideon disappeared toward the alley behind Hip Tong, Wells called Shafer.

  “Anything new?”

  “Phones quiet.”

  “We’re going in.”

  “That quick?”

  “That quick.”

  “Macao after?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but let’s find her first.”

  “Talked to your Israeli friend about what happens when you do?”

  “Not yet.” Gideon seemed to have made the same calculation as Wells, best friends forever, for the next five minutes.

  “Might want to figure that out. Anyway. We have a helicopter chartered.”

  “Thankee. Got to go.” Gideon’s head start was almost gone. Wells clicked off, grabbed an oversized black shopping bag, the H&K and the suppressed pistol inside.

  “Remember, you stay here.”

  Ben nodded. Wells stepped out of the Toyota. He wore a black long-sleeved nylon athletic shirt, black jeans, motorcycle boots, black gloves. All he needed was a bumper sticker: TROUBLE: STAY BACK 100 FEET. Though no one was around to see anyway.