“You’re serious.”
“Why not? I’d rather have you working for me than against.”
“Killing people you don’t like.”
“We both know that’s not what this is.”
Wells looked at Salome. “You on board? We’d be working closely.”
She gave him a real smile, the one that lit her face. “Oh, I think so. Look how much Mason pulled off. And that was Mason.”
“What about Iran?”
“Forget Iran,” Duberman said. “It’s done.”
“Maybe not.” Wells nodded at Salome. “We have her CIA contact. Jess Bunshaft.”
Duberman didn’t blink. “So? My customers come from all over. China. Russia. I know who has money problems, who likes little boys, who’s an addict. Of course she talks to the CIA sometimes. I admire you, Mr. Wells. Truly. But you have no chips left.” Duberman looked at Duto. “He’s the only one who can protect you, and his enemies are even bigger than yours. You played as best you could, but the cards didn’t come. Let’s move forward. Please. For all of us and our families.”
Families. The threat, again.
“My turn to ask a question.”
“Anything.”
“The Iranians say they don’t even want the bomb. Why are you so sure you’re doing the right thing? I’m sure you heard what happened today. Two more planes, five hundred more dead.”
“Do you think that means we should trust Iran more, John?”
Wells didn’t have an answer.
“What do you know about me? Besides that I’m rich.”
“That you’re very rich.”
“I was lucky to be born. My parents were Austrian. Nathan and Gisa. They came to America from Shanghai. I know, I don’t look Chinese.” A wisp of a smile. A joke he’d made before. “They spent World War II in Shanghai. Before that, they lived in Vienna. They had a store on the north side of the city that specialized in trinkets and cameras. I never understood the connection, but that’s what they sold. Silver candlesticks and Leicas. One day they saw the future goose-stepping in from Munich. They’d been successful. The kind of Jews the Nazis hated.”
Salome said something in Hebrew. Duberman nodded.
“Right. How silly of me. The Nazis hated every Jew. The ones who prayed, and the ones who didn’t. The ones in Berlin who spoke perfect German and the ones who never left their shtetls. The homosexuals and the ones with families of ten. The rich and the poor. They were all guilty of the same crime. They all received the same punishment. You see?”
Wells nodded.
“You think so, but you don’t. Anyway. My parents had a piano, an apartment. They sold all of it in two weeks, took whatever they could get, so they could pay for visas and passage to China. Shanghai was practically the only place left still taking Jews by ’38. The United States sent an ocean liner filled with them back to Europe. No more refugees, Roosevelt said. Except if they knew physics. Those Jews were fine.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t. Why would you? Your friends from Afghanistan, it’s not on their curriculum. So. Shanghai was still open. Nathan’s parents, Gisa’s brother Josef, they said, Don’t go. The Germans want to scare us. Steal our money. They’re jealous. Hitler doesn’t mean those terrible things. He’s playing to the crowds. We’ll keep our heads down and this storm will pass. Like all the others. You know what happened to those people, John?”
Wells didn’t want to answer, but Duberman’s stare insisted the question wasn’t rhetorical. “They died.”
“Todt. The Austrians were even more thorough than the Germans. Not one person my parents knew in Vienna survived. So excuse me when I tell you that when the Iranians publish maps that don’t show Israel, that when Ahmadinejad”—Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the former Iranian president—“says the Holocaust didn’t happen, that the Jews must be eradicated, I listen. If I can manage it, those people will never have a nuclear weapon. Not now. Not ever.” He leaned forward, squeezed Wells’s biceps. “I want you on our side, John. The right side.”
Duberman smiled like he believed Wells might agree. Maybe he did. All those billions would bolster anyone’s confidence.
“Can I have a minute alone? To think.”
“In here? You want us to leave—” Duberman shook his head in puzzlement.
“No, of course not. Bathroom’s fine.”
Duberman nodded at a door on the wall behind Duto. “Right there.”
“You can’t seriously be considering this,” Duto said.
“Worried you’ll need a new errand boy, Vinny?”
—
Wells closed the bathroom door, eyed the tired face in the mirror. Duberman had made a surprisingly persuasive pitch. Asking Wells about Islam had been a brilliant move. The question had planted a seed of doubt. Was it possible he was anti-Semitic? No. No. He knew himself that much, anyway.
What would Shafer say?
Don’t let him play you, John. You can’t let him start a war on faked evidence. End of story. Anyway, he isn’t the only one who remembers the Holocaust. Israel doesn’t depend on anyone else to defend itself. If it needs to attack Iran, it will.
Then, maybe, Shafer would smirk. And sing: I’m starting with the man in the mirror / I’m asking him to grab his knife . . .
“Shut up,” Wells mumbled, unsure if he meant the words for Shafer, Michael Jackson, or himself. He turned on the tap, leaned over, and lapped from the sink like a dog, letting the water skid across his face, down his neck.
He left the taps on as he pushed his jeans down to expose the blade and handle attached to his legs. He pulled off the tape, snapped the pieces together. The assembled knife was five inches long, half blade, half handle. Any shorter and it wouldn’t have been useful. But even at five inches, it was too big for Wells to hide in a pocket.
He had a nylon sheath tucked into his underwear. He pulled up the left leg of his jeans, strapped the sheath low on the inner calf, just above the nub of his ankle. An ankle sheath made a slow draw, but Wells feared Gideon would spot the knife anywhere else. He double-checked to be sure the jeans hid it. He flushed the toilet, washed and dried his face. Stepped out.
“You all right?” Duto said.
“Never better.”
“And have you decided?” Duberman said.
“I’ll do it.”
“John—” Duto said.
Salome muttered in Hebrew.
“You’re serious.”
“That I am.”
Duberman stood, extended his hand. “Welcome.”
—
Wells left him hanging. “Just one condition. That you confess to the President.”
“That’s funny.” But Duberman wasn’t smiling.
“Or if that’s too much, tell us where you got the HEU. We’ll pass it on. Keep your name out.”
Duberman’s hand sank to his side with the slow finality of a castle gate dropping. He stared at Wells, an angry god who couldn’t believe that a mortal had refused his wish. Behind him, Gideon the bodyguard put a hand on his holstered pistol.
“I made a serious offer, John. I don’t appreciate this.”
Wells felt a familiar itch in his fingers. “Then we should go. We have a plane to catch.”
“Mossad may feel differently.” Duberman gave Wells a gargoyle’s stone grin. “I promised you safe passage. And you’ll have it. Right to them.”
“Come on, Aaron.” The words were meaningless, a way to buy a few seconds as Wells figured out how to get to his knife and corral Duberman before Gideon shot him. He could imagine his move, could see it—
He’d take a big step forward with his left leg, almost a squat, pulling up his jeans, exposing the knife. He’d reach down and across his body with his right hand as he grabbed Duberman with his left and reeled him in—
But Gideon was too close, and watching too closely. Wells couldn’t make the combination work without an extra second or two. A diversion.
Duto stood. “I’m not leaving without him. And you can’t keep me. Embassy knows where I am.”
“You’re right,” Duberman said. “Israel can’t keep you. But it can send you home. Alone.”
Duto reached down, flipped the table over, sending it toward the bodyguard. The distraction Wells needed. As the heavy wood cracked against the floor Gideon turned to Duto and drew his pistol—
And Wells lunged forward, came up with his knife, squeezed his left hand around Duberman’s arm, pulled him close. Duberman was strong enough for a man past sixty, but against Wells he had no chance. Wells twined his arm across Duberman’s chest, twisted him so that Duberman’s body hid his own. Gideon half turned toward Wells. But he didn’t raise the pistol. He didn’t have a clear shot.
Wells touched the knife to Duberman’s neck, tugged Duberman backward, toward the bathroom. Duberman sagged against Wells, not struggling but not helping either. Subtly looking for a way to free himself.
Wells jabbed the blade into Duberman’s neck, hard enough to break the skin. Duberman yelped as his blood bubbled out. “No games.”
“All right,” Duberman said.
Gideon brought the pistol up, stepped to the right, looking for an angle.
“Drop it,” Wells said. “Now.”
Gideon hesitated. Then shook his head, turned the pistol on Duto.
“Let him go or I shoot.”
“Then shoot.” Wells probed the knife deeper. Blood flowed from Duberman’s neck. “Tell him, Aaron. He kills Vinny, you die.”
Wells meant his words. He would slice Duberman’s throat open if Gideon shot Duto. His own life would end seconds later, but he didn’t care. No one could hide the simultaneous deaths of a senator and one of the world’s richest men. The United States and Israel would have to investigate. Maybe they’d uncover the plot.
Anyway, he and Duto wouldn’t go down alone.
“Three—”
Gideon shook his head—
“Two—”
Cursed in Hebrew.
“One—”
Squatted. Laid down the pistol. Muttered at Duberman.
“Yes,” Duberman said in English. “This is why we should have let you frisk him.” He tilted his head into Wells. “What now, John? You’re the expert.” His voice was level, impassive. Like he was still in charge despite the knife against his neck.
“Now he kicks the pistol. To Vinny.”
Duberman explained. Gideon nudged it with his foot. Too late, Wells realized Salome had a chance at it. It skittered close and she looked at it—
But let it slide. Duto grabbed it.
“Now tell him to sit on the floor.”
Duberman translated, and Gideon complied.
“I’m figuring you didn’t call the Mossad before I got here, because why would you? You didn’t know Vinny was coming, so you assumed you could hold me as long as you liked. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Tell Gideon to take off his shoes. When he’s done, he lies down on his stomach with his hands laced behind his head. Then bends his knees and lifts his lower legs off the floor.”
“What is this? Yoga?”
“I’m going to cut his Achilles tendons so he can’t follow us when we leave.”
“Cut him?”
“That or a bullet in his head.” Wells shifted the knife under the artificially tightened flesh of Duberman’s chin. “You think I won’t, ask Salome what I did in Istanbul.”
“Listen to him,” Salome said in English.
Duberman spoke and Gideon did what Wells had demanded.
“Now you two stand by the bathroom, so I can do it without you in the way.” Wells spun Duberman, shoved him away, sending him stumbling against the wall.
“You’re an animal,” Salome said.
Maybe she wasn’t his soul mate after all.
—
When Wells knelt on Gideon’s back, the guard looked over his shoulder at him.
“Just one, please.”
“You’re too dangerous for that.” Wells grabbed Gideon’s left ankle and slashed into the tough tendon there. Even with the sharp ceramic blade, he had to hack like he was sawing a rope. Gideon screamed, but Wells cut until the tendon snapped in two, its halves retracting, hiding under the skin. Gideon’s foot hung limp and useless. Blood spurted from the hole in his ankle. He made a single mewling moan, a cat in a coyote’s jaws.
Wells looked over the damage. “All right. Just one.”
He stood, looked at Duto. Who waved him over with two fingers.
“We can end this now,” he murmured. He nodded at Duberman and Salome, who stood with their backs pressed against the wall like they hoped to melt into it. “They know. Where it came from.”
Meaning that Duberman or Salome could tell them where they’d bought the HEU.
“I won’t hurt them, Vinny.”
“Not saying that. Nothing permanent.”
“What, then?”
Duto explained. A cruel play, revolting and brilliant. Wells shook his head.
“I’ll do it,” Duto said. “If you can’t.”
As an answer, Wells reached for Gideon’s stainless-steel pistol, a little Sig Sauer that felt oddly small in his palm.
“Cute, isn’t it?” Duto said.
“As long as it shoots.”
“By the way. Would you really have let him shoot me?”
“In a heartbeat.” Wells covered Salome and Duberman with the pistol. “Salome. Go in the corner. Stand facing out, hands flat against the walls. Aaron. Lie facedown on the floor next to your desk.”
“No.”
“If you don’t I’ll shoot you.”
“How do I know you won’t do that anyway?”
Wells shook his head: You don’t. Duberman took two steps. Went to his knees. Lay down. The rustling of his linen pants was the room’s only sound. Wells came over, racked the slide to be sure he had a round chambered. Duberman flinched at the metal-on-metal click.
“Put your hands behind your head.” Wells put a knee into Duberman’s back.
“I can pay. Whatever you like.”
“Shh.” Wells shoved the pistol into Duberman’s neck—and flashed back to the hotel in Volgograd where Boris Nemkov had done the same to him. An ouroboros came to him, the mythical snake that ate its own tail. He should have let Duto handle this. It was Duto’s idea—
No. He would own what happened next. No one else. Most of all, not Duto.
“It’s time for you to tell us where you got the uranium.”
Duberman shook his head. Wells pressed the pistol down harder, wrinkled the tanned skin of Duberman’s neck. “Tell me. You have my word, we’ll keep your name out of it. Your life goes on. Your wife, your kids—”
No.
This wasn’t who he was. He didn’t threaten to execute defenseless prisoners. Then he made himself think of the Americans and Iranians who would die by the thousands for Duberman’s lies if the United States invaded. He tightened his grip, shoved the pistol harder into Duberman’s neck, where the spine bent into the skull.
“I count to three. Then I blow your brains out.”
“No.”
“One.”
“I don’t know.”
“Two.”
“I swear, I don’t, I don’t—”
“Lie.” Wells shifted the pistol, pressed it against the thin bone of Duberman’s temple. Duberman tried to raise his head, but with his left hand Wells forced him down, forced him to see the pistol. “I want you to live, but you have to
tell me.”
“Tell him,” Salome said. “Please. Aaron. Please.”
“She loves you.” As Wells spoke, he knew the words were true. “Listen to her.”
Duberman tried to shake his head under Wells’s hand. Blood from the cut on his neck dribbled to the floor. Wells looked at Salome. He’d threatened Duberman instead of her because he’d expected she’d be the stronger of the two, more willing to die. Maybe he’d guessed wrong. “You tell me, then. Tell me and he lives.”
“Aaron,” she said.
Duberman answered in Hebrew.
“He says he’d rather die.”
“Yes,” Duberman said.
“Then you will,” Wells said.
“Do it, then.”
“Three. Last chance. Now.”
—
But of course Wells didn’t pull the trigger.
Duberman’s body shook under Wells’s knee, ripples that ran the length of his back. Wells wondered if Duberman was crying. No. Laughing. Maybe he had never believed Wells would shoot him. Maybe he truly was willing to sacrifice himself for this war. Either way, he had called Wells’s bluff.
During all his years in the field, Wells had sworn he would never torture. Mock executions might not leave bruises or broken bones, but they were psychic torture nonetheless. He had tossed aside one of his most important principles. Humiliated himself.
For nothing.
What would Anne say? Or Exley?
“John.” Duto’s voice brought Wells back to the room. They still had to escape.
Wells stood, nudged Duberman’s leg. “Get up.”
Duberman rose. His hands trembled, but he raised his head and stared at Wells, his eyes shining. Triumphant. At this moment, Wells wanted more violence not at all, but he needed to reestablish his authority quickly. He shifted the pistol to his left hand. With his right, he jabbed Duberman beneath the ribs, a single vicious punch. Duberman doubled over, his breath shallow and fast. With his left hand, Wells brought the Sig down on Duberman’s skull. He didn’t put all his weight into the blow. He didn’t want to knock Duberman out or break bone. Duberman groaned, went to his hands and knees, his head hanging low, drool threading from his mouth. “What are you?”
“This meeting is officially over.” Wells forced himself to keep his voice calm. Steady. “But we’re not done with each other yet. You’re going to lead us out of here, Aaron. I’ll be a step behind you. Salome behind me. Vinny’s going to be the caboose. A happy little train. Right, Vinny?”
Twelve Days Page 32