Trap the Devil

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by Ben Coes


  It was Daisy’s idea.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” she said, holding his hand.

  “You don’t need to thank me.”

  Daisy was dressed in a white silk dress, simple and racy, ravishing and stunning, her large breasts accentuated—not that they needed to be—her brown legs visible from midthigh down, shapely and captivating. Her long brown hair flowed freely behind her, shimmering in reds and blacks as light hit it, her face sculpted and smooth, large brown eyes, and a nose that on most would be considered too long but was, on her, her most beautiful aspect, and lips that were puffy and seductive. She looked like a young Sophia Loren. For his part, Dewey was dressed in a tuxedo, the largest size the store had had, and his big shoulders and chest pushed against the material. He was clean shaven and his hair was cut to a medium length, parted in the middle, in back still longish, down almost to his shoulders. Dewey’s skin was tan, he seemed relaxed, and yet his eyes scanned the streets as they walked.

  “A state dinner,” said Daisy. “It’s sort of exciting.”

  Dewey smiled. “Yeah.”

  Dewey suddenly tugged her hand and they came to a stop. He pulled Daisy closer and wrapped his arms around her. They were on an empty sidewalk. The sky was turning black.

  He leaned forward and kissed her. Then he reached into his pocket and removed a thin red velvet box. He handed it to her.

  She stared at it, speechless.

  “Dewey, I … I don’t know what to say.”

  She opened the box. Inside was a necklace with small diamonds along the edge and a large ruby hanging down.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “I stole it,” said Dewey. “You might not want to wear it in public.”

  Daisy handed the necklace to Dewey, who fastened it around her neck. She smiled bashfully up at him. He was blushing slightly.

  “You’re adorable, do you know that?” She leaned toward him and stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him on the lips, and they stood on the sidewalk without letting go of each other for a long time, kissing affectionately, even passionately.

  Finally, Dewey moved his lips away.

  “You think we should maybe bag this dinner and go back and see what happens?”

  “No,” said Daisy, laughing.

  Dewey nodded toward an empty stretch of Rock Creek Park near the road. “What about going behind those bushes over there?”

  Daisy looked at him with a slightly disgusted look.

  “I’m not a stray dog, Dewey,” she said.

  GUANTÁNAMO BAY DETENTION CAMP

  GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA

  Flaherty’s cell was made of concrete. The toilet was a hole in the ground. Despite being located in a tropical paradise—just a few miles from several five-star resorts—the cell had only one small window, high enough so that nobody could see in or see out.

  Flaherty lay on the ground. He was sweating, not only from the temperature but also from the pain. Other than the night of the accident, he hadn’t received any painkillers, not even an aspirin.

  He shouldn’t have survived. In fact, FBI and CIA investigators shared the same conclusion: nobody could have survived that car crash. But he did. Ultimately, the credit was given to Mercedes and a steel frame designed for the Autobahn, the federal-controlled access highway system in Germany, much of which had no posted speed limits.

  Despite his survival, Flaherty wished he were dead.

  A thick metal wire was wrapped through his mouth and around the back of his neck. In his mouth—affixed to the wire—was a green rubber gag in the shape of a stick of butter lodged between his teeth. It had been there for so long it was the only thing he knew, the only thing on earth he liked.

  Both his legs were in casts, each one dark and filthy. His left arm was also in a cast. He spent all day trying to fall asleep and all night doing the same. Sleep was the only thing he had now, and even that was haunted by memories and nightmares.

  He heard the dull clink of his cell door unlocking. He looked up as the thick steel door swung in. A man in a uniform was standing there. In his hand was a cell phone. The officer came to Flaherty and reached behind his neck, unlocking the gag. He lifted Flaherty by his shirt, sitting him up. He handed him the phone.

  “You have a phone call.”

  Flaherty wasn’t allowed phone calls at Guantánamo. He stared at the man’s hand, and the phone. He hadn’t spoken on a cell phone in months.

  He took the cell from the officer, who took several steps back and stood in the doorway.

  “Andrew Flaherty?”

  “Yes,” Flaherty coughed in a scratchy voice.

  “What if I told you you could walk out of that prison?” the man asked.

  Flaherty said nothing.

  “You don’t believe me, do you? But it’s true. You see, we both want the same thing. A better America. I know what you did. I watched you doing it. I was rooting for you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Joshua Gant.”

  “Josh Gant, as in the former deputy CIA director?”

  “Correct.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To eliminate America’s threats, just like you,” said Gant. “Promise you’ll help me, and you’ll walk out of that prison within the hour.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Flaherty. “What threats are you talking about?”

  Gant let out a high-pitched cackle.

  “We’re going to kill Dewey Andreas.”

  1244 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Dewey woke up early and took a shower. He went to the dresser to find something to wear, pulling out a drawer. It was empty. He pulled out every drawer, but the only thing he found was a pair of paint-covered madras shorts and a sock. He looked around the bedroom. A mountain of dirty clothing was piled in the corner. It came up to his waist and took up a good section of the room. He rifled through it, looking for something that wasn’t too obviously dirty. He pulled out various articles—a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, a Bruins T-shirt—and put them up to his nose. After a good whiff, he dropped each one back onto the pile.

  There was a subtle movement beneath the covers of the bed. The top of the blanket moved and Daisy’s head appeared.

  “Where are you going?” she said sleepily.

  “I have an appointment.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “I know. I made coffee. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  With no good options left, Dewey pulled on the tuxedo trousers from the night before, along with the white shirt, which was badly wrinkled. It took him a minute or so, but he finally found the tuxedo jacket where he’d thrown it the night before, on the floor outside the bedroom.

  He walked to the building. It was a crisp, cool morning without a cloud in the sky. Only a few people were up and about at this hour. He walked over near Dumbarton Oaks and then down along the bike path that bordered Rock Creek Park, finally cutting over toward Pennsylvania Avenue.

  When he got to the office building, a security guard signed him in. He took the elevator to the tenth floor. When he got off, he went left. At the end of the hallway, he saw a small sign.

  DR. PAMELA PECK

  Dewey knocked.

  A moment later, he heard Dr. Peck’s voice. “Come in.”

  Dewey opened the door. Dr. Peck was standing against the glass wall. Over her shoulders, he could see the White House. Dr. Peck’s arms were crossed. Her hair was brushed back.

  “Hello, Dewey,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Dewey stared at her.

  “Won’t you sit down?” She pointed to the chair.

  “Sure.”

  Dr. Peck walked to the chair across from him and sat down.

  “You didn’t need to dress up for me, you know.”

  Dewey grinned.

  “There’s lipstick
on your shirt,” she pointed out.

  “It was my only clean shirt. I need to do some laundry.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d call it ‘clean,’” said Dr. Peck, smiling.

  “I don’t even know where the washing machine is. It’s Jessica’s house. She left it to me. I was thinking maybe I should sell it and move.”

  “Or you could look for the washing machine.”

  Dewey stared at her with a blank expression.

  “Selling Jessica’s town house won’t erase what happened, Dewey. Killing Kyrie, killing Charles Bruner—that won’t erase what happened to Holly.”

  “This again,” said Dewey with scorn in his voice.

  “This again is you, Dewey. These are parts of you. Vital parts. Jessica died in your arms, but you asked her to marry you. You had that moment. You and Holly had a son. He died, too, but you had him. You loved him. Were you in the room when he was born?”

  Dewey nodded. His eyes were red.

  “What’s your point?” he whispered, trying to hold back his emotions. “Are you just trying to torture me?”

  Dr. Peck shook her head. “No. Just the opposite.”

  Dewey was quiet for several minutes. He stared down at his hands, then looked out the window. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Finally, he looked at Dr. Peck.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not about understanding. It’s about feeling. Letting yourself feel. The feeling of watching somebody die who you love. You felt that. You still feel it. It’s part of what makes you who you are.”

  Dewey stood up and walked to the window. He looked out on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching a young couple jogging along the wide sidewalk. He watched them until they disappeared in the distance.

  “I shot someone,” said Dewey.

  “I read the file,” said Dr. Peck. “It sounds like you shot a lot of people.”

  “This one was different. It was like he wanted me to shoot him.”

  “He was guilty,” said Peck.

  “I don’t think he saw it that way. Even if he did, it doesn’t mean you necessarily just give in. I’ve looked into the eyes of guilty men before, men I’m about to kill. This was different.”

  Dr. Peck took a deep breath. “You’re wondering why he wanted you to shoot him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been wondering what I would do. If the tables were turned. If I was the one staring down the muzzle of a gun, with no chance for escape. None.”

  “You want to know what you would do if the gun was pointed at you,” she said. “Point-blank. No escape. How you would feel. Is that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But don’t you already know?”

  Dewey turned and shot her an angry look.

  “Isn’t that why you do it?” she said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Dr. Peck was quiet. She glanced at her watch.

  “I think that’s probably enough for today,” she said.

  Dewey stepped toward her.

  “No fucking way,” he said. “Answer me. What do you mean that’s why I do it?”

  Dr. Peck looked up at Dewey.

  “Damascus. Beijing. Moscow. Paris. Perhaps listing them by name would make this easier for you to understand. Fao Bhang. Pyotr Vargarin. Abu Paria. Alexander Fortuna. Aswan Fortuna. Charles Bruner. The list goes on. You do it because you want to know the feeling just before you die. But you already know it. It’s what you are. It’s the very essence of Dewey Andreas.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank my agent, Nicole James. Nicole is not only beautiful, smart, and funny, she’s also tough as nails. But then there’s something else about Nicole. She’s patient and empathetic too. Of course you want to have a tough agent but you have no idea how important it is, when you’re stuck, to hear the reassuring words of someone who has your back and who believes in you. Thanks “Nicky.”

  Thank you also to Keith Kahla, my editor at St. Martin’s Press. I don’t know how he does it, but Keith can cut to the heart of what’s wrong with a book the way a great doctor can diagnose a rare disease (plus Keith charges less).

  At St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan Audio, I’m grateful to everyone for the tireless effort and enthusiasm you give to my books. Thank you all, and in particular Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, Hannah Braaten, George Witte, Martin Quinn, Jeff Capshew, Paul Hochman, Justin Velella, Rafal Gibek, Jason Reigal, Ervin Serrano, Robert Allen, Mary Beth Roche, Alison Ziegler, and Joseph Brosnan.

  Thanks also to Chris George, Ryan Steck, Adrian King, Michelle Goncalves, and Sam Adams.

  Even though she can’t read I want to thank my dog, Mabel, who was at my side for virtually every word I wrote. While Mabel’s snoring can be somewhat of an irritant, I’ve found that the best antidote to it is to simply have Dewey kill someone, which might help explain why he kills so many people in the book.

  Finally, thank you to my family: Shannon, Charlie, Teddy, Oscar, and Esmé. One thing that hasn’t changed over all these years and all these books is the love and support you all give to me. Writing can be lonely and having the constant affection, humor, and presence of you all is what makes it so incredibly enjoyable.

  ALSO BY BEN COES

  Power Down

  Coup d’État

  The Last Refuge

  Eye for an Eye

  Independence Day

  First Strike

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BEN COES is the New York Times bestselling author of international espionage thrillers, including Eye for an Eye, Independence Day, and First Strike. Before writing his first novel, Power Down, he worked at the White House under two presidents and was a fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government. He lives with his wife and four children in Wellesley, Massachusetts.

  Visit the author on his website, at www.bencoes.com, or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bencoes, or sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53
>
  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Ben Coes

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  TRAP THE DEVIL. Copyright © 2017 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Coes, Ben, author.

  Title: Trap the devil / Ben Coes.

  Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017. | Series: A Dewey Andreas novel; 7

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017013450 | ISBN 978-1-250-04318-4 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-4668-4128-4 (e-book)

  Subjects: LCSH: Intelligence officers—Fiction. | Conspiracies—Fiction. | Political fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.O2996 T73 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017013450

 

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