22
Wells and Coyle caught the Aeroméxico evening flight, landed at Dulles two hours late, 2 a.m. Wednesday morning. Five and a half hours later, bleary-eyed but shaved and scrubbed, they offered their IDs and walked into the White House.
Shafer and Tarnes waited at the inner security checkpoint. A Secret Service agent promised someone would fetch them all. Shafer wore a three-inch-square gauze patch on his nearly bald head. His blue dress shirt was a size too large. But he seemed steady on his feet. A relief for Wells.
“Ellis.”
Shafer ignored Wells. “Looking good, Sergeant.”
“Nice to see you, sir.”
“Never call me sir. You know, Coyle, I feel like you need an announcer every time you walk in a room. Maybe some chalk to throw.”
“I believe you just compared me to LeBron James.”
“Mike Trout.”
“Game I play with white folk of a certain age. I call it racist or old?”
“I love all you people.” Shafer winked.
“It’s just the closed-head injury talking,” Wells said.
“You think he bothers me?” Coyle said.
“We friends again?” Wells said to Shafer. Shafer reached his fingers under his chin, wagged them at Wells—the old Bronx curse. Wells grabbed Shafer’s skinny bicep and reeled him in. “Hug it out.”
Shafer puckered up, kissed Wells on the chin, his lips dry and scratchy, his breath musty.
“Ever heard of ChapStick?”
“I don’t blame you for dumping me.” Shafer nodded at Tarnes. “She’s way better-looking.”
Tarnes merely shook her head. “Children. We need to prep for this? It being the President and all.” She was the only one dressed properly for the meeting, in a slim gray suit that pulled off the neat trick of being both conservative and flattering. Wells wished he hadn’t noticed how flattering. Five hundred miles north, Anne was still throwing up like a broken cuckoo clock.
“He might be the President to you, but to us he’s just Vinny, prick in chief,” Shafer said, as Duto’s chief admin stepped into the room. Wells refused to let himself remember the guy’s name. He was as glib, and gelled, as any Hollywood agent.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” The admin turned them away from the Oval Office corridor and led them instead to the staircase that accessed the Situation Room.
“No big O?” Shafer said.
“He wants to be able to videoconference Langley and the FBI just in case.”
Wells suspected Duto just preferred the Sit Room. It was a windowless, self-important conference space with lots of gadgetry. It felt more like the agency than anywhere else in the White House.
They arrived to find Duto at the wooden conference table that dominated the room. The New York Times lay in front of him, a front-page headline screaming SNIPER KILLS CARDINAL OF CHICAGO IN PREDAWN ATTACK. The shooting had happened barely twenty-four hours before, though it seemed far longer.
“Showing your age,” Shafer said. “Who reads off-line?”
“Goody, gang’s all here,” Duto said. Wells had told Duto only that he had urgent information. “Whatever this is, I know it’s going to suck, so keep the wit to yourself until you’ve told me.” He nodded at his admin. “Go on. Leave us.”
The atmosphere changed, stilled, when the admin closed the door. The Sit Room’s air was cool and odorless because it was so thoroughly filtered to remove potential toxins. The atmospheric equivalent of bottled water. The wood paneling hid concrete walls thick enough to survive a direct hit from a five-ton bomb. If the White House was a castle, this room and the offices around it were the keep. If it fell, the only refuge would be the tunnels underground. Descending into those would be a sure sign the Apocalypse was nigh.
“Begin,” Duto said.
Wells had the fullest picture of what they’d found. Still, Shafer did most of the talking. Wells thought Coyle seemed intimidated. He retreated to the far end of the conference table and kept his head down, taking notes on a legal pad.
When Shafer was done, Duto looked at Coyle. “Sergeant? Anything to add?”
“No, sir.”
“Sure?”
Coyle seemed to recognize that he’d better have at least one idea for his commander in chief. “I think the sooner we hit Banamex, the better, Mr. President. They may have records even Mendoz doesn’t know about. Banks like paper—I know, from the time they tried to foreclose on my aunt and uncle. And, obviously, this kind of account is different, but banks are banks, sir.”
“Noted. Julie?”
Wells hardly recognized this version of Duto. Stop acting so presidential, Vinny. Watching you solicit staff opinions makes my teeth hurt.
“Why open two accounts in Mexico? Seems overly complicated.”
“Two accounts, two plots, right? Or do you think the Russians aren’t running the sniper?”
“They must be. But the Russians could have started with one Banamex account and shifted the money to an American bank later.” Tarnes hesitated. “What I’m saying is, they wanted to split the two plots as far up the chain as possible. They wanted the sniper to run whether or not Dallas worked. Which says to me they wanted him to be able to go on for a while.”
“And?”
“So why have the sniper kill two guys in forty-eight hours? Something changed, they want to move fast. Like they have some specific target they didn’t have before. The obvious choice—” She broke off.
Wells understood why she didn’t want to say more. Telling the President he might be the target of a Russian assassination plot was no fun.
“I get it, Julie. Here’s a fun fact nobody but the SecDef knows, as of now. I talked to Fedin after Hurley got shot. He told me how much he wanted to help. By the way, can ve have Ukraine as vedding present, ve really like Ukraine. I told him to get bent. I figured he was just taking advantage of the situation. Didn’t realize he was making his own luck.”
“Maybe he didn’t like getting blown off,” Shafer said. “Now he wants you gone, figures the Vice President would be more his speed.”
“Has he ever talked to the guy?” Duto snorted. “But, yeah, maybe. If they thought they had a real shot and could get away clean. But they can’t. Not unless this sniper is Chris Kyle resurrected. Not even then. The Secret Service is a pain, and they love them some hookers, but they’re good at snipers. Fedin has to know that. And he has to know that shooting me would be World War Three.”
“Unless he doesn’t,” Wells said.
“Can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I preferred the Cold War,” Duto said. “Everybody knew the rules. Three dates before you screwed, no matter how bad you wanted it. These days, it’s like, Do I swipe left or right? Do we have dinner or just go back to his place? Is he going to expect oral, too, ’cause I’ve got a sore throat, I’m not in the mood—”
Duto stopped abruptly.
“What I hear, anyway. Kids these days.”
“Oral—would that be regional hostilities?” Shafer said.
“Let’s call it limited nuclear war. Right down their throats.”
“Great metaphor there, Vinny. Screams dignity of the office.”
Coyle caught Wells’s eye: This really happening? Am I hearing this? Wells nodded: Welcome to the show, son. Hope you can hit the curve.
“Now that we’ve learned much too much about your dating habits,” Shafer said, “now what?”
Above Duto, the digital clocks counted seconds—Washington, London, Paris, Moscow, Jerusalem, Delhi, Beijing—not coincidentally, the capitals of seven of the world’s nine nuclear-armed nations. Only a matter of time before Pyongyang showed up, too. Wells knew Duto would go from emergency meeting to emergency meeting in the next days. The SecDef would helicopter over from the Pentagon. The DCIA from Langley. The Vice President and the National Security Advisor would arrive, too, to discuss “appropriate responses” and “contingencies” and “levers of escalation.”
But they’d be talking around the most important questions, the ones Duto alone could answer. Those bastards killed four hundred Americans, same as if they’d pulled the triggers themselves. Only we caught them. That an act of war? If it is, do we start down a road that ends with the world on fire? And if not, if we’re not going to call them on it, what then?
“Anyone in the Kremlin we trust?” Tarnes said. Wells was glad to see her ask, put herself back in the game.
“No one who matters,” Duto said. “But it’s worth asking State if they’re in touch with anyone even halfway honest. Meanwhile, beyond the bank records . . . What do we have?”
“Not much,” Shafer said. “We don’t know where they stayed in Texas or if they’re still there. Don’t know what names they used. And no, we don’t know if they have more attacks planned.”
“If you had to bet?”
“Put a gun to my head—”
“If only.”
“I’d say no. Easier to hide one person than a team, and they have to know they pushed their luck, no matter how well they planned it. I mean, what if Shakir had just flipped them off? Gone to the Dallas cops? No, I think they’re gone. Left the country weeks ago. I think it’s only the sniper now.”
Duto went quiet.
“But you’re guessing,” he finally said. “You haven’t run the Banamex names through our databases. No NSA contact tracing on emails or phones. No driver’s licenses or speeding tickets or court records.”
“That would have meant calling the FBI and the agency officially, and we thought we’d better wait until we talked to you—”
“Because, this way, I get to decide all by myself whether to start World War Three,” Duto said. “And because you hope I’ll let you two run around on your own.” Duto pointed at Coyle. “Sergeant, you been infected with the hero virus yet? The I’ll do it myself except when I need help and then it better come this very second virus?”
“I know you’re stressed, but take it out on us,” Wells said, “not him.”
Duto focused on Wells. “If he’s gonna be around a while, he should know I’m only the third-biggest ego in this room.”
“Maybe you forgot, but you begged John to help, Vinny,” Shafer said. “May as well know something else, Sergeant, long as we’re talking ’round the campfire. El Jefe likes us because he doesn’t have to sign anything when we’re involved. He never buys when he can rent. We are disposable. You, too.”
Wells flashed to Bogotá, Tony bleeding out. The cemeteries were filled with forgotten spies.
“Shouldn’t you be in Florida waiting to stroke out, Ellis?” Duto said.
“Better question: If the Russians aren’t after you, then who do they want? And, even more important, why? What could be worth this risk?”
Silence again. Wells knew Duto put up with Shafer’s sharp tongue for these moments when he scissored to the heart of an issue.
“There some dissident here who’s been a real problem for them?” Tarnes said.
“A hedge fund manager,” Shafer said. “A couple reporters. Nothing they can’t handle, nothing that needs this kind of operation.”
“Agreed,” Duto said.
“Plus, remember, they’re trying to make this look Muslim,” Shafer said. “When we do catch the sniper, bet they’ve salted his house with I love Muhammad graffiti.”
Duto drummed his fingers on the conference table. “Too many questions. And an active shooter. I know you like to play by yourselves, but not this time. I’ll tell the FBI I have a private foreign intel source who says these two accounts might be connected to Dallas. They can start chasing all the stuff that you copied yesterday while Justice finds a way to get a real warrant. You can go back to Dallas, if you want. I’ll tell them to let you work with them—”
“Work with them? I found this.”
“Did we not just discuss your ego and the size thereof, Ellis? Plus, if you’re right, the Dallas stuff is archaeology now. They’re using the little account for the sniper. And that wasn’t Dallas, it was mostly the West Coast, Washington State, right?”
Washington State. Wells imagined FBI agents descending on the southeastern Washington hills in their black Tahoes, rattling trailer doors with hard knocks. “Wait.”
“Not you, too,” Duto said.
“Let the FBI chase the big account. The real estate deals, cars they bought, money they moved. Let them see if they can figure out how these guys made the approach to Shakir. Prep a criminal case, if you decide to bring it.”
“No way we’re going to handle this in open court, John—”
“Up to you. All I care about, the little account. Let me and Coyle go after it.”
“How? From what you said, there’s withdrawals all over the country—”
“I’m not interested in all over the country. Just one place: southeastern Washington, Pullman.”
“Why there? Nothing there worth hitting. Not even an Army base.”
“Exactly.”
“So?”
But Shafer nodded. “John thinks that’s where they found their sniper.”
“Why else go there? It’s not on the way to anywhere. Not even a good place to hide—too small—and Coyle and I saw a picture of the woman who opened that account and, let me tell you, they’d notice her there. She wanted to blend, she’d be better off in a place like L.A. So she went there for a reason. And what other reason is there?” Wells didn’t know if he’d convinced Duto, but he’d convinced himself.
“Say you’re right . . . Even more reason to get the FBI in,” Duto said.
“Up there, a lot of folks will slam their doors when they see that badge. Especially pissed-off veterans. Especially if the Feds tell them, We’re looking for snipers who’ve gone missing, that’s all we can tell you. And, no, we don’t have a name, we’re depending on you for that.”
“And they’ll tell you?”
“That’s my country, Vinny. Even now.”
“I thought Afghanistan was your country.” Duto gave Wells a sour-milk grimace.
“He’s right, Vinny—” Shafer said.
“Shut up, Ellis.” Real venom in Duto’s voice. To Wells: “End of the week. After that, it won’t matter, because Justice will get to Banamex. And when they do, the FBI will connect the two accounts.”
“Sure.”
“I’m only doing this because you deserve the chance to close this out.” Duto smirked, not even trying to hide his real reason: that he wanted maximum flexibility.
Wells stood, offered Duto the crispest of salutes. “Won’t let you down, Cap’n.” Up yours.
“Rangers lead the way.” Right back atcha.
They left the building through the northeast exit and were suddenly back in the real world, surrounded by tourists and school groups. The White House security perimeter had been extended. Again. Seemed to Wells that it was always being extended. No one was allowed to walk on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House anymore. Secret Service agents, wearing black Kevlar and toting assault rifles, herded the kids back to Lafayette Square. As if they were protecting a dictator’s mansion and not what Wells had always been told was the “people’s house.”
Tarnes was already looking at flights to Spokane. Shafer was muttering. Coyle hadn’t said a word since Duto’s speech to him.
Tarnes held up her phone. “Southwest, BWI, at ten-thirty a.m. Change in Denver, Spokane at two forty-five.”
“We can get up there in time?” Baltimore–Washington International was at least an hour from downtown D.C., worse in the morning traffic.
“If you leave right now. While you’re in the air, I’ll talk to the Pentagon and VA, get the names and addresses of veterans in southeastern Washington who had sniper training. Duto may have to sign some kind of national security waiver, but I’ll try to have a list to you by the time you land in Spokane.”
“Don’t forget Idaho and Oregon. Everyone within a hundred miles of Pullman.” Wells turned to Coyle. “Coyle, you coming?”
Coyle nodded.
“Good. I guess you got the hero virus, too.”
Coyle was quiet until they were outside the Beltway.
“Didn’t expect that. The way you talk to him. And he talks to you. The President.”
“We’ve known him a long time.”
“You trust him?”
Wells grunted.
Coyle stared at Wells. “That’s a no. You don’t trust him why do you work for him?”
Wells had a hundred answers to that question. And none. Because, in the end, he usually does the right thing. And by usually, I mean sometimes. And by right, I mean expedient. Because we might have stopped a war three years ago even if he helped only because he saw a path to the White House. Because he’s the president. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t do this.
“Come on, Coyle,” he finally said. “I need to tell an infantryman the answer to that?”
They didn’t speak the rest of the way to BWI.