EPILOGUE
No one was happy with Wells.
Not the Dallas cops. Not the Feds. Not Shafer.
Wells could have lied, could have popped the mag back into Miller’s Glock in the seconds before the police broke down the door. But he was done lying. At least today. Let someone else clean up the mess he’d made. Or make the mess he’d cleaned up.
“You gave him back his weapon?” the FBI special agent in charge of the Dallas office—a tall black man named Michael Jordan, and bald as his better-known namesake—said late that afternoon. They were in Jordan’s office. No cameras. No recorders. No windows.
“Yes.”
“With one round.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted him to have the choice.”
“Why?”
The FBI guy sounded like Emmie now, a game she’d just learned to play. Every kid knew the rules. Keep asking Why? until you drive your parents nuts.
Because I hoped he’d draw on me. Because I hoped he wouldn’t. Because I wanted it to be a fair fight. One I knew I’d win. Because he’d served, and I thought he’d do the right thing in the end. Whatever that might be. Because of Coyle. Because of Darby. Because . . . Because . . .
Wells shrugged.
“You think this is a game?”
I think I saved you a trial. I think Tom Miller told me all he knew, and Allie, a/k/a Annalise, a/k/a unknown female subject, wouldn’t have said a word. She would have waited for the Kremlin to trade for her, waited her whole life, if necessary. She knew talking wouldn’t have helped her. I think the only real question now is how far inside the Kremlin this plan went, and I doubt Allie, a/k/a Annalise, could have told us. I think we’re way outside the realm of law enforcement, this is government-to-government business, and if you want justice, you’re going to be waiting a while.
Wells shrugged again. Let Duto explain as he saw fit, conjure the perfect concoction of truth and lies to pour down the public’s throat. With Allie dead, the only way the FBI could connect the original bombing to Miller was through Banamex. Wells figured Duto had already found a way to tell Mendoz not to make that connection for them. So the bombing would stand on its own. That investigation would stall in Quito. Hector Frietas wasn’t around to answer questions, and his wife knew how to keep her mouth shut. The FBI would have a lot of smoke, and Russia might come up more than once. But no fire. They would ask Duto for more information from his mysterious source. Duto would say he’d pressed as hard as he could or national security interests prevented him from telling them more. Ultimately, the Bureau would be left with no way to prove the original source of the Banamex money or who had ordered the bombing.
Of course, Duto eventually would have to respond, to punish the FSB for what it had done. Wells wondered if Duto would invite him to the White House when that moment came. And what he’d say in answer.
“Mr. Wells, I’m talking to you. Do you think this is a game?”
Everything’s a game.
By 10 p.m., the FBI had cut him loose. “I had my way, we’d be charging you,” Jordan said.
Wells saluted him as the elevator doors closed.
Shafer waited in the garage. “Prick.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“That wasn’t your choice, John.”
“Didn’t see anybody else in the room.”
Shafer stared at Wells with pop-eyed fury.
“I told him the truth, Ellis. If he’d tossed the pistol, I would have waited for the cavalry.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you would have let her go for the rifle so you could shoot her.”
“Maybe. Anything new about Coyle?”
“Last I heard, he was still stable, still on the ventilator. They were hoping to take him off tonight, but they decided to wait.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Wells wondered if he was betraying Coyle by going home. No. He had to see Anne.
“It’s not.”
They had predawn flights out of DFW, Shafer to Washington, Wells to Boston. Shafer had rented a room at the airport Hyatt so they could catch a few hours’ sleep.
Neither Wells nor Shafer spoke again until they reached the fringes of the airport.
“Something else, John . . .”
Wells waited.
“It still doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Paul Birman was setting up to be a giant pain for Vinny. Why kill him?”
“Come on. They wanted to make it look like a crazed wannabe convert is on the loose.”
“They already had that. And she could have had Miller shoot fifty other guys who fit the anti-Islam profile. Why Birman? Why now? I’m telling you, something’s missing.”
“You’re overthinking this, Ellis.” Wells wished he felt as convinced as he sounded. Shafer’s hunches had an unusual hit rate.
“You’re underthinking it.”
“I’m telling you that even in the unlikely event you’re right, those two couldn’t have helped us.”
“We’ll never know, will we? You go on home, John. Pat yourself on the back for a job well done.”
The limousine carrying Paul and Eric had just pulled out of the Mansion on Turtle Creek for the fifteen-minute drive to the American Airlines Center when a fleet of black Chevy Yukons surrounded them. A dozen men in body armor jumped out.
“FBI! FBI!” In case giant white letters emblazoned on their black vests didn’t give it away.
Eric knew before they’d said a word. A silly giggle rose in him. How? How? How? But he hardly needed to ask. Lucky Cousin Paul. Never bet against him.
Back in the Presidential Suite, the agent in charge explained.
A sniper at the W Hotel—unfortunately, he died at the scene before we could interview him—tentatively identified as a veteran named Tom Miller. Served in Afghanistan, two tours, suffered a traumatic brain injury . . . No ballistics match on the rifle as yet, but we have every reason to believe that this is the man responsible for the killings in St. Louis and Chicago.
Then the surprise:
A female was also in the room, she also died at the scene. She was white, late twenties. We haven’t identified her yet or her precise relationship with Miller . . . We’ll show you pictures of both to see if you can identify them. Maybe you’ve seen them at other speeches . . .
Eric tried to parse what the agent wasn’t saying. Not: We killed him. Not even: We found him. The FBI hadn’t known Miller was in Dallas, much less that he was targeting Paul. Someone else had stumbled on Miller. Or chased him down.
We have to consider the risk that this is part of a larger plot. We recommend you return to Nashville until we know what you’re facing, it’s easiest to protect your home . . . The director’s offered to fly out in the morning to brief you in person . . .
Any questions?
Paul shook his head. He’d kept himself together, but Eric knew he was terrified. Every few seconds, his eyes slid around the suite as if a monster might come through its walls.
Eric had a few questions of his own, but, unfortunately, he couldn’t ask them: A twenty-something white female—had Adam Petersen called her from Maryland that morning? If he had, was she still holding the phone he’d called? What other evidence had she left? Most of all: How did you find this guy, considering that forty-eight hours ago you didn’t have a clue who he was?
“Thank you,” Paul said. “I’d just like a few minutes to myself.”
“Of course. I’ll put men outside your door and on your terrace.”
Paul nodded.
Then only Paul, Eric, and Paul’s bodyguard, Jimmy Sanders, were left.
“I didn’t get until now what it’s like, Eric. What you went through all those years.”
You still don’t. No one actually shot at you, you fool. You didn’t even know you were at risk until you weren’t.
Paul’s eyes flicked to Eric and then away. He looked to Eric like he needed a hug. Eric mustered thirty years of Army discipline and gave it to him. “I know. Awful. I’m sorry, cousin.”
“I can’t believe we moved up the speech—”
“That was your idea, wasn’t it, Colonel?” Sanders said.
Eric looked at him. Sanders’s face was flat. Neutral. He was stating a fact. Nothing more. Maybe.
“It was. I’m so, so sorry—”
“It’s all right, cousin. You couldn’t have known.”
The afternoon passed in slow motion. Eric arranged the flight to Nashville, put together a statement on what had happened, talked to the Dallas cops and the FBI. And every few minutes, he found himself reaching for his phone to call Petersen and ask for a one-way ride to Moscow.
But that night, when he closed his eyes, he hadn’t.
The FBI, the CIA, all the rest, they didn’t know. They weren’t going to find out.
And he had to stay in Washington. He had work to do.
Saturday, noon. Shafer landed at Reagan National to find a half-dozen calls waiting for him from Julie Tarnes. Each saying the same thing a little more urgently. Call me.
“Julie. What’s up?”
“You know a guy named Jimmy Sanders?”
Shafer was surprised how happy hearing her brisk, no-nonsense voice made him. “I do not.”
“Paul Birman’s bodyguard. Ex-NYPD. Solid. Last night, he told the FBI that he wanted to talk personally to whoever found Miller. Pass along the Senator’s congratulations, he said. They said no. He said pretty please with sugar on top . . . And, by the way, you really want to piss Birman off right now? They got the message, kicked him to me. He has something to tell you. Says it’s important.”
“I just landed at National.”
“Conveniently enough, so did he.”
Sanders had flown from Nashville, left Birman not even twenty-four hours after the near miss?
“Guess it’s important,” Shafer said.
Tarnes stood just outside the security checkpoint, beside a forty-something guy. He was about her height and wore a dark blue suit and a tie a little too short. Shafer would have made him for an ex-cop even if Tarnes hadn’t said so. Sanders had that relaxed awareness, the ability to pay attention without seeming to try.
Tarnes introduced them. Sanders stuck out a hand and looked at Shafer like he wasn’t getting the joke.
“Nice job yesterday.” The unspoken question: You’re the one who shot Tom Miller?
“Thanks.” Shafer wasn’t going to explain, at least not until he knew what Sanders wanted. “What’s so important that you broke Shabbat rules to come see me?”
“My rabbi said it was okay.”
“Fair enough.”
“Don’t look so surprised. Might be Irish, but I’m from New York.” Sanders looked around, made sure no one was in earshot. “So, am I correct in assuming the FBI is less than fully informed on this? Based on the fact that if it had been up to them to find Tom Miller, we’d be making funeral arrangements for my boss.”
“Possibly.”
“They gonna find out?”
“There are obstacles.”
“Foreign obstacles?”
“It’s complicated.”
Sanders gave Shafer a satisfied nod: I figured.
“Nobody knows about this. Not even Paul. Maybe I should have told him, but, truth, I didn’t know what he would do.”
Shafer waited. They stood in a knot in the arrivals hall, passengers swirling by them, tugging roller bags and little kids, looking for carts and cousins. Sanders still couldn’t seem to say what he’d come to say.
“Jimmy,” Shafer said after a while. “I truly have no idea what you have. You want to play twenty questions or just spit it out like a grown-up?”
“It’s Eric. Paul’s cousin. You need to look at him.”
Suddenly the last piece fit.
“I know it sounds crazy—”
“No,” Shafer said. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all.”
New Hampshire, 1 p.m. Late winter now, the sun staying past 5, the snow crusty, melting during the day and freezing again each night. No flowers, no grass, no leaves, yet the cruelest days were unmistakably past.
Wells opened the front door to the farmhouse that was his and not his. Anne and Emmie were sitting, snugged on the rumpled couch, Anne’s arm around Emmie, Emmie’s hands high, telling a story so elaborate that for a moment she didn’t see Wells step inside—
“Emmie,” Anne said. Since Wells had last seen her, the pregnancy had taken over her middle.
“I’m talking, Mommy—”
“It’s your dad.”
Emmie jumped off the couch and ran at Wells, a cartoon of motion. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” He scooped her, hugged her to him.
He had to quit. He couldn’t quit.
He had to quit.
He couldn’t quit.
“Hi, Em.”
She stuck out her tongue to show him a pale green mint.
“She’s discovered Altoids,” Anne said.
Wells carried Emmie over to the couch, laid her down, knelt beside Anne. She gave him a tiny smile that could have meant almost anything and then tapped her lips: Kiss me. “Gently. Unless you want me to throw up.”
He did.
“How’s the boy?”
Anne lifted her shirt. Wells watched as her belly rumbled, tiny earthquakes from the fists and feet inside.
“Just like his dad. Can’t wait to get out.”