Wells didn’t let go.
The next three minutes were the worst of his life. But he knew if he stopped, the guard would pull off the barbs. He would be free, with Wells defenseless, still locked to the wall. Wells couldn’t even stop at leaving the man unconscious, because he didn’t know how long he would need to get the cuff off his wrist.
For sixty seconds, the guard shrieked. Then the pain and fury on his face turned into empty panic. His mouth fell open. His face reddened. A cyanotic blue crept into his skin. His hands trembled, and the twitch spread up his arms. His tongue lolled. A faint white froth cupped his lips. He toppled forward, landed face-first against the concrete floor of the cell. Blood poured from his shattered nose and pooled around the twin wires of the Taser. Yet the barbs didn’t lose their grip. The electricity still flowed.
The noises coming from him faded to a low grunt. His eyes rolled back and the shaking in his arms and hands slowed until only a single finger twitched. The middle finger, a coincidence, surely. The puddle of blood lapped toward Wells like a poisonous lake overflowing its banks. It stained the man’s face, coated his tongue.
Wells couldn’t watch anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut. He had killed so many men in so many ways, yet this death was both the most savage and the most cowardly. He felt like a child burning an ant under a magnifying glass. This was murder, not combat. As though the Taser was drawing its charge from what was left of his soul.
Still he squeezed the trigger. When he opened his eyes the guard wasn’t twitching anymore. Wells had added another corpse to his pile of sin. He held on another thirty seconds. When finally he did, the Taser fell from his hand and clattered on the cell floor like a cheap plastic toy. Wells wiped his hand across his mouth, whimpered, leaned against the wall.
—
He didn’t want to move. He wanted to close his eyes and imagine anything but this place. But then Mason would arrive, and Wells would have murdered two men for less than nothing. The thought broke his stasis. He shook his head, quickly, almost a spasm, like he was cleaning an Etch A Sketch.
He had killed the guards knowing that he still didn’t have a plan for what came next. He hoped the younger guard would be carrying something that would let him pop the handcuffs, a pocketknife or a pen. He’d learned the trick during his training at the Farm, and after realizing a couple years before that he’d forgotten it, he’d made a habit of practicing.
Wells squatted beside the dead man. And felt a key in his right front pocket. A handcuff key. Never argue with good luck. Seconds later, he was free. He wanted to run. He didn’t. Don’t move. Think. He looked like a mental patient. He’d be a target for any cop who saw him. He had no passport or visa, no identification at all. He couldn’t call the consulate for help. His name would ring alarms at Langley, and whoever was working with Mason would hear. Wells had to ensure the Turkish authorities ignored him until he found a safe route out of the country. He might be here awhile anyway. He wasn’t leaving until he knew Mason was dead.
So. Find a phone. Call Shafer, get his family protected. Then shower, shave, find clothes and shoes. The younger guard’s stuff should fit.
Wells went to the door, pulled down the security camera. If Mason had remote access to the feed, Wells would rather he see a blank screen and wonder what was happening than see a dead guard and know. Wells knelt next to the second guard, wetting his knees in blood. The dead man wore white briefs, a T-shirt, a fake Rolex. Wells eyed the time. Seven-fifteen. No reason for Mason or anyone else to show this early. He picked up the pistol and stepped into the hall, his legs stronger with each step.
He found himself at the end of a corridor maybe seventy-five feet long, naked bulbs overhead. The air stank of cigarettes, but even so, it felt cooler and fresher than his cell. After a few feet, the wall on his right ended. A railing replaced it, turning the hallway into a kind of catwalk, with doors on the left. Wells walked along, found himself looking down at a factory floor, empty except for a few scattered sewing machines. An abandoned textile factory. Poor countries made clothes. Turkey wasn’t poor anymore. This strip of rooms had no doubt belonged to management, watching over the paid-by-the-piece stitchers below.
A metal staircase at the end of the catwalk connected the floors. To the left, an open door. Inside, Wells found the office where his guards had lived. Two narrow cots were shoved against the back wall. A hot plate sat on an aged wooden desk. The cigarette smell was Eastern European, tobacco with a hint of formaldehyde. A laptop sat on the floor, silently playing porn. Wells clicked off the website, flipped down the screen. He’d take the computer. Maybe its browser history would have some clues.
First, a phone. A pile of dirty clothes lay between the cots. Wells grabbed the jeans that lay on top, found a mobile phone, a burner. He called Shafer. Home, cell, office. But Mason had spoken true. Shafer wasn’t answering. Wells had wanted to be sure he had protection arranged before calling his son or ex-wife. Instead, it looked like he’d have to call them first, tell them to go to ground. They’d be terrified. And furious.
Then he thought of Duto. For a few anxious seconds Wells couldn’t remember the man’s number. At last he did. Two rings, then—
“Who’s this?”
“John.”
“You’re not dead.” There was a touch of something like irony in Duto’s voice, a late-night radio host talking to a regular caller.
“Don’t sound so happy. Where’s Ellis?”
“He called three days ago. Said he knew who was behind this, but he had no proof, no one would believe him. I told him to tell me, we’d figure out a play. He said he couldn’t because they were holding you and he was sure they’d kill you if he told anyone. But now you’re out.”
“I’m out.”
“You know who it is?”
“No. I’m walking into the White House, but when I’m out I’ll call Shafer, tell him you’re okay, make him tell me, assuming he actually knows and this isn’t a slow-motion breakdown—”
“First you have to get the FBI to put Evan and Heather in protective custody, and make sure Anne knows there’s a threat.”
“Immediate threat?”
“My family.”
“The President’s briefing a bunch of us, and I think he’s hitting Iran, I mean within the hour, I’m not sure how, but this could be our last chance to stop this thing—”
“Vinny, listen to me—” Wells gripped the phone so tightly he feared he might crack the housing. “I don’t care if you’re about to meet God Himself. Something happens to Evan, you don’t have to worry about cancer, a heart attack, a jihadi coming for you. I will slice you up—” He felt his anger running away and didn’t care. He meant every word.
“Take a breath, John, I get it—”
Wells imagined Duto blinking his heavy eyelids the way he did when he wanted to convey that he understood. “Don’t John me—”
“I get it. Tell me where to find them.”
Wells gave Duto their addresses, phone numbers.
“You have my word.”
“All right. Text me when Evan’s okay. And tell Shafer to call.”
“Yes, sir. Any other orders, sir?”
Wells hung up, called Evan. Who didn’t answer. Not entirely surprising, considering what the number must have looked like on his caller ID.
“It’s your dad,” Wells said. “I think it’s around eight-thirty where you are.” Eleven hours behind. “Next hour or two, the FBI is going to get in touch, ask you to come with them. Please don’t argue. It’s for your own safety, I promise, and it won’t be too long. Just trust me, okay? I’ll explain later.”
He hung up, called Heather. He was almost glad when she didn’t answer. Whether the threat was real or fake, she’d be furious with him. He left a message like the one he’d left for Evan and clicked off. He would leave Duto to call Anne. Mason hadn’t threatened her dir
ectly, and he needed to move. And part of him didn’t feel ready to talk to her, not from this place.
Beside the cots, a door opened into the plant manager’s private bathroom, a grubby toilet and a narrow shower. Wells turned the plastic knob. He was pleasantly surprised when the showerhead blasted a jet of water, doubly surprised to find it hot. He pulled off his spattered T-shirt and underwear and stepped in. The blood sloughed off his legs and reddened the shower’s plastic floor. Wells scrubbed himself down with a bar of soap that smelled like it had been marinated in cheap perfume, forced himself out after three minutes. No shave.
The younger guard had kept his clothes neatly folded in a powder-blue Adidas gym bag under his cot. His jeans and windbreaker were slightly small, but Wells could walk the world now without catching a cop’s eye. The sneakers were okay, too, a size small but they’d do. Wells shoved the pistol in the waistband of his jeans. Inside the desk drawer, he found a keyless car fob, two passports, a rubber-banded stack of Turkish lira, a lighter, another phone. All a boy could want.
Suddenly the phone in the drawer rang, its screen lighting up with a local number. Then the phone in his pocket began to buzz. Maybe Mason had noticed that the webcam wasn’t working anymore. Someone would be over here soon. Wells tossed the laptop and everything from the desk drawer into the guard’s blue bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder as he left the office behind.
The factory’s main floor was unlit. But the pallid winter sun threw enough light through the barred windows for Wells to realize it had been cleaned recently. He didn’t see piles of trash or puddles of grease. This building wasn’t a squat. Someone maintained it. Someone paid for the phones, hired the guards, registered the cars. No matter how good they were, they had to have left a trail. Now Shafer knew where that trail led, or so he’d told Duto. Wells wondered why Shafer felt so boxed, so sure no one would believe him.
Wells reached the front door. Chained shut. He turned around, wondering how much time he had. At the back, in the center of the building, a fire door was unlocked. Wells pushed it open, stepped outside for the first time in nearly a week.
He found himself in a weedy parking lot surrounded by a fence. It sat atop a low rise, the land around it semi-rural, semi-industrial. Maybe five hundred meters away, four new prefab buildings were stacked close together. Past them was a row of high-voltage electric power lines and a four-lane highway. There was no sign of the Bosphorus or any of Istanbul’s landmarks. Wells could have been anywhere.
The guards’ ride, a four-door Nissan, was tucked behind two Dumpsters. Wells unlocked the doors, slid inside, pushed the starter button. The car hummed alive, the screen in the center console lighting up with a map of Turkey. The GPS showed he was on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, maybe thirty miles east of central Istanbul. Wells figured his best bet was to head back to the city center, the street where he’d first tracked Mason. He was sure the man had an apartment there, though maybe not in the building Wells had seen him exit. Then the guard’s phone rang again. And Wells realized that he didn’t need to go anywhere, didn’t need to hunt. Soon enough Mason would come to him.
27
TEHRAN
The drones came from every direction, all at once.
One, two, a dozen. Gray against the gray morning sky, but so low they couldn’t be missed. They flew slowly over the wide city, over avenues, markets, highways, and parks, all heading for the same target, Imam Khomeini Square, the heart of Tehran. Their engines filled the air with a high whine, an unsettling sound, a mosquito that couldn’t be slapped. On the streets below, men and women tilted their heads up to see the bombs hanging from the drones’ long skinny wings.
Then they ran.
The air-raid sirens came too late. The network that connected Iran’s radar installations had failed minutes before the Predators crossed into the country’s airspace. By the time air defense commanders in Tehran sorted out the frantic phone calls from Kohkilooyeh and Lengeh and the other stations, they no longer needed radar to know what was happening. They could step out of their reinforced concrete shelter to see for themselves.
As they frantically tried to scramble the fighter pilots at Mehrabad, the sonic booms began. Seven streaks appeared in the west, a V formation, not even two hundred meters above the earth. One lucky photographer, a film student at the University of Tehran, managed two clear shots. They revealed a fighter with a split tail, no visible weapons, twin rear winglets. An F-22A Raptor, the most advanced fighter ever built.
The Raptors left a trail of shattered windows and howling dogs. Children shouted as their parents tugged them inside. Not everyone ran. The pious went to their knees, bowed their heads, trusting Allah would protect them.
At the eastern edge of the city, the jets turned in a tight semicircle and retraced their path, creating a second wave of panic. Three minutes later, they were gone. Meanwhile, the drones were dropping their bombs, aiming at the runways of Mehrabad, putting the airport out of commission. The Iranian fighters were now grounded, and the missile arrays around the city couldn’t fire without working radar. The city was defenseless.
Then the attack ended.
The drones turned north. Barely half an hour after they first appeared, they reached the Caspian Sea. Five kilometers offshore, they tipped their noses down and followed one another into the sea, a series of spinning suicide dives that would have pleased the original kamikazes.
Their operators were unhurt.
—
It was nearly midnight on the East Coast, but the major media outlets were staffed and ready. Two hours before, the White House Press Office had warned bureau chiefs at the networks and the big papers that it would release a statement from the President just after midnight. Remember when we killed bin Laden? Like that. Only bigger. No details.
The newsroom cynics assumed a sex scandal involving the President and his National Security Advisor. Maybe the indictment of a senior cabinet member. A soon-to-be-fired producer at MSNBC speculated over Twitter that the President had lung cancer. When the White House didn’t bother to rebut the report, it echoed across the Internet’s peanut gallery, picking up details.
Then, at 11:56 p.m., even before the F-22s cleared Iranian airspace, the first reports of the strike on Tehran arrived from the official Iranian news service. Five minutes later, the President’s press secretary appeared in the White House pressroom to release a speech that the President had just recorded in the Oval Office. No questions tonight. Just this. He’ll have a full press conference tomorrow.
“My fellow Americans, a few minutes ago I ordered our Air Force to carry out a mission over Tehran, Iran’s capital city. I authorized this operation because we have recently learned that the Iranian government is much closer to producing nuclear weapons than previously believed. To be specific, in the last few days the United States has seized more than a kilogram of weapons-grade uranium, which we have concluded was produced by the Iranian nuclear program. Our intelligence agencies now believe that Iran may have produced enough highly enriched uranium to build several nuclear bombs.”
The President wore a charcoal-gray suit with an American flag on the lapel, a white shirt, a blue tie. His face was relaxed, his tone low and confident, the voice of a man certain in his decision.
“For more than a decade, the government of Iran has misled the United States and the international community about its efforts to create a nuclear arsenal. This most recent deception is the most serious yet. We can no longer tolerate these lies, especially since we have indications that Iran may ultimately try to bring nuclear weapons onto American soil. Let me be clear. The United States would view such an action as an act of war.
“Our attack today was precise and calibrated. We aimed only at infrastructure and minimized any loss of life. In fact, the Secretary of Defense informs me that we did not kill a single Iranian, soldier or civilian, with our action. But the Iranian government
must know that our planes and drones can overwhelm its defenses and destroy its military. The Iranian people must know that our forces can quickly bring their economy to its knees.”
The camera pushed in toward his face, a touch of showmanship. “We know that not everyone in Iran agrees with this nuclear program. In fact, our intelligence community believes that its existence may have been kept secret even from senior Iranian government officials. We want peace, not war. But we can no longer allow Iran to pretend to negotiate with us or the international community while it builds a dangerous nuclear stockpile. Tonight I call upon the government of Iran to end for all time its efforts to build nuclear weapons. As a first step, I demand that Iran open all its nuclear facilities and the records of its weaponization programs to United States inspectors. These demands are not negotiable. Based on what I have learned in the last few weeks, I can no longer outsource American safety to the International Atomic Energy Agency. The IAEA’s inspectors are hardworking, but Iran has obstructed and mocked them at every turn. I am setting a deadline of two weeks from today for the Iranian government to respond to my demand.”
The President pursed his lips, nodded.
“Two weeks is plenty of time if the Iranian government cooperates. No time at all if it doesn’t. In case the regime doubts my resolve, tomorrow morning, I will ask the House and Senate to approve a broad military campaign against Iran. Air and missile strikes will be its first wave. But make no mistake. I will also ask for authorization for an invasion as a last resort if necessary. I have already discussed the evidence with selected senior members of Congress, as well as the leaders of Britain and France. They agree it’s convincing. They agree it demands a response. Tomorrow, the Secretaries of State and Defense will make a broader presentation to Congress. We will publicize as much evidence as possible. I want the American people and the world community to see why we must take action. However, I will not ask for United Nations approval for military action. This threat is to the United States, and it demands an American response.
The Counterfeit Agent Page 32
