Or maybe Duto was just being a jerk. In Shafer’s experience, power and money made people more of what they already were. The generous became philanthropists. The mean became bullies, using lawyers instead of their fists to pummel their enemies. The vain found plastic surgeons and tried to age in reverse.
As his wait stretched, Shafer wondered if Duto had another motive. A delay this long was more than simply pulling rank. Then Peter Ludlow walked into the anteroom.
“Director.”
The naked surprise in Ludlow’s blue eyes shaded quickly into distaste. “Shouldn’t you be across the river, Ellis? Working?”
“Vinny and I are having lunch.”
“You’re not. He’s having lunch with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”
“Look at you. Putting that espionage expertise to good use.”
“DCIA is here, sir,” the admin murmured into his phone, with the hushed self-importance of an announcer at the Masters. To Ludlow: “He’ll see you now.”
Ludlow walked in without another word to Shafer. But Shafer saw now why Duto had made him wait so long. He’d wanted Ludlow to know he was meeting Shafer. More, Duto had wanted Ludlow to know that he would meet Shafer afterward, give Shafer the last word. Always an advantage. But why? Did Duto want Ludlow to think his job was in jeopardy? Or was he stirring the pot and causing trouble for no reason other than that he could?
This meeting went fifteen minutes. When Ludlow came out, he wasn’t smiling.
“See you soon, Ellis.”
“Not if I see you first.”
—
SHAFER found Duto at his desk.
“Sit.”
“What’s eating Ludlow?”
“Chatter.”
Chatter was the worst way to predict a terrorist attack. Suspicious emails, texts, tweets, and phone calls waxed and waned on their own schedule. Worse, terrorists knew the United States monitored them and would increase the tempo to try to fool their listeners. NSA analysts liked to say spikes in chatter had forecast a hundred out of the past three attacks.
Still, the agencies had no choice but to watch and react. And some combinations were particularly worrying, notably when the groups spiked volume on semi-public channels while decreasing it on private channels that their leaders used. A drop in communications was perversely dangerous. It could mean that an attack was now too sensitive for anything but face-to-face discussion.
“Anything specific?”
“Europe.”
“That narrows it down. How serious?”
“We’ll find out when the bombs go off,” Duto said. “So, Wells . . . ?”
“Talked to him this morning. He’s got something.”
“The name of the mole.”
“If he had that, you think I would have sat out there like an idiot for ninety minutes? Not the mole. He thinks he’s got a line on the guy who runs Daesh in France. He said he doesn’t think the French know about this guy. I’m not sure we do either. I checked before I came over and I couldn’t find his aliases in any of our databases.”
“What about the mole?”
“Forget the mole—”
“We sent him there to find the mole.”
Not the reaction Shafer had expected.
“You know what happened in Bulgaria today, Ellis? He share that with you?”
Shafer wondered what hot mess he’d stepped into.
“There was a little riot. Wells killed another prisoner. A Bulgarian.”
“And?” The word leapt out of Shafer’s mouth before he could help himself.
“We didn’t send him over there to put knives in locals.”
“Vinny, you want to be pissed he didn’t get this mole that you keep telling me doesn’t exist, fine, but it’s awful late for you to pretend to care about some Eastern European convict. Kirkov will handle it—”
“And make sure we pay.”
“Didn’t know it was your money.”
“The whole point of this nonsense was to get a name. Or, at the least, convince the so-called mole to jump, to take action against Wells and thus confirm his existence. Was that not the point? Tell me.”
Duto had always had a mean stare. This office amplified it.
“Yes.”
“But nothing happened. No one jumped. No one tried to stop Wells in Afghanistan or Bulgaria.”
Wells had run into that unexpected trouble at Pakistani immigration in Karachi. But Shafer didn’t think mentioning that incident would help his case. Especially since it was now two months old.
“Thus, you and Bat Boy are no closer to finding the mole—or even proving that he exists—than you were when you started this whole game.”
“If you’d let us run proper surveillance—”
“Please. Despite the agency doing just what you asked to make this crazy scheme happen. Despite me lying to my top officers and them lying to the guys on the ground in Afghanistan. A whole avalanche of crap steaming downhill on your insistence. None of it worked. All you’ve done is waste time.”
“We didn’t get what we came for, but we got something else. This new lead, it’s real, it’s specific—”
“You have a name? You know who this guy talks to in Syria? Or who in Paris talks to him?”
“You know that’s not how it works.”
“Interesting definition of specific.” The contempt in Duto’s voice was worse than a shout.
“If Wells says it’s good, it’s good.”
“Sounds like you had a real in-depth conversation today. Considering you didn’t even know he killed someone.”
“I know he’s going to Paris,” Shafer said. “Actually, Sevran, that’s a banlieue—”
“I know what Sevran is, Ellis. Please don’t tell me that Wells is looking for more favors at this point.”
“Favors? He just went to prison to find a traitor.”
“Want to know the other reason that Ludlow came in here with his hair on fire? You. Crompond and Green are complaining you harassed them.”
“I haven’t even spoken to them.”
“You’ve spoken to their families. And you gave up Crompond’s real identity to a guy he was trying to recruit, which causes problems on about five levels.”
“By his own account, he’d already failed.” Shafer’s defense sounded lame in his own ears. At least now he knew why Crompond hadn’t challenged him directly after Shafer met the imam.
Duto put a finger to his lips. “Quiet time now. Think hard. Did all this scuttling around, all these interviews, for lack of a better word, get you anywhere?”
“They were productive.”
“Did they produce any actual leads?”
“Not leads, per se—” Shafer clamped his mouth shut before he could embarrass himself further. The announcer in his head chimed in, sounding exactly like Jim Lampley: A left! Another left! A vicious jab, and Ellis Shafer is stumbling, out on his feet! How much longer will the refs let this go on?
“I don’t think you realize how much rope I give you and your friend. Ludlow wants you gone. Seeing you today set him off.”
So much for Duto making him wait to give him the last word. “Like you hoped it would.”
“Said he couldn’t tolerate you fishing anymore. Called you the second coming of Angleton. Said he would quit if I didn’t deal with you. You hear that? There may be an attack coming, and my handpicked director hates you so much he’s more worried about you. You understand what a problem you’ve become?”
Shafer straightened up, spoke with a confidence he wished he felt. “I understand I walked in here with the biggest intel breakthrough we’ve had this year. Especially if the chatter’s right and this attack in Europe is real. Instead of thanking me, you whine to me about Peter Ludlow’s hurt feelings. I’m going to assume this is just you playing some
game, Vinny. If it’s not, it’s pathetic.”
“Hope you and your loyal sidekick can find this guy, Ellis. If not, I’m giving Ludlow what he wants. Time for you to kick back anyway.”
You can’t. But of course Duto could. What leverage did Shafer have? To blackmail Duto with their shared secrets? Revealing the details of the most important covert American operations of the last decade wouldn’t do him or the country any good. Somewhere along the way, Duto had realized what Shafer was seeing only now. Some secrets were too big to come out. Having too much leverage could be as useless as having none.
Duto had just reminded Shafer what everyone who walked into this office learned sooner or later. In the end, they all served at the President’s pleasure.
“We’ll find him.”
“I’m sure you will. Now, go on. Out.”
“Bastard,” Shafer muttered under his breath.
“What did you say, Ellis? Say it again. Out loud.”
Duto might fire him on the spot if he repeated the word, Shafer knew. If he didn’t, he could never look Duto—or himself—in the eyes again. Easy choice.
“I called you a bastard, Vinny.” In for a penny . . . “Shall I spell it? B-A-S-T-A-R-D.” With every letter, Shafer waited for the explosion.
But when he finished, Duto grinned, the smile of a man who knew not just that he owned all the cards but the table and the casino, too. “I love it when you talk dirty, Ellis.”
21
SEVRAN, FRANCE
THE DAY’S last nonstop to Paris had taken off before Wells reached Sofia Airport late Friday afternoon. He was stuck flying through Frankfurt and didn’t land at Charles de Gaulle until almost midnight. He decided to find a hotel close by, go to Sevran the next day. He saw no advantage to wandering the banlieue’s empty streets tonight.
“I warn you, it’s late, we have only singles,” the check-in clerk at the Comfort Hotel said. “Quite small.”
Wells had to smile. “Long as they have toilets.” And beds.
—
ROOM 310 was not much larger than his cell. But its door opened from the inside. Wells tried three times to be sure. He shucked his clothes, stepped into the shower. Turned the water hot as it would go, leaned against the smooth plastic wall, closed his eyes, and seared the prison off his skin.
When he was done, he wiped off the steamed mirror and looked himself over. The meat of his left shoulder had turned blue-black. Prison meals had cost him another five pounds. He was okay, more or less. As for his other injury, the one between his legs, he’d decided not to think about what permanent damage he might have suffered.
He dug out the phone the guard had given him, thumbed in Shafer’s number. Then deleted it, dialed Anne instead.
“John?”
“Yes’m.”
She didn’t speak. Wells was happy to listen to her breathe. “Where are you?”
“Paris.”
“Sounds nice. Not that I’ve been. Eiffel Tower?”
“Line’s too long.”
“You’re in one piece?”
“I’m fine. I missed you.”
“Your daughter, too, I bet. She’s right here.”
“Anne—”
But she’d already handed off the phone. “DaddyDaddyDaddy—”
“I missed you, little girl.”
“A thousand days, Daddy—”
“Slight exaggeration.”
“A thousand million days. I’m three now—”
“Not quite.”
“Yes! I! Am!”
Toddler logic. Wells had forgotten toddler logic. Conversational diversions were the best answer. “How’s Freddy?” Her favorite toy.
“Who?”
“Freddy Bear, from the mall, with the backpack—” Wells wondered if he had really put a knife in a man’s neck twelve hours before. Tonight on A&E: Killer Dads!
“Freddy’s boring, Daddy. And Tonka ate his foot. I like Peppa now.” Delivered in a Don’t you know anything? tone.
She’d already forgotten Freddy? “Who’s Peppa?”
“Peppa Pig! Mommy said I could watch a video tonight—”
Wells didn’t like that idea, but he was hardly in a position to question Anne’s parenting.
“Are you outside, Daddy?”
“Outside where? No, I’m in a hotel—”
“Outside our house— Hey!” Her voice rose.
“Okay, enough.” Anne.
“Tonka ate Freddy Bear’s foot? Why wasn’t I told?”
“We’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow, but soon.”
“Be safe, John. We miss you.”
Somehow, those easy words twisted the knife more than anything else would have.
“Say good-bye to your dad—” In the background, Emmie began to scream.
“Bye, little lady. I love you—”
Her wails were all Wells heard before Anne hung up.
—
HE CALLED SHAFER. Who didn’t even say hello.
“What is wrong with you?”
“The question on everyone’s lips.”
“Everyone’s favorite POTUS bent me over his desk this afternoon.”
“Save the dress.”
“Didn’t think to tell me about your little knife fight?”
Oh, goody. “Open line, Ellis—”
“Please. Saddest part is, I know why you didn’t. You didn’t care. He didn’t register as a problem, so he didn’t register at all. Roadkill.”
Wells blinked, found himself in an apartment in the Bronx. A backyard in South Africa. A factory in Turkey. Everywhere, and always leaving death. The faces changed, but the empty eyes were the same. He needed to write down whatever he could remember. Their names, if he had them. Or the details he knew, if he didn’t.
He owed the kills at least that much.
“Forgot the good news,” Shafer said. “You’re right. Nobody cares. No warrants, no Red Notice, no nothing. Doesn’t matter. All God’s chillun got wings. You gave him his.”
A great black bird swooped from the ceiling and dug its claws into Wells’s spine. “I’ll call you back.”
Shafer grunted like he’d only now realized how far he’d pushed. “No. I am not letting you hang up so you can beat yourself about the face and neck for this. Tell me the truth. Him or you, right?”
Wells saw the Bulgarian stomping down the corridor, knew he would have painted Wells’s brains on the walls if Wells had given him the chance. “So?”
“So everything. Should have kept my mouth shut. Duto tore me up, I sent it downhill. Manly of me. Leading from across the ocean. Please, John, let’s forget it.” Real urgency in Shafer’s voice.
What Wells wanted to say: I don’t deserve to be anyone’s father. What he said: “Apology accepted.”
—
SHAFER WAITED a few seconds, cleared his throat like a radio jock who’d just finished reading an obituary and now had to go to an ad for a car dealership. “Good. For what it’s worth, my meeting today wasn’t entirely useless. Our headwaiter gave me the special of the day.”
“And?” Wells forcing himself to play along, leave the acid bath of the last five minutes behind.
“We’ve picked up some chitty-chatty about red team nastiness. Probably in Europe. Before you ask, no particular country.”
“Sounds—”
“Useless?”
“I was going to say non-specific.”
“That it is. Think it’s connected to your little class trip?”
Wells considered. He and Shafer had assumed the traitor would respond to Wells’s mission either by attacking him directly or finding a way to pass word to Hani. Maybe their guy had gone with choice C: Kill ’em all. Instead of trying to stop Wells, he had decided that the end was ni
gh and he would help the Islamic State put together a major attack. “Timing’s awfully coincidental.”
“Question is, what could our friend have given them?”
Almost anything, as both Wells and Shafer knew. “Bet the Puma can tell us,” Wells said. “Especially if it’s happening here.”
“On that note, I ran another search on what you gave me not just our databases but everyone’s. Didn’t find much. No Abu Najma. No Puma. There’s a guy in Marseilles who goes by Tiger Junior.”
“That ain’t him.”
“Agree. I’ve even gone through French school and birth records to look for girls named Najma in Sevran and the surrounding banlieues. Only found two. One of the fathers died in a car accident a few years ago. The other is a junior maintenance worker for Électricité de France, twenty-three. He’s worth a look if everything else misses, but I can’t believe he’s our man.”
“What about Sevran? Anything pop up?”
“Not enough to matter. The French think it’s mainly recruiters there, nobody senior. They say the guy running the network lives in Bondy.”
“Another banlieue, right?”
“Yeah, five miles nearer Paris. Any chance your prison friend could have gotten them confused?”
“He was very clear.”
“Also, this Puma is smooth, right? Fits in. The guy the French are looking at barely got out of high school, done time for drugs, et cetera.”
“Not him.”
“Again, we agree. You want anything from us? Technical support?”
Wells couldn’t talk anymore, and not just because the line wasn’t secure. “Ellis, I gotta go.”
“It’ll look better with some sleep.”
“More rear echelon advice.”
Silence. “Had that coming,” Shafer finally said.
—
UGLY DREAMS tossed Wells. He woke with the certainty that he should mention the Puma to the jihadis of Sevran only as a last resort. How would Wells have heard of the alias? Even bringing up Syria too directly would be risky. The Islamic State’s recruiters were hungry for new men, but with French security services cracking down, they would be wary of outsiders. Even if Wells overcame their suspicions, the recruiters would hardly send him to their senior commander right away.
The Prisoner Page 29
