The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  He couldn’t stand needing Paul.

  He started to think about the Russians. They’d approached him after he retired from the Army, of course. They approached every important officer. Their pitch was public and relatively subtle. A St. Petersburg–based think tank called the Federation for Defense Cooperation offered him two hundred thousand dollars to speak at a conference. The group’s president, Gennady Petyaev, was a retired general smooth as a talk show host. Eric merely had to give a forty-five-minute speech about the way the United States military viewed the world, Petyaev said. And answer questions afterward.

  “What questions?”

  “Nothing surprising.” Then Petyaev mentioned that his group could pay far more if Eric attended other conferences. “These would be smaller events, and more tactical issues would be discussed.”

  “Sounds like you’d want me to disclose classified information.”

  “No, Colonel. Never. Only what you’re comfortable with.”

  Even then, before his hatred of Lucky Cousin Paul became overwhelming, the offer had a surprising pull. As a soldier, Eric admired the Russians for their uncompromising approach. When they decided to fight, they fought. They didn’t worry about civilian casualties or whiny journalists. They understood that too-strict rules of engagement could prolong wars and, ultimately, cost soldiers their lives. They’d lost twenty million of their own people in World War II, after all. And beaten the Nazis.

  In Syria, Russian fighter jets had done what the United States couldn’t: Stop the Islamic State from toppling the Assad regime. Bashar Assad was a butcher, Russian bombing had killed thousands of civilians. But did anyone doubt that letting Daesh take Damascus would have been far worse?

  The money was appealing, too. Eric’s branch of the Birmans had missed out on the mall fortune, thanks to his idiot granddad Philip, who refused to invest with the rest of the family. But Eric ultimately decided that taking money from Petyaev’s group would make defense contractors wary of him, an option that still seemed viable at the time.

  Now that he worked for his cousin, he couldn’t possibly take Russian money openly. Anyway, he’d decided that he was past the winking corruption of a think tank. Like the Russians themselves, he had no interest in half measures. Fortunately, Lucky Cousin Paul’s seat on the Intelligence Committee gave Eric nearly complete access to CIA and NSA secrets.

  He memorized the details of a program he knew the Russians would like, rented a storage room in Northeast D.C., and waited for the moment when he could meet a Russian intelligence officer without being obvious. It came at a dinner to celebrate the French president’s visit to Washington. The food was always excellent at the French embassy, and its dinners were always crowded. During cocktail hour, Eric spotted Dmitri Zlobin, the SVR’s deputy chief of station, in a line for the bathroom.

  The rest was history.

  The Russians had run him cautiously. Still, he knew the risks. Almost every agent was discovered sooner or later. Despite what he’d told Adam, Eric had decided that if he was found out, he would flee to Moscow. The Kremlin would take care of him. Russia treated its spies well. And his wife and kids would hardly notice he was gone.

  Plus, if he was discovered, Paul’s political career would end. How could Senator Birman survive the revelation that his cousin, a man he’d appointed as chief of staff, had betrayed the United States? So if it all went wrong, Eric would wind up alone in an apartment in Moscow. But Lucky Cousin Paul would be disgraced, too.

  Eric figured he could live with that trade-off.

  Now Eric sat in the Buffalo Wild Wings across from Adam.

  “I hope you like wings. I ordered two platters. Barbecue and Hot Sauce.”

  Eric glanced over his shoulder. No one was in earshot. “Maybe you’ve acclimated a little too well.”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy the crunch of a frozen chicken wing fried in oil.”

  Eric tapped his wrist: Let’s get to it. “First. The FBI is still stuck on Dallas.”

  “Are you sure they’re telling you everything?”

  “They’ve briefed us twice this week, and they seem edgy. Without coming out and saying so, they’re hinting they’ve asked the NSA and CIA for help, which is dangerous, because it could mess up any court cases. They’d only do that if they were desperate.”

  “They haven’t mentioned my friends?”

  “Not once. And that’s the kind of tidbit they would give us. See how hard we’re pushing, we’re even looking at—”

  Adam looked over Eric’s shoulder, a warning. “Hey there, bud—”

  “Straight from the fryer,” the waiter said. “Give ’em a second to cool.” He put down two plates of wings and nodded at Eric. “Get you a drink?”

  Eric shook his head, just a fraction.

  “We have an afternoon special—”

  “I said no.”

  Something in Eric’s eyes must have scared the waiter. The guy backed away. Civilians.

  Adam grabbed a wing. “You were saying.”

  “I have to watch you eat?”

  “I came here to eat. And study novel concepts in advanced C++ programming. You should eat, too.”

  The last sentence was half suggestion, half order: You’ll draw attention to yourself if you don’t. Eric didn’t like grease. At JSOC, he’d prided himself on being able to outrun soldiers half his age. He forced a stingingly hot barbecue wing into his mouth.

  “Good, right?”

  No. Eric finished three wings, anyway. Satisfied with my cover, fatso? “Second, if your friends are hoping they can stampede Duto into an alliance, they’re wrong.”

  For years, the Kremlin had proposed the United States work with it in Syria. After Dallas, it was making the case increasingly loudly. The Russian foreign minister had spent the last ten days in the United States, appearing on every media outlet that would have him. Whatever our differences, our countries have this terrible enemy in common, he said. The argument conveniently ignored that the United States was already fighting Daesh.

  “Duto won’t be president forever.”

  Words that made Eric sit up. The Russians couldn’t possibly be thinking about trying to kill the President. “Tell me that’s not on the agenda. You’d start World War Three. Anyway, this isn’t some dissident in Moscow. You can’t get to him.”

  “I’m just stating a fact,” Adam said primly. “Look at the polls.” Duto’s approval rating had fallen almost fifteen percentage points post-Dallas. “He got elected to keep the country safe. Look what happened.”

  Almost but not quite admitting that the Russians were behind the attack.

  “What about your cousin?” Adam said. “Does he understand the benefits of an alliance?”

  “Doubt he’s considered it either way. He thinks one sentence at a time.”

  “Could you convince him?”

  The wings had left Eric’s mouth coated with a sugary aftertaste. No wonder these places sold beer by the gallon. “What does it matter? I told you last time, he can’t win.”

  “He can put pressure on Duto. People listen to him.”

  Don’t I know it. Eric was almost sure Adam had just given him the real reason for this meeting. He didn’t love the idea of pitching his cousin to make a pro-Russian speech. Pushing too hard on Paul could be dangerous. Still, Paul liked strong men, and the Russian president was nothing if not strong. Look how they handled their own Muslim problem. They don’t screw around.

  “It would be good to do this as soon as possible,” Adam said.

  “What’s the rush?”

  Adam shrugged.

  “Fine. I’ll try.”

  “I’m sure you’ll succeed. He trusts you, yes?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? We’re blood.”

  13

  DALLAS

  A few hours before, Shafer h
ad opened his eyes and found himself on a pure white cloud. He wanted to believe he was in Heaven, but considering his feelings about God, or the lack thereof, a hospital seemed more likely. Second by second, the world pulled him in, the beeping of a heart monitor, the burn of a needle in his elbow, the controlled chaos of an emergency department outside his door.

  He tried to sit up, wished he hadn’t. The motion set his head on fire. He lay back, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself looking at a uniformed Dallas police officer.

  “Mr. Shafer. I’m Officer Thome.”

  “Where?” The word stuck in his mouth.

  “Presbyterian Hospital.” Thome pointed at the floor as if he worried Shafer might question existence itself. “In Dallas. We brought you in about an hour ago. Do you know why you’re here?”

  Because I had the misfortune to stumble on a good ol’ boy pleasuring himself to man-on-man-on-man action. Despite the pain, Shafer’s memory was surprisingly clear. He realized his left wrist was cuffed to the metal rail of his hospital bed. So he was under arrest.

  He decided to keep his version of events to himself for now. “Not sure.”

  “An apartment building manager caught you trying to burglarize his office. He struck you with a baton. The doctors say you have a hairline skull fracture.”

  “Hurts.”

  “I’ll bet. I’m not a doctor, obviously, but my understanding is you should make a full recovery. What worries us is, a few minutes before, you’d harassed the residents of an apartment in the complex. You insisted someone else lived there. A woman named Jeanelle. Do you know that name?”

  “Not sure.”

  “You have the right to remain silent, sir. But given that your driver’s license identifies you as a Virginia resident, and we haven’t found any relatives anywhere in Texas, I need to ask if you have any history of Alzheimer’s disease and if we should notify your relatives.”

  Of course they wanted to pin Alzheimer’s on him. Like he was ninety-five. Shafer stifled a curse as Thome knelt beside the bed.

  “Sir? I know this is complicated. I’m hoping to keep you out of the system if that’s possible. Are you following me?”

  Yeah, I’m following you. I’m a CIA officer with a direct line to the President. I came to Dallas because I have a lead on the bombings that the FBI’s too stupid to see. Even with the CIA identification in his wallet, Shafer had a feeling that answer wouldn’t convince Officer Friendly here. Plus he hadn’t told anyone at Langley about this trip.

  “No Alzheimer’s.”

  “Is Jeanelle someone important in your life?”

  “Call my wife.” Shafer didn’t like asking the police to involve Rachel in this mess, especially since the version of events they gave her would freak her out. But he had to make the charges go away immediately so he didn’t have to worry the cops would drag him to jail. He could use a lawyer, but having Rachel here would speed the process. And he wasn’t sure the hospital would let him drive after he was discharged.

  “Jeanelle is your wife? Why did you think she was in Dallas?”

  Oh, come on. Shafer tried to shake his head, an even bigger mistake than trying to sit up.

  “Were you trying to find her, Mr. Shafer? Did you travel with her to Dallas when you were younger?”

  Shafer had never met a cop so nice. Or so clueless. “Wife . . . Rachel,” he said through gritted teeth. “In Virginia. Call her.”

  “Your wife is named Rachel. And you want us to contact her.”

  “Yes.” An overwhelming tiredness took Shafer. Too much thinking too soon. He sank back in the bed, closed his eyes.

  Rachel arrived that evening, fear cutting lines in her round, pretty face. Shafer was at once glad and sorry to see her.

  He was no longer cuffed to the bed, and Officer Thome was long gone. The Dallas police had decided that he wasn’t a flight risk. After an afternoon of rest and morphine, he felt better. Slightly.

  “Ellis.” Rachel came to the bed, hugged him awkwardly, touched her lips to his. Then stood above him, tears flowing. “What happened to you? The police—”

  “Are idiots.”

  Ten minutes later, she was still crying. But laughing, too. “All those years being a jerk caught up to you.”

  “I’m not a jerk.”

  “You are such a jerk. You should have knocked, Ellis.”

  A trim redheaded woman in a white coat walked in before he could answer. “I’m Dr. Tyler.” She extended a hand, and Shafer managed to lift his own. “How are you feeling tonight, Mr. Shafer?”

  “Been better.”

  She leaned over, shined a penlight in his eyes. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Dallas. Presbyterian Hospital.”

  “Can you count back from one hundred by sevens for me?”

  “One hundred . . . ninety-three . . . eighty-six . . . seventy-nine . . .”

  “Good. You seem to be recovering nicely. As I’m sure Dr. Hansbro told you, your CT showed no signs of internal bleeding, and your pupil response and your vitals are normal. Must have a hard head.”

  “The hardest,” Rachel said.

  Tyler looked at her. “You’re his wife?”

  “Yes. Rachel.”

  “In all seriousness, the blow caught him on the thickest part of the skull, which was a lucky break. We’re going to keep him overnight, but assuming that he’s fine in the morning, we’ll discharge him then. The bigger question is why he wound up in that office at all. Has he recently displayed any other memory lapses or odd behavior, Mrs. Shafer?”

  I’m right here, Doctor. You can ask me. Being ignored by your own physician, reason one million twelve that getting old was no fun.

  “No more than normal.”

  Tyler didn’t smile. She must be used to spouses protecting each other from these questions.

  “Do you know why he came to Dallas?”

  “He’s always been interested in the Kennedy assassination.”

  Rachel delivered the line deadpan, forcing Shafer to bite his lip to stifle a laugh. Nicely done, Rach.

  Tyler looked to Shafer. “How about you, Mr. Shafer? Do you know why you came here?”

  “No idea.” True enough. At least in retrospect.

  “That concerns me. I can’t speak to the legal issues, but considering what I was told about the case, if anything, you strike me as the victim. But you must promise to see a neurologist after you get home.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mrs. Shafer, make sure he doesn’t forget.” Tyler reached over, squeezed Shafer’s hand. “I’ll check in on you again in the morning. Assuming everything’s fine, we’ll arrange your discharge. We will let the police know in case they want to—you know . . .”

  “Book me?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure they won’t . . . Feel better, Mr. Shafer.”

  “I already do.”

  “She’s nice,” Rachel said after Tyler left.

  “The Kennedy assassination.”

  “Thought you’d like that.”

  “Can I have your phone? I need to call Duto.”

  She laid a hand on his chest. Soft and full over his bones. He’d been used to the warmth of her palm for two-thirds of his life. “Ellis, when they discharge you, we’re going home. You understand that, right?”

  He stared at her, letting her know that he understood nothing of the sort.

  “You have a fractured skull, Ellis. Let someone else talk to these women. The FBI.”

  What had he expected her to say? But he knew the Feds would immediately bury his theory. No conspiracy necessary. It would fall victim to not-invented-here syndrome.

  “You don’t want to help me, I’ll get a lawyer.” He wanted to say more, but ten words at a time seemed to be all he could manage.

  “You are too old
for this, Ellis. Running around pretending you’re a field officer.” She leaned over, lowered her voice. “This theory of yours doesn’t make sense, anyway. The cops arrested a cocaine dealer, told him if he blew himself up, they wouldn’t charge him? And he went for it? Why? And why would they do it?”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense to me either. That’s why I don’t like it.”

  “Because if you in your genius can’t figure it out, it must be wrong.”

  “Make you a deal. We find Pitts and the waitress. If we don’t get anywhere with them, that’s it. I’ll even go to a neurologist back home.”

  “You just want me here because you’re going to have a bandage on your head and you’re worried no one will talk to you.”

  “Chauffeur.”

  “Of course, right. You can’t drive with a fractured skull.”

  She stepped away from the bed, sat in the corner of the room, and looked at him with an expression he’d known for forty years. Her head tilted, a smile creeping across her lips, vanishing, creeping back. A smile that said I don’t know why I find you charming, Ellis Shafer. I don’t know why I love you, but I do.

  “I’m only doing this because I’m worried that if I don’t let you, you’ll make my life so miserable I’ll end up strangling you.” She handed him her phone, kissed his forehead once more.

  “You’re the best, Rach.”

  “And you’re the worst. The worst.”

  14

  QUITO

  In the morning, the shopkeeper waited in front of his store, wearing a clean button-down shirt for his big adventure. Wells handed him a hundred-dollar bill, and he practically hopped into the back seat of the Toyota, chattering to Coyle.

  “Tell him he gets the other hundred when we find the place.”

  “He says he told his daughters they can have new sneakers with the money we gave him—”

  “Heartwarming. Does he happen to know where he’s taking us?”