The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  Coyle sat beside the guy, showed him a map of Quito. Wells watched in the rearview mirror as the man’s finger darted at random across the map’s right half.

  “He says he’s sure it was somewhere between Parque Itchimbía, that’s a few hundred meters south, and Bellavista, that’s a rich neighborhood maybe four klicks northeast.”

  Wells couldn’t tell if the guy was being difficult or was simply confused. “That’s a congressional district, not a neighborhood.”

  More talk. “It was near the top of the city. Like a castle.”

  “Meaning a moat and a drawbridge?”

  “On one of the higher streets, the edge of the grid, where the city runs into the hills.” Coyle led the guy out of the car, pointed up, east. The guy nodded.

  “We go up there, he thinks he can figure it out.”

  “If he’s so confused, how’d he find it in the first place? How can he have no idea of the route he took?”

  “He doesn’t go up there much. He used a map on his phone. Even with that, it took him a while—”

  Life in the age of GPS. “Where’s the phone?”

  “I was about to tell you he doesn’t have it anymore. He lost it.”

  “Lo siento,” the guy said.

  “Makes two of us.” Wells turned on the Toyota.

  Trying to take a systematic route along the edge of the Quito street grid proved more difficult than Wells hoped. The eastern ridgeline wasn’t a solid mass like the flank of Volcán Pichincha on the other side of the valley. It was made up of small hills broken by gullies and streams. Walled houses and mid-rise apartment buildings dominated the lower sections. The upper hillsides included an odd array of mansions, cinder-block shacks, monasteries, and parks. Wells even saw signs for a zoo, although it seemed to be gone. Streets changed names and directions as they followed the topography of the hills. A few roads extended over the hills before dropping into the valley to the east.

  Wells drove slowly, making sure he didn’t miss any turnoffs. He tried to stay patient. If the guy felt pressured, he might pick a house at random. Still, Wells didn’t understand how anyone could be so geographically challenged. His sense of direction had saved his life more than once.

  After a half hour, he pulled over beside a one-pump gas station at the city limits. “Any ideas?”

  “Nothing in this section. Maybe farther north.”

  Wells wondered if the guy might be lying, taking them on an expensive sightseeing ride. But he surely wanted the extra hundred dollars. After another twenty minutes, they’d almost reached the north end of the neighborhood. Wells made a right, up a steep pitch—

  The guy squawked at Coyle.

  “This seems familiar.”

  Wells reached a T junction with high-walled houses on both sides.

  “Izquierda.” The guy pointed left, the first time he’d given Wells any directions. A hand-lettered sign dangling from a wall proclaimed the street Calle Ignacio. The hillside here was steep, and the houses hemmed in on small plots. A few hundred yards north, the street abruptly ended at another T junction.

  Beyond the junction, the hillside dropped away into a deep gorge. The slope wasn’t quite a cliff, but it was too steep for trees to take root, only brush. On the opposite side of the gorge, Bellavista, the next district north, occupied a hill of its own. An arched bridge to the northwest spanned the ravine and connected the two neighborhoods, but it couldn’t be reached from here without doubling back.

  “Derecho.” The shopkeeper jabbed a finger right.

  “Right,” Coyle said.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Wells turned right, along a road that had been carved into the hill. This area had clearly been developed as an enclave for the rich. The road was paved. A billboard offered a rendering of an idealized neighborhood filled with expensive SUVs. Just as clearly, the rich had stayed away. The billboard was peeling. The street had only a handful of houses scattered among empty plots of land.

  The road dead-ended at an ungainly two-story concrete house. A wall topped with concertina wire surrounded the place. Though it seemed to be located on the edge of the wilderness, it was, in reality, no more than three miles from the bodega. Even with the winding roads, they could be back in ten minutes.

  Wells knew he should be pleased they’d found it, but he was annoyed the guy had wasted their morning. “This didn’t stick? It’s literally the last house in the neighborhood.”

  “He did mention his sense of direction,” Coyle said.

  “Glad we’re not lost in the jungle with him.”

  “Aquí,” the guy said.

  Wells pulled up. A rusted chain and combination lock held the front gate tight. A neon yellow poster warned PELIGRO! NO ENTRAR. Behind the gate, the house appeared unlit, its windows barred.

  “If I were hiding a bunch of Russians, this wouldn’t be the worst place,” Coyle said.

  “Or a body. We’ll take our friend back, figure out a way inside.”

  “Cien dólares.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Wells and Coyle spent the afternoon shopping for supplies and checking out Google overheads of the house and the land around it. The aerials confirmed what Wells already knew after seeing the place firsthand. The house was in a bad spot for a break-in. He and Coyle would be conspicuous coming down the dead-end road.

  Worse, they had no good exit routes once they reached the house. The ravine was a trap. Even if they reached the bottom without falling and breaking bones, they’d have a tough climb out. Their best bet for escape would be the other way, up the hill south of the house. Once they topped out, they could track southwest, toward the city. But they would have to traverse several private properties to get back to the grid. Wells suspected that Ecuadorian landowners would shoot first and ask questions later.

  “We’ll go at dusk,” Wells said. “Dark is too obvious. Peek inside and get gone.”

  “Pistolas tonight?”

  Wells nodded. This trip might turn messy, no point in pretending otherwise.

  With the sun vanishing, Wells piloted the Toyota along Calle Ignacio. Two cars had trailed his Toyota, but they’d turned off. Coincidence, most likely. Now his rearview mirror was empty. He turned right at the T junction, parked in front of the house. No reason to be subtle. The lights of Bellavista sparkled to the north. To the west, the sun disappeared behind the Volcán Pichincha, and all of Quito slipped into shadow at once.

  “Prettier than Helmand,” Coyle said.

  “Anyplace is prettier than Helmand.”

  They didn’t have any fancy gear for this mission, no night vision goggles or concussion grenades. They had picked up a sledgehammer, pliers, gloves, and masks from a construction supply store. At a shop that catered to Western hikers, they’d bought powerful LED headlamps that strapped to their foreheads, leaving their hands free. Wells had his auto pick. They had their pistols in inside-waistband holsters.

  Wells took one more look down the empty road. “Ready?”

  “That a rhetorical question?”

  “Big word, for a Marine.”

  Coyle offered Wells a two-fingered salute.

  They could have climbed the wall and cut the razor wire. But Wells wanted the gate open in case they needed to make a quick exit. He grabbed the sledgehammer from the trunk, took a three-quarters swing that clanged off the gate rather than the lock. His second try rattled the lock, didn’t break it. Wells knew if he didn’t bust it with the third swing, Coyle would ask for a chance.

  No way.

  Wells lifted the hammer over his head, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. He lined up the swing, brought the hammer down. The lock split with a metal ping that echoed down the empty street.

  “Impressive, sir.”

  Wells didn’t need to ask if Coyle was being sarcastic.

  The y
ard had no koi ponds or fancy trees, just bare dirt and bits of broken bottles. The house loomed over it, with an American-style attached two-car garage. Wells wondered if the Mercedes was hidden there. But the garage door was solid, no way to see inside.

  Through the narrow window beside the front door, Wells spotted an alarm panel. It was dark. He suspected it wasn’t connected. He put the auto pick to the door. The bolts swung back quickly. When Wells opened the door, the panel stayed dark, and no alarm sounded. Wells switched on his headlamp, pulled on latex gloves, stepped inside, with Coyle a step behind.

  The house had a mansion-style floor plan, with a big foyer and a wide central staircase. But it was unfinished, the floor bare concrete. A faintly unpleasant smell seeped through the air, seeming to come from the garage.

  “Just a clogged toilet, right?” Coyle said.

  “No doubt.” Wells wanted to check the rest of the house first. If the smell was a body, once they unearthed it the stench would be unbearable.

  Wells picked his way up the stairs. The stink wasn’t as bad up here, and the house was more finished. The second floor had a master bedroom suite left of the stairs, two smaller bedrooms in the middle, a den on the right.

  Someone had been looking after the house. Glue-style mousetraps dotted the corners. The rooms were furnished with cheap but functional couches and beds. Someone had lived here, too. At least for a while. Wells found a box of condoms in one bathroom, a couple pill bottles without labels in another. But nothing of value. No leftover laptops or flash drives.

  The third bedroom had a twin mattress on the floor. Wells nudged it aside—and found a paperback book, its cover embossed with a pair of crossed AK-47s, its title in Cyrillic.

  He showed it to Coyle, then stuffed it in his in his pocket. Maybe the agency could trace it. Maybe its owner had even written his name or left notes inside. Unlikely, but possible. They’d check later.

  Unlike the other closets, the one in the third bedroom was closed. Coyle pulled it open—

  Clothes. Mostly men’s. Jackets, pants, shoes. Coyle poked through labels. “Cyrillic. Figure they left the stuff because they were going somewhere they didn’t want people to know they were Russian?”

  Wells nodded. Only one place made sense, the good ol’ United States of America. “Take two minutes, see if you find anything besides lint in the pockets. I’ll look downstairs.”

  Downstairs. The sour smell strengthened as Wells walked into the kitchen. He looked through the refrigerator and freezer, found only a single, half-full bottle of vodka. He heard pattering behind him, spun, pulled his pistol—

  Realized the house did have at least one other occupant, a rat in the walls. He holstered his pistol as the animal scuttled off.

  Coyle came down the stairs. “Rat?”

  “Call it a big mouse. Might account for the smell, if they’re dead in the walls.”

  “Might.” Coyle handed Wells a phone, an old flip. “Found it in a jacket. Battery’s dead.”

  “Nice.” Wells stuffed it next to the book. The phone might be a shell, its SIM card gone and memory erased. It might be incredibly valuable. They wouldn’t know until someone at Langley broke it open. “One dead phone, one paperback book.”

  “Speaking of dead, how about the garage?”

  “Don’t sound so excited.” Wells had a jar of Vicks VapoRub in his pocket. He dipped a finger into the waxy jelly, lathered it under his nose, a soldier’s trick to cover terrible smells. He put a dust mask over his mouth and handed the jar to Coyle.

  A door off the kitchen led to the garage. Wells opened it, stepped down—

  And stumbled on a tire iron that someone had left by the stairs. He cursed as he went sprawling.

  As he pushed himself up, the light of his headlamp clanked off the long metal jelly bean of a Mercedes sedan. The stink of decay was stronger here. Still, the acrid scent wasn’t as strong as Wells would have expected, not if Hector Frietas was in the trunk of the Mercedes. Death was never subtle, certainly not after a week. He would have expected to hear flies buzzing, too.

  The sedan’s doors were locked. Wells grabbed the tire iron, smashed the driver’s window. He pulled open the door, popped the trunk.

  The stink was harsh, but the trunk was empty.

  Almost.

  Wells swung his headlamp side to side, captured smears of gray and a chunk of bone in the back corner of the trunk. The bone was the size of a silver dollar and still had bits of scalp attached. Plus four sad strands of hair that gleamed black under the lamp’s stark white glow.

  Wells had seen plenty of death. Still, the skull fragment tightened his stomach. Graciela had killed her husband, made his body vanish, pretended to care when Wells asked about him. The father of her children. The impersonal violence of war seemed almost honest compared to the intimacy of this evil.

  Wells pushed aside the thought he was making excuses for his own killing, drawing a line that made no difference to the corpses left behind. He picked up the bone. “Pretty sure this is what’s left of Hector Frietas.”

  “Guess we won’t be asking him what he wanted to tell us.”

  “Not without a medium.”

  Wells plucked a single greasy hair from the skull fragment on the unlikely chance that they would need Frietas’s DNA. He dropped the bone back inside the trunk, ran a hand across the coarse black fibers of the Mercedes’s trunk mat. They were stiff with dried blood. As he touched them, the stink worsened. Not just blood. Something sharp, too. Gasoline or lighter fluid. Wells’s hand stirred a cloud of flies. Coyle coughed under his mask.

  “She shot him, put him in the trunk. Dumped his body in the jungle, most likely. Based on the lighter fluid, maybe barbecued him, too. Then stashed the Mercedes here while she decides what to do next.”

  “Remind me not to make her mad.”

  Wells slammed down the trunk lid. “Wonder if she left anything in the car.”

  The front seats were empty. The glove compartment held nothing but an insurance card. But a black nylon gym bag was tucked on the floor behind the back seat. Coyle pulled it out. Underneath the bag, a single folded piece of paper. Wells opened it, found a single name. Anatoly Vanin.

  “John.” Coyle held open the unzipped bag. Inside, two thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Maybe a hundred thousand dollars, if the stacks were hundreds all the way through. And something else: a gold flash of metal. Wells reached for it.

  A badge. FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION / U / S / DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE in embossed letters, surrounding a stylized eagle with outstretched wings. If it wasn’t real, it was a very good fake. Wells showed it to Coyle.

  “That real?”

  “Let’s hope not.” Wells dropped it back in the gym bag.

  “Leave the bag?”

  Wells shook his head. They would need the bag to confront Graciela. And real or fake, the badge might be evidence.

  Wells squatted down, reached under the seats for a passport, a driver’s license, or some other goody. He came out empty. “One more look, then let’s get gone. Figure out the next move back at the hotel.”

  They checked the corners of the garage, under the Mercedes, didn’t find anything. They’d been in the house fifteen minutes, ten too long.

  They hurried through the kitchen, out the front door and into the yard—

  And heard an SUV speeding toward them, its engine rumbling in the quiet Quito evening, lights glaring through the filigree in the gate. By the time they reached the gate, the vehicle was barely a hundred yards away, a Ford Excursion flaring its brights. Blue security lights flashed in its grille. Coyle opened the gate. Wells pulled him back. They were too late. And the Toyota couldn’t outrun the Excursion, anyway.

  Wells put himself against the wall, reached for his phone, texted Tarnes their GPS coordinates. Nothing more. If something went wrong, Tarnes would understan
d.

  Wells wondered how Graciela had known they were here. Maybe the alarm had been silent and connected to the house back on Calle José Tamayo. Maybe she’d installed a pinhole camera that he and Coyle hadn’t noticed. But what was her plan? She wasn’t looking to arrest them. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to the Mercedes. Did she think she could make them vanish, too? Wells wanted to believe that the fact she had brought only one vehicle meant that she wanted to talk instead of shoot.

  But maybe she’d decided that killing suited her.

  The Ford stopped with its snout pointed at the Toyota. Graciela was in the driver’s seat, a man beside her. He opened his door and stepped out. He was brown-skinned, small, barely out of his teens. He wore a black uniform, and slung an AK. Not a real soldier. A paramilitary, an order taker. His uniform top had the hidden bulk of a bullet-resistant vest. The vest worried Wells as much as the AK. It would stop a subsonic round, which meant that the pistols Wells and Coyle carried were about as useful as the fake FBI badge they’d found.

  “Go back to the house,” Wells said. “Get a firing position. You hear me whistle, start shooting.”

  Coyle ran back to the front door. No questions. Good man.

  As Coyle disappeared, Graciela stepped out of the Ford. She wore a thin police-style, bullet-resistant vest over a black T-shirt. Wells wondered how he’d ever mistaken her for a statistician. Confirmation bias, the social scientists said. A fancy name for seeing what you wanted to see instead of what was in front of you.

  The soldier knelt behind the hood of the Toyota, covering the gate with his AK. Graciela stood beside him. “You’re trespassing!” she yelled. “Come outside!”

  Guess again. Wells took three sideways steps away from the gate, pulled his pistol, crouched low against the wall. He hoped the concrete was thick enough to protect him from an AK barrage. Two pistols against an AK wasn’t exactly a fair fight. But Wells and Coyle had the advantage of cover. Wells figured they could hold Graciela off until the real police showed up. If they did.