Fedin wondered if he should call Nemtsov back to his office, if their alliance could survive an honest conversation about motives and power. In the end, I have the country and the army, Oleg. Even if you keep the FSB, the best you can do is destroy us both. But Nemtsov would only insist that Fedin was wrong: You can trust me, Comrade Sergei, now and forever. He’d walk back to Lubyanka—underground, where he belonged, where he was comfortable. Fedin would spend the rest of his life waiting for his counterattack.
Maybe Nemtsov was right. The bombing had been the more complex mission, more chances for mistakes. Fedin had seen the FSB’s honeypot operatives. If one of them had her hooks in this poor sap of a sniper . . .
As a rule, Fedin was willing to take chances. Even when missions went wrong, like when those idiot Ukrainians shot down MH17 and bragged about it, he didn’t second-guess. But the stakes were so high this time.
Maybe Duto would save him from having to make it.
Now the sniper had done his work in Missouri. A perfect shot, the reporters said. Fedin slept restlessly, dreamed he was watching television, Nemtsov whipping a woman until her skin was a carpet of blood. Fedin tried to change the channel, but he couldn’t find the remote.
At 6 a.m., he gave up on sleep, showered, shaved, felt better immediately. Outside, the day was black and cold, but Fedin didn’t mind. A Russian winter morning. Five hundred such mornings had done in the Germans. Fedin headed to his windowless private office to drink coffee and wait for Duto’s call.
It came just at 7. Both sides had translators available, but usually the two men spoke in English. Fedin’s was more than passable. “Mr. President.”
“Mr. President.” Duto’s voice was low and gravelly, as if he were too tired even to hide his exhaustion. “You called to tell me how sorry you are.”
“I called to tell you that we need to make this stop. In your country and mine.”
“How do you propose we do that? Since we aren’t even sure yet who did this.”
“Russia is your ally.”
Fedin could hear Duto’s breathing. A wounded bear.
“In return?”
“This isn’t the moment for that.”
“Let me guess, Sergei. Cooperation on Ukraine. Cooperation on Syria. Maybe let you buy our best software so you can design that fifth-generation fighter you’ve been promising for twenty years.”
“To be treated with respect, yes.”
“And dropping the sanctions. How could I forget?” Duto made a noise that was half growl and half groan. The sound of a man who’d put enough liquor in himself to say what he thought. “Thanks, but we’ll find whoever’s doing this all by ourselves. I would hate to think Russia was using dead Americans for its own benefit.”
“We only want to help—”
“Then let me sleep, Sergei. While you and Oleg Nemtsov do what it is you do all day. Bite the heads off chickens or whatever. That way, I can pretend this conversation was a bad dream.”
You’ll regret this, Fedin almost said. To speak to the president of the Russian Federation this way.
“As you like. Good night.”
Duto hung up without another word.
Fedin laid down the phone. How could he ever have imagined Duto would listen to reason? The Americans and their arrogance.
He’d made a mistake. He needed to correct it.
He punched in a number.
Nemtsov picked up after two rings. “Comrade Fedin?”
Fedin didn’t answer right away. They were both silent. Nemtsov’s home had no background noise. No surprise, it never did. Fedin sometimes imagined he lived inside a vault. It was possible. Even Fedin had never seen the inside of Nemtsov’s home.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Nemtsov finally said.
“I should never have doubted you, Oleg.”
19
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Even the makeup artists in the television green rooms treated Paul Birman differently these days. They took their time, used the hundred-dollar foundation, the stuff that smoothed his pores without giving him a clownish glow-in-the-dark tint. They no longer chatted while they worked either. Like he was too important for them to bother him with their petty thoughts.
Paul talked to them instead. At them. They nodded their heads at his brilliance like he was Moses bringing down the Commandments. Paul liked having his ass kissed as much the next rich guy turned senator. But he already saw how this much flattery could be confusing. When he reached the White House, the bubble would be even worse.
If. Not when. He hadn’t won anything yet.
Though he knew he would.
He was making the rounds of the morning shows to start the week. The calls to his press secretary had begun not even twenty minutes after the Associated Press flashed a bulletin about Luke Hurley’s death. Fox and CNN and MSNBC wanted to interview him on Sunday afternoon while the body was still warm. Paul talked it over with Eric. They both agreed the answer should be no. Not just because the timing was vaguely ghoulish. Before Paul shed tears for Hurley as a modern-day Christian martyr, they should be sure the guy hadn’t been screwing choirboys. Anyway, if the sniper really had shot Hurley for his religion, the story would only get bigger.
So it did. By late afternoon, the bookers were practically begging. Normally, the shows wanted exclusivity—or at least semi-exclusivity, meaning no more than one appearance on a competing network. Not this time. Paul hadn’t had this many pretty women on their backs for him since he left Los Angeles thirty years ago, a time in his life he tried his best to forget, though he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself back then.
Then the Intelligence Committee staff told Eric that the FBI agents combing through Hurley’s past had found no skeletons in their first pass. The guy paid his bills, loved his family, drove a minivan, mowed the lawn at his church-owned house. He even ministered once a week at a homeless shelter in St. Louis. Of course, the investigation might find something in a week or two, but real trouble usually popped up almost immediately.
Paul and Eric decided he would start with Fox, his base, then hit the rest in order of audience size.
He woke up with the sentences he was going to speak already chiseled in his head. His first hit was at 7:30 a.m. Eastern. He arrived early, had the makeup room at 400 North Capitol to himself. Eric was outside, doing his chief of staff thing, talking or texting or both at once. Paul’s driver and bodyguard waited unobtrusively in the corner as the makeup woman, a chubby fifty-something—Samantha, Sabrina, he’d been here enough times, he should remember—gave him one last touch with her brush.
“You’re good.”
“Am I?”
“Senator, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Thanks to you, Selena.” Selena. For the win. And, yes!
She gave him a sheepish smile—You remembered!—as the Fox producer stepped into the room. “Three minutes.” Lesser guests endured what the bookers called pre-interviews, discussions of their expertise, what they planned to say. The elite showed up, had their faces painted, and walked on.
“Thanks.” Paul said Thanks more than ever. His good Tennessee manners at work. The word the magic carpet on which he floated through his day. He stood, smoothed his suit, craned his head so a tech could attach a tiny microphone to his suit. The new mics were so reliable that the producers could dispense with the Can you count to ten for me? routine that had been a staple for decades.
“You’ll have two segments, but if you want to go longer, that’s fine.”
“Thanks.”
They put him in the chair as the show went to commercial. Fox & Friends was filmed in New York. Under normal circumstances, not being on set with the anchors could be dangerous. It gave the hosts the power to dictate interviews. They could make guests look deer-in-the-headlights helpless, staring at the wrong camera, trying to an
swer one question as the next rolled in.
But Paul knew they were on his side today, and he planned to use his isolation, the chance to speak unimpeded, to his advantage.
“Back in five . . . four . . . three . . .”
The screen to Paul’s right filled with the face of Steve Doocy, the show’s senior host, grave and serious. Paul stared straight at the camera.
“We’re here with Senator Paul Birman of Tennessee, chairman of the Intelligence Committee. To talk about the tragic shooting in Missouri yesterday, the killing of Pastor Luke Hurley as his family watched. Senator, we know the FBI is considering terrorism as a motive in this case. What can you tell us?”
Showtime.
“Steve, thank you for having me on. First of all, let me say my thoughts and prayers are with Pastor Hurley’s wife and children and his parishioners. By all accounts, he was an exemplary man, a true Christian leading a Christian life.” Always work thoughts and prayers in first. Besides, this time Paul might even be telling the truth.
“Of course, Senator. We’re already hearing about his good works. And then, yesterday, to be cut down outside his own church—” A perfect lead-in. Paul didn’t have to watch the monitor to know Doocy was slowly shaking his head.
“Yes, Steve. We can’t be sure yet, but the early indications are that Luke Hurley was killed for his religion. We need to let the authorities investigate. But here’s what we know already. Terrorism is a cancer spreading across the United States. President Duto’s inability to face this threat head-on gives these killers aid and comfort. Nearly a month has passed, and we have no evidence as to who ordered the attack in Dallas. No plan to bring the perpetrators to justice. I don’t want to think that in a month I’m going to be back here talking about how Luke Hurley’s shooter is still on the loose, still terrorizing Christians all over this country. Yet I fear that’s exactly what will happen. President Duto needs to step up or get out of the way.”
“Are you saying the President should resign?”
“I don’t want him to resign. I want him to act. And, by the way, if he’s so confident that we have the terrorist threat contained, it would be nice to see him join us commoners outside the White House security bubble.”
The interview went on another few minutes, but Paul already knew he’d won. Fox would run President Duto needs to step up or get out of the way fifty times today. He was happy with his dodge of the resignation question, too. Saying Duto should resign would have sounded ridiculous. Presidents didn’t resign. But flat out saying no would have disappointed his hard-core supporters. He’d found the perfect middle ground.
He came out of the studio to find Eric, arms folded, frowning. “Everything okay? I thought I killed it.”
“Someone called in bomb threats to your offices in Tennessee this morning. And this morning Gloria and your housekeeper both heard two shots outside the mansion. There’s no sign anything hit the house, but Gloria wants you to call right away. She’s really upset.”
Paul was more angry than frightened. How dare they come after his family? Yet he felt something else, too, an emotion he needed a moment to recognize. Pride.
Even the bad guys knew who he was.
“I’ve already called Sean Flynn,” Eric said. “We’ll see him at noon.”
“Who?”
“Chief of the Capitol Police. In my opinion, you’re reaching a presidential-level profile, and they should give you full-time protection the way they do for the leaders.” The Secret Service protected the president, but Congress had its own dedicated security force, the Capitol Police. The police guarded the Capitol complex and provided security details to the House and Senate majority and minority leaders. Other lawmakers didn’t receive full-time protection even after the shooting of Gabrielle Giffords and Steve Scalise.
“I trust Jimmy.” Jimmy Sanders, his bodyguard.
“I do, too, but he’s only one guy. Let’s see what Flynn says.”
“Thanks, Eric.”
“You’re the franchise.”
The Capitol Police were headquartered in a handsome six-story building on D Street, near Union Station. Like the rest of the Washington security complex, the force had grown vastly since September 11. In the nineties, even the majority leaders hadn’t had guards, only drivers. Now the force had more than two thousand officers, including bomb squads, undercover agents, and a chemical and biological response team. It regularly locked down the streets near the Capitol in response to threats.
Flynn’s office was on the top floor, with a view southwest over the Capitol dome. The man himself was in his late forties, hearty, with muscled arms that suggested he rarely missed a day at the gym.
“Senator Birman. Saw you on Fox this morning. A pleasure to meet you in person.” He gave Paul a big smile, the kind that spelled bad news. Paul decided to let his cousin handle the conversation. He nodded at Eric.
“Chief Flynn—” Eric said.
“Call me Sean, Colonel. Can I get either of you coffee?”
“I trust you’ve seen the reports from this morning.”
“I have. The threat cycle is picking up. Fifteen members received calls to their offices today.”
“How many of those had shots fired at their homes? Or were on six different networks this morning?”
Flynn raised his oven-mitt hands. “I get it, I promise. If the Senator receives a specific threat to a specific appearance, we will be there ourselves, we’ll liaise with the local police, the FBI. But barring that, we have five hundred thirty-five members to protect, and you guys and gals are way more active than the President. To your credit. But it makes you tough to watch, you understand. To have even one officer watching each of you full-time, I’d need a force at least three times this size. No joke.”
“We’re not asking you to protect five hundred thirty-five members. We’re asking for one.”
“Can’t play favorites. Not that your colleagues would let me. I can just imagine what Chuck Schumer would say—hypothetically speaking, of course—” Flynn shook his head. “Good news is, I know Jimmy Sanders. He’s very capable. And if you want recommendations for more bodyguards, I can help.”
“You think I should pay for my own protection?” Paul said.
“I really am sorry, Senator.”
“At least he was honest,” Paul said in the elevator down.
“We’ll hire some folks. May take a couple weeks, I want to get the right people, but we’ll find them.”
“My number one priority is keeping Gloria safe. And the kids. Forget me.”
“Understood.”
Eric Birman looked into his cousin’s eyes, saw Paul was telling the truth. Or believed he was, anyway. Maybe for the first time in his life, Eric found himself proud of Lucky Cousin Paul.
Ironic.
Not worried? You should be, he wanted to tell his cousin. Scared to death.
20
MEXICO CITY
Monday morning, a courier showed up at Wells’s hotel room with a Colombian passport for Coyle in the name of Raul Moreno and an American one for Wells in the name of James Walsh. Plus a garment bag that held shiny silvery shirts and black jeans for Coyle, a lightweight suit for Wells. Look the part, the note inside said.
“I’d ask how she knows our sizes, but of course she knows our sizes,” Coyle said. “She’s a genie. With no wish limit.”
“Don’t get used to it. When this is done and they send you to Nicaragua and the station’s air-conditioning kicks out twice a month and you have a broken chair and a view of a blast wall and your chief tells you to chase a lead in the Ministry of Transport and, by the way, don’t lose any more receipts, this will seem like a pleasant dream.”
“I’m going to enjoy it, then.”
“Speaking of, let’s go to the Four Seasons. I want you calling Banamex from a landline that suits Raul Moreno’s
tastes.”
Wells spent the morning coaching Coyle on what to say. And how to say it:
Don’t be too polite, you’re rich, you give orders. As far as you’re concerned, these bankers are a bunch of trained seals. You want Mendoz only, no one else. They’re not going to like that, but stick to it. You want to buy a place in Miami, you heard she could help. They ask you why her, someone you know recommended her. No details. You and your American lawyer—no, advisor, lawyer is checkable and advisor isn’t—will tell her what she needs to know face-to-face. Nothing about where the money comes from. Make sure they know you’re busy, you want this as soon as possible, but no deadline, that gives them a chance to say no.
Coyle called, had a conversation shorter than Wells would have liked, clicked off.
“They’ll call back. They asked me how I liked the Four Seasons. They obviously knew the number. Got weird when I asked for Mendoz, said she didn’t meet new clients without a reference. I said her or no one. They asked me if I had proof of the money. I told them, Of course.”
“Sounds good. Now we wait. For them and Tarnes.”
Around 3 p.m., Wells’s phone buzzed. Tarnes.
“A gentleman from the Royal Cayman Bank is going to call in the next ten minutes. He has some know-your-customer questions.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning under the new anti-laundering rules, banks can’t just open accounts for anyone who walks in. The more money you want to deposit, the more questions they’re supposed to ask. An American bank, an account of this size, they’d want specifics about how you make your money. What business you’re in. Maybe even a tax return. If the Cayman bankers want access to the global money transfer system, they have to follow the same rules. In theory. In reality, the way it goes is, they ask. But if you won’t tell them, you say you don’t want to talk about your business, hint maybe you’re trying to move assets in front of a divorce, they’ll just go to the default question: Is the money from an illegal source? And you say?”
The Deceivers Page 26
