The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  She didn’t flinch, but a tendon in her neck quivered.

  “If they do, I’ll kill you myself. I’ll blow that armored BMW of yours. Shoot you while you’re at a spa with your girlfriends.”

  “You can’t.” Her voice trembled.

  “You think I’m American government. You think I have rules.” Wells shook his head.

  “The narcos—”

  “They don’t care about you. They’re too busy with each other. They scare you, leave the country, go to Madrid, they’ll never think about you again. Not me. Four hundred people died in Dallas. I won’t forget.”

  Wells looked Mendoz over. She’d held up, considering, but her breathing came fast. Another line crossed. He had never gone after a civilian this way. But Alina Mendoz wasn’t exactly a civilian. Maybe.

  “Wait here.” She walked off, short steps on stiff legs. She left the garden, slammed the door, threw the bolt shut.

  Coyle came over. Wells expected he’d protest. He didn’t. “Let her off the hook too easy, didn’t I?”

  “She’s probably coming back with the cops.”

  “What’d you say?”

  Wells shook his head: You don’t want to know. He wondered if Mendoz believed his threat. He wondered if he believed it himself.

  He and Coyle sat silently as a helicopter circled overhead. Jacaranda petals fluttered down, providing a counterpoint to the sirens ringing in the distance. After a while, they died out. But the quiet didn’t mean a team of masked Mexican federales wasn’t on the way over, running lights only.

  Fifteen minutes later, the lock snapped back. Mendoz stepped out. She stared with frank hate across the garden at Wells, and he knew he’d won. If winning was the word. She’d marked him as the killer he was. She’d seen enough rough men come through this supposedly gentle place to know he was one.

  She came to them. Coyle stood. “Stay,” Wells said. “You get to hear, too.”

  “You don’t care about how we do what we do,” Mendoz said.

  “Correct. Only where the money went. If it went to an American bank, we can find it, chase it down. How you got it clean, that’s your business.”

  “It’s within the law, I promise you. What we do is legal. Complicated but legal.”

  “Of course.”

  The hate in her eyes flared anew. “Hypothetically speaking, these accounts—”

  “Accounts?”

  “Yes, two. One much larger than the other. One in a man’s name, the other in a woman’s.”

  “How much money?”

  She looked at them. “Here’s what I can do. The stuff on the front end, you don’t care about that, then we forget about it. In return, I’ll let you see how they spent it. Then you never come back.”

  I get a lot of that, Wells didn’t say.

  She left. Another twenty minutes passed before the garden door swung open again. Lagares waved them inside.

  Wells half expected they’d be jumped as they walked through the door. Instead, Lagares led them back to the conference room that overlooked the garden. Mendoz waited, carrying a leather folio.

  “I’m glad we could have an honest discussion about your needs,” Mendoz said. “I’ve brought information about account products you might like. Some of it’s—” She hesitated. “I’m not sure of the word in English—clasificados, business secrets—so it can’t leave this room. But look them over, take notes, if you like. Take a few minutes to read. Fifteen minutes, say.” She handed him the folio, pulled her iPhone, set the timer for fifteen minutes.

  Wells flipped the folder open. Found two blank pieces of paper and a pair of gold pens. A glossy brochure. A twenty-five-page contract in English and Spanish. And, underneath, twenty double-spaced pages of bank statements.

  They were close now. Not that these pages would necessarily enable them to stop the Russians. Or even find them. But at least Tony from Tampa hadn’t died for nothing.

  The statements revealed two accounts, one in the name of Alan Vartan, the second Annalise Fabian. Good generic European names. They could have been French, Spanish, even German in a pinch. Wells figured the fact Alan Vartan’s initials matched Anatoly Vanin’s was no coincidence. They both had addresses in Acapulco, and emails, but no phone numbers.

  The Vartan account was far larger. It had held more than fourteen million dollars. A lot of that money had been spent in big chunks fairly early on. Millions to real estate brokers and title companies, lawyers, auto dealerships.

  Nearly all of it had been spent in Texas, mostly in and around Dallas. Wells couldn’t pretend to be an expert, but the records seemed to show the account had been used to buy one or possibly two properties. Shafer and the FBI should be able to chase down exactly where.

  The big purchases slowed down three months after the account opened, still several months before the Dallas attacks. Cash withdrawals, usually in the range of one to five thousand dollars, replaced them. Two days before the attack, the account had seen one last big withdrawal, ninety-five thousand dollars in cash. Since then, it hadn’t been touched. It still held more than a million dollars.

  The Fabian account was much smaller. It had been set up with two hundred thirty thousand dollars. The money had come out in ATM withdrawals, dribs and drabs, all over the West Coast, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, back to Los Angeles, Seattle again. Then eastern Washington, Spokane, several in a town called Pullman, which Wells recalled was in the southeast corner of the state. Then the account went quiet for months, until one final withdrawal in Fargo, North Dakota, a couple weeks before.

  The Russians had come to Mexico City with eighteen million, left with a little more than fourteen. Wells had guessed low on Banamex’s cut. It was twenty percent. Wells wondered how much Mendoz had personally made, didn’t ask.

  “These addresses?”

  “I wouldn’t count on them.”

  “Is it standard to open an account of this size without a phone number attached?”

  “On an account like this, nothing is standard. A case-by-case basis.”

  “Right. We need these pages.”

  “These belong to the bank.”

  She was serious, Wells saw. She’d let them have the information but not the records themselves. Wells began scribbling names and numbers for the recipients of the Vartan account. He slipped the Fabian account statements to Coyle, and Coyle followed his lead. Mendoz poured herself a glass of water, didn’t drink it. She stood against the wall, watched the iPhone clock count down. They wouldn’t have time to copy everything, but Wells decided not to push for extra minutes. The timer and keeping control of the pages played the same role for Mendoz. They let her think she hadn’t given in entirely. If Wells and Coyle stuck to their side of the bargain, she would stick to hers, let them walk out.

  The phone’s alarm beeped.

  “Gentlemen,” Mendoz said.

  Wells swept the papers back into the folio, slid it across the table. “We’re definitely interested in Banamex.”

  “I can’t wait to hear from you.” She reached into her suit and slid their passports back to them. And Wells realized what was missing from what she’d shown them.

  “Our friends, what about their passports?”

  “Yes?”

  “You needed identification from them. Making a copy of the picture page is standard procedure, right?”

  “I’m not sure how much those would help you.”

  Meaning the passports for Vartan and Fabian were as fake as the ones for Walsh and Montero.

  “I’d like to see them, anyway.”

  She walked out, came back a minute later holding two creased pieces of paper, each a copy of an identification page from a French passport. Wells reached for them, but she shook her head. “Look, don’t touch.”

  “Just the pictures, make us a copy.”

  She sho
ok her head.

  “What if we take a picture of the page, then?”

  Another shake.

  So Wells looked. Trying to sear the faces into his memory, steal the souls of the man and woman before him. Vanin, a/k/a Vartan: short hair, slightly pocked skin, narrow eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but if he did, Wells guessed his teeth wouldn’t be great. A killer or a cop. He looked European to Wells rather than a native-born American. But if he spoke good English, he could probably have fooled Ahmed Shakir, who wasn’t native-born either.

  Fabian: Even the unnatural flatness of a passport pic couldn’t hide her beauty. Blond hair, pert nose, the edges of a smile. Only her eyes didn’t fit. Wide and blue, yes, but with an uncanny emptiness. They could have been holes in the page.

  Wells wanted to snatch the pictures, but all the Botox in the world couldn’t keep Mendoz’s face steady any longer. If they pushed her further, she’d crack open. “Thanks for your help.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Outside, it was almost 5 p.m. Polanco was taking on its after-work vibe, pretty young things stepping out of Ubers.

  “Whatever you told her, she went for it,” Coyle said.

  “I’m a real people person.”

  “Wish she’d let us have those pictures, though.”

  Wells understood the implicit criticism. “She was about to start screaming.”

  “You think she’s going to call the Russians, warn them?”

  “I think she’s going to hope we never come back.”

  Wells and Coyle weaved through the crowded sidewalks until they found a taxi on Avenida Masaryk.

  “Annalise Fabian would fit in fine here.” Coyle paused. “Think she could get a sniper to target priests?”

  “I think she could do whatever she wanted.”

  The afternoon traffic was terrible, and the cab hardly moved. Wells handed the driver a fifty-dollar bill. “Come on.” Now that they had a target, Wells felt faintly paranoid. What if Coyle was right and Mendoz made the worst decision of her life and panicked and called Vanin?

  He emailed Tarnes to ask her to set a meeting with Duto as soon as possible.

  8 a.m. tomorrow too soon? She wrote back.

  Perfect.

  Twenty minutes later, they stepped into the NH’s lobby.

  “Grab your stuff, Coyle. No more noches in CDMX.”

  “We going to Dallas?”

  “Washington.”

  THREE

  21

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Islamist terror is the darkest threat of our time. The world’s nations have a moral duty to work together against it. Yet we ignore one country’s contributions. Russia has fought these killers for twenty years, in Chechnya, Syria, even on its own soil. Next to the United States, no non-Muslim country has suffered more civilian casualties. And Russia has the military tools to provide real aid in this war. Its army and air force have already proven themselves in the fight against the Islamic State. President Duto must put outdated Cold War notions aside and build an alliance with Moscow for the twenty-first century—

  The door to Eric Birman’s office swung open. Eric knew without looking up from his screen that he’d see Paul. No one else would barge in that way. Without knocking. Like he owned the place. But then he did, didn’t he? Like everyone else here, Eric served at Paul’s pleasure.

  “Colonel.”

  Eric never knew if Paul meant the title as compliment or insult. “Senator.”

  “Working hard?”

  “On your speech.”

  Paul came around his desk, peered at the screen. Eric heard him murmuring under his breath, the sure sign of a weak reader. “One country’s con-trib-utions . . . Pretty pro-Russia, isn’t it?”

  “I have to give you credit, Paul. You’ve done a great job talking about the jihadis. Duto’s on his heels.” Thanks to my friends.

  “Thirty-eight percent approval this morning. Not that I noticed.”

  “But he’s not dumb. He’ll come back, say we’re running drones all over the world, moved soldiers into Iraq and Syria. We’ve killed tons of these guys since I took office. Senator Birman talks a good game, but what will he do that we’re not doing already? What do you say then?”

  “We fight harder. Take no prisoners—”

  “Empty rhetoric. He’ll tear it up. A new alliance with Russia, that would be a real change. Best part is, you’d use his strength against him. Everyone knows he ran the CIA, it gives him credibility. Here you say he’s stuck in the past. Thinking like some Cold War dinosaur who always makes the Russians out to be the enemy.”

  “But they are the enemy. I mean, they’re pretty nasty, aren’t they?”

  Lucky Cousin Paul showing his geopolitical understanding.

  “They’re tough. But they’re not stupid. Why do you think the Cold War never got hot? I mean, chess is the national game over there.”

  “Always thought chess was for losers.”

  Of course you did. “When I was at Special Operations Command, we talked to the Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces, every so often. Traded tips on these guys. We had to be careful how much we gave up, of course, but kidnapping situations, fighting in mosques, we both had the same problems. Fedin came to the meetings once or twice. You’d like him. He looks you in the eye, man-to-man, says what he thinks. You can do business with him. The Russians, they just want to have their own sphere of influence. Honestly, who cares about Kazakhstan, whatever-stan, long as they aren’t sending suicide bombers our way? Even Ukraine. In my opinion, the Russians have the right to keep an eye on it.”

  “How so?”

  “Far as they’re concerned, it’s a buffer between them and Europe. They’ve never forgotten all those panzer divisions rolling east—”

  “Fine. Sounds good. Keep writing.”

  Eric wasn’t surprised Paul had agreed so quickly. The worst part of talking to him was also the best part. He had the attention span of a gnat. Tell him a story that sounded halfway reasonable, facts he couldn’t be bothered to check, he would agree simply so he didn’t have to listen anymore. That way he could return to thinking about his favorite subject. Himself.

  “Will do,” Eric said. “I think you should give it soon, ride this wave.”

  “Maybe ask Sam”—Samantha Raynor, the head of Paul’s in-state office in Nashville—“to set something up this weekend.”

  Now that Paul had agreed, Eric wondered if he ought to talk to his controller before setting a date. The Russians might have plans of their own. “Logistics could be tricky.”

  “You’re the one who said soon.” Paul grinned. He loved turning the tables as much as any five-year-old. He perched himself on the edge of Eric’s desk. Another move Eric hated. “Anyway, the real reason I came in: Gloria is freaking out. She said something about selling the house. Which I told her is never going to happen, that was Daddy’s house and it’s staying in the Birman family as long as there is a Birman family.”

  “Sorry, Paul.”

  “I want ex-Deltas for her. That’ll impress her.”

  “Deltas run a thousand a day per guy, three guys for continuous coverage.”

  Paul shrugged. Three thousand dollars a day, a million a year, who cares? “We can look into getting full-time guys on staff in a few days, something cheaper, but right now I need her calm. She wants them for me, too.”

  “I’ll start looking for folks this afternoon. For her first, right?”

  Paul squeezed Eric’s shoulder. “Colonel. I know I give you a hard time once in a while, but I couldn’t do this without you. Behind every good man there’s a good chief of staff.”

  Eric managed to wait until Paul had left the room before he cursed.

  He had just turned back to the speech when his mobile buzzed. A blocked number.

  “Captain Farragut?”

/>   Eric knew the voice immediately. Adam Petersen. His SVR controller. Captain Farragut was code for a same-day meeting. “Excuse me? This is Eric Birman.”

  “Sorry. I’m calling for Captain Farragut. Tommy Farragut. Third Battalion, Fourth Infantry Regiment.”

  Eric was glad he’d memorized the codes. Third Battalion meant Petersen wanted the meeting in three hours. Fourth Infantry Regiment was a preplanned location, a Target parking lot in the Columbia Heights neighborhood, two miles north of the White House. Not perfect. Eric preferred to meet outside the Beltway. Still, the store was far enough from downtown and Georgetown that it should be safe. And Tommy . . . Eric was pretty sure Tommy meant Petersen would be waiting in a Toyota.

  “Tommy Farrugut, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes. I mean, no, you have the wrong number. I don’t know who that is.” The first word was the only one that mattered, signifying Eric’s agreement. Any other answer would have meant no.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, positive. Not from the Fourth ID or anywhere else.” Confirming the location.

  “Sorry about that.” Petersen clicked off.

  “No problem,” Eric said to the empty line.

  Eric left the office two hours later, made sure he’d have time for countersurveillance. The Blue Line to Metro Center, the Red to Gallery Place, the Yellow past Columbia Heights to the Georgia Avenue exit. Twenty years ago, this part of Washington had been close to a no-go zone for the district’s white residents. Now it was bustling, lined with new apartment buildings.

  Eric walked north, away from Columbia Heights. He felt vaguely conspicuous in his suit and tie. But Washington had tens of thousands of lawyers and lobbyists who were paid to dress like grown-ups. No one glanced twice at him. When he was sure he was clean, he hailed a cab south to the Target, which looked like every other Target. The Toyota Camry in the middle of the parking lot looked like every other Toyota.