The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  But they’d be talking around the most important questions, the ones Duto alone could answer. Those bastards killed four hundred Americans, same as if they’d pulled the triggers themselves. Only we caught them. That an act of war? If it is, do we start down a road that ends with the world on fire? And if not, if we’re not going to call them on it, what then?

  “Anyone in the Kremlin we trust?” Tarnes said. Wells was glad to see her ask, put herself back in the game.

  “No one who matters,” Duto said. “But it’s worth asking State if they’re in touch with anyone even halfway honest. Meanwhile, beyond the bank records . . . What do we have?”

  “Not much,” Shafer said. “We don’t know where they stayed in Texas or if they’re still there. Don’t know what names they used. And no, we don’t know if they have more attacks planned.”

  “If you had to bet?”

  “Put a gun to my head—”

  “If only.”

  “I’d say no. Easier to hide one person than a team, and they have to know they pushed their luck, no matter how well they planned it. I mean, what if Shakir had just flipped them off? Gone to the Dallas cops? No, I think they’re gone. Left the country weeks ago. I think it’s only the sniper now.”

  Duto went quiet.

  “But you’re guessing,” he finally said. “You haven’t run the Banamex names through our databases. No NSA contact tracing on emails or phones. No driver’s licenses or speeding tickets or court records.”

  “That would have meant calling the FBI and the agency officially, and we thought we’d better wait until we talked to you—”

  “Because, this way, I get to decide all by myself whether to start World War Three,” Duto said. “And because you hope I’ll let you two run around on your own.” Duto pointed at Coyle. “Sergeant, you been infected with the hero virus yet? The I’ll do it myself except when I need help and then it better come this very second virus?”

  “I know you’re stressed, but take it out on us,” Wells said, “not him.”

  Duto focused on Wells. “If he’s gonna be around a while, he should know I’m only the third-biggest ego in this room.”

  “Maybe you forgot, but you begged John to help, Vinny,” Shafer said. “May as well know something else, Sergeant, long as we’re talking ’round the campfire. El Jefe likes us because he doesn’t have to sign anything when we’re involved. He never buys when he can rent. We are disposable. You, too.”

  Wells flashed to Bogotá, Tony bleeding out. The cemeteries were filled with forgotten spies.

  “Shouldn’t you be in Florida waiting to stroke out, Ellis?” Duto said.

  “Better question: If the Russians aren’t after you, then who do they want? And, even more important, why? What could be worth this risk?”

  Silence again. Wells knew Duto put up with Shafer’s sharp tongue for these moments when he scissored to the heart of an issue.

  “There some dissident here who’s been a real problem for them?” Tarnes said.

  “A hedge fund manager,” Shafer said. “A couple reporters. Nothing they can’t handle, nothing that needs this kind of operation.”

  “Agreed,” Duto said.

  “Plus, remember, they’re trying to make this look Muslim,” Shafer said. “When we do catch the sniper, bet they’ve salted his house with I love Muhammad graffiti.”

  Duto drummed his fingers on the conference table. “Too many questions. And an active shooter. I know you like to play by yourselves, but not this time. I’ll tell the FBI I have a private foreign intel source who says these two accounts might be connected to Dallas. They can start chasing all the stuff that you copied yesterday while Justice finds a way to get a real warrant. You can go back to Dallas, if you want. I’ll tell them to let you work with them—”

  “Work with them? I found this.”

  “Did we not just discuss your ego and the size thereof, Ellis? Plus, if you’re right, the Dallas stuff is archaeology now. They’re using the little account for the sniper. And that wasn’t Dallas, it was mostly the West Coast, Washington State, right?”

  Washington State. Wells imagined FBI agents descending on the southeastern Washington hills in their black Tahoes, rattling trailer doors with hard knocks. “Wait.”

  “Not you, too,” Duto said.

  “Let the FBI chase the big account. The real estate deals, cars they bought, money they moved. Let them see if they can figure out how these guys made the approach to Shakir. Prep a criminal case, if you decide to bring it.”

  “No way we’re going to handle this in open court, John—”

  “Up to you. All I care about, the little account. Let me and Coyle go after it.”

  “How? From what you said, there’s withdrawals all over the country—”

  “I’m not interested in all over the country. Just one place: southeastern Washington, Pullman.”

  “Why there? Nothing there worth hitting. Not even an Army base.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So?”

  But Shafer nodded. “John thinks that’s where they found their sniper.”

  “Why else go there? It’s not on the way to anywhere. Not even a good place to hide—too small—and Coyle and I saw a picture of the woman who opened that account and, let me tell you, they’d notice her there. She wanted to blend, she’d be better off in a place like L.A. So she went there for a reason. And what other reason is there?” Wells didn’t know if he’d convinced Duto, but he’d convinced himself.

  “Say you’re right . . . Even more reason to get the FBI in,” Duto said.

  “Up there, a lot of folks will slam their doors when they see that badge. Especially pissed-off veterans. Especially if the Feds tell them, We’re looking for snipers who’ve gone missing, that’s all we can tell you. And, no, we don’t have a name, we’re depending on you for that.”

  “And they’ll tell you?”

  “That’s my country, Vinny. Even now.”

  “I thought Afghanistan was your country.” Duto gave Wells a sour-milk grimace.

  “He’s right, Vinny—” Shafer said.

  “Shut up, Ellis.” Real venom in Duto’s voice. To Wells: “End of the week. After that, it won’t matter, because Justice will get to Banamex. And when they do, the FBI will connect the two accounts.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m only doing this because you deserve the chance to close this out.” Duto smirked, not even trying to hide his real reason: that he wanted maximum flexibility.

  Wells stood, offered Duto the crispest of salutes. “Won’t let you down, Cap’n.” Up yours.

  “Rangers lead the way.” Right back atcha.

  They left the building through the northeast exit and were suddenly back in the real world, surrounded by tourists and school groups. The White House security perimeter had been extended. Again. Seemed to Wells that it was always being extended. No one was allowed to walk on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House anymore. Secret Service agents, wearing black Kevlar and toting assault rifles, herded the kids back to Lafayette Square. As if they were protecting a dictator’s mansion and not what Wells had always been told was the “people’s house.”

  Tarnes was already looking at flights to Spokane. Shafer was muttering. Coyle hadn’t said a word since Duto’s speech to him.

  Tarnes held up her phone. “Southwest, BWI, at ten-thirty a.m. Change in Denver, Spokane at two forty-five.”

  “We can get up there in time?” Baltimore–Washington International was at least an hour from downtown D.C., worse in the morning traffic.

  “If you leave right now. While you’re in the air, I’ll talk to the Pentagon and VA, get the names and addresses of veterans in southeastern Washington who had sniper training. Duto may have to sign some kind of national security waiver, but I’ll try to have a list to you by the tim
e you land in Spokane.”

  “Don’t forget Idaho and Oregon. Everyone within a hundred miles of Pullman.” Wells turned to Coyle. “Coyle, you coming?”

  Coyle nodded.

  “Good. I guess you got the hero virus, too.”

  Coyle was quiet until they were outside the Beltway.

  “Didn’t expect that. The way you talk to him. And he talks to you. The President.”

  “We’ve known him a long time.”

  “You trust him?”

  Wells grunted.

  Coyle stared at Wells. “That’s a no. You don’t trust him why do you work for him?”

  Wells had a hundred answers to that question. And none. Because, in the end, he usually does the right thing. And by usually, I mean sometimes. And by right, I mean expedient. Because we might have stopped a war three years ago even if he helped only because he saw a path to the White House. Because he’s the president. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t do this.

  “Come on, Coyle,” he finally said. “I need to tell an infantryman the answer to that?”

  They didn’t speak the rest of the way to BWI.

  23

  NASHVILLE

  Another afternoon shading into another night in another no-name motel on the payday-loan side of town. They’d been in this room barely a day, on the road not even a week. Tom Miller was exhausted in mind and body and, worst of all, soul. He wanted to go home.

  If he could decide where home might be.

  Room 214 was peeling green paint and cigarette burns on the bedside table and a toilet with twin brown rings, the universe’s ugliest asteroid belts. Next door, a hooker urged her clients with an endless rotation of Do me. Harder, baby. So good. Every so often, she threw in an Oh, yes. God, yes for variety. Pretty much the second the men walked out, the hooker turned on her television. She watched the Food Network. And only the Food Network. Maybe all that acting made her hungry. Maybe she’d worked at a restaurant in her previous life.

  Miller had watched a lot of television himself since Sunday. CNN and Fox, mostly. They were both big on computer-generated re-creations and retired cops talking about sniper nests. Miller didn’t mind those parts. But he hated hearing everyone talking about what good guys Luke Hurley and Cardinal James McDonnell had been. On CNN, the word senseless kept coming up. Fox focused on Islam. They keep saying Islam is a religion of peace. This look like peace to you?

  Miller didn’t know what anything looked like anymore. He hadn’t minded shooting the Talibs in Kandahar. Those men were soldiers, too. Armed and dangerous. He’d slept fine after those kills.

  But taking out Hurley, and especially McDonnell, had cut in a way he hadn’t expected. On Tuesday night, he lay on the bedcovers, staring at the ceiling. Whatever they might have done, whoever they might be, those two dudes were helpless when he’d come for them. They’d had no chance at all.

  Wednesday morning, he left Allie in the motel, found himself a copy-and-print store that had an Internet-connected computer. He looked for any hints Hurley and McDonnell were involved in a sex ring. Not just the regular news outlets but conspiracy sites and message boards, too.

  Nothing. Anywhere. On Reddit, the posters mostly thought jihadis had killed the men. These dudes want a religious war, I say we give it to them! The ones who didn’t said the Christian right was running a false flag operation to make Muslims look bad. Don’t fall for it. Not one person even raised the idea that they were being targeted because they were part of a pedophile gang.

  Funny part was, he and Allie were good at shooting people. McDonnell had gone even more smoothly than Hurley. The Chicago streets had been dark and empty when Miller lined up the shot. Allie had the Ram fifty miles away by the time the cops showed up. Now the FBI was basically admitting it had no good leads. Nothing about a pickup truck, nothing about a female driver or a two-person team. This could be a long hunt, and we are hoping for the public’s help, the Chicago chief of police had said on Tuesday night. Maybe they were lying, playing down what they knew, but Miller didn’t think so. Given the panic the second shooting had caused, if the cops had information, they would have shown more confidence.

  Allie was standing on the motel balcony when he drove back. She waved when she saw him, almost ran down the steps. Normally, watching her move was enough to excite him. Not today.

  “You okay, babe?”

  “Fine.” He knew what she’d say. Of course you didn’t find it anywhere. Do you think they told people they tricked out thirteen-year-old girls? Come on, Tom. The answer made sense, too.

  Then why did he have such a hard time believing it?

  Being in Nashville meant he was barely four hours from his old sergeant if he was still at his old address. But if he went to Coole now, told the truth, what would Coole say? He would tell Miller to turn himself in: You got to do what’s right, Tommy. You know that. Coole might even call the cops himself. What then? No mercy. Not that Miller deserved any. He’d shot two men in cold blood. Because some woman he didn’t know had told him a story.

  For the first time since he’d met Allie, he just wanted to get stoned. So stoned he couldn’t move. So stoned he couldn’t think.

  He watched television instead. After a while, CNN made his eyes ache, and he switched to the Food Network. Why not? If it was good enough for the whore next door, it was good enough for him. The stuff looked tasty, too.

  Around 1 p.m., Allie went out. He didn’t ask where she was going. She was gone most of the afternoon. When she came back, he barely looked up. She lay beside him on the bed, slid a long leg over his, buried her face in his neck. She even ran a lazy hand down his chest, those fingers that had given him so much pleasure. He didn’t stir.

  She sat up, poked at him. A finger on his carotid.

  “Tom. Look at me. Please.”

  He turned off the television now, stayed on his back. She looked down at him with those cool-blue eyes.

  “I wouldn’t want to be with you if this was easy for you. You’re a soldier, not a killer.”

  “I don’t know what I am.”

  “You’re purifying me. Can’t you see?” She stretched her hand around his neck. Like she could draw out his life with her fingertips. He wished she could. Giving himself to her that way would hurt less than what he’d done. And then they’d be together forever, him inside her.

  He closed his eyes.

  “I’m too weak to do it myself, Tom.”

  “Maybe we should stop.”

  “Soon.”

  He’d known she was working up to asking him again.

  “Not a minister this time.”

  “Who?”

  “Paul Birman. The senator.”

  Miller opened his eyes, looked up at her. The pieces fit. Allie had wanted to come to Nashville, after all. And Birman had been on CNN talking about Luke Hurley like he’d known Hurley. Worst part, she was right. Birman would be easier. He was too smooth. Like everything had come easy his whole life. Miller’s teeth gritted every time he saw the guy on television.

  Still. Another man down.

  Miller didn’t ask what Birman had done to her. He didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to have to wonder if she was telling the truth.

  “Please, baby.”

  Oh, hell. What difference did another one make, anyway?

  “He must have a ton of security here.” His way of saying yes.

  “Tom.” She kissed him, chastely, her hand still close on his neck. Her way of saying she understood that he’d agreed. He felt his desire flickering once again, lightning in the distance. “Not here. He’s giving a speech in Dallas Friday. At the basketball arena. Where the bombing was.”

  “The American Airlines Center.” CNN had mentioned the speech.

  She nodded.

  “He’ll have security there, too.” Now that he’d agreed,
he felt the weight off him. He was already thinking tactically, solving the problem of shooting Paul Birman. Solving the problem of Paul Birman’s life. The guilt would come back later, but Miller didn’t care. Not if he didn’t have to think about it now.

  “I googled it, and there’s a hotel that looks over the arena. Just south of it. I’ll show you.”

  Of course she’d already looked.

  “We’ll go down tonight. Have tomorrow to scout. Friday, too, if we need.”

  “Still be tricky.”

  “I know you can do it, Tom. You’re an amazing shot. And then Mexico. The border’s six hours from Dallas. No one will pay any attention to us. It’ll just be us. You and me. “

  “You promise?”

  “I love you, Tom.”

  A few days before, he would have given anything at all to hear her say those words. Even now, they carried a power that he couldn’t fight.

  She kissed him, not chastely this time but openmouthed, exploring him with her tongue. And he couldn’t help himself, the lightning wasn’t in the distance anymore. He wanted her as badly as ever. She broke off the kiss, sat up, straddled his chest. She reached down. And when she touched him, the shock ran through him—

  This is wrong, what you’re doing. She’s playing you, and you’re letting her. It’s wrong, Tom—

  “No, stop—” But he wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to himself. He didn’t want to hear anything else in his head, he just wanted to feel her. And if he had to shoot Paul Birman to do it—

  She smiled at him. She seemed to know what he meant, because she didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow down.

  24

  PULLMAN, WASHINGTON

  When Wells and Coyle landed in Spokane Wednesday afternoon, Wells checked his phone for the list of soldiers and veterans who’d received sniper training. Didn’t find it. He called Tarnes.