The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  He was giving a speech. Friday afternoon. Today. In Dallas. At the site of last month’s attack.

  A perfect target. Birman would have security, but it wouldn’t be overwhelming. Considering the attention he was receiving, he was a target nearly as important as Duto, with a fraction of Duto’s protection. The FBI and police were focused on the threat to religious leaders. Killing him in Dallas would resonate, and not just because of the bombing. The American Airlines Center was not even a mile from Dealey Plaza. And sooner would be better than later, as far as the Russians were concerned. With the manhunt for Miller intensifying, they would want to use him as soon as possible. Three shootings in a week would also force Duto to respond.

  Wells grabbed the articles about Birman, left everything else, slid the drawer shut. Looked around once more, silently wondering if the Russians might have offered Birman’s name as a fake to send investigators the wrong way. But no. The other two targets had already been shot. And the Russians wouldn’t have expected anyone to find the trailer so soon. It was supposed to be discovered only after Allie tossed Miller to the sharks. Everything in it was meant to confirm Miller’s guilt.

  Presumably, after Miller was done today the Russians would kill him in what looked like a suicide. Maybe a bombing, his truck loaded with ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. He was on the chopping block. Allie couldn’t afford to have him talking.

  Wells pulled up Kayak, checked Seattle-to-Dallas nonstops. Lucky him, the route was popular. There was a 6:05 a.m. American nonstop that landed at DFW at noon local time. It was only 12:45 a.m. now. He should be able to make the flight. If not, Alaska had one an hour later.

  He jogged back to the Explorer. He wasn’t tired anymore. He wanted morning.

  He called Shafer at 4:30 a.m., still twenty minutes east of Seattle, no hint of dawn, just him and the big rigs racing through the dark on I-90.

  “You’re up early.”

  “Didn’t sleep.” Wells explained his night. As he walked Shafer through the trap at the trailer, he realized the surgeon hadn’t called him yet. Maybe she was still operating. Maybe HIPAA had stopped her. Maybe she’d finished and gone straight to sleep. Or maybe—

  No. He wouldn’t let himself even think the word.

  “John?”

  “Sorry. Good news is, I’m pretty sure I know the next target. Paul Birman. I went back to the trailer, found articles about him right next to Luke Hurley and James McDonnell.”

  “Birman’s speaking here today—”

  “I know. I’m flying down at six. Get to DFW at noon.”

  “You told Tarnes?”

  “Not yet. Not until I get down there.”

  Meaning: We don’t tell anyone. We find him ourselves.

  “FBI’s gonna figure it as soon as they search the trailer, anyway.”

  “No they’re not.” The reason that Wells had taken the pages about Birman from the drawer.

  “John—” Shafer stopped himself. “What if your plane’s late? What if we can’t find him?”

  “There’s gonna be a hotel that has rooms with a view of the speech, and Miller and his little friend are gonna be there.”

  “Unless they’re not. Unless there are five hotels like that. Unless he sticks with the rolling hide. You’re gambling with Birman’s life.”

  “We have time, Ellis. We can tell the Feds if we don’t find him ourselves. Plus, if we tell Birman to cancel the speech, he will.”

  “Unless he thinks we’re trying to make him look bad because we work for Duto, and he won’t back down.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Hong Kong all over again. You’re making it personal.”

  Wells looked at Coyle’s blood on the passenger window. Of course I’m making it personal. “I need a pistol, too.” He couldn’t bring the one he had with him through airport screening, and he had no time to check a bag.

  “Of course you do. What do you even think you’re going to do with this guy, John? Tell him how your buddy got shot, and he kneels at your feet, asks forgiveness?”

  “We know more about this than anyone. Way more than the FBI. I just want to hear for myself how the Russians played him. While he’s fresh.”

  Shafer was silent for long enough that Wells wondered if the call had dropped.

  “Come on, Ellis.”

  “What’s the car he’s using?”

  And Wells knew he’d won. “A black Dodge Ram four-door pickup. Three years old. Washington tags.”

  “All right. While you’re in the air, I’ll see what I can find. But if we don’t have him at three, you’re calling Tarnes, and I’m telling the FBI. Three. You hear me? Not three-thirty, not four. That’s close enough.”

  A deadline that would give Wells less than three hours on the ground in Dallas. He wanted to argue, but Shafer was right. “When did you turn into such a goody-goody, Ellis?”

  26

  DALLAS

  The Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex included five million residents sprawled across three thousand square miles. But the real money lay in a snug triangle in the center of Dallas, bounded by Love Field—the area’s original airport—to the west, downtown’s office towers to the south, and the mansions of University Park and Preston Hollow to the north.

  The famous hotel now called the Rosewood Mansion on Turtle Creek sat near the heart of the triangle. Naturally, Paul Birman was staying there the night before his speech. Naturally, he’d put himself in the Presidential Suite. For a mere three thousand dollars a night, the suite offered gold taps in the bathroom and a terrace the size of a house. Eric knew Lucky Cousin Paul believed he deserved no less.

  Eric was stuck three floors down with the commoners. He watched CNN on mute as he took one final pass at Paul’s speech. He wished he could leave everything after page 5 blank, but even Paul might wonder why. He closed his laptop, climbed into bed. For a while, he stared at the ceiling, excited as a kid waiting for Santa. ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house / Not a creature was stirring, not even a sniper.

  By tomorrow night, he would be the Birman everyone knew.

  Yet his decades as a soldier had taught him that rest was too precious to squander, especially with action ahead. He was not surprised when he faded into unconsciousness.

  His alarm snapped him awake at 6 a.m. He ran for an hour on a treadmill downstairs, came back to his room for a shower and coffee. He was finishing his second cup when the room phone trilled.

  “Eric? I need you up here. Now.”

  Eric walked into the Presidential Suite to find a hotel housekeeper ironing a handmade English suit. Paul’s professed love of buying American didn’t extend to his clothes.

  “In here.” In the bedroom, Paul was knotting a tie—muted red, of course.

  “Morning News and local TV are setting up downstairs,” Eric said. Paul had interviews scheduled to promote his speech.

  “FBI director just called. He wanted me to hear it from him. They have a break on the sniper.”

  Eric’s first thought: The fact that Paul had personally received a call showed how important he was becoming. The head of the FBI didn’t waste his time giving updates to average senators.

  His second thought was less polite, half-formed curses melting into a scream: Nonooonooooo . . .

  “He say what they have?” Eric kept his voice steady.

  “Just for you, okay?”

  Eric looked at him: I’m your cousin, of course you can trust me.

  “They know who it is. He wouldn’t tell me how, but they’re sure. They’ve put him in Chicago the day of the shooting. An American citizen. He wouldn’t say if he was Muslim.”

  But Eric’s friends must have put together a backstory for him, whoever he was. “They going public?”

  “Not yet. They think they have enough to find him quietly in the ne
xt forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner. I don’t know what, exactly. He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t push. But they don’t want to spook him, they’re worried he might start shooting randomly or blow himself up if he knows they’re close. They’re going to brief the committee tonight. I think I should be there.”

  Eric’s pulse thumped in his throat. The Russians wouldn’t have another chance after today. When the FBI realized that Paul had been the third target, he wouldn’t need to hire Deltas, he’d have presidential-level protection. “The speech—”

  “Duto will crush me if I’m not at the briefing. Senator Birman can’t even be bothered to meet the FBI director—”

  Eric saw the answer, the only answer. If he could sell it. “You can still give the speech. We’ll move it up—say, two p.m. Takes twenty minutes, a half hour. We go straight to Love, you’re back in D.C. by five-thirty, on the Hill at six at the latest.”

  “No one will pay attention to what I say—”

  “Give it before they catch the guy, you have today’s news cycle at least. Maybe longer. There’s no guarantee they’re going to find him as fast as they think. Plus I’ll rework the speech to hint what might be coming, so you stay in front even if they do: I know the FBI and CIA are doing everything possible to protect us. The problem is, the direction they’re receiving from the White House—”

  “Can we even change the time this late?”

  “Of course. We only skedded it this week. Look, you took the trouble to fly down here.”

  Eric saw the last sentence had scored. Like most lazy people, Paul hated to waste the minimal work he did put in. “All right, if you can change it and make sure we can still get an audience—”

  “No worries, just tell all those local interviews you’ll be speaking at two. They love you here, Paul. Nineteen hundred people already signed up on the web to say they’re coming. Say you had to change it because you have a big national security briefing back in D.C. tonight, that’ll get people interested.”

  “Think CNN and Fox will still cover it?”

  “I’ll start making calls right now.” Though I’ll keep the first one to myself.

  Back in his room, Eric pulled his emergency phone, punched in Adam Petersen’s number. He hesitated before connecting the call. He’d never used this phone before now. Petersen had told him the number on the other end was clean, too. But then the Russians hadn’t expected the FBI to find their sniper so fast, had they? If the Feds discovered Petersen somehow, the NSA would trace this call to Dallas, and Eric would be toast.

  But Eric had no choice. He had to talk to Petersen. He made the call.

  Petersen didn’t answer. No. Not the time for the Russians to fumble their emergency procedures.

  Eric waited three minutes, redialed. Two rings . . . three . . . four . . . Come on—

  “Hello.”

  They had confirmation codes. Eric didn’t feel like using them. Petersen knew who he was. “The man doing your work today, he’s sick. Very sick.”

  “Where do you hear this? As far as I know, he’s healthy—”

  For the first time, Eric heard the hint of an accent in Petersen’s voice. Stress.

  “I’m sure. These doctors are good. I want to reschedule his appointment. Two p.m.”

  A pause. “Two, yes, that will work. I’ll make sure he knows. And you, are you still all right?”

  “I’m feeling fine. For now.”

  “If that changes and you need emergency treatment—”

  “I’ll let you know.” So the Kremlin would stick to its promise to bring him to Russia, if he asked.

  “Good, then.” And Petersen was gone.

  Two p.m. Six hours. Eric pulled open his curtains and stared into the morning sun until his eyes burned. Either way, he wouldn’t have long to wait.

  Wells touched down at DFW at noon. Fourteen voice mails and twenty-three texts awaited him. Ten from Tarnes. The first couple were chipper enough. The FBI had found footage of Miller’s pickup in Chicago on the morning of the Cardinal’s shooting. Confirmation, not that Wells needed any.

  Two calls later, she had news about Coyle. Good news.

  The operation had lasted seven hours and cost Coyle the middle lobe of his right lung. But he was alive. The surgeon had inserted a tube into his chest to relieve the pressure and put him on a ventilator to help him breathe. He was in critical but stable condition. For now, he would stay at Pullman Regional. The doctors in both Pullman and Seattle believed the risks of transporting him outweighed the extra care a bigger hospital could offer. I’ll call his parents to update them, she said, ’case you don’t get this for a while. Wells tried to ignore the implicit rebuke. He had called Coyle’s family twice just before takeoff. But they hadn’t answered, and he hadn’t wanted to leave a message.

  As the hours passed, Tarnes’s messages grew more urgent. FBI’s been in the trailer all morning. They’re sure Miller’s their man. I know you were there last night, John, I know you saw what they saw. The troopers said you left in a hurry. Don’t play with me. You found something, and you’re not in a sharing mood. Don’t make me tell them to put out an APB for you, too.

  Then a message from Shafer. Google says your flight is on time. Hope it stays that way, sahib. I have something, but we’re cutting it close. While you were flapping your wings over Idaho, Birman moved up the speech. Two p.m. He’s saying the FBI wants him back in D.C. tonight. I’m guessing they want to brief the Intelligence Committee on the sniper. Oh, the irony. Shafer was excited, the words coming even faster than usual. He’d found Miller. Or thought he had.

  Finally, Duto. You’re being a very bad boy, John, not answering Julie. No idea what you’re playing at, but whatever it is, it stops now. Pissing me off. And if something happens that you could have stopped, I will make you pay. You hear me? The clipped fury of a man who wasn’t used to being ignored.

  Wells wondered if FBI agents might be waiting for him at the gate with a material witness warrant. He’d booked the flight under his own name, and the Transportation Security Administration would happily check passenger manifests for him if the FBI asked. No court order necessary, the Bureau could simply tell the TSA it had added him to the Selectee list, a triumph of Orwellian naming. Another step in the long, slow death of privacy. Anyway, nothing for Wells to do but wait as the jet inched toward its gate. DFW was massive, with an awkward five-terminal design. Planes seemed to spend as much time taxiing as they did in the air.

  At last, the cabin door swung open, and Wells strode out. No one was at the gate. He would have sprinted through the terminal, but these days airports were bad places to sprint. Or do anything that police might notice.

  He reached the curb at 12:35, waited five more minutes for Shafer. “Cops made me move. They were going to arrest me. I showed them my CIA badge, and they literally laughed.”

  “Confidence-inspiring.” Wells squeezed himself into the front seat of the RAV4.

  “What you asked for, it’s under the seat.” Shafer eased into the airport traffic.

  Wells reached down, found a 9-millimeter Sig Sauer. Not his favorite pistol, but sturdy enough.

  “Loaded and everything.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Before we get to that, aren’t you interested in the bombing investigation?”

  “I’m not joking, Ellis.”

  “Neither am I. I’m trying to remind you this isn’t just about you and Coyle.”

  The answer stopped Wells.

  “Those FBI guys got some good stuff yesterday, even if they don’t know why it’s good. Short on imagination, but point them in the right direction and they swarm. God help anyone in their way. They’re like locusts. Robot locusts. Do we have those yet? I’ll bet we do.”

  “Please continue.”

  “They found this warehouse in South Dallas that I’m thinking was where our friends
brought Ahmed Shakir to flip him. Metal desks, eyeball cameras in the corners. Looks like a hide for undercovers, which is what they would have wanted him to think. Two black SUVs that could have come out of an FBI garage. No cop lights in the grille, but our friends could have been smart enough to take ’em out before they bailed. Guess what? Someone cleaned their nav systems, too, so there’s no record where they went.”

  “But the Feds haven’t put it together?”

  “Not a clue. They’re just chasing what Duto told them to. They’re not happy, but it’s not like they can order the President to tell them the whole story. Maybe one day one of them will take another look at the interviews and realize what Jeanelle Pitts said. Hasn’t happened yet.”

  “Once they hit Banamex—”

  “Yeah, that’ll change things. Duto might not mind if your friend Mendoz just took a runner. Or the Russians gave her a forever siesta. He’s in a tough spot if she talks. I almost feel sorry for him on this one. All bad choices.”

  “Don’t you worry about Vinny. Whatever happens, he’ll protect himself.” Wells flashed to Coyle, trying not to choke on his own blood. Trying not to die. The worst choice of all.

  “Irony is, we’re about to save his biggest political threat. He might not mind if we let Tom Miller take care of Birman.”

  “That would be cold, even for him.” Though Wells wouldn’t put much past Duto.

  Ahead, signs pointed to Texas 114 and downtown Dallas. Shafer made a late turn, cutting off a pickup that responded with an angry honk. Shafer raised his right hand to offer a single-finger response. Wells pulled it down.

  “Didn’t you learn your lesson about Texas, Ellis? Don’t need to piss off some guy with an open-carry permit.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Okay, I listened to you. Now, where is he?”