The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  “In good time.”

  Wells wanted to reach over and throttle Shafer’s skinny neck.

  Shafer smirked. “At least now you know how Duto feels about you.”

  Tom Miller stared at the digital clock on the cable box, willing it to roll from 1:00 to 1:01 . . . There. The witching hour had begun. He lay on the floor beside his Remington, checked the plaza where Paul Birman would speak. Hundreds of people were already there, with more coming every minute. But the flags and ropes were still limp, the wind quiet.

  This would be the easiest shot yet.

  On Wednesday night, Allie had booked them a room at the W through a reservation site that took PayPal. Don’t think anyone’s looking for us, but this keeps our names out of the system just in case, Allie said. Miller didn’t ask what system or how she knew.

  They drove through the night on I-30, arrived in Dallas in darkness Thursday morning, found a motel where they could shower and sleep for a few hours so they wouldn’t look homeless. By noon, they’d arrived at the American Airlines Center. Miller cruised the highways and surface roads around it. Not an ideal site. The blocks near the arena were more built up than he’d expected, lots of bulky mid-rises. He’d need to be above them to be sure he’d have a clean angle. The W itself was more than thirty stories high, a handsome building that loomed over the south side of the arena, but its glass-clad upper half was all condos. The hotel was stuck on the bottom fifteen floors. He hoped Allie had a plan to put them at the top of those.

  Miller pulled up to the hotel, and a valet jogged up. “Checking in, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Need help with your luggage?”

  “I got it.” Miller had hidden his rifle case in a green duffel bag, stuffed T-shirts and jeans around it. He didn’t want anyone touching it. He hauled it and Allie’s suitcase from the back seat of the Ram. The duffel looked a little unusual, but the W had lots of celebrity guests. The hotel staff would be used to unusual bags. Plus Allie was wearing a T-shirt so small it barely reached her belly button. No one was going to notice him.

  The place looked pretty cool, to be honest. The lobby had huge chandeliers and bright silver-colored chairs and tables. Miller had never stayed anywhere this fancy before. Not even close. Truth was, he would have been too intimidated to hang out here by himself. These places weren’t for guys like him. Even the bellboys were four inches taller than he was. But Allie walked right in like she owned the place. Miller followed. He hadn’t seen this side of her before, the woman who could turn heads in a ritzy hotel. It didn’t surprise him, though. The more time he spent with her, the more he realized he had no idea who she really was. But maybe all women were that way, and he just hadn’t been close enough to any of them to know.

  The check-in clerk, a skinny black guy with a diamond stud in his nose, looked over the reservation. “Just need a driver’s license and a credit card for incidentals.”

  Miller would have been thrown, but Allie had told him what to expect. Give them your license, that’s fine, that’s just to verify your identity. Your name stays in their system, even if someone’s looking for us. No one will find it until later. But no credit card.

  “Can I give you cash instead of a card?”

  “We require a four-hundred-dollar additional deposit per night . . . But, sure.”

  Miller handed over eight crisp hundred-dollar bills. Three weeks of disability. The clerk counted it, tucked it in a drawer.

  “Great. I have a room for you, fourth floor.”

  Way too low. Miller felt Allie’s hand on the small of his back: Let me handle this. He stepped aside. Allie gave the clerk her best smile, the one that had made Miller fall in love with her. He’d never seen her use it on anyone else. He was both jealous and pleased to see the way the clerk lit up.

  “We’d really like a higher floor.”

  The guy pecked at his keyboard. “I can put you on eight.”

  “Nothing higher? I like to get as high as I can.”

  “I hear that.” He grinned. “Okay, we have something on fourteen. I have to warn you, it’s a suite, there’s an upcharge.”

  “As long as it’s on the west side of the hotel so we can watch the sunset.”

  “That’s actually easier. Most people like the other side, they want to see downtown. Usually, it’s an extra three hundred a night, but I think I can do it for a hundred with the override . . . Yes, there. Two hundred for two nights.”

  She kissed Miller lightly on the lips. “Can we, Tom?”

  Miller handed over two more hundred-dollar bills, loving the feeling of being rich, handing out money like he’d always have more. Of having a beautiful woman beside him, a woman other men openly desired. For the next few hours, anyway, he would live like an athlete or a billionaire. A baller. Whatever happened tomorrow, he planned to enjoy himself tonight.

  He did, too. Room 1412 was positioned perfectly for the shot. It occupied the floor’s southwest corner, with a clear view over the office building that sat between the W and Valor Place, where Birman would speak. The glass was thin, single-layer. He could break it easily just before he fired. The range was barely two hundred yards, and Birman wouldn’t be moving as he spoke.

  Even better, Birman’s team would have to set up a stage, podium, speakers, and ropes to block off space for the crowd. Miller would know hours in advance exactly where Birman would be standing. Miller didn’t know how much security Birman would have, but he doubted anyone would put a protective tent or cover over the podium and stage. Even if they did, they’d be too late. Miller would have locked in the shot. The car bomb had blown up slightly north of the arena’s west entrance, so Miller figured that Birman would face that direction. Miller was shooting from the south, into the back of Birman’s skull. The man would never know what had hit him.

  “What do you think?” Allie said.

  “No problem.”

  She stood beside him, wrapped an arm around him.

  That night, she was sexier than she had ever been. She screamed so loudly, he worried someone might think he was hurting her. After the first go-round, they ordered room service: fries and burgers. He tried to ignore the gnawing fear that he’d traded the lives of two men for this pleasure.

  Finally, they’d exhausted each other. They lay quietly on the bed, talking through the plan one more time. It was simple enough. After the shot, Miller would tear ass down the fire stairs, which were just outside the room. Allie would wait a block east, in an alley that didn’t have any surveillance cameras. She’d have a car rented in her name, no way to connect it to him. He’d lie down in the back seat, and south they’d go. Three major interstates—I-30, I-35E, and I-45—were located within a mile of the hotel. The police couldn’t possibly shut them in time to matter.

  Once they were out of Dallas, Allie could stay on the interstate, or switch to the surface roads that crisscrossed the flat Texas prairie. She would drive to Eagle Pass, on the Mexican border, return the car. By then, the FBI would surely have connected Miller to the room. He’d be the most wanted man in the world. The hotel surveillance cameras would have caught Allie, too, but no one knew her name or anything about her. She’d dye her hair black, put on a shapeless dress. Give him a buzz cut, a cowboy hat, tight Mexican-style jeans and boots.

  “You’ll be surprised how different we look,” she said now. “No one will recognize us. Especially once we get over the border. I’m trusting you on that part.”

  “I’ve been to Mexico once in my life.”

  “But you were a soldier, you can read a map. Walk south, find a hole in the fence, and cross the river, right? Everybody else is going the other way. Once we’re over, we catch a bus to Mexico City, twenty million people who look like you.” She stroked his chin. “I trust you, Tom. Trust me back, we’ll be fine.”

  Miller wondered if they really had a chance to reach Mexico. If she’d
even be waiting for him tomorrow in the alley. He knew he ought to care, but he didn’t.

  Way he figured, his soul had never been worth much. His dad had shown him that a long time back. He’d gotten full value for it already.

  When he woke the next morning, Allie was gone. Renting the car, buying clothes and maps and a hammer to break the glass and everything else. Miller pulled the rifle case from the duffel, raised the privacy shade a few inches, set up. One advantage of the suite: It was big enough that he could stretch out on the floor with plenty of room to shoot.

  The buildings west of the W were all low-rises, and the reflective glass made seeing into the room from below nearly impossible. Still, Miller planned to leave the shade down against the slim chance that a police or news helicopter buzzed close. He looked through the scope, saw a guy in a long-sleeved black shirt holding a rope line. Already? He stood, peeked at the plaza. Two guys stringing rope through stanchions. Two more grabbing speaker stands from the back of a truck. Seemed early to be setting up for a speech tonight, but maybe they expected a big crowd. Anyway, the rope would come in handy for giving him a sense of the wind, though the Weather Channel was forecasting a calm day, just a light southerly breeze off the plains. If the wind picked up, he would have to go for a body shot instead of the head. He hoped it wouldn’t. He liked the idea of a head shot.

  He peeked through the rifle once more, then called room service. Normally, the idea of spending forty bucks for eggs and orange juice and coffee would have drained his appetite. But he didn’t have the chance to shoot a United States senator every day. Make his mom proud.

  What would happen if he and Allie escaped today and she kept giving him targets? Would he get used to killing people this way? He didn’t think of himself as a mass murderer, but he was. Five in Afghanistan, two more back home, and here he was about to add another to the list. With a head shot.

  His right hand quivered. Excitement, fear, self-disgust—he couldn’t tell anymore. He clenched his fingers in a fist, turned on the television to distract himself—

  There. Paul Birman. Snazzy in a suit and tie. Telling the interviewer, a woman almost as pretty as Allie, he’d changed the time of his speech. “Two p.m. Hoping for a great crowd.”

  “And this is because—”

  “I’ve just learned of an Intelligence Committee briefing tonight in Washington, urgent, I can’t say anything else. But I look forward to seeing Dallas this afternoon. I’m going to offer specific new ways we can fight the War on Terror. We know President Duto doesn’t have the answer—”

  Miller snapped off the television. At least now he knew why they were setting up early. Changing the time of the speech? An urgent briefing? Could the FBI be onto him?

  His mouth went dry as he realized how badly he wanted to kill Paul Birman. With his perfect teeth and his perfect chin and his perfect suit—

  He heard footsteps in the hall, moving toward the suite. He slid to the door, pulled it open—

  A brown-skinned man stood outside, holding a tray. “Room service, sir.”

  The rifle. Had he seen the rifle? Miller stepped into the hall.

  “I can set it up inside for you—”

  “Leave it.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “Leave it.” If the guy stayed much longer, Miller might lose his mind.

  The man put down the tray and offered the bill without another word.

  The rest of the morning ticked by agonizingly slowly. He had no way to reach Allie. Both their phones were off. He watched as the crew on the plaza put together a stage, set up a podium and chairs, hooked the speakers to a portable generator, finished setting the rope lines, tested the sound system, added a row of American flags. Around noon, the first television vans showed, the local stations. The audience started coming, too. Mostly men, mostly white. The Fox and CNN trucks arrived a few minutes later.

  Then the cops, a dozen marked Dallas police sedans and at least three unmarked. The police spread themselves out, five on stage, several in the crowd, the rest at the edges. A police helicopter thrummed close, slowly circling the arena. The number of cops surprised Miller. He wondered again if they or the FBI knew about him. But, no, the cops just figured the speech might draw the same crazy hajjis who had hit the arena in the first place. If they’d really feared a sniper, they would have had tactical teams and undercover officers and their own snipers—big-time protection.

  Still, Miller didn’t mind the cops. They made the fight more fair. He’d only have one shot, for sure, and if he didn’t get out of the hotel right away, they would be on him.

  Then it was 1:01. He heard footsteps in the hall. A key card fit in the lock, the door swung open—

  Allie’s hair was jet-black under a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap, and she wore a baggy dress and a sweatshirt. Miller almost didn’t recognize her. “Wow.”

  “Yeah, what a difference hair makes, right? I’d shave your head, but I don’t want to leave any hair in the room.” She grinned. “I took the stairs, no cameras. It’s a circus down there. And they don’t know it yet, but you’re the star. You ready for this, babe?”

  1:10 on the Toyota’s dashboard clock. The streets around the arena were clogged with traffic, people driving in for the speech, walking over from downtown.

  “He’s popular, this guy,” Shafer said. “Might give Duto a run. If we let him live.”

  “Funny,” Wells said.

  “Do I look like I’m joking.” Shafer swung off Victory Park Lane into the garage behind the W, sped down a ramp past a sign that warned VALET PARKING ONLY—past the Mercedes sedans and BMW coupes, a bright yellow Porsche convertible—

  And jammed on his brakes behind a black Dodge Ram. The pickup had a half-dozen bumper stickers on its tailgate and a white license plate, WASHINGTON in red.

  Sometimes Shafer really did seem like a magician.

  “First hotel I checked. Got the best sight lines on the arena. Took me about five minutes. I slapped on a GPS in case they checked out early.”

  Wells stepped out, looked close at the Ram’s tailgate, ran a finger over the LIVE FREE OR GET HIGH bumper sticker in the middle, touched the hole Miller had cut for his rifle. Wells understood the need for snipers, but he’d never liked them. They were both less and more than soldiers. In Afghanistan years before, he’d run across a particularly ugly practitioner. At least that one hadn’t shot preachers for kicks.

  Back in the SUV, he stuffed the Sig in the back of his jeans, pulled his sweatshirt over it. Not the best way to carry a pistol, but he’d be holding it soon enough. “Any ideas on finding the room?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  They walked up to the valet station. “Afternoon,” Shafer said.

  “H-e-y—” The valet drawled out the word as if each letter were its own syllable. He had blue eyes, a perfect Roman nose, a granite chin. He should have been a model. The fact that he was parking cars for a living suggested he might not be the sharpest tool in the box. Wells hoped the deficit would work for them.

  “Kind of a weird question, but you’ve got a Ram pickup in the valet area,” Shafer said. “Black. 1500 Quad Cab. I’ve been looking for that exact model for like six months. Can’t find it anywhere.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’m thinking maybe I want to buy that one.”

  “That’s cool.”

  Shafer looked at Wells. I’d better break this into the smallest possible bites. “So I need to talk to the guy who owns it.”

  “Sure, right.”

  Wells wondered if the valet was playing with them. But his eyes were as blue and empty as glacial melt.

  “Give me his room number, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

  Greed and fear visibly struggled on the valet’s face. Twenty bucks! Not supposed to do that!

  “I’m just gonna knock on his door. If he�
��s there, I’ll ask him if it’s for sale. If not, I’ll leave a note.”

  “Twenty-five.” As if he couldn’t think of a larger sum.

  Shafer handed him the money.

  “What kinda car is it again?”

  Sixty seconds later, Wells and Shafer were in the elevator, headed for the fourteenth floor.

  “I don’t think I knew what too stupid to breathe meant until now.”

  Wells pulled his pistol. “Focus.”

  The elevator door opened, and they stepped out, Wells leading. Room 1412 lay at the end of the hall on the right side. A room service tray sat by the door. Good. Wells could announce himself as room service, ask if Miller wanted the tray removed.

  After he yelled and knocked for a few seconds, Miller would probably open up just to shoo him away. If not, Wells would go to Plan B. Plan B was shooting open the door.

  Inside the room, Allie looked out over the plaza.

  “I wish I could be here with you when you do it, Tom.”

  “I know.” Though he didn’t.

  “Wait until he’s a few minutes in, let him talk. I want him to be talking, thinking how wonderful he is.” She leaned over, kissed him one more time, ran her hands down his back. Despite himself, he felt his skin tingle. “I can count on you, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  She kissed his cheek once lightly. Then she was gone.

  The door to 1412 opened. Wells and Shafer were thirty feet down the hall. Wells lifted his pistol, expecting Miller. But a woman stepped out. Tall, black hair, in a long dress that tried, and failed, to hide her curves—

  She turned to them as the room door locked behind her. Wells saw her blue eyes and knew who she was, who she had to be.

  “Hello, sunshine!” Shafer yelled, the words meant to do nothing but confuse her. Slow her.

  Wells sprinted, thirty feet, ten yards, not even a second and a half—