The Deceivers

by Alex Berenson

  She reached into her purse, but too late, Wells was on her, two hundred ten pounds of muscle and bone. He slammed her against the wall so hard her head whipped like a shaken baby’s. She groaned and dropped the purse. Wells kicked it to Shafer.

  “Tom—” she yelled.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she stopped herself as she realized the mistake she’d made. Wells knew, too. With his left hand, he covered her mouth. He put his body against hers and shoved her against the wall face-first, anyone watching might have seen brute sexuality. In truth, Wells wanted to be sure she didn’t have a pistol hidden around her hips or strapped to her back, and pressing her was the fastest way to search her. He could smell the dye in her hair, feel her hips under her dress. She didn’t shiver or try to fight him. She stayed still. Unafraid. Calculating.

  She didn’t have a weapon. It had been in the purse, he figured. He pulled her off the wall, turned her to face the door. Put his Sig to her head. “Be good.”

  Together, they waited for Miller to come for her.

  Miller heard a scream.

  “Allie?”

  No answer. He ran for the door, pulled it open. A man he’d never seen, a big guy, a soldier, held Allie. A pistol to her head. Another man a few feet off.

  Before Miller could say anything, the guy shoved Allie into the room. He followed her, kicked the door shut behind him so the second guy was stuck outside in the hall.

  “Come on, Tom, sit, let’s talk.”

  Outside, the police helicopter buzzed so close that the windows shook.

  Miller had brought his pistol with him on this trip, of course. It was in the duffel. The duffel was at the base of the bed. The rifle was in the corner. He just had to keep thinking. He’d find a way to reach one or the other.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. Allie stayed standing.

  “Who are you?”

  “Name’s John Wells.” The guy had a flat western accent. He was older than Miller had thought at first, but he had baseball bat forearms and the thick shoulders of a man who’d been winning fights his whole life.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “They sent him to kill us,” Allie said.

  “Hush,” the man said. “You’ll have a chance. Though if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut.” He looked at Miller. “You’ve done terrible things, Tom.” Every word slow and low. “I don’t know how she made you. I look at her, look at you, maybe I can guess.”

  A wave of shame, heavy and foul, washed over Miller.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Allie said.

  “Allie. Annalise. Whatever your name really is. We’re past that. I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, maybe the FSB has something to trade for you. But we know how this ends for him.”

  “He’s crazy, Tom, don’t listen to him—”

  In one motion, fast, not even looking at her, the man brought up his left arm, backhanded Allie, a short, vicious swing—

  The clap of knuckles on skin. Allie sprawled backward, banged into the silver couch in the center of the suite. She tripped over the arm but reached down, caught herself.

  “Enough,” the man said.

  “I’ll kill you,” Allie said.

  “I hope you try.” He hadn’t looked away from Miller. “Hurley, the Cardinal, Birman—you think it’s a coincidence they all have anti-Islamic views? She used you to make folks angry at Muslims—”

  “No,” Miller said. He knew he ought to be furious with this man Wells for hitting Allie. Yet, somehow, Wells had acted with absolute authority, like he had no doubt Allie was guilty. And Allie hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t said, Why did you do that? She hadn’t claimed innocence or begged for mercy. No, she’d threatened to kill him.

  “You leave a spring gun in your trailer when you drove off to shoot Luke Hurley, Tom?”

  Miller shook his head in confusion.

  “Because there was one set when I got there last night. Shotgun wired to the front door. It killed the sheriff, Darby, the one who gave you the pickup. Tore up a Marine I know named Winston Coyle, a good guy, three tours in Helmand. That’s your girlfriend’s friends.”

  With his left hand, Wells reached into his pocket for the ribbon. He held it like he was trying to hypnotize Miller, then let it flutter down. “Know what else I found, Tom? In the table by your bed. A picture. Of a dead Afghan kid. They leave that or was that yours?”

  Miller had nothing to say.

  Miller’s silence was all the answer Wells needed. The Russians had seeded the apartment, but that pic had been Miller’s. For a few seconds, none of them spoke. The thrum of the helicopter provided the only evidence that the world outside this room still existed. Poor Miller. With his scarred skin and his widow’s peak. Fred Urquhart had been generous. Miller wasn’t a five on a good day, he was a three. What had he thought when Allie came to him?

  “I didn’t kill him,” Miller finally said. “The kid. But, yeah, it happened. It all happened.”

  The duffel bag was at Miller’s feet, open. He reached for it.

  Wells knew Miller must have a pistol in there. This was the moment to stop him, to tell him to lie facedown on the bed and to call the FBI.

  “Don’t touch it. Scoot back. I’ll get the gun for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have already. Just do it.”

  Miller hesitated, moved back on the bed. “It’s at the bottom, the end nearer you.”

  Wells reached into the duffel with his left hand, kept the Sig on Miller with his right. The pistol was where Miller had said. He pulled it. A 9-millimeter Glock, simple and professional.

  “You ride with one in the chamber?”

  Miller nodded. Wells released the magazine. It hit the floor, and he kicked it toward the door. Then he put the Glock on the end of the bed. It looked unloaded, but it had a round chambered, ready to fire.

  Miller inched close, reached it, held it loose in his lap. He looked at Wells, his eyes defiant and lost at once, a trapped fox. Wells felt Allie behind him, edging toward the rifle in the corner. He let her. It was pointing the wrong way. And it was a single-shot bolt-action long gun. If she could reach it and bring it around and fire it before Wells dropped her, he deserved to get shot.

  “One bullet. What’m I gonna do with that?”

  “Whatever you like, Tom.”

  “So I can go for you and get smoked or just do it myself.”

  “Toss it down, I’ll call the FBI, and we’re done. Swear to you.” Wells meant his promise. Though he didn’t think he’d have to keep it. He didn’t think Miller was going that way. Why he’d made sure Shafer was stuck outside.

  Wells was taking a chance here, a hundred chances. What he was doing was illegal, maybe even immoral. He didn’t care, he wanted to break Miller, and he didn’t see another way.

  “What do you do with her?” Miller looked at Allie.

  “She’ll be fine. My word. Soldier to soldier.”

  “Ever been in love, John? Real love? It’s everything. I love her now, I’ll always love her.”

  You poor lost soul.

  Miller looked at the 9-millimeter in his lap. Suddenly he flashed to the trailer, Allie holding this pistol in her hands, a perfect shooter’s grip. Even then he’d known, hadn’t he? The room shattered, and he was back in Afghanistan. He was six and waiting for his dad. He was in the Hyde Out, watching her watch him—

  Allie sidled closer to the rifle, closer, only two steps away—

  “Tom! Shoot him!” She broke for the rifle, picked it up, tried to turn—

  Miller twisted the pistol in his lap and squeezed the trigger.

  The blast echoed off the walls—

  And the round caught Allie high in the back and spun her into the wall beside the window. Another perfect shot.
She slid down the wall, leaving a bloody trail as she went, gasping, her eyes already vacant, and Miller knew he’d killed her.

  Wells kept his Sig on Miller the whole time. Allie thumped down, gurgling, dying.

  “John!” Shafer yelled from outside.

  Wells ignored him.

  Miller released the slide and pointed the pistol at Wells. He squeezed the trigger. The slide racked back and the pin popped into the naked chamber, the pistol as empty and useless as a paper cutout. Click!

  “It’s over, Tom.” He felt the first stirrings of pity for this man, made himself push them down.

  “Time for me to go.” Miller released the slide, dry-fired again. Click!

  “Not how it works.”

  “Nothing I can tell them. Spend the rest of my life trying to explain, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was crazy for her. She said they’d raped her, all those men. I didn’t want to know anything else. That’s all there is—”

  Click! Click!

  “You know they’re gonna lock me up until they put a needle in me, not asking you to cut me loose—” Miller closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were clear and certain, the fear gone. “I’m sorry, John, truly I am.”

  Wells didn’t know if this was mercy or justice, didn’t know if it was his to grant. Only that he would. Over the thrum of the helicopter, he heard the ding of the elevator door, footsteps pounding down the hall.

  “John!” Shafer yelled again.

  Wells raised the Sig. Left it there. Giving Miller one last chance—

  But Miller only nodded.

  Wells pulled the trigger.

  EPILOGUE

  No one was happy with Wells.

  Not the Dallas cops. Not the Feds. Not Shafer.

  Wells could have lied, could have popped the mag back into Miller’s Glock in the seconds before the police broke down the door. But he was done lying. At least today. Let someone else clean up the mess he’d made. Or make the mess he’d cleaned up.

  “You gave him back his weapon?” the FBI special agent in charge of the Dallas office—a tall black man named Michael Jordan, and bald as his better-known namesake—said late that afternoon. They were in Jordan’s office. No cameras. No recorders. No windows.

  “Yes.”

  “With one round.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted him to have the choice.”

  “Why?”

  The FBI guy sounded like Emmie now, a game she’d just learned to play. Every kid knew the rules. Keep asking Why? until you drive your parents nuts.

  Because I hoped he’d draw on me. Because I hoped he wouldn’t. Because I wanted it to be a fair fight. One I knew I’d win. Because he’d served, and I thought he’d do the right thing in the end. Whatever that might be. Because of Coyle. Because of Darby. Because . . . Because . . .

  Wells shrugged.

  “You think this is a game?”

  I think I saved you a trial. I think Tom Miller told me all he knew, and Allie, a/k/a Annalise, a/k/a unknown female subject, wouldn’t have said a word. She would have waited for the Kremlin to trade for her, waited her whole life, if necessary. She knew talking wouldn’t have helped her. I think the only real question now is how far inside the Kremlin this plan went, and I doubt Allie, a/k/a Annalise, could have told us. I think we’re way outside the realm of law enforcement, this is government-to-government business, and if you want justice, you’re going to be waiting a while.

  Wells shrugged again. Let Duto explain as he saw fit, conjure the perfect concoction of truth and lies to pour down the public’s throat. With Allie dead, the only way the FBI could connect the original bombing to Miller was through Banamex. Wells figured Duto had already found a way to tell Mendoz not to make that connection for them. So the bombing would stand on its own. That investigation would stall in Quito. Hector Frietas wasn’t around to answer questions, and his wife knew how to keep her mouth shut. The FBI would have a lot of smoke, and Russia might come up more than once. But no fire. They would ask Duto for more information from his mysterious source. Duto would say he’d pressed as hard as he could or national security interests prevented him from telling them more. Ultimately, the Bureau would be left with no way to prove the original source of the Banamex money or who had ordered the bombing.

  Of course, Duto eventually would have to respond, to punish the FSB for what it had done. Wells wondered if Duto would invite him to the White House when that moment came. And what he’d say in answer.

  “Mr. Wells, I’m talking to you. Do you think this is a game?”

  Everything’s a game.

  By 10 p.m., the FBI had cut him loose. “I had my way, we’d be charging you,” Jordan said.

  Wells saluted him as the elevator doors closed.

  Shafer waited in the garage. “Prick.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “That wasn’t your choice, John.”

  “Didn’t see anybody else in the room.”

  Shafer stared at Wells with pop-eyed fury.

  “I told him the truth, Ellis. If he’d tossed the pistol, I would have waited for the cavalry.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you would have let her go for the rifle so you could shoot her.”

  “Maybe. Anything new about Coyle?”

  “Last I heard, he was still stable, still on the ventilator. They were hoping to take him off tonight, but they decided to wait.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.” Wells wondered if he was betraying Coyle by going home. No. He had to see Anne.

  “It’s not.”

  They had predawn flights out of DFW, Shafer to Washington, Wells to Boston. Shafer had rented a room at the airport Hyatt so they could catch a few hours’ sleep.

  Neither Wells nor Shafer spoke again until they reached the fringes of the airport.

  “Something else, John . . .”

  Wells waited.

  “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Paul Birman was setting up to be a giant pain for Vinny. Why kill him?”

  “Come on. They wanted to make it look like a crazed wannabe convert is on the loose.”

  “They already had that. And she could have had Miller shoot fifty other guys who fit the anti-Islam profile. Why Birman? Why now? I’m telling you, something’s missing.”

  “You’re overthinking this, Ellis.” Wells wished he felt as convinced as he sounded. Shafer’s hunches had an unusual hit rate.

  “You’re underthinking it.”

  “I’m telling you that even in the unlikely event you’re right, those two couldn’t have helped us.”

  “We’ll never know, will we? You go on home, John. Pat yourself on the back for a job well done.”

  The limousine carrying Paul and Eric had just pulled out of the Mansion on Turtle Creek for the fifteen-minute drive to the American Airlines Center when a fleet of black Chevy Yukons surrounded them. A dozen men in body armor jumped out.

  “FBI! FBI!” In case giant white letters emblazoned on their black vests didn’t give it away.

  Eric knew before they’d said a word. A silly giggle rose in him. How? How? How? But he hardly needed to ask. Lucky Cousin Paul. Never bet against him.

  Back in the Presidential Suite, the agent in charge explained.

  A sniper at the W Hotel—unfortunately, he died at the scene before we could interview him—tentatively identified as a veteran named Tom Miller. Served in Afghanistan, two tours, suffered a traumatic brain injury . . . No ballistics match on the rifle as yet, but we have every reason to believe that this is the man responsible for the killings in St. Louis and Chicago.

  Then the surprise:

  A female was also in the room, she also
died at the scene. She was white, late twenties. We haven’t identified her yet or her precise relationship with Miller . . . We’ll show you pictures of both to see if you can identify them. Maybe you’ve seen them at other speeches . . .

  Eric tried to parse what the agent wasn’t saying. Not: We killed him. Not even: We found him. The FBI hadn’t known Miller was in Dallas, much less that he was targeting Paul. Someone else had stumbled on Miller. Or chased him down.

  We have to consider the risk that this is part of a larger plot. We recommend you return to Nashville until we know what you’re facing, it’s easiest to protect your home . . . The director’s offered to fly out in the morning to brief you in person . . .

  Any questions?

  Paul shook his head. He’d kept himself together, but Eric knew he was terrified. Every few seconds, his eyes slid around the suite as if a monster might come through its walls.

  Eric had a few questions of his own, but, unfortunately, he couldn’t ask them: A twenty-something white female—had Adam Petersen called her from Maryland that morning? If he had, was she still holding the phone he’d called? What other evidence had she left? Most of all: How did you find this guy, considering that forty-eight hours ago you didn’t have a clue who he was?

  “Thank you,” Paul said. “I’d just like a few minutes to myself.”

  “Of course. I’ll put men outside your door and on your terrace.”

  Paul nodded.

  Then only Paul, Eric, and Paul’s bodyguard, Jimmy Sanders, were left.

  “I didn’t get until now what it’s like, Eric. What you went through all those years.”

  You still don’t. No one actually shot at you, you fool. You didn’t even know you were at risk until you weren’t.

  Paul’s eyes flicked to Eric and then away. He looked to Eric like he needed a hug. Eric mustered thirty years of Army discipline and gave it to him. “I know. Awful. I’m sorry, cousin.”

  “I can’t believe we moved up the speech—”

  “That was your idea, wasn’t it, Colonel?” Sanders said.

  Eric looked at him. Sanders’s face was flat. Neutral. He was stating a fact. Nothing more. Maybe.