The Ghost Agent

by Alex Berenson

  A flagstone path cut through the neatly manicured lawn. Rosebushes added a touch of color to the front of the yellow house. She stepped over a battered Big Wheel and pressed the doorbell. Inside the house she heard a toddler crying.

  ‘Coming.’ A woman opened the door a notch and peeked out. She was pretty, late thirties, carrying a baby on her hip. ‘Mom mom mom!’ a boy squalled from upstairs.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, friendly but wary, the classic suburban combination, trying to figure out if Exley was a Jehovah’s Witness or an Avon saleswoman or just a neighbor. People moved to Vienna so they wouldn’t have to worry about strangers knocking on their doors.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ Exley said. ‘My name’s Joanne.’ She was going with an alias, in case the woman mentioned this visit to her husband. ‘I was looking at the Colonial up the block and I’m hoping to find out about the neighborhood and I saw your car in the driveway.’

  The woman looked uncertain. ‘I thought they’d accepted an offer.’

  ‘They’re still showing it.’

  ‘Mommy, come here!’ the invisible boy yelled.

  ‘Well . . . if you don’t mind watching me change a diaper, I’ll give you the rundown. My name’s Kellie, by the way.’ She extended a hand. She was glad to have some company, Exley thought.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ Exley said of the blue-eyed, red-faced little boy holding on to the safety gate that blocked the stairs.

  ‘Isn’t he? Name’s Jonah. But he’s got a temper.’ She picked him up. ‘Come on, J. No more crying. We’ll get you fixed up.’

  ‘They all cry at that age,’ Exley said. ‘I’ve got two of my own. Trust me, they grow out of it.’

  In Jonah’s bedroom, Exley watched as Kellie changed the diaper with one hand while soothing the baby with the other. Already, Exley knew that this woman had mastered the chores of parenting in a way Exley never had. She couldn’t explain why she needed ten minutes to change a diaper, but she did. She never doubted that she would take a bullet for her kids. But she had to admit that she hadn’t been cut out for the daily grind of chasing them around, wiping up their snot, making them paper bag lunches for school.

  Lots of women loved that part of being moms, or at least said they did. Maybe they were right. Maybe those chores were essential to building a lifelong relationship with kids. But Exley couldn’t lie to herself. She’d been desperate to get back to work after four months of maternity leave.

  Now as she watched Kellie wipe off Jonah’s butt and pull on a clean diaper, she wondered: If she had another chance, could she be different? She and Wells? She didn’t know if she could imagine Wells as a father, though of course he was one already. He’d had a son with Heather, his ex-wife, just before he went to Afghanistan to infiltrate al Qaeda. But Wells saw the boy – Evan – only a couple of times a year. Not that he had much say in the matter. Heather, who had sole custody of Evan, was remarried and lived in Montana. She said that Evan had accepted his stepfather as his real dad and she didn’t want to confuse the boy by giving him too much time with Wells.

  Maybe having another child would settle Wells, Exley thought. Or maybe not. He had so many days when he didn’t get along with the world, when he reminded Exley of a barely domesticated guard dog, half German shepherd, half wolf. But even at his angriest, Wells was sweet to her kids, sweet to kids in general. And kids loved him for his size and strength. What kind of father would he be with a boy of his own? Somehow Exley knew that she and Wells would have a boy. Though the truth was that the odds were against her getting pregnant at all.

  Kellie finished putting on Jonah’s clean white diaper and ran a soothing hand over his face. ‘Pretty soon you’ll be a big boy and no more diapers.’

  ‘No diapers!’ Jonah yelled happily.

  Kellie looked sidelong at Exley. ‘So what do you do, Joanne?’

  ‘Me? I’m a consultant.’ The word consultant was vague enough to mean anything, and boring enough that no one cared anyway.

  ‘I used to be a lawyer,’ Kellie said. ‘Then one day I woke up and I was this.’

  ‘You’re great at it, though.’

  ‘When the little one gets to preschool, I’m going back to work. Of course, Eddie – that’s my husband – wants one more, but I told him unless he figures out a way to get himself pregnant, that’s not happening. Come on downstairs and let’s have coffee.’

  ‘I wish I could have stayed at home for a while,’ Exley lied. ‘We couldn’t figure out a way to afford it, though. Is your husband a lawyer too?’

  ‘No. He works for the government. But we saved up when I was working and we’re pretty careful. How about yours?’

  ‘My husband? He works for the government too. Not too far from here. Maybe they’re in the same business.’

  ‘Sounds that way.’ CIA wives liked to hint that their husbands worked at Langley. Proof that the agency hadn’t completely lost its mystique, Exley supposed.

  Kellie pulled up Jonah’s pants. Now that he didn’t have a full diaper, he was pretty well behaved, Exley thought. Cute too. ‘You sweetie,’ she said to him. ‘What’s your favorite thing to do in the world?’

  ‘Hockey! Play hockey!’ Jonah grabbed a miniature hockey stick and swiped the floor. ‘Play hockey.’

  ‘Eddie’s got him on skates already.’

  ‘He can skate?’ Exley’s surprise was genuine.

  ‘Play hockey play hockey –’

  ‘You’d be amazed.’ Kellie grabbed the boy’s hand. ‘Jonah, come on downstairs to the kitchen with us. You can play down there.’

  ‘Can I have juice?’

  ‘Of course, sweetie.’

  They walked back to the downstairs, which was festooned with pictures of Kellie and Edmund on their honeymoon in Hawaii, Kellie and Edmund and Jonah at the rink, the kid cute as anything with his helmet and stick and skates . . . Edmund Cerys wasn’t the mole, Exley thought. Not even an Oscar-winning actor could fake the way he looked at his wife in these pictures. He’d gotten drunk at a Redskins game and picked up a misdemeanor for pissing in the parking lot, but he wasn’t spying for the Chinese or anyone else. Zero for one.

  She settled into the kitchen and prepared to let Kellie tell her about the neighborhood. Then her cell phone trilled in her purse. Wells.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I have a favor to ask. Can you come up to New York? Today?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK

  EVEN AT 2:50 a.m. on a Wednsday morning, East Hampton glowed with wealth. Wall Street skyscrapers, Hollywood back lots, Siberian oil fields – wherever the money came from, it ended up here, waves of cash crashing in like the Atlantic Ocean’s low breakers. Under the streetlamps, the town’s long main street shined empty and clean. The mannequins in the Polo store cradled their tennis racquets, poised to play in their $300 nylon windbreakers. To the north, toward the bay, the houses cost a mere seven figures. South, in the golden half-mile strip between the main street and the ocean, the mansions ran $10 million and up.

  Wells and Exley were heading south.

  Wells cruised at twenty-five miles an hour on his big black bike, its engine running smooth and quiet. Before him, the traffic light at the corner of Main Street and Newtown Lane turned red. He eased to a stop and patted the CB1000’s metal flank. The bike was his, but the license plate wasn’t. He’d liberated it from a Vespa scooter a few hours earlier. He’d also removed all the identifying decals on the bike, making it as anonymous as a motorcycle could be.

  Exley stopped beside him at the wheel of a gray Toyota Sienna minivan that Wells had hot-wired from a parking lot at a bar in Southampton ninety minutes before. The minivan’s owner – the ‘World’s Hottest Single Aunt,’ at least according to the sticker on the van’s back bumper – was presumably still getting liquored up inside. By the time she discovered the Sienna was gone, it would have served its purpose. Wells hoped she had insurance.

  The light dropped green. Wells e
ased past the forty-foot-high wooden windmill that marked the end of the town center. A half-mile later, he turned off Route 27 and onto Amity Lane. Besides his standard riding gear of black leather jacket, black helmet, black gloves, and black boots, Wells had on black jeans and a black long-sleeve cotton shirt. He wished he had a pair of black skivvies to complete the package. Tucked in a shoulder holster, he carried a pistol, a Glock this time instead of the Makarov. It was black, naturally, with a silencer threaded to the barrel. He hoped he wouldn’t even have to draw it. His black backpack held two other weapons, the ones he planned to use.

  The afternoon before, Wells had for the first time found a way to take advantage of the fame he didn’t want. He walked into the East Hampton village police station, an unassuming brick building on Cedar Street, just behind the center of town.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the cop behind the counter said.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the chief.’

  ‘He’s busy. What can I do for you?’

  Wells extracted his CIA identification card, the one with his real name, and passed it across the counter.

  ‘Hold on.’ The officer disappeared behind a steel door, popping out a minute later to wave Wells in.

  The chief was a trim man in his early fifties with tight no-nonsense eyes. Even in East Hampton the cops looked like cops. ‘Ed Graften,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s an honor, Mr. Wells. Please sit.’

  ‘Please call me John.’ Wells was beginning to feel foolish. Did he really expect this man to help him?

  ‘What can I do you for? Don’t suppose you locked your keys in your Ferrari or the brats in the mansion next door are making too much noise. The usual nonsense.’

  ‘Chief – I have a favor to ask. The name Pierre Kowalski ring a bell?’

  ‘Course. His daughter Anna set a record this year for a summer rental. If the papers were right, it was a million and a half bucks for the house.’ Wells had seen the same stories. Anna had spent $1.5 million on a seven-bedroom mansion on Two Mile Hollow Road, just off the ocean. Not to buy the place. To rent it. For three months.

  ‘Nice to have the world’s biggest arms dealer for your dad,’ Wells said. ‘I have it on good authority’ – in fact, Wells had seen the report in two gossip columns – ‘that he is in town this week. I’d like to talk to him. Alone.’

  Graften was no longer smiling. ‘Mr. Wells. Are you sure you are who you say you are? If not, now would be a good time to leave.’

  ‘I am, and I can prove it.’

  ‘Then . . . I guess I could put a patrol car out front of his gate. I’m sure his driver speeds. They all do. We could stop him, bring him in here. But his lawyers would be on us in two minutes and we’d have to cut him loose –’

  ‘I don’t want to get you in trouble. All I need is –’ Wells paused, then plunged on. ‘If you pick up an alarm from his house tonight, take your time getting there. I won’t hurt him, I promise. Or take anything.’ Except information, Wells didn’t say.

  ‘What about his guards?’

  ‘I can take care of them. But I’d rather keep your men out of it.’ Wells didn’t mention Exley’s role in his plan.

  ‘Don’t suppose you can tell me what you want from him.’

  ‘Let’s just say I don’t expect him to file a complaint with you about my visit.’

  ‘You can’t do this officially, Mr. Wells?’

  ‘I wish I could.’ The CIA couldn’t legally operate in the United States. Wells would have to ask the FBI to try to get a warrant for Kowalski. And Wells doubted that any federal judge would sign a warrant based on the secret testimony of a single Russian special forces commando now in prison in Afghanistan. Even if they could find a friendly judge, Kowalski’s lawyers would fight them for months. They’d never even get him in for an interview.

  Trying to move against Kowalski in Monte Carlo or Zurich, where he spent most of his time, would be equally impossible. His homes there were fortresses, much better protected than this vacation house, and the local police would hardly look kindly on a request like this from Wells. No, tonight was his best shot. Maybe his only shot. In any case, Wells didn’t care about arresting Kowalski. He just wanted to know where the trail led.

  Graften sighed. ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘Half an hour maybe.’

  ‘You won’t hurt him.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Graften looked at the ceiling. ‘All right. If you can prove you are who you say you are, I’ll get you a half-hour. No more. At three a.m., let’s say.’

  ‘Then let me do that.’

  It was 2:55 a.m. Wells rolled down Further Lane, Exley following. Heavy green hedges hemmed in the road on both sides. The hedges weren’t ornamental. Twenty feet tall and too thick for anyone to see past, much less walk through, they served as walls protecting the mansions behind them. Every couple of hundred feet, the hedges parted for gated driveways. The homes behind the gates were lit up in the night like cathedrals in the Church of Wealth.

  Wells had reconnoitered the Kowalski house four times, once the previous night on his motorcycle and three times during the day on a mountain bike he’d bought at a garage sale in Sag Harbor. He had also examined town maps and satellite photos, so he knew the mansion’s exterior layout and the land around it. Beyond that he would have to rely on instinct.

  He hadn’t wanted to involve Exley. But unlike most of his neighbors, Kowalski had his property protected with more than hedges and alarms. Instead of a gate, his driveway was permanently blocked by a black Cadillac Escalade, lights on and engine running. Two unsmiling men watched the road from its front seats. When Anna or her friends came or went, the men rolled the Escalade back to unblock the entrance to the property. As soon as the driveway was clear, they moved back into place. They couldn’t be avoided.

  The good news was that Wells hadn’t seen closed-circuit cameras around the property. Cameras were rare in the Hamptons. Billionaires didn’t like being watched, even by their own guards. But cameras or not, unless Wells could get the men out of the Escalade, he’d have to shoot them where they sat. He wanted to avoid killing anyone, for both practical and personal reasons. Kowalski was a powerful man with powerful friends. Shooting his men would cause inquiries that Wells would rather avoid. And though Kowalski was in a worse-than-ugly business, Wells didn’t want to play judge, jury, and executioner tonight.

  Wells figured if he could solve the problem of the front gate he’d be okay. This late in the night, only a couple of guards would be awake inside the mansion. They’d be bored, drinking coffee, trying to keep their eyes open. No matter how much they tried to stay alert, they would hardly be able to avoid slacking off. East Hampton wasn’t exactly Baghdad. And if anything really went wrong, they could normally expect backup from the village police. But Wells had taken the cops out of the picture.

  Just before the corner of Further Lane and Two Mile Hollow, Wells pulled over and dropped the CB1000’s kickstand, placing a flattened Coke can under the base so the stand wouldn’t sink into the earth and tip the Honda over.

  From the minivan, he pulled out the mountain bike he’d bought two days before. Next to the CB1000, the bicycle looked almost toylike. But the bike had one great advantage over the motorcycle. It was silent. Wells took off his helmet and pulled a black mask over his face.

  ‘You still want to do this?’ he said. ‘Because we don’t have to –’

  ‘Please. It’s easy for the world’s hottest single aunt to get lost in East Hampton after she’s had a few.’

  Exley popped open a peach wine cooler and took a swallow, then poured a couple drops onto her blouse, which was open two buttons, enough to reveal a black lace bra that left little about her breasts to the imagination.

  ‘That ought to distract them,’ she said. ‘Just another overaged drunk chick looking for love.’

  ‘Jennifer. Be careful. If something goes wrong, I want you to go, ditch me –’

  But she’d alread
y rolled off.

  He didn’t fully understand Exley. He supposed he never would. She loved her kids terribly, he was sure. Yet here she was again, risking her life to help him. Was she doing this for him? For the adventure? Both? Wells wished he could ask.

  Exley turned right, down Two Mile Hollow, toward the ocean. On the train from Washington the afternoon before, she’d wondered if she should have said no to Wells. Then she remembered the day Wells had attacked the Taliban camp. The afternoon came and went with no word. She felt sure that something terrible had happened, a sniper’s bullet, a helicopter crash. Then she started to believe that her premonition had actually caused Wells’s death, that he would have been fine if only she’d shown more faith.

  That night she’d found herself at the multiplex at Union Station, sneaking between theaters, not even pretending to watch the movies, willing the minutes to pass, waiting for her cell to ring. Finally, at 2:00 a.m., it did. She expected the caller would be Shafer, asking her to come down to Langley so he could give her the news in person.

  Instead the voice on the other end belonged to Wells, cool as ever, telling her that she’d been right about the foreign fighters and that he’d be back soon. After they hung up, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t doubt him again. So when he’d asked for her help for this mission, she couldn’t say no. She knew her thinking was illogical, but so be it. Everyone was entitled to a bit of magical thinking.

  She approached Kowalski’s mansion, swerving a bit from side to side. In her rearview mirror, she saw Wells at the corner, a couple of hundred feet behind her. Then he was gone and she was alone.

  As he waited, Wells unzipped his backpack and pulled out the gun he’d picked up at Langley, a Telinject Vario air pistol. The Telinject was loaded with a syringe filled with ketamine – the drug that club kids and other fun-seekers called Special K – and Versed, a liquid sedative closely related to Valium. Veterinarians and ranchers used these guns to sedate unruly animals. The CIA kept a handful for its own purposes. Wells had borrowed two, after getting an afternoon’s training from a specialist in nonlethal weapons in the agency’s Directorate of Science and Technology, the unit that handled fake passports, wiretaps, special weapons, and the rest of the trickery that accounted for one percent of the agency’s work but ninety-nine percent of its mystique.