Twelve Days

by Alex Berenson

  Wells shook his head.

  “Mr. Wells, am I to understand that you’re too good to shoot a horse?” Buvchenko drew the pistol on his right hip, held it loose at his side. “He’s eighteen, you know, he’s had a long life. Now he’s just taking up space. A gelding. Can’t even breed.”

  He stared at Wells like his eyes could bore through his skull. Wells stared right back.

  “Put a bullet in his brain, it’s more humane than a slaughterhouse. Look at him, eating carrots. He won’t even know.”

  “Those steroids, they turn your balls into jelly beans, don’t they, Mikhail? All the Viagra in the world and you can’t get it up.”

  Buvchenko raised his pistol. “I count to ten. Then either the horse dies, or you do. One. Two—”

  “Let me help. Ten.”

  Buvchenko looked genuinely surprised.

  “Wahid, ithnan, thalaatha, arba’a, hamsa, sitta, sab’a, thamania, tiss’a, ’ashra.” One to ten in Arabic. Wells raised his fingers as he counted, pronouncing as carefully as a kindergarten teacher.

  Buvchenko stepped toward Wells, barked something in Russian. Then spat a gob at Wells’s feet. “I tell you, Idi na khuy. Means, go to the dick. Eff yourself.”

  “See, we both learned something new today.”

  “You aren’t going to shoot that horse.”

  “You had any brains, you wouldn’t let me near that Kord.”

  Buvchenko smirked. “It’s locked down.”

  He turned toward the horse, raised the pistol over his head, fired twice. The horse whinnied wildly and reared in panic. It dragged the stake out of the ground and turned and galloped back toward them. Buvchenko raised both pistols and fired a half-dozen times, pumping his arms forward and back, a parody of an old-school gunslinger, used rounds littering the ground around him.

  Flesh and bone exploded off the horse’s chest. It screamed, the only word for the sound, not a whinny but an oddly human cry of pain, and turned and galloped parallel to the firing line. Buvchenko kept shooting, and three geysers of blood erupted from the horse’s flank. It reared up. Then its back legs sagged and it fell forward, not all at once but slowly as its strength ebbed. Its scream became a low moan as it looked at the men on the firing line. Its tongue flopped out, and it slumped over, blood coursing over its belly and pooling on the frozen ground, wisps of steam rising from the black puddles.

  “You showed him,” Wells said.

  “To the dick with him. Like all of us,” Buvchenko said. He shouted in Russian, and one of his men walked onto the range and shot the horse in the head.

  Buvchenko tucked away his pistols and clapped a massive hand on Wells’s shoulder. “He would have had a much easier time if you’d taken care of it.” And without waiting for an answer, “Come. Let’s have dinner.”

  —

  Dinner was traditional Russian, plates of blinis with sides of caviar and sour cream and smoked sturgeon. The boiled meat dumplings called pelmeni followed, with butter, horseradish, and vinegar. Then grilled salmon and shashlik, marinated lamb skewers. Buvchenko ate with relish and without irony and hardly spoke as the courses came and went. Wells pushed the horse out of his mind and forced himself to eat. The food was delicious and beautifully presented, served on robin’s-egg-blue china, with crystal glasses, sterling silver knives and forks, and a lace tablecloth. Buvchenko might be a gangster in every other way, but he ate like a nineteenth-century Russian noble.

  A bottle of Stolichnaya vodka sat on ice in a silver champagne bowl at Buvchenko’s elbow. As the meal started, Buvchenko poured shots for them both, but he didn’t push when Wells declined. “More for me,” he said. Maybe he figured he had made his point on the firing range. My horse, my men, my mansion, my city, my country. Be glad I let you live.

  After ninety high-calorie minutes, the waiters swept away the last of the dishes. Buvchenko burped mightily. “What do you think?”

  Wells wasn’t surprised that the vodka had lessened rather than thickened his host’s accent. “Excellent.”

  “My chef comes from the Four Seasons in St. Petersburg. Down here there isn’t much. Even the best whores wind up in Moscow. I wanted decent food, anyway.” Buvchenko poured two fresh shots, offered one to Wells. Wells shook his head.

  “Pierre says you’re Muslim.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand this, but also I don’t care.” Buvchenko downed both glasses. A faint flush rose in his cheeks. Spit moistened his lips. He’d had at least a dozen shots over dinner. “So you came all this way to see me, you showed stupidity and courage both with the horse, we’ve eaten, you are a guest under my roof, you know who I am.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know my business. So I speak frankly to you. I supply weapons and soldiers. I don’t care who you are, what you want them for, that’s your business. If you can pay, I give them over. I have helicopters, BMPs, up to two thousand infantry, the planes to take them anywhere in Africa or Asia. Trained men who obey commands, don’t make a mess with civilians. Unless that’s what you want. Mines, SAMs, antitank. Jets and tanks are harder. I may be able to arrange those, but I can’t guarantee. My prices are high, but they’re fair. When Putin decided to go into Ukraine, I don’t mind telling you I supplied that first wave of men.”

  “You’re good with Moscow.”

  “If not, I would be in exile in London or in jail in Siberia. One doesn’t anger the tsar. And you? Who pays you?”

  “Once, I worked for the agency. Now I freelance.” The answer was true as far as it went.

  Buvchenko poured himself another shot. “Pierre didn’t tell me what you wanted. So, please, ask whatever questions you like. Be direct, I tell you, before I’m too drunk to answer.”

  The offer seemed too good to be true, but Wells didn’t plan to argue.

  “Suppose I wanted to buy plutonium or HEU.”

  “A nuclear bomb.”

  “Not a bomb’s worth. Just a kilogram or two.”

  “And who do you represent? Who wants this?”

  “Let’s say it doesn’t matter. But I have the money.”

  “How much?”

  “As much as I need.”

  “I don’t understand. This is a real offer, or a test?”

  “Real.”

  “And you have the money, you say?”

  “I can get it.”

  Buvchenko shook his head. “Still, I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “What about the depots in Chelyabinsk?” Where the Russians stored their nuclear weapons. A few years ago, a terrorist had stolen two weapons out of Chelyabinsk and barely missed blowing up Washington. The story remained a highly classified secret in both the United States and Russia; Wells knew only because he’d helped find the nukes.

  “No. Security there is tight now. Even I don’t have those connections, and if anyone did, it would be me.”

  “There’s nothing loose floating around? Someone must know. In Moscow, wherever. Even for a clue, I can pay.”

  “I would gladly take your money if I had something to tell you. But why do you ask?”

  Wells decided to give Buvchenko a two-sentence version of the story. “Someone’s trying to trick the United States into invading Iran. The HEU in Istanbul isn’t Iranian.”

  “You mean the American president is lying?” Buvchenko wagged his finger. “Mr. Wells, I am ashamed you say such a thing as this.” His accent thickened. Meester Wheelles. A natural ham. He should have played dinner theater.

  “Not lying. Fooled.”

  “And now set this deadline for war. A red line like Syria, but this time I think he has no choice but to go forward.”

  “Yes.”

  “And who do you think has done this? Not the FSB.”

  Wells hesitated. But maybe Duberman’s name would shake loose a connection in his
host’s vodka-soaked mind. “An American billionaire named Aaron Duberman. He owns casinos.”

  “Duberman?” Buvchenko rolled the name out: Dooobermannn. “A Jew, yes? And you say we Russians are anti-Semites.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the Dalai Lama.”

  “Yet you are Muslim. And here claiming this Jew tries to make the United States go to war.”

  Wells shook his head. He was guilty of a thousand sins, but prejudice wasn’t one.

  “All right, that is between you and your Allah. So what is your evidence for this?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Buvchenko leaned across the table to Wells. “Meaning you don’t have any?”

  “Some.”

  “But not enough.”

  “Not yet.” Somehow the Russian, despite all the vodka, had turned the questions back on Wells. “What about North Korea?”

  “I don’t think so. I won’t do business with them. They can’t be trusted.”

  Quite a statement coming from a man who’d shot a horse for predinner entertainment. Once again Wells had traveled to another country, another continent, and found nothing but a brick wall. Worst of all, he was hardly even surprised. He was now expecting to fail. A terrible attitude in the middle of a mission.

  At least tonight nobody had died in a car bomb.

  “Excuse me a minute, Mr. Wells.” Buvchenko pushed himself up from the table, moving with the exaggerated care of a man who wanted to seem more sober than he was. “I must—” He was gone, leaving Wells to guess at what he had to do.

  He returned a few minutes later, holding a bottle of Baltika, Russian beer. “Mr. Wells. I’m sorry to disappoint you after your long drive. I hope you’ll stay over tonight, catch up on your sleep. I’d be offended if you didn’t allow me to show you hospitality.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “In fact, I insist.” Buvchenko’s smile left no doubt what he meant. Wells had no idea why the Russian wanted to keep him overnight. Buvchenko’s moods were impossible to read. But arguing would be pointless. Even if he could convince Buvchenko to let him out tonight, the Volgograd airport would be closed for the night by the time he got back to the city. Plus Wells wasn’t even sure where to go next. Buvchenko was his last real lead. All he’d miss was the free breakfast at the hotel, and he’d count himself lucky.

  “I have your word I’ll leave in the morning?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right. As long as I don’t have to sleep with you.”

  As an answer Buvchenko poured himself another shot.

  Wells’s bedroom was vaguely anachronistic in the style of a Russian country manor, with oversize oak dressers and a heavy down comforter splayed across a narrow twin bed. Wells didn’t try to pray in this place, but instead kicked off his shoes and lay down. The windows had been left narrowly open, allowing the winter chill to sneak in, but the comforter warmed Wells instantly. He was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

  A light knock on the door woke him.

  “Mr. Wells. I am to take you back to Volgograd.” Eight a.m., according to the old-fashioned winding clock beside the bed. Wells couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night. Cold air and a warm blanket. Maybe the Russians had a few customs worth importing. Wells pushed himself up.

  Buvchenko seemed gone, and Wells didn’t look too hard for him. Ninety minutes later, the BMW dropped him at the hotel. He nodded at the receptionist, walked up the empty stairs, along the third-floor corridor. 306.

  He reached for his keycard. But the door was already open, propped with a pen.

  He reached for the pistol he wasn’t carrying, cursed silently, pushed the door open.

  “Come in.” A woman. He knew her voice but couldn’t place it.

  Wells stepped inside, his shoulder against the door. 306 followed a setup familiar to anyone who’d ever stayed in a hotel. The front door opened into a short corridor that ran past the bathroom and into the main living space, which had a bed against one wall, a dresser and television on the other. Wells couldn’t pass the bathroom without exposing himself to anyone inside. On the other hand, if they’d wanted to shoot him, they wouldn’t have left the front door open.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” A faintly mocking tone, and then he knew. A dark street in a run-down slum in Istanbul. Headlights blinding him. This will sting.

  She sat casually on the bed, legs crossed. Medium brown hair, brown eyes. A runner’s body, tight and athletic, underneath a dark blue suit-and-pants set and sneakers. No weapon that he could see. She could have passed for a lawyer on the way to work. Pretty enough.

  “John.” She waved casually. “I’m Salome. We’ve met before, though you may not recognize me. I’m sorry to say you were in some distress at the time.” Her words ironic in their formality.

  “No worries,” Wells said. “I remember.”

  PART TWO

  11

  SIX DAYS . . .

  ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA

  Nine a.m. in Volgograd meant 1 a.m. on the East Coast. Just as Wells greeted Salome, Vinny Duto arrived to meet his own femme fatale. Donna Green. Duto would have preferred POTUS, but the big man wasn’t interested. Duto couldn’t even blame his staff for the failure to set the meeting. He had tried to arrange it himself the morning after he returned from Tel Aviv, calling Len Gilman, the President’s scheduler. Duto knew he was risking embarrassment. In Washington, as Hollywood, making your own calls screamed of desperation.

  Gilman wasted no time shooting him down.

  “The President doesn’t see senators one-on-one,” he said. “Simple fairness. He takes a meeting with you, the other ninety-nine will demand the same treatment. He just doesn’t have time for that.”

  “I’m sure the President can handle the slings and arrows of my fellow senators.”

  “Of course he can, Vinny. My job is making sure he doesn’t have to. Can’t you give me any idea what this is about?”

  “I already told you. Iran.”

  “But beyond that. Whatever you tell me will remain in the strictest confidence.”

  “If I wanted you to know, I would have told you already.”

  “Then we seem to have reached an impasse. If something changes, I’ll call you. This is your personal line, yes?”

  Twisting the knife. Duto knew the President didn’t like him. He had only run for Senate when he’d realized the White House was preparing to force him out as DCI. Still, he wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve this meat-locker treatment. He’d never feuded openly with the President, never embarrassed the White House.

  For the first time in his life, he understood the impulse to leak. He’d always hated leakers. Don’t like it? Then quit. But you signed an oath of secrecy and you’d best keep it. Now he saw the other side of the equation. You won’t listen, boss? Maybe the world will.

  —

  The next night, his phone lit up. A blocked number.

  “Vinny?”

  Duto knew that flat female voice. “Donna.”

  He didn’t like Green any better than Gilman. She had spent her whole life inside the Beltway, second-guessing the guys in the field. Duto knew that guys like Wells leveled the same charge against him. They forgot he had been one of them back in the day. He’d given blood for the job, and not metaphorically.

  “Len says you have something to tell us. I’m listening.”

  Either Green or the President himself had decided Duto was too important to be ignored entirely.

  “No phones for this.”

  Green sighed, an I’m-too-busy-for-this-nonsense sound. Duto was glad they weren’t face-to-face. Whatever his sins, he’d never hit a woman. He wanted to go to the grave that way. “Next you’re going to tell me this has to be today?”

  “If possible.”
/>   “Can you come over?”

  “It’s in your interest not to have it logged.” The Secret Service recorded all visitors to the White House for both security and historical purposes. The logs were sacrosanct. Any effort to remove an entry would only call attention to it.

  “I’ll call you later, location, time.”

  “Great.” Duto tried to hang up, but Green beat him to it.

  —

  Now his two-car detail turned into a Home Depot parking lot just off the Little River Turnpike. Acres of empty blacktop at this hour. Convenient for a meet, if not exactly sexy.

  “She’s not here,” his chief bodyguard said.

  “Any other blinding glimpses of the obvious?” Duto knew his reputation. Short-tempered, verging on nasty. He didn’t mind. Better feared than loved. He rode in an armored Tahoe, with two guards up front. Two others in the chase car, a Crown Vic. Most senators didn’t rate that much protection, but Duto’s years as DCI had put him high on al-Qaeda’s wish list.

  They parked in the center of the lot, which was surprisingly clean. No stray carts or trash. The beige husk of the store filled the west end of the lot. Duto reached for his phone, a reflex. Waiting meant downtime. He hated downtime. Much as he had disliked running for senator, putting his fate in the hands of millions of people who had no idea how Washington actually worked, he enjoyed the fact that the campaign never ended. His staff could always schedule another rally, radio interview, debate prep session, briefing book. By the end he had memorized the minutiae of the federal budget, the projects it funded in Pennsylvania, the most important issues in every town with more than five thousand people. He’d turned his opponent into a likable simpleton.

  But at this hour Duto had no one to call. Wells was in Volgograd, no doubt arm-wrestling a bear for his life. Shafer was asleep. In the morning, Shafer would fly to Utah to convince Wells’s son Evan not to ditch his FBI minders. The kid was an ungrateful brat. Duto had pulled big favors to get him in that safe house. If Evan was too dumb to realize he needed the protection, so be it. Like his father, he was too bullheaded to take good advice.

  The difference was that Wells knew how to survive.