by Ben Coes
It was Daisy’s idea.
“Thanks for inviting me,” she said, holding his hand.
“You don’t need to thank me.”
Daisy was dressed in a white silk dress, simple and racy, ravishing and stunning, her large breasts accentuated—not that they needed to be—her brown legs visible from midthigh down, shapely and captivating. Her long brown hair flowed freely behind her, shimmering in reds and blacks as light hit it, her face sculpted and smooth, large brown eyes, and a nose that on most would be considered too long but was, on her, her most beautiful aspect, and lips that were puffy and seductive. She looked like a young Sophia Loren. For his part, Dewey was dressed in a tuxedo, the largest size the store had had, and his big shoulders and chest pushed against the material. He was clean shaven and his hair was cut to a medium length, parted in the middle, in back still longish, down almost to his shoulders. Dewey’s skin was tan, he seemed relaxed, and yet his eyes scanned the streets as they walked.
“A state dinner,” said Daisy. “It’s sort of exciting.”
Dewey smiled. “Yeah.”
Dewey suddenly tugged her hand and they came to a stop. He pulled Daisy closer and wrapped his arms around her. They were on an empty sidewalk. The sky was turning black.
He leaned forward and kissed her. Then he reached into his pocket and removed a thin red velvet box. He handed it to her.
She stared at it, speechless.
“Dewey, I … I don’t know what to say.”
She opened the box. Inside was a necklace with small diamonds along the edge and a large ruby hanging down.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“I stole it,” said Dewey. “You might not want to wear it in public.”
Daisy handed the necklace to Dewey, who fastened it around her neck. She smiled bashfully up at him. He was blushing slightly.
“You’re adorable, do you know that?” She leaned toward him and stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him on the lips, and they stood on the sidewalk without letting go of each other for a long time, kissing affectionately, even passionately.
Finally, Dewey moved his lips away.
“You think we should maybe bag this dinner and go back and see what happens?”
“No,” said Daisy, laughing.
Dewey nodded toward an empty stretch of Rock Creek Park near the road. “What about going behind those bushes over there?”
Daisy looked at him with a slightly disgusted look.
“I’m not a stray dog, Dewey,” she said.
GUANTÁNAMO BAY DETENTION CAMP
GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA
Flaherty’s cell was made of concrete. The toilet was a hole in the ground. Despite being located in a tropical paradise—just a few miles from several five-star resorts—the cell had only one small window, high enough so that nobody could see in or see out.
Flaherty lay on the ground. He was sweating, not only from the temperature but also from the pain. Other than the night of the accident, he hadn’t received any painkillers, not even an aspirin.
He shouldn’t have survived. In fact, FBI and CIA investigators shared the same conclusion: nobody could have survived that car crash. But he did. Ultimately, the credit was given to Mercedes and a steel frame designed for the Autobahn, the federal-controlled access highway system in Germany, much of which had no posted speed limits.
Despite his survival, Flaherty wished he were dead.
A thick metal wire was wrapped through his mouth and around the back of his neck. In his mouth—affixed to the wire—was a green rubber gag in the shape of a stick of butter lodged between his teeth. It had been there for so long it was the only thing he knew, the only thing on earth he liked.
Both his legs were in casts, each one dark and filthy. His left arm was also in a cast. He spent all day trying to fall asleep and all night doing the same. Sleep was the only thing he had now, and even that was haunted by memories and nightmares.
He heard the dull clink of his cell door unlocking. He looked up as the thick steel door swung in. A man in a uniform was standing there. In his hand was a cell phone. The officer came to Flaherty and reached behind his neck, unlocking the gag. He lifted Flaherty by his shirt, sitting him up. He handed him the phone.
“You have a phone call.”
Flaherty wasn’t allowed phone calls at Guantánamo. He stared at the man’s hand, and the phone. He hadn’t spoken on a cell phone in months.
He took the cell from the officer, who took several steps back and stood in the doorway.
“Andrew Flaherty?”
“Yes,” Flaherty coughed in a scratchy voice.
“What if I told you you could walk out of that prison?” the man asked.
Flaherty said nothing.
“You don’t believe me, do you? But it’s true. You see, we both want the same thing. A better America. I know what you did. I watched you doing it. I was rooting for you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Joshua Gant.”
“Josh Gant, as in the former deputy CIA director?”
“Correct.”
“What do you want?”
“To eliminate America’s threats, just like you,” said Gant. “Promise you’ll help me, and you’ll walk out of that prison within the hour.”
“I’ll help you,” said Flaherty. “What threats are you talking about?”
Gant let out a high-pitched cackle.
“We’re going to kill Dewey Andreas.”
1244 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dewey woke up early and took a shower. He went to the dresser to find something to wear, pulling out a drawer. It was empty. He pulled out every drawer, but the only thing he found was a pair of paint-covered madras shorts and a sock. He looked around the bedroom. A mountain of dirty clothing was piled in the corner. It came up to his waist and took up a good section of the room. He rifled through it, looking for something that wasn’t too obviously dirty. He pulled out various articles—a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, a Bruins T-shirt—and put them up to his nose. After a good whiff, he dropped each one back onto the pile.
There was a subtle movement beneath the covers of the bed. The top of the blanket moved and Daisy’s head appeared.
“Where are you going?” she said sleepily.
“I have an appointment.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“I know. I made coffee. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
With no good options left, Dewey pulled on the tuxedo trousers from the night before, along with the white shirt, which was badly wrinkled. It took him a minute or so, but he finally found the tuxedo jacket where he’d thrown it the night before, on the floor outside the bedroom.
He walked to the building. It was a crisp, cool morning without a cloud in the sky. Only a few people were up and about at this hour. He walked over near Dumbarton Oaks and then down along the bike path that bordered Rock Creek Park, finally cutting over toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
When he got to the office building, a security guard signed him in. He took the elevator to the tenth floor. When he got off, he went left. At the end of the hallway, he saw a small sign.
DR. PAMELA PECK
Dewey knocked.
A moment later, he heard Dr. Peck’s voice. “Come in.”
Dewey opened the door. Dr. Peck was standing against the glass wall. Over her shoulders, he could see the White House. Dr. Peck’s arms were crossed. Her hair was brushed back.
“Hello, Dewey,” she said.
“Hi.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
Dewey stared at her.
“Won’t you sit down?” She pointed to the chair.
“Sure.”
Dr. Peck walked to the chair across from him and sat down.
“You didn’t need to dress up for me, you know.”
Dewey grinned.
“There’s lipstick
on your shirt,” she pointed out.
“It was my only clean shirt. I need to do some laundry.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’d call it ‘clean,’” said Dr. Peck, smiling.
“I don’t even know where the washing machine is. It’s Jessica’s house. She left it to me. I was thinking maybe I should sell it and move.”
“Or you could look for the washing machine.”
Dewey stared at her with a blank expression.
“Selling Jessica’s town house won’t erase what happened, Dewey. Killing Kyrie, killing Charles Bruner—that won’t erase what happened to Holly.”
“This again,” said Dewey with scorn in his voice.
“This again is you, Dewey. These are parts of you. Vital parts. Jessica died in your arms, but you asked her to marry you. You had that moment. You and Holly had a son. He died, too, but you had him. You loved him. Were you in the room when he was born?”
Dewey nodded. His eyes were red.
“What’s your point?” he whispered, trying to hold back his emotions. “Are you just trying to torture me?”
Dr. Peck shook her head. “No. Just the opposite.”
Dewey was quiet for several minutes. He stared down at his hands, then looked out the window. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Finally, he looked at Dr. Peck.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay. It’s not about understanding. It’s about feeling. Letting yourself feel. The feeling of watching somebody die who you love. You felt that. You still feel it. It’s part of what makes you who you are.”
Dewey stood up and walked to the window. He looked out on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching a young couple jogging along the wide sidewalk. He watched them until they disappeared in the distance.
“I shot someone,” said Dewey.
“I read the file,” said Dr. Peck. “It sounds like you shot a lot of people.”
“This one was different. It was like he wanted me to shoot him.”
“He was guilty,” said Peck.
“I don’t think he saw it that way. Even if he did, it doesn’t mean you necessarily just give in. I’ve looked into the eyes of guilty men before, men I’m about to kill. This was different.”
Dr. Peck took a deep breath. “You’re wondering why he wanted you to shoot him.”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve been wondering what I would do. If the tables were turned. If I was the one staring down the muzzle of a gun, with no chance for escape. None.”
“You want to know what you would do if the gun was pointed at you,” she said. “Point-blank. No escape. How you would feel. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“But don’t you already know?”
Dewey turned and shot her an angry look.
“Isn’t that why you do it?” she said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dr. Peck was quiet. She glanced at her watch.
“I think that’s probably enough for today,” she said.
Dewey stepped toward her.
“No fucking way,” he said. “Answer me. What do you mean that’s why I do it?”
Dr. Peck looked up at Dewey.
“Damascus. Beijing. Moscow. Paris. Perhaps listing them by name would make this easier for you to understand. Fao Bhang. Pyotr Vargarin. Abu Paria. Alexander Fortuna. Aswan Fortuna. Charles Bruner. The list goes on. You do it because you want to know the feeling just before you die. But you already know it. It’s what you are. It’s the very essence of Dewey Andreas.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my agent, Nicole James. Nicole is not only beautiful, smart, and funny, she’s also tough as nails. But then there’s something else about Nicole. She’s patient and empathetic too. Of course you want to have a tough agent but you have no idea how important it is, when you’re stuck, to hear the reassuring words of someone who has your back and who believes in you. Thanks “Nicky.”
Thank you also to Keith Kahla, my editor at St. Martin’s Press. I don’t know how he does it, but Keith can cut to the heart of what’s wrong with a book the way a great doctor can diagnose a rare disease (plus Keith charges less).
At St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan Audio, I’m grateful to everyone for the tireless effort and enthusiasm you give to my books. Thank you all, and in particular Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, Hannah Braaten, George Witte, Martin Quinn, Jeff Capshew, Paul Hochman, Justin Velella, Rafal Gibek, Jason Reigal, Ervin Serrano, Robert Allen, Mary Beth Roche, Alison Ziegler, and Joseph Brosnan.
Thanks also to Chris George, Ryan Steck, Adrian King, Michelle Goncalves, and Sam Adams.
Even though she can’t read I want to thank my dog, Mabel, who was at my side for virtually every word I wrote. While Mabel’s snoring can be somewhat of an irritant, I’ve found that the best antidote to it is to simply have Dewey kill someone, which might help explain why he kills so many people in the book.
Finally, thank you to my family: Shannon, Charlie, Teddy, Oscar, and Esmé. One thing that hasn’t changed over all these years and all these books is the love and support you all give to me. Writing can be lonely and having the constant affection, humor, and presence of you all is what makes it so incredibly enjoyable.
ALSO BY BEN COES
Power Down
Coup d’État
The Last Refuge
Eye for an Eye
Independence Day
First Strike
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEN COES is the New York Times bestselling author of international espionage thrillers, including Eye for an Eye, Independence Day, and First Strike. Before writing his first novel, Power Down, he worked at the White House under two presidents and was a fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government. He lives with his wife and four children in Wellesley, Massachusetts.
Visit the author on his website, at www.bencoes.com, or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bencoes, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
>
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Ben Coes
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TRAP THE DEVIL. Copyright © 2017 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Coes, Ben, author.
Title: Trap the devil / Ben Coes.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017. | Series: A Dewey Andreas novel; 7
Identifiers: LCCN 2017013450 | ISBN 978-1-250-04318-4 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-4668-4128-4 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Intelligence officers—Fiction. | Conspiracies—Fiction. | Political fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O2996 T73 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017013450
