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…
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.