“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.
It was morning in Jerusalem. Duto was tempted to call Rudi. Four days since their meeting, and the Israeli hadn’t called. Maybe he had decided that he could serve his country best by keeping his mouth shut. Maybe he was too sick to help. Maybe he had asked and found nothing. Whatever the answer, Duto had made his best case back at Ben Gurion Airport. Pushing would be counterproductive. Duto shoved his phone away and waited.
Downtime.
Green’s motorcade showed up fifteen minutes later. Duto was surprised to see it was only three SUVs — two black Suburbans, one blue Jeep Grand Cherokee with the distinctive long antenna of a coms vehicle. The detail parked nose-to-tail about twenty feet from his Tahoe. Two men stepped out of each Suburban, surveyed the empty asphalt, fanned out toward the corners of the lot, muttering to each other on their shoulder-mounted TAC radios.
Only then did the real convoy arrive. Two more Suburbans, two Explorers, and another Cherokee for coms. Eight trucks in all, at least twenty guards. Like Green was going to Baghdad, not suburban Virginia. Though Duto could hardly complain. He had traveled in similar style as DCI.
The wind came straight from the Appalachians, chilling Duto through his overcoat. Green was dressed for the weather, in wool-lined boots and a green down jacket that plumped around her like she’d shoplifted it from a Salvation Army. Whatever the President saw in her, it wasn’t her fashion sense.
Duto extended a hand. “Donna.”
“Vinny. I’d say it’s good to see you, but that would be a lie. And I’m planning to keep the lies to a minimum tonight.”
“The pleasure’s mine, then. Mind if we walk?”
“I’d prefer if you stayed close,” the guard nearest Green said.
“I think we’ll be okay,” Duto said.
“I’d prefer if you stayed close.” Like Duto hadn’t spoken at all.
“I trust you to protect us from fifty feet, Kyle,” Green said.
The guard nodded. His master’s voice. They strolled side by side toward the Home Depot.
“I’m here, Senator. So talk.” She spoke straight ahead, not looking at him.
“Whatever you have planned for Iran, it needs to wait.”
“Because?”
“The HEU wasn’t Iranian. Someone’s setting you up.”
“That possibility has been considered and rejected.”
“You saw what you wanted to see.”
She stopped. Looked at him. “Okay, Vinny. Say it’s not Iranian. Whose, then?”
“I don’t know who enriched it. But I can tell you a private team working for Aaron Duberman put it there.”
Every time Duto made the accusation, it sounded crazier. He knew he was right, yet he felt like a nutty conspiracy theorist. Green seemed to sense his embarrassment. She looked at him, let him see her smirking.
“So I’m clear. We’re talking about the guy who spent two hundred million dollars to elect my boss.”
Duto nodded.
“Are you saying that we’re conspiring with him to produce false evidence to invade Iran? Because that sounds like treason. And I’ll need to double-check the Constitution I keep in my office, but I do believe treason is punishable by death.”
“I’m not saying you knew.”
“What exactly are you saying, then?”
“This is the best false-flag op I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, false flag. So we didn’t know. I’m so relieved.” Every word more sarcastic than the last. “Is this where you hand me a thumb drive that proves we have aliens at Roswell?”
Her disregard finally got to him. He grabbed her arm. Unfortunately, or maybe not, the down kept him from getting a grip. Kyle ran at them, his feet pounding the asphalt. He hadn’t drawn his pistol, but his hand was inside his jacket.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” Duto dropped her arm.
Green let the question hang for a couple long seconds before she finally nodded.
“You sure, Ms. Green?”
“Your boss and I are having a full and frank exchange of views. Run along, now.”
“I wasn’t asking you, Senator.”
Green nodded again, and they watched Kyle retreat.
“It’ll take more than that. I hope you’re properly humiliated,” Green said under her breath.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Vinny. You probably wonder why POTUS wanted you gone so bad. It was me. I remember Fred Whitby.”
The chill in Duto’s bones didn’t come from the wind. Whitby had been Director of National Intelligence when Duto was DCI. They’d fought to control the agency and the entire intel community. Duto won. Through Wells and Shafer, he used Whitby’s involvement in the death of a detainee at a secret prison to force Whitby to resign. Wells quit the agency in protest when he realized what Duto had done. At the time, Duto hardly cared. Losing Wells was a small price to pay to control all of American intelligence.
“They called it ‘The Midnight House,’ right? Neatest knifing I ever saw. Your boys got rid of him, it didn’t even touch you.”
Duto didn’t bother to ask how she knew the details. She knew because knowing was her job. At least now he saw why everyone called her the smartest person in the White House.
“You’re missing the point of that story.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I was right. He was dirty.”
“You were, too. Up to your neck in rendition. But he went down.”
“And Duberman’s dirty, too. If you could stop trying to destroy me for a minute, you’d see I’m helping you.”
“The President’s biggest donor is behind all this?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m guessing it’s because he hates Iran, thinks it’s a threat to Israel, doesn’t trust the deal we made.”
“I haven’t asked him, Donna, but yes. I’m sure he’s said as much to you.”
“Not since this started, though. Man hasn’t called me once.”
“Because you’re doing exactly what he wants.”
“So it doesn’t matter what Duberman does or doesn’t do at this point. He calls, he doesn’t call, it’s all evidence.”
“Ask yourself why I would tell you this if it isn’t true. Or at least if I didn’t believe it.”