“Maybe. Means somebody’s watching. But also a criminal process. Justice, they’ll say he’s a U.S. citizen, we can’t hold him without charges. Fine. Hebley gives them enough for a one-count complaint for leaking classified material, a couple excerpts from the tapes.”
The tapes of Shafer calling Wells. Wells had blocked them out.
“He was stupid, John. Should never have talked to you from his office. They don’t mention your name in the complaint, just co-conspirator A. As long as you weren’t cleared for the information, they don’t even have to prove you misused it. The fact he passed it is enough.”
“Then?”
“Then tonight they find some friendly federal judge who believes in hanging ’em high, and they ask for no bail. And they get it. Remember, Shafer doesn’t even have a lawyer at this point, nobody’s arguing the other side. Presto, they have an excuse to transfer him tomorrow to the detention center in Alexandria. And you know, short ride, but delays, he gets stuck in processing. All that time, he can’t call anyone. That’s tomorrow gone. Then, the next morning, his wife is screaming, finally somebody lets him make a phone call, he gets a lawyer. Even so, whoever he hires has to figure out what’s going on and file for an emergency hearing. That’s the day after tomorrow gone. Then, the hearing, Justice pushes back, says national security, they’re still looking for safe-deposit boxes, secret bank accounts—”
“Anyway, we’ve attacked Iran by then.” Wells hated the thought of Shafer in jail. He would backtalk a guard, get himself in trouble. “And you’re so sure about this—”
“Because it’s what I’d do.”
The cockpit door swung open. “Plans filed,” the pilot said. He was tall, with hair so blond it was almost white. “We’ll push in a minute. I know you want privacy, so the flight attendant won’t bother you, but please strap in. We should be in the air forty minutes, give or take.” He disappeared again.
“All these years, everything you’ve seen,” Duto said. “Still can’t admit the game only has one rule.”
“And what’s that?” Though Wells knew what Duto would say.
“Just win, baby. I know you think Hebley should know better—”
The jet’s engines spooled. Wells buckled up as the plane rolled back. He didn’t want to hear this speech, yet he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t fascinated by Duto’s cynicism.
“But he’s neck-deep in this now, and the only way out is right through Tehran—”
“We can’t go to war on a lie.”
“We have the best army in the world, John. We can go to war because our beer was flat. And the guys in Tehran aren’t our friends. Long as we win, this unpleasantness gets forgotten. One thing I’ve learned about the folks back home in my brief political career, they are results-oriented.”
“And if we lose?”
“Nobody starts a war expecting to lose. I promise you what the Pentagon is telling the President right now is that we’ve learned from Iraq and Afghanistan, we’ll roll right up to the nuclear factories, blast ’em open, see what’s inside. Let the Rev Guard try to hit us from the flanks, the back, our airpower will destroy them as soon as they mass. That’s one thing we know how to do. That this isn’t about roadside bombs, that for a change we’ll fight the war that we want and then get out. No occupation.”
Duto made the case so enthusiastically that Wells wondered why he had come here at all. But of course he wanted the White House. Taking down this plot was his only chance. And with Shafer out of action, Wells had had no choice but to ask Duto for help.
Duto, who had betrayed him a half-dozen times.
Duto seemed to read Wells’s mind. “Politics makes strange bedfellows.”
“This isn’t politics.”
“Everything’s politics.”
The Gulfstream turned onto an access runway, bounced along the rough concrete.
“But Shafer will get out, right?”
“Make bail, sure.”
“And after that?”
“You know the answer. Depends who wins.”
Wells feared yet more immigration headaches in Tel Aviv, but Duto’s black VIP passport smoothed the way.
“Before we tell Salome we’re here, I want to check in with the embassy,” Duto said. The American embassy to Israel was based in Tel Aviv, not Jerusalem. The building was the usual recessed-windows concrete fortress, though weirdly enough it sat only a block from the beach. The juxtaposition made for odd photos when protesters showed.
So Duto wanted to be sure that the government knew he was in Israel. Duberman probably wouldn’t be crazy enough to kidnap a senator, but the move was prudent just in case.
Duto walked out of the embassy ninety minutes later, joined Wells on the promenade. The afternoon was unseasonably warm, and the Israelis were taking advantage. Four bikinied women knocked a volleyball.
“Nice scenery.”
In fact, Wells was thinking mainly of the three-inch blade he had taped to his left thigh, just below the groin. It was ceramic, sharp enough to cut glass. On his right leg he’d taped the handle, two and a half inches of rigid plastic. A metal detector wouldn’t pick either one up. A full-body airport-style scanner might, but even Duberman probably didn’t have one of those at home. And no matter how well-trained they were, guards were reluctant to frisk too far up the thighs. Of course, the knife wasn’t much use to Wells in its current spot either. He’d need an excuse to spend a couple of minutes in a bathroom once he got past the frisk.
“Embassy ask what you were doing?”
“I told them I was meeting Duberman. They were smart enough to leave it there. Equal branch of government and all that. Come on, let’s go.”
Wells had figured that Duto agreed to back him on this mission because he didn’t see any choice, because he realized that after his fight with Donna Green he had gone too far to back out. But the enthusiasm in his voice suggested another possibility. The former DCI wanted to be here, back in the field. They found an Internet kiosk and Wells typed a six-word emaiclass="underline" In Tel Aviv. See you soon. “Good?”
“Let’s hope he’s home.”
“He’s home.” Wells hit send.
Duberman’s mansion sat two blocks from the ocean, in Tel Aviv’s fanciest neighborhood, north of downtown. A high concrete wall along the sidewalk blocked any view of the house. A Range Rover limousine was parked in front of the main gate. Two unsmiling men sat inside the Rover. Two more stood beside it.
Duto stepped onto the sidewalk as Wells pushed a hundred-dollar bill into the cabbie’s palm. “Wait.”
The driver nodded, but when Wells stepped out, he pulled away, tires screeching. The guards beside the Rover stepped forward. Thick, Slavic-looking men. Part of the Russian emigration to Israel, maybe.
“Your boss is waiting for us.”
The lead guard murmured in Hebrew into a shoulder-mounted radio.
Five minutes passed before the door beside the main gate opened, and Salome stepped out. Despite himself, Wells couldn’t help but notice that she wore a black T-shirt and calf-length gray pants that showed off her best feature, her smoothly muscled arms and legs.
“Senator. What a pleasant surprise. I’m Adina.”
She smiled at Wells. He recognized the look from Volgograd. “John. Wonderful to see you again. Are you carrying a weapon?”
“To a fancy place like this? ’Course not.”
“You don’t mind if we check.”
Wells stepped up, spread his hands against the wall. The bodyguard wanded him with a metal detector, then frisked him, a thorough, two-handed job, down one arm and the other from wrist to pits, around the torso. He squatted low and came up from the ankles. He reached mid-thigh and Wells had a moment of worry. But with a couple inches to spare, he pulled off.