What would Shafer say?
Don’t let him play you, John. You can’t let him start a war on faked evidence. End of story. Anyway, he isn’t the only one who remembers the Holocaust. Israel doesn’t depend on anyone else to defend itself. If it needs to attack Iran, it will.
Then, maybe, Shafer would smirk. And sing: I’m starting with the man in the mirror / I’m asking him to grab his knife…
“Shut up,” Wells mumbled, unsure if he meant the words for Shafer, Michael Jackson, or himself. He turned on the tap, leaned over, and lapped from the sink like a dog, letting the water skid across his face, down his neck.
He left the taps on as he pushed his jeans down to expose the blade and handle attached to his legs. He pulled off the tape, snapped the pieces together. The assembled knife was five inches long, half blade, half handle. Any shorter and it wouldn’t have been useful. But even at five inches, it was too big for Wells to hide in a pocket.
He had a nylon sheath tucked into his underwear. He pulled up the left leg of his jeans, strapped the sheath low on the inner calf, just above the nub of his ankle. An ankle sheath made a slow draw, but Wells feared Gideon would spot the knife anywhere else. He double-checked to be sure the jeans hid it. He flushed the toilet, washed and dried his face. Stepped out.
“You all right?” Duto said.
“Never better.”
“And have you decided?” Duberman said.
“I’ll do it.”
“John—” Duto said.
Salome muttered in Hebrew.
“You’re serious.”
“That I am.”
Duberman stood, extended his hand. “Welcome.”
Wells left him hanging. “Just one condition. That you confess to the President.”
“That’s funny.” But Duberman wasn’t smiling.
“Or if that’s too much, tell us where you got the HEU. We’ll pass it on. Keep your name out.”
Duberman’s hand sank to his side with the slow finality of a castle gate dropping. He stared at Wells, an angry god who couldn’t believe that a mortal had refused his wish. Behind him, Gideon the bodyguard put a hand on his holstered pistol.
“I made a serious offer, John. I don’t appreciate this.”
Wells felt a familiar itch in his fingers. “Then we should go. We have a plane to catch.”
“Mossad may feel differently.” Duberman gave Wells a gargoyle’s stone grin. “I promised you safe passage. And you’ll have it. Right to them.”
“Come on, Aaron.” The words were meaningless, a way to buy a few seconds as Wells figured out how to get to his knife and corral Duberman before Gideon shot him. He could imagine his move, could see it—
He’d take a big step forward with his left leg, almost a squat, pulling up his jeans, exposing the knife. He’d reach down and across his body with his right hand as he grabbed Duberman with his left and reeled him in—
But Gideon was too close, and watching too closely. Wells couldn’t make the combination work without an extra second or two. A diversion.
Duto stood. “I’m not leaving without him. And you can’t keep me. Embassy knows where I am.”
“You’re right,” Duberman said. “Israel can’t keep you. But it can send you home. Alone.”
Duto reached down, flipped the table over, sending it toward the bodyguard. The distraction Wells needed. As the heavy wood cracked against the floor Gideon turned to Duto and drew his pistol—
And Wells lunged forward, came up with his knife, squeezed his left hand around Duberman’s arm, pulled him close. Duberman was strong enough for a man past sixty, but against Wells he had no chance. Wells twined his arm across Duberman’s chest, twisted him so that Duberman’s body hid his own. Gideon half turned toward Wells. But he didn’t raise the pistol. He didn’t have a clear shot.
Wells touched the knife to Duberman’s neck, tugged Duberman backward, toward the bathroom. Duberman sagged against Wells, not struggling but not helping either. Subtly looking for a way to free himself.
Wells jabbed the blade into Duberman’s neck, hard enough to break the skin. Duberman yelped as his blood bubbled out. “No games.”
“All right,” Duberman said.
Gideon brought the pistol up, stepped to the right, looking for an angle.
“Drop it,” Wells said. “Now.”
Gideon hesitated. Then shook his head, turned the pistol on Duto.
“Let him go or I shoot.”
“Then shoot.” Wells probed the knife deeper. Blood flowed from Duberman’s neck. “Tell him, Aaron. He kills Vinny, you die.”
Wells meant his words. He would slice Duberman’s throat open if Gideon shot Duto. His own life would end seconds later, but he didn’t care. No one could hide the simultaneous deaths of a senator and one of the world’s richest men. The United States and Israel would have to investigate. Maybe they’d uncover the plot.
Anyway, he and Duto wouldn’t go down alone.
“Three—”
Gideon shook his head—
“Two—”
Cursed in Hebrew.
“One—”
Squatted. Laid down the pistol. Muttered at Duberman.
“Yes,” Duberman said in English. “This is why we should have let you frisk him.” He tilted his head into Wells. “What now, John? You’re the expert.” His voice was level, impassive. Like he was still in charge despite the knife against his neck.
“Now he kicks the pistol. To Vinny.”
Duberman explained. Gideon nudged it with his foot. Too late, Wells realized Salome had a chance at it. It skittered close and she looked at it—
But let it slide. Duto grabbed it.
“Now tell him to sit on the floor.”
Duberman translated, and Gideon complied.
“I’m figuring you didn’t call the Mossad before I got here, because why would you? You didn’t know Vinny was coming, so you assumed you could hold me as long as you liked. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Tell Gideon to take off his shoes. When he’s done, he lies down on his stomach with his hands laced behind his head. Then bends his knees and lifts his lower legs off the floor.”
“What is this? Yoga?”
“I’m going to cut his Achilles tendons so he can’t follow us when we leave.”
“Cut him?”
“That or a bullet in his head.” Wells shifted the knife under the artificially tightened flesh of Duberman’s chin. “You think I won’t, ask Salome what I did in Istanbul.”
“Listen to him,” Salome said in English.
Duberman spoke and Gideon did what Wells had demanded.
“Now you two stand by the bathroom, so I can do it without you in the way.” Wells spun Duberman, shoved him away, sending him stumbling against the wall.
“You’re an animal,” Salome said.
Maybe she wasn’t his soul mate after all.
When Wells knelt on Gideon’s back, the guard looked over his shoulder at him.
“Just one, please.”
“You’re too dangerous for that.” Wells grabbed Gideon’s left ankle and slashed into the tough tendon there. Even with the sharp ceramic blade, he had to hack like he was sawing a rope. Gideon screamed, but Wells cut until the tendon snapped in two, its halves retracting, hiding under the skin. Gideon’s foot hung limp and useless. Blood spurted from the hole in his ankle. He made a single mewling moan, a cat in a coyote’s jaws.
Wells looked over the damage. “All right. Just one.”
He stood, looked at Duto. Who waved him over with two fingers.
“We can end this now,” he murmured. He nodded at Duberman and Salome, who stood with their backs pressed against the wall like they hoped to melt into it. “They know. Where it came from.”