At the door, she stopped. “Who are we telling about this? The truth, I mean?”
“Only Hebley and Carcetti for now. By the way, Donna. I’ll need a resignation letter from you.”
We all fell for it. Not just me. And ten days ago, when I tried to warn you, you shooed me off.
Not fair.
But not fair hardly mattered at this moment. “What about my trip to Tehran?”
“Postdate it three months. Maybe I’ll change my mind.”
He smiled his liar’s smile. She’d seen him use it on other people in this room. Never her. Didn’t he know that she knew? If he did, he didn’t care.
“Of course, sir.”
“Thanks, Donna.”
Wells and Duto sat in the library of Duto’s house in Arlington, watching CNN on mute. It was past midnight now and the countdown clock was counting up. They’d have to fix that somehow.
Wells didn’t even know why he had come here. Probably because he had nowhere else to be. Shafer was in jail until the morning, and Wells didn’t exactly have a lot of friends in Washington. Or anywhere else. For a moment, he’d considered calling Exley—hey, babe, remember me? — but reason had prevailed.
Duto’s house was brick and big. New and built to look old. Full of dark wood and brown leather. A single silver-framed photo of him with two late-twenty-something men who shared his heavy features sat on a bookcase beside the television. The picture looked to have been taken at a wedding. All three men wore tuxedos. Duto offered a politician’s grin. The younger men were hardly smiling.
“Those your sons?” Wells realized how little he knew about Duto’s family.
“Yeah.”
“You’re divorced?”
“Long ago. My first posting was Mexico, she didn’t mind that. But then they sent me to Nigeria and she said no. She kept the boys. I didn’t argue.”
Duto reached for the box of cigars on the table beside him and began the slow clubby ritual of lighting one, examining the band and putting the wrapper to his nose, cutting the cap and sparking a long wooden match, and finally touching flame to the cigar’s tip while spinning and puffing it. Wells suspected Duto had put more thought into lighting the cigar than into his divorce.
“You good with them?”
“Nothing like you and Evan.” Duto smirked. He set aside the cigar, went for the whiskey bottle he’d brought out from the kitchen. “High West. All these small batches now.”
“We ought to send Jacob a case for his help.” The South African had texted them with the news of his narrow escape.
“Please. Guy had the time of his life,” Duto poured himself a slug. “Try some?”
Wells didn’t answer.
“Back to being a good Muslim this month, John.”
“Maybe I just don’t want to end up like Witwans.” Who was sleeping upstairs. Duto had given him an Ativan.
“You know what I told Shafer three weeks ago? After Mason kidnapped you in Istanbul. He had some dumb idea about going over and saving you. I said, ‘You think you can do better than the best field guy ever.’ You are, too. Man. Cutting Gideon’s Achilles. Where did you come up with that?”
Duto sipped his whiskey. Wells waited. A but was coming, he was sure.
“But you want it both ways. Do it and feel bad about it. Like this boy of yours, trying to build a relationship with him, you can’t see that all he wants is for you to leave him alone.”
Wells grabbed Duto’s cigar, stuffed it into his whiskey glass. It gave a satisfying hiss as it flamed out. “Save your advice, Vinny.”
The count-up clock ticked forty-three seconds before Duto spoke again. “My mistake. I overstepped. Anyway, it’s not about him. It’s about you. Some part of you feels you have to apologize for what you do out there.”
“Conscience, you mean.”
“We stopped a war today. You want it to be clean, John? It’s impossible. You don’t stop beating yourself up, you’ll crack for real. Or that conscience of yours will kick in at the wrong time. Either way, you get yourself killed.”
“And you care because?”
Duto poured himself a new glass of whiskey.
“You’d be tough to replace.”
“The cemeteries are full of indispensable men, Vinny.”
“Not ones who owe me favors.”
Wells had to laugh.
“How psychopaths give pep talks.”
“Then retire, John. That chick cop in New Hampshire will take you back.”
“And who would run your errands?”
“Exactly. You are who you are. Accept it.” Duto sipped his glass. “At least admit the world would be a better place without Duberman. And him, he’s not a Saudi royal, doesn’t have a whole country protecting him. It’ll take some doing, but he’s gettable.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You do that.”
They sat awhile more.
“Can I ask you something?” Wells said. “Ever been in love?”
Duto’s silence told Wells all he needed.
“If I’m honest with myself, I don’t think so,” Duto said eventually. “I thought I loved Laura for a while, but I look back, it was just that we screwed pretty good and I wanted to get married. Now you’re going to tell me that’s what all this is about for me, power, filling a void, blah blah blah. Let me tell you, John. Maybe. But maybe I want it because I know I’ll use it right. Maybe I love this country, the idea of it.”
“Maybe you just love the idea of being President.”
“And what do you love, John?”
Now Wells had nothing to say. Exley? Anne? He’d left them both easily enough. His son? He would die to protect Evan. But he hadn’t raised the boy, and Evan didn’t even consider Wells his father.
CNN spared him from having to answer. The words Breaking News: President About to Speak appeared in massive letters. Duto turned up the sound just as the feed switched to the Oval Office, the President at his desk.
“I know what I am about to say will surprise you—”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some of the usual suspects this year, and some new ones. Neil Nyren and Ivan Held are the captain and first officer of the S.S. John Wells (I’ll let them sort out who’s who), overseeing Putnam’s crack publicity, marketing, and sales teams. One word: airports. Bob Barnett and Deneen Howell keep ’em all honest. Everyone needs at least one tough outside first reader, and Deirdre Silver is mine. And thanks to Mike Whitty. He couldn’t save Flight 49, but he did make sure its details were right.
A big group hug for Jackie and Lucy.
This year the emails and comments came faster than ever, but I — barely — kept my promise to read and respond to all of them. (Including the note from a guy named, wait for it, John Wells. He said he had no problems identifying with my characters. Best reader email ever.) Anyway, keep on writing, and I’ll keep on writing back. If you’d like more frequent updates, follow me at facebook.com/alexberensonauthor or twitter.com/alexberenson.
That’s all I got. Until next year, anyway…