The Wolves (30 page)

WASHINGTON, D.C.

W
ells wanted to see the President.

The feeling wasn’t mutual.

Wells didn’t care. And he had the whip.

So once again he found himself in the Oval Office anteroom. He’d landed at Dulles four hours before, just enough time to have his wrist properly set, shower, and shave. He hadn’t brought Shafer or Duto. This conversation belonged to him alone.

—

T
HE FIRST STORIES
hit the wires an hour after Wells’s United 777 left Hong Kong. Police in Macao had identified the body of a “senior Chinese official” outside the Sky casino and found Duberman shot to death on the roof. A few minutes later, the
South China Morning
Post
reported that the woman police had found in a garage the night before was Duberman’s wife.
We normally do
not identify possible victims of sexual abuse without their consent,
but given the importance of this case . . .

For once, Wells was glad to have an airborne Internet connection. The conspiracy theories grew wilder by the minute, though even the
craziest couldn’t touch the truth. Wells wasn’t sure if the Chinese would figure out what had happened. The FSB would, but Nemtsov and his masters in the Kremlin might be predisposed to write off their dead officers as the cost of doing business and move on.

Might.

No matter. Wells didn’t feel like worrying about who might come after him tomorrow, or the next day. After this meeting, he would disappear. Maybe he’d see Evan again, though he feared he might be pushing his luck with the kid. Maybe Orli, to hear what she had to tell him about Buvchenko and the Russians. He wasn’t quite willing to admit he had other reasons to visit.

No matter what he did, where he went, he had to spend some time alone with himself, see what he’d become, if Shafer was right. Find his own answer to the question he’d asked Duberman:
Why?

—

T
HE
P
RESIDENT
kept him waiting an hour. Pulling rank to show his irritation with this visit. But ultimately he had no choice, and Donna Green opened the door, waved Wells inside.

The President sat behind his massive desk. He didn’t stand as Wells walked close. Didn’t say hello or put out a hand or ask about Wells’s arm. No courtesies today, false or otherwise.

Wells sat in the chair on the right, and they looked at each other until the President snapped his fingers. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”

But the words Wells had planned to say choked him. He wished he’d let Shafer come. Shafer would have enjoyed this moment. Wells turned to Green instead. “Four months ago, you promised to be the truth-teller, right? Tell him the truth.”

“What truth?”

“He needs to resign.”

“Here,” the President said. He leaned across the desk, his eyes dark. “You have something to say, say it to me.”

Wells thought of Cheung, stepping off the building. At last he found his voice.

“It’s over. Sir.”

“Who made you king?”

“Say whatever you like. Terminally ill, whatever.”

“When I don’t die?”

“Miracles never cease.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the President’s face. “I’m not going anywhere. The country needs me.”

Glenn Mason, Salome, Duberman, now this man. One after the next, they’d fallen to the curse that no gypsy bothered to cast. They stared so hard at their own lies that they could no longer see the truth.

“Your biggest donor winds up dead with a Chinese four-star at his front door. You don’t think somebody’s going to ask questions about what he’s been doing, make the connection to Iran?”

“Ask, maybe. Answer, not so much.”

Wells had anticipated sadness. A valedictory moment. Not this brazen insistence. He felt his temper coming loose. “You’re wrong. But either way, you’re not going to have the chance. I’m not letting you.”

“You got what you wanted.”

“We both know I’d still be in that brig if the Russians hadn’t gotten involved. Four months ago, this room, you gave me and Shafer your word about Duberman. You had the chance to keep it. You didn’t.”

The President stood, turned away from Wells and his desk. He stared out at the Rose Garden, immaculate and perfect. A view not available at any price. “So you punish me. Show off. Petty revenge and the whole country pays. The whole world.”

“I’m doing now what we should have had the guts to do then.”
This time, the guy at the top doesn’t skate.
Wells stood, joined the President at the windows. He didn’t understand this compulsion to hang on to power. But then he’d always been outside looking in. “Announce it in the next forty-eight hours. Or I will. Sir.”

“Public won’t be so great for you, either. How many murder raps?”

“Guess I’ll have to take that chance.”

Wells turned away, walked to the door, ready to leave the Oval Office, the White House, Washington, all of it. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so free. Maybe he couldn’t escape, but he could pretend. For a while. “I’ve always been the survivor type.”

Neil, Ivan, Karen, and the rest of the team at Putnam—those books wouldn’t exist without you.

Bob and Deneen—thanks for the wise counsel.

Jackie, Lucy, and Ezra—you make it all worthwhile. Family is the ultimate blessing.

And to all of you, whether you’ve been with John from the beginning or just found him now, thanks for spending your time with us. Without you, John wouldn’t exist. I always appreciate feedback—email me at [email protected] and let me know what you think. If you want more frequent updates, follow me at Facebook.com/alexberensonauthor or twitter.com/alexberenson.

See you next year!

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