The Wolves (7 page)

The man sitting across from him would have no answer. Because Duto would be telling the truth.

“Who runs your errands if Duberman kills Wells?” Green said.

“You think that—” Duto broke off. “John’s John. I can’t control him and neither can anyone else. I suspect he’s gonna eat a bullet one day, but that’s his business.”

“At least promise me that the station in Hong Kong won’t help him. No missions.”

No missions didn’t mean no gear, so Duto was fine with that promise. “Okay. Otherwise, the agency stays out of it. You feel differently, call Langley yourself. Anything else? Because I have Nats tickets tonight and I don’t want to miss the first pitch.”

Duto pushed himself off the couch.

“We’re done helping you, Vinny.”

We’ll see.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll show myself out.”

—

W
HEN
D
UTO WAS GONE
, Green sank back in the couch, rubbing her arms. She felt as though she’d been flayed. “He’s already measuring the drapes.”

“It’s a long road. His ego will run away with him, he’ll make a mistake.”

Then Green had a thought she didn’t want.
Say you’re right? How exactly will Vinny Duto’s fall help you? Or me? Or the country, for that
matter?
She’d served the President for nearly a decade, and
served
was the word. Eighty hours a week, fifty weeks a year, solving his problems. For her trouble, three months before, he’d pulled out his sword and made her fall on it. The worst night of her life. She wasn’t sure what she hated more, the resignation letter or the fact that she still served in spite of it. Now she feared the President was mistaking his desire to stay in office for the interests of the nation he supposedly served. They were dancing like bears on a log and she wasn’t sure why.

“You’re sure it’s all worth it?”

The President gave her the same hard eyes he’d just trained on Duto.

“You think I should walk out of here, Donna? Let that blowhard have it? Because I promise you that will never happen. You don’t think I’m right for this job—” He inclined his head to the door.

She wanted to call his bluff. What was left of his credibility would collapse if she resigned. He wouldn’t last a month. But she couldn’t. The Veep was a genial joke. And Duto frightened her. She had felt his sulfurous anger up close, the joy he took in destroying his enemies. In destroying
her
.

Besides, after all the time she’d spent aboard the SS
President
, she had no choice but to go down with the ship. “How are we going to stop Duto if we can’t even stop Wells?”

The President surprised her with a laugh. “Pathetic, isn’t it? I’m not the first guy in this office who lost the CIA, but I suspect I’m the first who had it shoved down his throat by the former director.”

“The fact you can still mock yourself makes me feel slightly better.”

The President reached for the buzzer that called the Oval Office steward. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

Two minutes later, they were each sipping sour-mash whiskeys,
doubles. The world seemed slightly more manageable. A welcome illusion. The President raised his glass. “To Vinny Duto. Maybe he’ll have an accident on the way to the game.”

“Choke to death on a hot dog. Which would still leave us dealing with Wells.”

“Have to ruin the moment. Can we ask the Chinese to send him back at the airport?”

“They’ll want to know a lot more than we can tell them.”

“What about one of the other agencies? FBI, DIA, the Park Service? Ranger Rick. Stop, or I’ll say stop again. Or is that the London bobbies?”

“Hey.”

“Hey what?”

“You just gave me an idea.”

She explained.

“Think they’ll bite?” the President said.

“I think it’s our best option. We’ll tell ’em because Wells is ex-CIA, we don’t want to get the agency involved—”

“True enough. Can they get guys in place before he lands?”

“If they want. If we ask nicely.”

The President raised his glass, considered the whiskey inside. “I know what you think, Donna, but it’s a long game.”

“Is that meant to make me feel better?”

HONG KONG

H
ong Kong lay fifteen time zones ahead of California, and more than seven thousand miles across the Pacific, a fifteen-and-a-half-hour flight. Wells’s Cathay Pacific 747 went wheels up Saturday night, didn’t land until Monday morning. The sun rose behind the jet, sailed past, set again. A day lost in the netherworld. If the nuclear apocalypse ever came, these long-haul flights would land in the radioactive rubble with what was left of humanity bleary-eyed and wondering why their phones weren’t working.

Wells had spent more of his presidential ransom on a business-class ticket. Still, he slept fitfully, B movies rubbing his consciousness when he closed his eyes. He needed to quiet himself. Adrenaline bred sloppiness. Sloppiness bred mistakes. And Wells knew how dangerous Duberman could be. Not just because of his money. A lot of executive types ordered underlings into danger but wouldn’t face it themselves. But in Tel Aviv Duberman had proven his courage. He hadn’t blinked when Wells put a pistol to his head.

At Hong Kong International Airport, Wells offered his real passport to the immigration agent and stepped through unchallenged. No
doubt he had just set off an alarm that the National Security Agency would pass to the White House. So be it. Wells had two more passports in different names, with credit cards to match. Plus the cash. John Wells wouldn’t be appearing again in Hong Kong. With the agency not an option, the White House would need to call in the Chinese to track him. Wells didn’t see the President taking that step.

Wells walked out of the air-conditioned arrivals hall, found himself in the subtropics. The late-morning sun glared down on the boxy red Toyota sedans that made up Hong Kong’s cab fleet. As he stepped into the taxi line, Wells saw his error. He was used to traveling light. He could hardly run countersurveillance hauling a twenty-six-inch suitcase and a garment bag filled with brand-new suits. The idea itself was comic, out of a parody of a spy movie.

Wells doubted he was facing watchers. Still, good tradecraft was good tradecraft. He handed the dispatcher a $100 HK note. “I need a driver who speaks English.” The dispatcher stepped into the line of cabs, spoke to three drivers. At the fourth, he stopped, waved Wells over.

Wells stowed his bags in the trunk, slipped in front beside a chubby fiftyish man who wore oversized tinted glasses with black plastic frames.
Lin, Hong Xi Henry
, according to his hack license. Many Hong Kongers used both Chinese and English names.

“Where to, sir?” Henry sounded like he could be a host for the BBC.

“Peninsula.” With its fleet of chauffeured black Rolls-Royces, the Peninsula was the most famous hotel in Hong Kong. It was actually located on the city’s mainland or Kowloon side, not Hong Kong Island. If Hong Kong was the Asian version of New York City, the island played the role of Manhattan, and Kowloon the outer boroughs. Ferries, car tunnels, and subways connected the two districts, but they gave off very different vibes. The island was home to Hong Kong’s tallest skyscrapers and priciest real estate. It was corporate and clean, filled
with bankers and lawyers. But most of the city’s population lived on the mainland side. Especially north of the harbor, Kowloon was overwhelmingly Chinese and chaotic. Its streets were narrow and crowded, littered with paper scraps and trampled bottles, redolent with the smells of tea and fish and diesel smoke. Hong Kong had a miserable shortage of affordable housing, and many Kowloon residents lived in apartments that could have passed for prison cells. If Wells had been Chinese, he could have disappeared into its most densely packed neighborhoods. But few white people lived in those districts, and Duberman’s mansion was on the island, anyway. So Wells would have to spend a lot of his time on the island. But he planned to rent rooms on both sides.

“Beautiful hotel,” Henry said.

Hong Kong had built its airport on an artificial island twenty miles west of downtown Kowloon. A relatively uncongested highway connected the airport with the mainland, giving Wells a chance to check for tails. He eyed the rearview mirror as they drove along a bridge bracketed by a hill on the right, gray water to the left, the eastern edge of the Pearl River Delta. Henry had the taxi pinned at the speed limit, 110 kilometers an hour, about seventy miles.

“Faster, please,” Wells said
.
Henry didn’t argue. The Toyota sped to 120 kilometers, tailgating a van in the passing lane—the right lane. Hong Kong followed British road rules. Vehicles drove on the left, and steering wheels were on the right.

The cabbie looked over:
Okay?
Wells turned his palms to face the ceiling, raised them,
up, up.
“I promise, we get stopped, I’ll give you double the fine.”

“In a hurry, sir?”

“Life is short.”

“Especially if one has an RTA.”

“RTA?”

“Road traffic accident.”

Point, Henry. Still, he swerved into the center lane, cruised past the van to the open asphalt ahead. In the mirror, Wells saw a black sedan skimming through traffic, maybe a quarter mile back. A Mercedes a few years old, a C-Class with tinted windows. At this distance Wells couldn’t be sure about the ethnicities of the men in front, or whether anyone was in back. He couldn’t make the plate, either.

Wells wondered if he was looking at Duberman’s guys, the agency’s, maybe even the Chinese. Most likely Duberman’s. But how could Duberman have found him so fast? Had he put full-time watchers at the airport? Someone inside immigration watching for Wells’s passport in case Wells was dumb enough to enter using his real name?

Wells watched three seconds more, then tapped Henry’s shoulder. “Great. Thank you.”

Unless you’re planning to run immediately, lay back as soon as you spot the tail. There’s always a chance they won’t realize you’ve seen them. Not a great chance, but it has happened, and why not give yourself every possible edge? The life you save may be your own.
Advice from Guy Raviv, Wells’s favorite trainer at the Farm, a surveillance expert from the days of KGB dead drops rather than ISIS death videos. Raviv was gone himself now. Lung cancer had stalked him as mercilessly as any jihadi. But his advice had saved Wells more than once.

They slowed, and Wells watched as the Mercedes closed to four cars behind. Not exactly subtle, but running surveillance was tough with a single vehicle. Anyway, subtlety wasn’t always the point.

“Someone following us?” Henry reached for his phone. “Shall I call the police?”

“No.”

“Sir?”

This guy might be too straitlaced for what Wells wanted. But he had to ask. “I want to hire you all day. Keep the meter running or we can set a rate.”

Henry looked back at the Merc. “Those men—”

“I promise, they’re only interested in me.”
Though they might still hurt you.

“Who are they?”

“What I need to find out.”

Henry drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Civilians in these spots were torn between fear and excitement, a once-in-a-lifetime chance for a break from routine.

“Why would they follow you?”

“Some people don’t like me.”

“What’s your name?”

“John Wells.” Wells saw no reason to be coy. The men in the Mercedes knew him.

“You’re American.”

“Just came from San Diego.”

“California.” Henry spoke the word with a wistfulness that Wells had heard before.
Callleee-fornee-a.
Outside the United States, people seemed to think of the state as an earthly paradise. Especially if they were older than fifty. “Friends with Snowden?” Henry grinned. Edward Snowden had fled to Hong Kong after leaking the National Security Agency’s secrets to the world. Though he hadn’t stayed long.

“Never met the man.”

“Joke.” Henry looked over. “For the day, five thousand HK.” Seven hundred dollars.

Excitement had won. It usually did. Henry had no idea what he had just signed up to do, or the price he might pay. But Wells needed a
driver too much to explain the truth.
Want a clean game, Evan? Stick to basketball.
He reached for his wallet, peeled off ten $500 HK notes.

“Change of plans. We’re still going to the Peninsula. But when we get there, I’ll leave my luggage with you. You park in the garage and wait.”

The Peninsula had a shopping arcade that included exits at the back of the hotel, close to an entrance to the MTR, the Hong Kong subway system. Without luggage, Wells should quickly be able to disappear into the subway.

“No garage at the Peninsula. Valet only.”

“Fine. I get out, you take off. Cruise for a while. Pick up a fare, do your job. After a half an hour, find a place to park and wait. When I’m ready, I’ll call, tell you where to meet me.”

Though Henry would wait a long time for that call. As in forever. Wells had everything he really needed, the money and the passports, in the backpack on his lap. He could always buy new clothes.

“If they follow me—”

“They won’t.” Once Wells stepped out of the cab, the men in the Mercedes would lock on Wells. Henry was clearly an innocent civilian. By the time they realized that Wells had ditched his luggage, Henry would be gone. So Wells hoped.

“And where do you go?”

“I’ll work that out. But you’ll have my bags, so I promise you’ll hear from me. If you want extra money—”

“The price is the price. We agreed.” Henry sounded almost offended, making Wells feel even more guilty for involving him.

—

T
HE UNTOUCHED HILLS
of Lantau Island continued on their right for several kilometers. Wells would hardly have known that one of the
world’s most densely packed cities was only a few minutes away. Then they crossed a bridge and in the distance Wells saw Hong Kong itself. The island’s skyscrapers jutted from the harbor. Behind them were the lush green slopes of Victoria Peak. Duberman was up there, looking down on the city. And the world. Wells felt an unexpected fury in his chest at the man’s arrogance. Duberman was the ultimate one-percenter. He thought his fortune gave him license to do whatever he liked. Not only had he tried to dupe the United States into war, he was still dodging punishment. He had bet that not even the President could bring him to justice, and so far he’d won.

The airport highway merged into a narrower elevated road packed with trucks and taxis. Kowloon was all around them now, the island and Peak hidden. The cab sped past a complex of dozens of giant apartment towers, still more buildings rising around them. Then long blocks of older, lower buildings of dirty gray concrete, offering flashes of a hundred thousand lives, balconies stuffed with BMX bicycles and pigeon cages and what Wells could have sworn was a lime-green La-Z-Boy recliner warped in from the 1970s.

The Mercedes made no effort to close the gap. Wells suspected they’d picked up a second tail. Plenty of candidates lurked. The white Sprinter van three cars behind them, its sides suspiciously logo-free. The gray BMW 3 Series beside the Sprinter, two white guys up front.

Wells had assumed that Duberman wouldn’t try to pick him off in the middle of Hong Kong, risk killing civilians. Neither the local police nor the Communist government in Beijing could ignore a gangland-style daylight murder of an American visitor. Shafer and Duto would make sure the Chinese knew where to look. Wells figured that Duberman instead would hole up in his mansion, wait for Wells to attack, then try to make him shark bait in the South China Sea.

But maybe Duberman figured he could manage the fallout from a
killing. Even so, Wells made himself relax. Unless he planned to jump off the highway to the surface roads thirty feet below, he couldn’t do anything about the tails, anyway.

“How far to the hotel?”

“Few minutes. Last exit before the tunnel.”

“When you get close, stay in the middle lane, drive like you’re going by, pull off at the last minute.” An obvious move, but the only way to see for sure who else was on them. Wells waited for Henry to object, but the guy just nodded and squeezed the steering wheel tighter. He was into it now. Amazing how fast fear slid into excitement, and vice versa.

Despite the congestion the traffic moved smoothly, and after five minutes they reached a blue sign that announced 6A, Tsim Sha Tsui—Salisbury Road. Henry braked hard enough to throw Wells against his seat belt and jerked the steering wheel left. The Toyota slid across two lanes, nearly fishtailing into a minibus packed with teenagers. Behind them, a black Nissan sedan tried to follow but couldn’t get by.

“Fantastic,” Wells said.

They came off the ramp and were only a few hundred yards from the harbor. Hong Kong Island loomed across the water. Beside them, the expressway sank into the entrance to the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. Ahead, the ramp swung over the tunnel entrance to become Salisbury Road, the boulevard that ran along the central Kowloon harbor.

“Peninsula there.” Henry pointed right.

Wells looked back. The Mercedes was coming hard after them. “Don’t stop until you get there. Run the lights.”

“Hong Kong taxis don’t run lights.”

“Make an exception.”

Henry shook his head.

One day Wells would get himself a real wheelman. Though he’d
still take Henry over the drunk who’d ferried him around Istanbul four months ago. He had been chasing Glenn Mason, a CIA officer turned traitor, that night. He’d felt then like he was near the end of his quest to stop the United States from being lured into war. In reality, he had hardly begun.

Fortunately, the lights favored them. Only three lay between them and the hotel, and all stayed green. Two minutes later, they turned into the Peninsula’s entrance. The Mercedes tailed close, but made no effort to pull side by side.

—

T
HE HOTEL
was a U-shaped beige building that filled a block along Salisbury Road. Everything about it broadcast wealth, luxury, and power. Besides the Rolls-Royce fleet, two spit-polished Ferraris and a low-slung sports car that Wells didn’t even recognize held pride of place in the front parking lot. Parking attendants in pressed uniforms watched the six-figure iron. Wells was glad he’d worn one of his new suits, even if the trans-Pacific ride had rumpled it. He was doubly glad that he was wearing Nikes and not dress shoes. He’d chosen sneakers to stay comfortable on the plane, but they would come in handy in the next few minutes.