“All right.”
“You understand he may just take whatever you bring and shoot you. Or he may take you to your hotel to pick up the rest of the money and then shoot you.”
Or you may have blown my cover, and he’ll shoot me whether he gets the money or not, Wells didn’t say. Rosette was proving useful, but Wells was beginning to dislike him as much as Vinny Duto.
They walked out of the flea market. Rosette led Wells to his car, an Opel parked near the metro stop. For the next hour Rosette drove around the quiet streets of Khamovniki, the Moscow neighborhood around the flea market, practicing their cover stories: where and when they’d met, how they’d stayed in touch, the payoff that Rosette expected for setting up the meeting.
“Enough,” Rosette finally said, stopping beside a subway station and waving Wells out. “This foolishness won’t take more than a few minutes. He wants your money, nothing else.”
AFTER HE WAS DONE,
Wells headed over to the Petersburg hotel for a nap. He felt refreshed and sharp when he woke. He didn’t know why, but he was sure that he would succeed tonight, convince Roman to get him to Markov. And then? Then he would do what came naturally.
But a few minutes later, his certainty faded. He understood he’d been lying to himself, pushing himself forward despite the obvious flaws in his plan.
There’s no such thing as a false sense of well-being.
Wells couldn’t remember where exactly he’d read those words, but they weren’t true. It wasn’t too late, he knew. He could still call off the meeting, let Rosette curse him out, fly back to Exley tomorrow.
And leave Markov untouched? Miss this chance?
No.
Wells opened up the false compartment in his Samsonite and counted out fifty of the 500-euro bills, 25,000 euros in all, and stuffed them in his jacket. Then he taped fifty more bills to the bottom of the night table next to the bed. He left the rest of the bills in the suitcase and sorted through the other equipment he’d brought: three ballpoint pens. One was actually a tiny stun gun, capable of delivering a single massive shock. The other two hid spring-loaded syringes filled with ketamine and liquid Valium, a mix that worked as an exceptionally fast-acting anesthetic.
Wells slipped two of the pens—the stun gun and one of the syringes—into his jacket pocket, then grabbed his suitcase and walked down to the lobby and rang the front bell and shivered in the silent lobby until the mustached woman emerged.
“Can you hold this for me?” Wells lifted the suitcase. “Just tonight.”
TEN PLACES DIDN’T HAVE
a velvet rope or a sign to mark its entrance. Just two massive men standing in front of a gleaming steel door, and a few unlucky would-be clubgoers standing beside them, stamping their feet against the cold. The bouncers frowned when Wells approached, but when Wells gave them Roman’s name they opened the door and waved him in. Wells found himself in a steel passageway twenty feet long. At the far end, two large men blocked another metal door. To the right, a bottle blonde sat behind a pane of inch-thick glass in a cashier’s office.
“Cover is one hundred euros,” she said.
Wells handed over a 500-euro bill. “Keep the change,” he said, earning only a small smile. A 400-euro tip didn’t go far at this club.
In front of the second door, one of the bouncers patted him down while the other ran a handheld metal detector over him. When they were done, the cashier pressed a red button and the steel door clicked open. The bouncers stood aside to let Wells pass.
Inside, the club was small, but even gaudier than Wells had expected. A half-dozen women in G-strings and pasties shimmied on a platform hoisted over the center of the room. Three more stood behind the bar, serving drinks. The dance floor was in the center of the club, only about twenty feet square, but packed. At 100 euros a head, somebody was getting rich. Rosette sat with Roman, a big man in a black leather jacket, at a table near the back. As Wells approached, Rosette stood and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Jalal,” he said in Arabic. “So good to see you.”
“Nicholas,” Wells replied in Arabic. “My old friend.”
“They don’t have clubs like this in Beirut.”
“No, they don’t. But maybe one day. When the Syrians are gone and peace comes back.”
“We hope.” Rosette nodded to the man in the leather jacket. “Jalal, this is Roman.”
Wells extended a hand and Roman enveloped it in his own giant paw. The Russian was Wells’s height, six-two, and had a boxer’s squashed nose and small ugly eyes. They sat and Rosette lined up three shot glasses and filled them from a Stoli bottle in an ice bucket beside the table.
“A toast.” Rosette spoke in Russian. When he was done, Roman laughed and the three men emptied their glasses. Wells hadn’t drunk vodka straight since college. The liquid was cold and warm at the same time and left a pleasant burn in his throat.
“What did you say?” Wells said to Rosette.
“Old farmer’s toast. I want to buy a house, but I haven’t the money. I have the money to buy a goat, but I don’t want one. So here’s to having wants and needs come together.”
“The wisdom of the Russian serf.”
“Very deep. And now I must go. I hope the marriage is happy, both families approve.”
Rosette disappeared onto the dance floor. Wells sat in silence for a minute, watching the dancers. The worldwide cult of fast money spent stupidly. The worldwide cult of trying too hard. Moscow, Rio, Los Angeles, Tokyo, New York, London, Shanghai—the story was the same everywhere. The same overloud music, the same overpromoted brand names, the same fake tits, about as erotic as helium balloons. Everywhere an orgy of empty consumption and bad sex. Las Vegas was the cult’s world headquarters, Donald Trump its patron saint. Wells had spent ten years in the barren mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. He never wanted to live there again. But if he had to choose between an eternity there or in the supposed luxury of this club, he’d go back without a second thought.
Roman the Russian poured another shot for them.
“Drink,” he said in Arabic, rough but understandable.
“You know Arabic?”
“I was in Libya three years. A military adviser.” He raised his glass. “To our friend, the crazy Frenchman.” They drank.
“Do you know why this is called Ten Places? You’re supposed to be a billionaire to be in here. Ten places of wealth. A one and nine zeros. Of course, a billionaire in rubles isn’t the same as a billionaire in dollars, but even so.”
“I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”
“Well, then, let’s go.” Roman stood and Wells followed. They walked through the club, the dancers parting for Roman, careful not to touch him. But instead of taking the stairs to the front entrance, Roman led Wells to an exit behind the bar. They walked up a dimly lit staircase to an unmarked door.
“Go on,” Roman said. Wells pushed it open and emerged into an alley by the side of the club. Outside, a black Maybach waited, the oversized Mercedes limousine, with two men in front.
“Put your hands on the trunk and spread your legs,” Roman said. Wells did. Roman frisked him, thoroughly. “Empty your pockets.”
In his pockets Wells had only his special pens, a cell phone, his Lebanese passport, his packet of euros, and his wallet. All in Jalal’s name, of course.
Roman pocketed the phone and the packet of euros, gave back everything else, opened the Maybach’s door and steered Wells into the back. The sedan rolled off. Roman unzipped his jacket and slouched in the seat beside Wells. His hand hung loosely over a pistol tucked into a holster on his right hip.
“Jalal, tell me what you want.”
Wells did.
“And Rosette recommended us.”
“He said he’d worked with you.”
Roman frowned. “I want to believe you, Jalal. And the Frenchman and I have known each other a long time. But this plan of yours. You ask Russians for help against the Syrians, our allies.”
“Who else should I ask? The Americans? The Jews? Since 1975 the Syrians do what they want to us. We bring a million people to protest in Beirut, one Lebanese in five, it doesn’t matter. Have you ever been to Lebanon? Once it was beautiful. I’ll go to hell itself and ask the devil if he’ll help me.”
Roman pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket and unfolded it. He flicked on the Maybach’s backseat light, looked between the paper and Wells as though he were watching a tennis match. Finally he handed the sheet to Wells.
And Wells found he was looking at—
An old picture of himself. A printout of a photograph available on the Internet. His college yearbook headshot from Dartmouth.
Wells allowed a puzzled look to settle on his face. Best to stay relaxed. Even if Roman had already decided to kill him, he wouldn’t do so in a moving car. Too risky. “What is this?”
“You.”
“Not me.”
“No? Your cousin, maybe? Thinner, a little cleaner? You don’t see the resemblance?”
“Not really.” Wells handed back the paper. “Who is it?”
“John Wells. The American spy.”
“I am who I say,” Wells said. “See.” He reached into his pocket for his Lebanese passport and wallet.
“Don’t bother me with that.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me. If you don’t want to make a deal, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What else can I say? I am who I am. You’ve talked to Rosette.”
Roman tucked away the photograph, plucked out a cell phone and made a call. He spoke quietly in Russian for a few seconds, listened, spoke again. Wells couldn’t understand the words, but he knew now that Ivan Markov was too cautious ever to see him. At best, these men would take his money and put him on an Aeroflot flight to Damascus, let the Syrians have him.
At worst . . . at worst he’d been in tighter spots. Though this was close. Three on one, and the three all had guns. Wells only had the two pens . . . and the final surprise in his wallet. He put his passport away and tucked his wallet loosely against his hip.
Roman hung up, reached into his pocket for the packet of euros he’d taken from Wells. He thumbed through it, shook his head.
“I said fifty thousand. This is twenty-five.”
“I didn’t think I should bring it all at once.” A real spy would have handed over all the money at once, kept the transaction smooth. Wells had hoped his amateur act would help convince Roman he was who he claimed to be. But at this point, he doubted anything he did would matter.
“You don’t understand your position very well. Where’s the rest?”
“My hotel.”
“Where?”
Wells told him. Roman barked an order in Russian and the Maybach swung south.
“THIS IS IT?”
Roman said when they reached the hotel. “Not very impressive.”
“I’m saving my money for you.”
“What room? And where’s the money?”
Wells told him. Roman said something to the bodyguard in the front seat. He nodded and got out. Wells reached for the door.
Roman clapped a hand on him. “You and I wait here.”
Wells didn’t argue. He had found out what he wanted to know. Roman was big, not fast. The Maybach was an exceptionally wide car and Roman had needed almost a full second to reach across to get him. Plenty of time for Wells. They sat silently in the back of the car until Roman’s phone rang for a second time. He had a quick conversation in Russian, hung up, and turned to Wells.
“You seem relaxed, Jalal. Why aren’t you nervous?”
“Why would I be nervous?”
“I accuse you of being an American spy. You deny it calmly. I ask you where you’ve hidden your money. You tell me.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Whose then?”
“It belongs to the Flowers.”
“You come to a country, you don’t speak the language, you think you can hire men you’ve never met for this mission? You’re very stupid. Or you have something else in mind. Either way you’re too dangerous for me to deal with.”
Wells was silent, weighing his options. If he moved too soon, he’d destroy any chance at Markov. If he waited too long, he’d die. Coming here had been a mistake. He saw now. He’d always trusted his instincts, but this time they’d betrayed him. Or maybe he’d ignored them in his fury. Either way he’d made the most basic mistake. He’d underestimated his enemies, overreached, trapped himself.
He saw only one way out.
THREE MINUTES LATER,
the bodyguard returned, holding the other packet of euros. Roman looked away, up at the guard. As he did, Wells drew a credit card from his wallet with his right hand. With his left hand, he reached for one of his special ballpoint pens, the stun gun.
The bodyguard handed the bills to Roman, who flipped through them.
“This is it?” he said to Wells.
“The other twenty-five thousand, yes.”
“Rosette said you had more. He said you had two hundred fifty thousand.”
“Not in the room.” Wells felt his pulse rise.
“Where, then?”
“You must think I’m a fool.”
“Call it a fee. For wasting our time.”
Wells pretended to consider the offer. “I’ll get it.” Wells reached for the door, and again Roman reached for him.
“You’re not—”
BUT ROMAN NEVER GOT
to finish his sentence, or say anything else at all.
As he grabbed Wells’s right arm, Wells twisted toward him. With his left hand, Wells jabbed the stun gun through Roman’s black wool Armani pants and into the meat of his thigh. The electricity flowed and Roman yelped, a clotted grunt of pain, and twisted back and reached down for the stun gun to tear it away from his leg. The simplest of errors. Roman should have gone for his pistol. Instead he’d become fixated on the fire in his leg. He would pay for that mistake with his life. As he reached down, Wells slashed upward with his right hand, the hand that held the card.