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.
