The Garden of Betrayal

44

Walter got up to answer his front door, leaving me alone in his study. I was sitting in one of the club chairs, staring into the embers of a dying fire. His house staff had been dismissed for the day. Voices sounded in the hall. Clifford White entered the room, Walter behind him. White was wearing a navy suit and a red tie; his wispy gray hair looked windblown. He arched an eyebrow when he saw me, lips compressing. The loathing I felt at the sight of him was a physical sensation.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Wallace would be joining us. Are you getting him involved on the political side now?”

“A miscommunication,” Walter said, closing the study door and leaning against it. “Or, more precisely, a misdirection. The truth is that I don’t have anything urgent to communicate regarding Senator Simpson’s campaign. But Mark has a subject that he’d like to raise with you.”

“I’m managing a bid for the Republican presidential nomination,” White objected warily, turning his back to the fireplace so he could see us both simultaneously. “I don’t have time for extraneous matters.”

“I think you’ll have time for this. Mark?”

I extracted a single sheet of paper from my inner jacket pocket. I’d dressed formally, in the black suit and black tie I’d worn to bury my son. I unfolded the paper and slid it across the coffee table toward White.

“What’s this?” he demanded, fumbling for his reading glasses.

“A photocopy of a signature card for a Cayman bank account. I believe that’s your signature, Mr. White.”

He gave the form a cursory glance. It was authentic-Shimon and his people had worked quickly.

“So?”

“So, the money in that account came from a firm called Ganesa Capital. The principal of Ganesa is a man named Karl Mohler. You know him?”

“No reason why I should. My finances are handled by advisers.”

White was slick, absent any tells that I could spot.

“Mohler had SEC problems a few years back. Your former firm, Struan, Ogilvy and Cohn, represented him. Maybe you know him from that connection.”

“Regretfully not. We represented a lot of people.” He tossed the paper back onto the coffee table, took off his glasses, and looked at Walter. “I have no idea what Mr. Wallace is driving at, but I’m done here. I don’t have time for nonsense.”

Walter stared back at him silently.

“Mohler’s an interesting guy,” I continued. “His firm provided the funding for the Nord Stream terrorism, his associates were responsible for the murder of Rashid al-Shaabi, and a woman he’d worked with in the past provided me with the same counterfeit Saudi depletion data that Senator Simpson is counting on to get him elected president.”

“Mr. Wallace sounds delusional,” White said coolly. “I’m leaving now. Step away from the door, please, Walter.”

It was the reaction I’d expected. I was itching to signal Walter to comply, sick of White’s denials, but the deal I’d done with myself was that I’d make every effort to cajole White into cooperating peaceably before letting matters progress.

“Some of it I can prove, and some of it I can’t,” I admitted. “One thing I know for sure is that you’re involved with Mohler up to your neck. And you should know that Mr. al-Shaabi’s friends-his real friends-agree with me. They’re very upset, and they’re inclined to respond. I’m the only one who can help you with them at this point, and I’m willing to help only if you admit your culpability and confess the details.”

White deigned to turn his head in my direction, a sneer on his lips.

“I’m a former deputy cabinet secretary. I’m not scared of a gang of Jew hoods who’ve put two and two together with your assistance and come up with seventeen.” He looked back to Walter. “Move, or you’ll be hearing from the police.”

Walter glanced at me.

“Mr. White,” I said softly, honoring my commitment to myself despite my revulsion for him. “I feel morally compelled to urge you to reconsider your position.”

“Really,” he said, mimicking my intonation. “And I feel equally compelled to urge you to kiss my ass.”

I shrugged, and Walter stepped aside. White pulled the door open forcefully. Ari was immediately outside, blocking his exit. White took a startled pace backward. He looked toward Walter.

“What…” he began.

Ari swatted him lightly on the side of the neck, behind his ear. White staggered, lifting a hand to touch the spot. His index finger came away spotted with a single drop of blood.

“Who the hell is he?” White rasped at Walter, voice conveying more anger than fear. “And what the hell did he just do?”

“I’m a friend and colleague of Rashid al-Shaabi,” Ari announced, stepping into the room. “A man who wept at his death.” He shoved the door shut with his elbow and then opened his hand to reveal a miniature syringe. “You’ve been poisoned, Mr. White. And unless you receive the antidote very soon, you’ll be as dead as my lamented friend within fifteen minutes.”

White looked from Ari to Walter to me contemptuously. He drew himself up, smoothed his clothes, and then rushed the door. Ari caught him by the arm, spun him around as if he were a child, and shoved him gently back into the center of the room. White backed to the fireplace, eyes wide.

“You’re lying. This is a trick. You wouldn’t dare poison me.”

“Wrong,” I said. “I warned you to reconsider. Ari, please tell Mr. White exactly what’s about to happen to him.”

“The poison is a neurotoxin,” Ari explained calmly. “It acts at the extremities and radiates inward. Your hands and feet will begin tingling, as if they’re going to sleep. Your limbs will tremble and weaken. Eventually, the poison will reach your chest.” He drew his finger in a wide circle around his body, spiraling inward. “Your diaphragm will stop, and you’ll feel as if you’re suffocating. Your heart will race, trying to deliver more oxygen to your brain, but the paralysis will continue spreading, and your heart will seize. From the time you stop breathing, you’ll have four or five minutes left to live. Four or five excruciatingly unpleasant minutes.”

“That’s bullshit,” White yelled, saliva flying from his mouth. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“The reason we use this particular poison is that it’s impossible to identify without an extremely broad and very expensive toxicology scan,” Ari continued. “Most doctors just assume a heart attack, particularly with a decedent your age.”

“You mentioned a pain in your left arm,” Walter interjected emotionlessly. “You clutched at your chest before you collapsed and complained of a crushing sensation. I dialed 911 immediately, but the paramedics arrived too late to help.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” White repeated weakly, as if it was a mantra. “You wouldn’t. I’m an important person.”

“Wrong tense,” I corrected curtly, anxious for him to start talking. “We already have. You’re wasting time, Mr. White, and you don’t have much time left. You need the antidote if you’re going to avoid permanent nerve damage. Tell us the truth about your connection to Mohler.”

White glowered at us. Sixty seconds passed. His hands began clenching and unclenching, and I could see his left leg starting to shake.

“None of it was my idea,” he blurted furiously. “It was all Narimanov. Now give me the antidote.”

Narimanov. My world spun a final time and then righted itself. I’d been worried that I wouldn’t know the truth when I heard it, but Narimanov’s name resonated instantly. He was involved in the energy business, he had political influence, and he had more than enough money to back the schemes we’d uncovered. He’d even courted me-and, God help me, I’d liked him and seriously considered working for him. I wondered what sort of monster could smile and chat with a man whose son he’d had killed.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Narimanov’s ex-KGB, like Putin. He was trained as a deep-cover agent, his mission to penetrate Western business circles. Former KGB men run everything over there now, and they hate America because we stripped away their empire. They want their empire back, and they think now is the right moment to make America pay. I’ve told you what I know. Give me the antidote.”

White was leaning heavily on the mantelpiece, seeming unsteady on his feet.

“Sit,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Conserve your strength. You’re not getting the antidote until you’ve given us more details. Why provide me with the false Saudi information? And why back Senator Simpson for president?”

White complied without protest, slumping into a chair. His legs were twitching uncontrollably, and he looked terrified.

“Nothing’s ever straightforward with the Russians. It’s like that stupid chess game Narimanov plays, all feints and fakes and unexpected attacks. The Kremlin is trying to establish a global monopoly on energy supplies. Narimanov and other Russian government agents control vastly more reserves in South America and Africa than anyone knows. They’ve bought people everywhere: politicians, businessmen, and journalists. The Middle East is the big prize. Simpson’s role was to stir things up, to make the Gulf States unhappy enough with the United States that they’d consider looking elsewhere for a protector. But the Saudis and Kuwaitis and the rest would only take Simpson seriously if it looked like he had a shot at winning. Your job was to publish the Saudi data and to make the case that shortages were imminent. Walter and his club were supposed to provide Simpson’s financing. We thought it would be enough to secure Simpson the Republican nomination. He’s a gifted natural speaker with a good conservative voting record, and he’s not entirely stupid. The only hard part was trying to get him to keep his dick in his pants. He’s like every other goddamned politician I’ve ever known, hot for anything in a skirt.”

“But at the right moment, you were planning to pull the rug out from under him,” I said.

“Simpson went on a congressional junket to Thailand six years ago. There are pictures of him with underage girls. Two of the girls are stashed in Hong Kong, ready to testify against him. And the Saudi information has fake digital watermarks that link it back to a radical environmental group. Once Simpson had served his purpose, he and the Saudi information were both going to be discredited.” Sweat ran down White’s forehead and into his eyes. He pawed at the handkerchief in his breast pocket but couldn’t get hold of it. “Give me the antidote,” he implored. “Please. I can’t feel my fingers.”

“And Rashid was killed because he was going to expose the Saudi data as false prematurely?”

White glanced fearfully at Ari and nodded.

“We didn’t know you had a relationship with him. We thought you’d rely on the information Narimanov offered you for confirmation. When Narimanov heard the recording of you talking to Rashid, he decided Rashid had to go.”

I’d accepted that I was likely responsible for Rashid’s death, however inadvertently, but it rocked me to hear it confirmed.

“But you were the one who gave the order,” Ari suggested, “weren’t you? You were Narimanov’s blind. You gave all the orders. No one else even knew he was involved.”

“I had to do it,” White mumbled, managing to sound a little ashamed. “I had no choice. He got a hook into me years ago.”

“As we have a hook in you now,” Ari responded fiercely. “Did the French know the Ukrainians were innocent?”

“No. The Russians planned everything. Narimanov laughed about it. All they had to do to manipulate the French was to pretend to take them seriously. The Russians knew the French wouldn’t be a problem in the future, because they control France’s gas supply.”

“And Theresa Roxas’s real name?” I asked.

He flopped his head toward me, the movement jerky and uncoordinated.

“Doris Carabello. She’s an engineer with Pemex. Narimanov put her on the payroll when she was an engineering student. He’s used her on a bunch of different jobs. Please. I’m begging you. I can’t move my legs. I’ve told you everything. Give me the antidote.”

I glanced at Ari. He gave me a small nod, and I looked back to White.

“You’ve told me everything about the present but not about the past. You still have to answer for my son.”

White’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his head slumped against the back of his chair. A sob racked his chest.

“Narimanov wanted me to stop investigating Petronuevo,” I prompted. “He decided to murder my wife. You gave the order. My wife didn’t show, so your men took my son instead. Right or wrong?”

White nodded once, his eyes screwed shut.

“Who’d you give the order to?” I asked. “Who killed my boy?”

“Anton Rastin,” White whispered. “A Czech with American citizenship. Narimanov found him for me. He has two men he works with, ex-soldiers.”

“Anton,” I repeated, touching my face with a finger. “He has a scar here, right?”

White nodded fractionally. His breathing had become labored.

“They were all killed in the shoot-out at the motel yesterday. They paid for what they did. Now, please, please, give me the antidote.”

I looked at Walter. He was stone-faced.

“You have any questions?”

He shook his head, and I turned back to White.

“You were right at the beginning,” I said. “We lied.”

“You didn’t,” White moaned. “I’ve been poisoned. I’m dying. Help me, please. I’m begging you.”

“You’re right that you’ve been poisoned. The lie was about the antidote. It doesn’t exist. You’re dying, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

White’s face contorted with horror. Shimon and I had argued the point for hours. The only way the Israelis would get involved was if there was no chance of White telling anyone what we’d done to him, and the only way to ensure that he kept quiet was to kill him. Eventually, I’d agreed. I tried my best to summon some remorse. White was a human being, after all. Maybe I’d become hardened: It was difficult to feel much compassion.

“He’s stopped breathing,” Ari said quietly, nodding toward White’s chest. “The two of you might want to step out for a few minutes. This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Walter and I exchanged a glance.

“No,” I said, speaking for both of us. “We’ve each lost a son. We’re in this until the end.”

Nine Months Later