Alex Berenson: The Silent Man

“For the greater good,” he said aloud.

“What greater good?” Exley said.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Now he was trying to put his head back on, gather his strength. Because he knew. The world wouldn’t stay quiet very long.

Exley stood, busied herself cutting rose stems, putting the flowers in a cut-glass vase. “How were the guys?” she said.

“I finally talked a little,” Wells said.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

As an answer, he stood, wrapped an arm around her and another under her legs and picked her up. Wells was six-two and muscular, twice Exley’s size, and he lifted her easily. She cupped his face in her hands, locked her blue eyes on him.

“Got the trip all planned yet?”

“Close,” she said. “You sure you don’t want to help?”

“I’m not making decisions these days,” he said. “I’m in a decision-free mode.”

“No decisions at all? So I can do what I like with you.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then why don’t you take me upstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

HE’D JUST PUT HER DOWN on the bed when the doorbell rang.

“Ignore it,” she said. She pulled her sweater off. Underneath she was wearing only a thin white T-shirt that clung to her nipples. She tugged him down. He’d begun to slip off her T-shirt when the bell rang again.

Downstairs he flipped on the porch lights and peered through the front door’s bulletproof glass. A tall black man in a long blue overcoat stood on the porch. Adam Michaels, the head of the CIA security detail that watched the house.

Wells didn’t particularly like the idea of being guarded this way, but he understood the need, especially when Exley’s kids visited. Anyway, Michaels and his guys were discreet.

“Sorry to bother you, John,” Michaels said.

“No bother.”

“Can I ask you and Ms. Exley to come outside, take a look at somebody?”

THE MAN STOOD under a streetlight. He was white, wearing jeans, a Yankees cap, black gloves, and a thin leather jacket that didn’t look like much good against the cold. Two of Michaels’s men watched him, their hands close to the pistols on their hips.

Wells looked him over, carefully. “Never seen him before.”

“Me, neither,” Exley said.

“Who is he?” Wells said.

“Nobody, probably,” Michaels said. “But we’ve seen him five, six times the last couple days. Walking by the house, front and back. Slow and careful. Like he’s casing it. This time we stopped him, asked him what he was doing.”

“It’s a free country,” Wells said.

“That’s what he said,” Michaels said.

“What’s his name?”

“Says it’s Victor, but he’s got no ID. From his accent, he’s probably Russian.”

Wells walked over to the man, examined him closely. Nope. Definitely a stranger. Wells stuck out his hand. The man hesitated, then shook it.

“Victor,” Wells said. “I’m John Wells.”

“Nice to meet you.” The Russian accent was unmistakable.

“You looking for me? Because I’m right here.”

“Why would I be looking for you? I don’t know you. Just walking when these men grab me. Make me stand here and it’s cold.”

“You know a Spetsnaz named Sergei Tupenov?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Me, neither,” Wells said. “Victor. You like the Yankees?”

“Sure.”

“Big fan?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s their shortstop?”

Victor frowned. “Shortstop? What kind of question is this?”

“Fair enough,” Wells said. “You have a nice night. See you around.”

He walked back to Michaels. “Anything?”

“Nope,” Wells said.

“Any good threats come your way the last few weeks?” Exley said.

“On you two?” Michaels said. “Course not. Don’t you know everybody loves you?” Michaels paused. “Seriously, the usual nonsense. I’m more worried about the ones we don’t get.”

“True enough,” Exley said.

“So if you don’t recognize him, guess we have to cut him loose.” Michaels turned to Victor. “Get out of here,” he said. “And do me a favor. Don’t come back. Find another block to walk.” The Russian glared at them, then walked off, slowly.

And as Wells watched Victor go, he heard Johnny Cash, singing in the night. I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend.

The Mayak complex stretched across hundreds of acres, encompassed dozens of buildings, and was protected by three separate layers of security. Foreigners, and most Russians, were barred not only from Mayak, but from Ozersk, the city that surrounded the plant. During the Soviet era, Ozersk hadn’t appeared on maps, or even had a name. It had been called Chelyabinsk-65, for its location, sixty-five kilometers from Chelyabinsk, the province’s capital. After the USSR collapsed, the Russian government had acknowledged Ozersk’s existence and allowed foreigners into the city. But now a new cold war — or at least a cold peace — was dawning. The Kremlin had again closed the gates to Ozersk and its other nuclear cities.

Of course, plenty of outsiders, like Yusuf, evaded the outer city checkpoints with fake identification and found their way into Ozersk. But a second level of security protected Mayak. The plant had its own guard force, an electrical fence, and closed-circuit cameras at every entrance. To further improve security, only managers like Grigory were allowed to bring their cars into the plant. Ordinary employees were required to park outside the perimeter and ride buses around the complex.

Finally, a third layer of fencing, guards, and high-intensity lights surrounded the “special area,” the depots where warheads were stored. Only employees with at least five years’ experience were allowed in the special area. And except for convoy trucks, all vehicles were barred from the area. The plant’s managers worked just outside the special area, in a hulking three-story concrete building whose narrow deep-set windows gave it the look of a maximum security prison.

GRIGORY FARZADOV TURNED his Volga sedan off the four-lane avenue that connected the front gates of the complex with the special area, and rolled into the headquarters parking lot. Unlike senior managers, he didn’t have a designated spot, but working at night meant he could always park near the front doors. A good thing, too, since the parking lot was covered with an inch of black ice, a combination of water, dirt, sand, and grease that froze in November and didn’t melt until April. Every year Grigory took at least one nasty fall, found himself on the ground with his knee or his wrist aching, just short of broken. This cursed place, where even walking was a chore. If he succeeded tonight, he would take Yusuf ’s money and go somewhere warm, someplace where he wouldn’t have to wear mittens six months a year. If he succeeded tonight. And Yusuf didn’t kill him afterward.

Inside the front doors, a bored guard glanced at Grigory’s badge and waved him in. The guard’s name was Dmitri. He and Grigory had been hired around the same time, fifteen years before. As much as the cameras and fences, the long tenures of men like Grigory and Dmitri guaranteed Mayak’s security. No one new was allowed anywhere near the depots. But that familiarity had a downside. The insiders couldn’t really imagine one another capable of theft or sabotage. Tonight Grigory would take advantage of that blindness.

“Evening,” said Grigory. “How are you?”

“As usual, thanks. Yourself?”

“This beastly cold. Looking forward to spring.”

“Already?”

“Today and every day,” Grigory said. He remembered Mikhail and stifled a shiver. He’d condemned his neighbor to a frightful death with the same four words.