Lee Vance: The Garden of Betrayal

I shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t press. There was no way I could put Reggie and Shimon together without unforeseeable and potentially disastrous consequences. They were operating by an entirely different set of rules.

“Things go to shit, and how can you be sure you won’t be the fall guy?”

“I know too much at this point.”

“Great. So they’ll put you in the river.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe you aren’t thinking clearly.”

I caught his arm by the sleeve and shook it gently.

“This is what’s happening,” I said. “This is what I have to do. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. Right now, you have to walk away.”

He pursed his lips and then sighed deeply.

“You talk to Claire?”

“Not yet. But I’ll bring her up to speed tonight, before I go any further.”

“Make sure you listen to her,” he said, looking at the van again. “She’s a smart woman.” He extended his hand. “And remember that I’m around if you ever need backup.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. “I appreciate it.”

“Good luck.” He broke our grip and punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Call me when you’re done. We’ll have a beer.”

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.”