Lee Vance: The Garden of Betrayal

“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.”