The Counterfeit Agent (13 page)

No.
Glenn was gone. He was
Duke
. Duke had a pistol just like Nuñez. Nuñez had ducked the snare, set a trap of his own? Fine. Duke would play right back. He walked to the bar, splayed twenty-dollar bills across it. “Drinks on me. For everyone. And I’ll take a San Miguel.”

He checked his watch. 12:12. An eternity in those two minutes. The bottle appeared in his hand, cool and covered in freezer dew, label already peeling. He drank half in one swallow. His first taste of alcohol in four years. Set it on the bar.
No more. Stay focused.

The Whitney Houston song ended. The room briefly went silent as another song loaded. “Paradise City.” An omen. “Gotta take a piss. Okay with you?” The hostess looked at the money on the bar and nodded. Duke walked through the beaded curtain and down the hall, praying for a fire exit.

Past rooms 9 and 10, the corridor turned right. He found himself at an American-style fire door with a panic bar. “EMERGENCY ONLY! ALARM!”
was painted on the door. Duke didn’t see an alarm box. He suspected the warning was for show, to keep people from letting friends into the private rooms. For a moment he wondered if Nuñez had set up outside this door instead of the front. Anticipating this move and playing back at Duke one more time. No.
Nuñez was good, but he wasn’t subtle.

Duke pulled his pistol from the nylon bag, pressed the panic bar.

No alarm.

The door angled open a few inches. Outside, a narrow alley, scattered with broken bricks and broken bottles. The night air moist, not quite warm. Winter in the subtropics. Nuñez might be a hundred feet down, where the alley met the street. He’d be looking at the club’s front door, wondering why Duke hadn’t come out yet. Duke pushed the door a few inches more, hoping it wouldn’t creak. He dropped the bag so he’d have both hands free. He stepped into the alley, turned so he faced the street.

Nuñez was at the end of the alley. Pistol in hand. Head cocked to peek at the entrance. As Duke had hoped. Duke stepped toward him. Music leaked out from the open door behind him. Not much, but enough to catch Nuñez’s attention. If Nuñez turned, he could pin Duke in the alley.

Nuñez raised his head. Like a hunting dog catching a scent. He shifted his weight, swung his shoulders—

Duke lifted the Sig, a two-handed stance, weight slightly on the front foot, aimed center mass, fired twice. Missed. Close. Concrete flaked off the wall to the left of Nuñez. Duke expected Nuñez to dive for cover. Instead, Nuñez kept coming, reaching for his pistol, bringing his arm forward, pure intent.
This ends now.

Neither man spoke, the song providing the alley’s only noise—
the grass is green and the girls are—

Duke stepped forward. All his senses on fire. He shifted his aim right, just a fraction, pulled the trigger. The shot struck Nuñez square and low in the gut, drove him back a step. Nuñez tried to raise his pistol, but Duke fired again. This time the blood jumped out of Nuñez’s chest. The suppressor did its job. The alley swallowed up the shots.

Nuñez dropped his pistol, went to his knees. His head drooped, but he forced it up.

He mumbled something in Spanish. Duke didn’t answer. Glass bits crunched under his feet. He walked briskly toward Nuñez, savoring every step. Nuñez’s head wobbled on his neck like a cheap toy, but he looked at Duke without fear. Either he was too far gone to care or he had seen this ending long before.

Duke pushed the pistol into his temple and pulled the trigger. Nuñez’s brains exploded against the wall. His body crunched face-first as his soul fled the scene. Duke expected fear. Instead, a neon sign flashed
pleasure pleasure
inside his skull. No drug on earth felt this good.

He peeked out of the alley. The street was empty. The massage-parlor building was dark. He reached for Nuñez’s wallet and phone and pistol. He strode back down the alley. The emergency exit was still ajar. Duke half wanted the cops to have heard the commotion. Let them come. He’d kill them all. But the alley stayed empty. Duke picked up the nylon bag, tossed everything inside, walked on, Tagalog-accented Guns N’ Roses fading behind him.
Oh won’t you please take me home . . .

—

Bram didn’t show at Duke’s apartment that night. The next morning the Philippine National Police reported two foreign nationals shot at close range in Manila, neither man carrying identification. “Detectives believe robbery to be the motive in both cases and will investigate with diligence,” the two-paragraph statement read. “It is not yet known whether the shootings are connected.”

By then Duke had wiped both pistols and dumped them and everything else into Manila Bay. He wasn’t worried about an immediate knock on his door. Manila was among the most dangerous cities in East Asia. Unregistered pistols were common, the police understaffed. As a rule, police in poor countries had an all-or-nothing rule when foreign nationals died in bad neighborhoods. If family members made noise and tourism was at risk, the cops investigated seriously. Otherwise, they brushed off the deaths as drug- or sex-related. Neither Bram nor Nuñez was married. Duke didn’t think anyone knew either man was in Manila. No one would call embassies to complain.

Even so, he thought he should get out of Manila soon. He’d pulled the trigger like a pro, but he’d blown the rest of the hit. Even the laziest detectives might wonder why no one inside the club had heard the shots. If they realized the killer had used a suppressor, they would investigate for real. When they did, they’d find half a mountain of evidence. Duke hadn’t exactly gotten in and out quietly. The hostess and the bartender would remember him. So would the police officers in room 8. He’d left fingerprints all over. Across the street, the madam at Little Flower Massage would remember his three-hundred-dollar room rental. Little Flower might even have surveillance cams. He hadn’t seen any, but they would be hidden. He had gone to incredible lengths in the last four years to make sure police and intelligence services took no notice of his remade face. Now he had to worry that someone in authority would see him.

—

Even so, he knew he couldn’t leave Manila. If he fled under these circumstances, his team would implode. He would have to stay, hope that the Philippine National Police lived down to their reputation. By noon, less than twelve hours after he’d killed Nuñez, he realized he needed to admit his involvement to his guys. They wouldn’t trust the police. They’d ask questions at the club themselves and figure out Duke had been there. Duke had to get in front.

With Nuñez and Bram dead, Duke could tell his men whatever he liked. But he’d get one chance. If he didn’t sell his story he’d lose them. They wouldn’t quit all at once. They’d disappear one by one, and one would take him out along the way. Only the truth would set him free.

The sort-of truth.

That night, he called his guys together. A two a.m. meeting. They arrived in a group, silent, grim. The room felt airless, even with the windows open. Leonid stood by the door, the butt of a pistol peeking from his jacket pocket. The threat didn’t surprise Duke. Its openness did.

“You want to know what happened. So do I. What I can tell you—Bram came to me the day before yesterday, told me he had proof Nuñez was going to narc on us.” A sublingual murmur of disbelief passed through the room. “Anybody know what Bram might have known, or suspected, or imagined?”

Silence.

“I don’t, either. Bram wouldn’t say. I told him he was crazy, that I knew Eddie way better than he did and Eddie was clean. I told him I was in charge, to listen to me. He wouldn’t lay off. He told me to meet him at this karaoke club at midnight. He’d show with Eddie and prove it. I went. I figured Eddie and I would talk some sense into him. And I—”

Duke broke off.

“Best tell us,
patrón
,” Salazar said.

“I brought a Sig with a suppressor, because if we couldn’t talk Bram down—”

“For Bram, this was? Not for Eddie.”

Duke nodded.

“You call Eddie, tell him what was up?” Salazar said.

“I tried him, he didn’t answer. Anybody see him after like seven or eight?”

Heads shaking.

“I get to the club at midnight, a minute or two late. They aren’t there. I check the place out. I get spooked. Bram made a big deal out of it, be there at midnight. I go out the back. Soon as I do, I can’t believe it, Eddie’s there, waiting at the end of the alley. Watching. I walk toward him, say,
Eddie, come on, what’s going on?
He turns toward me, not a word. He brings his gun up. I shot him. That was it. I figured him or me.”

“Maybe he didn’t see you,” Salazar said.

“He saw me. Plenty of light.”

“He didn’t say nothing?”

“Nothing. Didn’t tell me to stop, didn’t ask me if I had a gun. I hadn’t shot him, he would have killed me. I’m sure of it. Then I figured Bram was dead, Eddie killed him, so I grabbed Eddie’s stuff and ran.”

“
You
killed Eddie,” Salazar said. “You
killed
Eddie.” Like he’d believe it if he could just get the sound right.

“What about Bram?” This from Pieter de Velde, another South African, Bram’s closest friend on the team.

“Never saw him. I hoped I was wrong about Eddie taking him down until the cops put out that statement this morning.”

“We don’t know who killed him,” Salazar said. “Only thing we know is that you killed one of your own. Shot him in the street like a dog.”

“You think I wanted this? The guys paying for this, I told them everything, and they’re scrubbing Eddie now, looking for anything that might have made Bram think he was dirty. If they get anything, I will tell you.”

“They won’t get anything. This story is crap. Eddie told me two days ago you have your own agenda on this. That there’s stuff you aren’t telling us.”

So Nuñez had walked up to the line, but he hadn’t given away the secret. Duke had anticipated something like what Salazar had said. He was ready to deflect it. “He was right. There’s a lot of moving parts on this. Mainly to do with the next job. Which is even bigger than this one. But Eddie shouldn’t have known about that. I don’t know what he saw or heard or thought he knew.” Duke stepped forward now, raised his hands. “I don’t get it, either. But everything I’ve told you is true. You want to cut me down, do it now.”

Salazar was silent. Duke looked at the other men.

“Anybody want to ask anything? Do that now, too.”

Leonid threw out a few Russian-accented questions:
How could you be sure he was drawing? What exactly did Bram say?
But Duke stuck to his story, and Leonid flamed out fast. In truth, none of these men knew Nuñez well enough to be sure he hadn’t betrayed them. Not even Salazar.

“Anyone else?” Duke said. “Anything else?” No one spoke. One fine night at the 88 Gamma, Duke had lost nineteen hands in a row. The odds were a half million to one against a streak that bad. He changed his bet sizes, tipped the dealer. Nothing mattered. The dealer won every conceivable way, blackjacks, flat twenties, thirteen finding eight, even sixteen pulling five, the worst of all. Hand by hand, Duke watched his stacks evaporate, wondering what he had done to deserve such a beating, if he could possibly slide his chips forward to be taken again. Yet he did. He saw the same grim resignation on the faces of the men in this room.

“What now, Cap’n?” de Velde said. “We go our separate ways?”

“Until we hear different, the job’s still on.”

“You want us to attack a CIA station chief when we’re already busted.”

“Bram didn’t say Nuñez had narced. He said Nuñez planned to.”

“Next you’ll be telling us you need to leave before the local cops find you. Walk away and leave us neck-deep. Just like Iraq.”

“Up your ass. Even with the police on me, even knowing that any of you might wake up tomorrow and frag me, I’m seeing it through.”
If Salome can ever get the HEU, that is.
“And I’m going to insist everybody gets a fifty-K bonus and fifty percent more from now on.” Salome wouldn’t argue, not once Duke told her they were an inch away from having no team at all. “You’ll see the money in your accounts tomorrow.”

“Double pay,” Salazar said.

Good. They were haggling about price now. “I’ll ask.”

The men sat up straighter. They were insane to stay, of course. Either Nuñez had been about to give them up or Duke had killed him and lied about what had happened. But Duke knew the empty lives they faced on the outside.

“One last thing,” de Velde said. “Time you tell us what this is all about.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“Then I’m out.” De Velde stepped to the apartment’s front door.

Duke wondered how the truth would play.
We’re trying to con the United States into a war.
These guys might even be impressed. But he couldn’t tell, not without Salome’s okay. “I’m sorry.”

“Give me something. Some reason to trust you.”

Then Duke knew. Some part of him must have known even before Nuñez came to him. Some part of him had wanted this chance. “Way we worked it, Eddie was going to do Veder, right? Now someone’s gotta step up, take that spot. Be the hitter.”

“Yeah, so—”

“I’ll do it.”

PANAMA CITY

T
he flight from Guatemala took all of ninety minutes, but three messages waited on Wells’s phone when his plane touched down in Panama. Shafer, Shafer, and Shafer.
Call me. Call me. You
still
on that plane? Call me.
Wells hadn’t entirely shaken the headache from his foolishness at Montoya’s mansion. He gritted his teeth and called.

“Good news, bad news.”

“Good news first.”

“One of those numbers from Montoya is a landline. Maybe the last in creation. Tracks to apartment 2106, Oro Blanco Tower, on Avenida Five-A Sur. A high-rise downtown.”

“Sounds classy.”

“Looks nice on the Google. The name in the records is Eduardo Nuñez, but there’s a woman associated with the address, too. Sophia Ramos.”

“You have a picture?”

“We have eight-point-three million. Hispanic names don’t come much more common than Sophia Ramos. Database boys are looking for a date of birth to narrow it down. Get you a driver’s license, bank, that fun stuff.”

“Those crazy database boys. And the bad news?”

“There isn’t any.”

“You told me there was bad news when there wasn’t.”

“I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise.”

As usual, Shafer’s logic was equally bizarre and irrefutable.

Downtown Panama City proved to be half Miami, half Dubai, with the inevitable Trump-branded skyscraper and the inevitable absence of street life around in the high-rise district. Business seemed good, though. Either the real-estate bubble was already reflating, or it had never burst. Low taxes, bank secrecy laws, easy access to cocaine—what more could a hedge fund manager want?

—

The Oro Blanco was less impressive than its name. It stood twenty-five stories, a midrise by local standards, on a busy avenue three blocks from the harbor. Larger towers blocked its line of sight to the water. The apartments inside would have a view of a view. So close, yet so far. At street level, signs papered over empty storefronts, promising, in English and Spanish, “Oro Blanco, Your Golden Dream! Affordable Luxury! Financing Available! 65% Sold! Agent On-site!”

Wells parked outside and watched as a uniformed man opened the front door for a sixtyish woman whose neon-blue skirt barely covered her ass. Wells wanted to admire her courage for defying societal conventions. But the outfit belonged on a much younger woman, or maybe a cartoon character. Meanwhile, he needed a way upstairs. He wondered if a twenty to the doorman would do the trick. The security cameras behind the front desk suggested otherwise. “Agent On-site!”
 . . .
He checked to be sure his clothes could pass for those of a potential purchaser, headed for the lobby.

The chill of its air-conditioning reached him while he was on the sidewalk. The Oro Blanco’s developers apparently wanted to prove they could waste energy as aggressively as their more expensive neighbors. They’d splurged on the fixtures, too, spending money in an obvious way, marble and mirrors and polished brass.

“Señor?”
the doorman said.

“Is the agent here today?” Wells was used to a different context for that word. “Sales agent.” The doorman nodded to the back of the lobby. Gold letters proclaimed “Sales Office” on a frosted glass door.

Inside, the walls were covered with photos of couples smiling at each other and singles smiling to themselves in nicely furnished apartments. A pretty Panamanian woman in a black suit sat at a professionally clean desk. She gave him a smile that made Wells wonder why the building wasn’t already sold out. “I’m Julianna. Pleased to meet you.”

“Roger Bishop.” The name on his passport, in case she checked.

“You’re interested in the Oro Blanco?” Latin women could sound sultry saying anything.

“I’d love to see the model units.”

“The office closes at two today. But may I take your information, schedule an appointment?”

Perfect.
It was 1:40. “Julianna, I’m looking at several buildings—”

She raised a hand to her mouth, flirty mock horror.

“But you’re first. If you could show me around, I promise to have you out in time.”

“In that case. If I can make a copy of your passport for security purposes, Mr. Bishop.”

And send me promotional mail until the end of time.
Wells handed it over. “Call me Roger.”

—

“Our model apartments are on twenty-three,” she said, as he followed her into the elevator.

Good news for Wells. Not twenty-one, but close enough.

“Bet they get great light.” Wells found himself falling into his role as Roger Bishop, apartment hunter. The elevators were slow. One demerit.

“Wonderful. And we have a great relationship with American banks. Of course, you’re welcome to use your own financing.”

“Based on the prices I’ve seen, I think cash.”

She leaned toward him like a plant questing for the sun, and he knew he’d said the magic word. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you hear about us?”

“A friend.”

“An owner in the building?”

“No, but he knows someone who is. I put in my twenty with the NYPD, now I’m looking to go someplace warm full-time. Get outta Dodge, if you know what I mean.”

She didn’t. “You’d like a one-bedroom? Two?”

“I want to see both.”

“Are you married?” She gave him an almost-flirty smile.

My fiancée just gave me thirty days’ notice.
“Being a cop doesn’t go great with marriage. I was. A long time ago.”

True enough. And he had a son again. He and Evan had stayed in touch since Wells’s trip to Dadaab. They talked once a week, mainly about Evan’s struggles to get off the bench for the San Diego State basketball team, which had the politically dubious name the Aztecs. For the first time in his life, Evan was playing every night against guys quick enough to beat him off the dribble. He had a beautiful seventeen-foot jumper, but he needed to quicken his release and extend his range. Even then, he might never be more than a spot starter.

Wells encouraged him but didn’t have great advice. He’d played football at Dartmouth, been a good linebacker by Ivy League standards. But football wasn’t basketball. In college basketball, powerhouses and second-tier teams regularly played each other. In football, a team like Alabama would shred Dartmouth. Not just on the scoreboard. The ambulances would be full by halftime. So Wells had always been shielded from his limits as an athlete. He’d known them, but knowing wasn’t the same as having them exposed on the field, grabbing at air when you were certain you were in place for the tackle. Sports were a cruel master. All the practice in the world couldn’t replace raw talent.

Not that Wells planned to tell Evan any of this. The boy had plenty of time to learn it on his own. In truth, the conversations between father and son verged on banal. No matter. Wells counted the rebirth of his relationship with his son as a minor miracle, considering he’d missed the boy’s entire childhood.

—

Julianna brought Wells into 2310, a two-bedroom. Over the next few minutes she pointed out the appliances—
all General Electric—
the master bathroom—
his-and-hers marble sinks
, and the price—
among the lowest per square meter in the center city
. She was charming without being pushy, pretty without being a distraction. Wells hoped she would find a job at a more expensive building. Her talents were wasted here. He asked enough questions to prove he was serious. Then they were done, and back in the lobby.

“You really can’t stay?”

“I’m sorry. Believe it or not, I’m going surfing.” She seemed embarrassed that she’d given him that personal detail and returned to the pitch: “But look around. I’ll see you tomorrow. You won’t find a better value than the Oro Blanco.”

Wells shook her hand. Walked out. Drove off. Parked four blocks away. Waited forty-five minutes. Ran back to the building. Out of breath. Frazzled.

“Julianna here?”

The doorman shook his head.

“I left my phone upstairs. In one of the model apartments. Maybe the two-bedroom—2310, right? I know they’re not locked. We just walked in.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Only tenants and guests.”

“Please, you just saw me. That phone has my whole life—if you can’t let me up, can you go yourself?” Wells was betting the answer was no.

“I can’t leave—”

“I had to sign in to take the tour. She’s even got a copy of my passport.”

“All right. But find it quick, okay? Don’t be screwing around up there.”

“You are a lifesaver.” Wells rode to twenty-three, knowing the doorman would watch the elevator. The Oro had two sets of fire stairs, which offered access to every floor from the inside, according to Julianna.
Some people, they have friends a floor or two away, they like to take the stairs.
Wells ran two floors down. The twenty-first floor was identical to the twenty-third, down to the hallway paint, a muted subtropical orange.

Besides a standard lock, 2106 had a deadbolt plate. Wells put an ear to the door. Silence. Then a woman in the apartment across the hall. Wells wondered how to explain his presence. But she turned away, walked deeper into her apartment. Wells reached for his miniature electric pick set, a special CIA design. It popped the standard lock in two seconds, the deadbolt in seven.

Behind the door he found a clean living room, bare wood floors, cheap modern furniture. A black cloth sofa sat prayerfully close to a flat-panel television. Only an acoustic guitar case saved the room from complete abstraction. Wells headed for the kitchen. Tacked to the refrigerator, a sheet of black-and-white head shots of a woman with tan skin, a crinkled, too-big nose, long ringlets that looked almost silver. Two photos in the center were circled. They had been lit to look more dramatic than the others.
My voice will take you to a place of mystery. And I don’t mean the DMV.

A desk was built under the kitchen cabinets. In the center drawer, Wells found bills and a bank statement for Sophia Ramos. Lots of small withdrawals, a mortgage payment, and two seven-thousand-dollar wire-transfer deposits from a sender called the ABCD Exchange Center,
Georgetown, Barbados
.
Wells suspected that if he went looking for it, he would find servers and fiber-optic cables in place of an actual office.

Beside the bills, a rubber-banded stack of postcards. Sophia walking on a beach, strumming her acoustic guitar.
Sophia Ramos: Escucha La Música!
Wells took two. Now, at least, he had her photo. He would look her up, see if she had a regular gig. Nothing about the apartment screamed brilliant singer, but then he was no expert on artistic temperament. Maybe she saved her passion for the songs.

Underneath the postcards, he found a flowery Spanish birthday card, the words inside printed in blocky semiliterate handwriting:
MI AMOR SOPHIA, PIENSO QUE SIEMPRE—EDUARDO
.
On the facing page, the letters bleeding together in an excess of emotion:
TU VOZ ES MÁGICA!!!
The card seemed impossibly sad. Wells dropped it like it was on fire.

At the back of the drawer, he found a photo of Ramos and a Latin man on a beach, their arms around each other. The man was small and solidly built, with a cross tattooed on one pec, the angel of death on the other. She gave the posed smile of her publicity photos. On the back, the same shaky handwriting:
Eduardo y Sophia, Miraflores.
So this was Eduardo Nuñez. Wells had seen enough killers to know they came in all shapes and sizes, but the calm melancholy in Nuñez’s eyes was disconcerting. Wells wondered if they’d ever meet.

He copied Ramos’s bank and mobile account numbers, enough information for the NSA to trace her. Then he left. Sophia Ramos was a lead to a lead, not worth arousing the doorman’s suspicions. In past years, Wells had pressed too hard too early on missions, forcing unnecessary violence. He’d already broken a street kid’s elbow this weekend. He preferred to keep future civilian messes to a minimum.

“You find it?” the doorman said as Wells left.

He held up his phone. “Thanks.”

—

After an Internet detour that led him to a strip joint in Panama City, Florida, a search for
Sophia Ramos Panama music
turned up a standing ten p.m. gig on Monday nights at a club called Cortes Frescos. Not exactly prime time, but a break for Wells. No waiting. He’d see her tonight.

The club was in Casco Viejo, one of the city’s original neighborhoods, dating from the Spanish colonial era. Now the area was in mid-stage gentrification, art galleries and boutique hotels scattered among empty lots and worn buildings. Cortes Frescos
—
Fresh Cuts—was a converted butcher shop. Hooks hung from its ceiling. Its walls featured close-up high-gloss photos of T-bones and lamb chops. A painted sign behind the bar warned “No Yanquis,” and the tatted bartender looked at Wells disdainfully. Wells wanted to ask for a Bud, just to see how the guy would react. He restrained himself and ordered a Balboa, which seemed to be the local beer.

Though he wasn’t drinking these days. He’d decided a few months before that he needed to respect Islam’s restrictions on alcohol and pork. He knew he wasn’t so much recommitting fully to the religion as avoiding hard decisions. Giving up booze was easier than prostrating himself to Allah five times a day, seeking the submission that was Islam’s very name. Not to mention trying to understand if he could consider himself part of the
umma
, the worldwide brotherhood, when he’d shed Muslim blood more times than he could remember.

Wells picked at the Balboa’s label as he waited for Ramos. He didn’t see how the moody singer he’d seen in the head shots would fit at this Panamanian version of New York’s now-departed CBGB. Sure enough, he was one of only eight people in the place as she stepped to the stage. The acoustic guitar from her apartment was strapped around her neck. She took the microphone confidently, wearing jeans and a blue halter top that highlighted her best feature, her smooth brown arms.

“
Gracias a todos por venir.
Even Americanos who got lost looking for the Hard Rock Cafe.” She stared at Wells. He wondered if she’d made him somehow, then realized new faces might be rare at her shows. “And now I tell you,
escucha la música!
Listen to the music!”