The Wolves (15 page)

Peretz said something to Makiv and reached back under his coat, and Wells knew if he didn’t move he would die, here on the street, rounds bursting through him—

Then, only, with the threat real, did the spell break—

Fill your hand, you son of a bitch—

As Peretz’s right arm emerged, Wells pulled the pistol from the bag, squeezed the trigger easy and smooth, a perfect shot that gave Peretz a third eye and killed him instantly. He fell forward face-first, his nose crunching the concrete, a terrible sound—

As a middle-aged Chinese woman standing a few feet behind Peretz screamed, Wells turned the pistol onto Makiv, fired twice, forgetting the vest, automatically aiming center mass. The shots punched Makiv backward, but didn’t him take down. He fired back wildly. Finally, Wells remembered to aim high. He pulled the trigger and Makiv’s head jerked sideways like he’d been hit with the world’s hardest right
cross and gravity took the pistol from his nerveless hands and he toppled backward, dead before he hit the pavement.

Wells slid the pistol into the bag and kicked the motorcycle into gear and sped down Wellington. On the closed-circuit cameras, it would look like a perfect assassination. Seven seconds start to finish, two men dead.

Only Wells knew the truth, how close he’d come.

F
irst the FSB. Now the Hong Kong police. Duberman was sick of uninvited guests.

Uninvited, but not unexpected. The bulletins about the killing of two men outside Yung Kee restaurant started around 1:30 p.m.
Shocking Daylight Shooting in Central—Police Seek Motorcycle Assassin,
the
South China Morning Post
reported on its website.

The biker had disappeared in the chaos after the shooting, the
Post
said. Police were searching the area and reviewing surveillance footage for clues to his identity, a spokesman said. He urged calm, saying that the murders appeared targeted and that neither victim was a Hong Kong resident.

Duberman and Gideon followed the reports from Duberman’s study, both men as glumly silent as campaign volunteers watching their candidate lose on Election Night. Duberman tried to tell himself that Peretz and Makiv might not be the victims.
Sure, we lost New York, but Ohio
could turn everything around.
But after two hours, he could no longer hide the truth from himself. Peretz and Makiv would have broken the no-calls rule if they were still alive.

“I can’t believe it.” Stupid words. The universe didn’t care if he could believe what had happened. Doubly stupid because Duberman
could
believe. Once again, Wells had done what he did best. Culled the flock.

“You think Wells?”

“Who else?”

“Buvchenko, the FSB. To pressure you.”

“You really hate them.” Duberman considered. “No. This puts the police on me, and why would they want that? Also, one man on a motorcycle, that’s Wells all the way.”

“I don’t know how he could have found them. Or even knew what they looked like.”

“Let me ask you, Gideon. How can your men protect me when they can’t even protect themselves?”

“He’ll make a mistake.”

A lame answer, but Duberman appreciated the effort. “And in the meantime?”

“We wait for the police. It shouldn’t take long, since Uri and Avi listed this as their local address. Maybe they’ll even catch him for us.”

“The Hong Kong police? That’s funny.”

“He’s not Superman.”

“He’s super-something.”

“I’ll talk to the gate guards, make sure they know what’s going on.”

“You mean you don’t want to sit with me anymore.”

Gideon offered an opaque smile and left Duberman to his thoughts. The afternoon passed bitterly slowly. Orli might have distracted him, but she was shooting a bikini ad on the Great Barrier Reef. Maybe he ought to be glad. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

The call came from the front gate just before 6 p.m. “The police are here.”

—

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, Gideon led two men into the study. They were older than Duberman had expected, in their fifties. Both wore pressed dark blue uniforms, with identical white shirts and black ties. They carried themselves with the quiet confidence of men who had legions of armed men at their disposal. Duberman knew at once they were very senior, and that their fast appearance meant trouble.

“Assistant Commissioner Tsang Tung-Kwok,” the taller man said, his English slow and careful. “In charge of police on Hong Kong Island.”

“Deputy Assistant Commissioner Hargrove Lo, chief of detectives.” Lo carried a manila envelope. His English was better than Tsang’s. Duberman suspected he’d do the talking.

“Commissioners. How can I help you?”

“You don’t know?” Lo shook his head. “You hear about the shooting today?”

“Of course.”

“When you came to Hong Kong, fifteen men came with you. Bodyguards?”

“Mostly.”

“Usually, you come with only three or four men. Why so many this time?”

“We knew we’d be staying longer.” Duberman didn’t want to tell the stalking story. He’d have to mention Wells, and he feared where that thread might lead.

“And you have,” Lo said. “More than three months, leaving only for Macao. Usually you come only two, three weeks.”

They’d obviously spent time checking his immigration records. Another bad sign. “The competition in Macao is brutal. My customers want to see me.”

“Avi Makiv and Uri Peretz were two of your guards—”

“Were?”
Duberman reminded himself not to overdo the surprise. “You mean—”

“I must regret to inform you that they were killed today.” Lo offered a single nod that matched the strangely formal notification. “We need you for official ID.”

“Of course.”

Lo pulled two Polaroids from the envelope, handed the first to Duberman. “Uri Peretz?”

Peretz lay on his back, staring blankly at death through the hole between his eyebrows. Black-red blood dribbled out of his nose. The Polaroid’s colors were flat, washed-out, and the image looked cheap. Posed, almost.

“Yes. That’s him.” Duberman felt the need to add more, a three-sentence eulogy. “He was a good guy. Funny. Liked the ladies.”
He reminded me of myself.

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry.

“His nose.” Duberman handed back the Polaroid. “Did someone hit him?”

“No, he fell after he was shot, it broke. We turn him over for the picture.” Lo gave the second Polaroid to Duberman. “This one worse, I warn you.”

An understatement. The bullet had split Makiv’s skull, airing bone and brain matter. Duberman could put himself in Makiv’s place only too easily. Three months ago, Wells had put a pistol to his head and threatened to pull the trigger.

“Yes, Avi.” Now Duberman didn’t have to fake the tremor in his voice. “Their families live in Israel.”

“Now we have ID, we ask police there to notify the parents.” Lo stared at him. “Do you have any idea who did this, Mr. Duberman?”

JohnWellsJohnWellsJohnWells . . .

“No.”

“Professional. Most likely meant as a message to you.”

“I can see that’s how it looks.”

“You can’t think of suspects? Not one?”

“These men worked for me for years. Protected me and my family. If I knew who’d done this, I would tell you.”

“Maybe the killer waiting for you, expecting you to eat with them.”

“I doubt it. I mean, I mostly eat here. If he’d been watching them, he would have known that.”

“What they doing in Central?”

“I don’t know.” Duberman turned to Gideon. “Do you?”

“I think they had the day off.”

The answer provoked a conversation in Chinese between the cops. Duberman wished he’d had the foresight to turn on the recording system in the study. He could have taped the men, had their words translated.

The men finished talking. Tsang looked at Duberman. “You have enemies.”

“You don’t get to thirty billion dollars without making enemies.”

Tsang shook his head.
Wrong answer.

“As soon as the Israelis tell us it’s okay, they’ve told the parents, we will announce the names,” Lo said. “And their connection with you. Many questions for you.”

“I get it.”

“You like Hong Kong?” Tsang said. “Feel safe?”

“Until today, more or less.”

“What about your bodyguards?” Lo said.

“You’d have to ask them, but I think so.”

“Yet these men were wearing vests.”

“Vests?” Duberman knew they’d caught him
.

“To stop bullets,” Lo said. “Not normal, for men who have nothing to be scared of.”

“I had no idea.”

“Also carrying pistols.”

“Well, yes. They were both in the Israel Defense Forces. Experienced with firearms.”

“On their
day off
.”

Ouch.

As Duberman searched for an answer, Tsang grabbed his arm. “They have permits?”

“I’m not sure. Gideon might know. Gideon?”

“I don’t think they had Hong Kong permits.”

“Right. No permits. What about other bodyguards?”

“I can check—”

“No need,” Tsang said. “We check already. No one has permits. No more guns. We catch them, we arrest. Illegal. Illegal.”

For a guy whose English wasn’t great, Tsang got his points across.

“Commissioners, with respect, your concerns seem misplaced—”

“Hong Kong not Macao!” Tsang’s voice rose. “Hong Kong safe. Safe for tourists, for business, for everyone. What happen today—” He shook his head vigorously.

Lo lifted a hand to Tsang.
Relax.
“We just want to solve this fast. We’re hoping you can help us.”

Despite the trouble he faced, Duberman had to fight a smile. Good cop, bad cop was universal.

“Your solicitors ask the government about citizenship,” Lo said.

“I hope you’re devoting as much energy to finding the killer as investigating me.”

“This kind of violence, the territory has no interest. You understand?”

“I think so.”
Looks like I’m wearing out my welcome all over.
“Can you tell me anything about the shooter? The reports say you have footage of the motorcycle. Have you gotten a look at his face?”

“So far, no. He was careful. The cameras at the Cross-Harbour show he came in from Kowloon this morning. But he was wearing the helmet. And the license plate hasn’t triggered any alarms. He must have left it somewhere.”

“What about the registration? Or was the plate stolen?”

“Motorcycle was legally registered by someone named Ha Jin more than a year ago in Mong Kok. We’re looking for him, but he gave a false address. Probably fake name.”

“The rider, do you think he was Chinese? Or white?”

Lo stared at Duberman for seconds that felt like minutes. “Until we see his face, we don’t know. But most Chinese not that big. So probably white. Does that help?”

“Not really. In Macao, we’ve had problems with the Hung Hing triad.”

Duberman was exaggerating. All the Macao triads demanded casino kickbacks. 88 Gamma handled them the way companies had always dealt with the Mob, by overpaying for messy but crucial services like garbage hauling. Hung Hing, the smallest of the major triads, was agitating for more business. Duberman’s chief of security in Macao had assured him that he would handle the problem.
They’ll see reason or we’ll put them down.

“No triad hires a round-eye for this,” Lo said. “And even if he, the killer, was Chinese, have you had problems in Macao? Violence. Fires, workers beaten up, anything like that?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Hung Hing starts with that. Not this. If we need to interview your bodyguards—”

“I’ll make sure they cooperate. Some only speak Hebrew, so you’ll need an interpreter.”

Tsang’s phone buzzed. He pulled up a text, showed it to Lo.

“We found the motorcycle,” Lo said. “We must go.” He shoved a business card on Duberman. “My mobile number and my office. Please call me if you think of anything.”

“When,” Tsang said. “When you think.”

—

L
O
, J
IANG
-X
I
H
ARGROVE
, Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Chief of Detectives, Hong Kong Police Force, the card read. Duberman wanted to tear it apart. He’d known the police wouldn’t be happy with him, but he hadn’t realized they would
blame
him for the disruption and bad publicity from the killings. They would force him out of Hong Kong if he didn’t help them.

“Was that an interview or an interrogation?” He looked at Gideon. “And you. Day off?
Day off?
” Duberman knew the anger was counterproductive, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Did you want me to say they were chasing Orli’s pretend stalker?”

“We have to give them something.” Duberman, thinking out loud now. “What about a version of the stalker story? Without Wells. Say somebody’s making threats. Anonymous letters, but serious. Worst of all, he always seems to know where she is.”

“What about Roberts?”

Duberman needed a moment to remember. They had told William Roberts that John Wells was the man stalking Orli. They would have to convince him to sign on to this different version, unless—

“Tell Roberts to take a couple of weeks off. Paid. Starting immediately.”

“He’ll go for that?”

“Say we need to review our security after what’s happened. If he gives you too much grief, I’ll order him myself. We don’t have a choice. If they interview him, he’ll mention Wells.”

Gideon frowned. Duberman could read his mind.
Our lies don’t even make sense anymore, for every leak we plug, two more spring . . .

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gideon said. “The FSB.”

Now I am.
“Have a better idea?”

“At least promise me you’ll tell Orli before you do anything.”

Duberman stepped close enough to see the tiny flecks of gray stubble rising from Gideon’s cheeks. “I don’t want to keep having to say this. You’re forgetting your place.”

Gideon blinked, nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Talk to Roberts. Come back when you’re done, we’ll see if we can’t come up with some story that doesn’t sound idiotic for the cops.”

“Yes. Boss.” Gideon walked out.

—

T
HE PAPER
with Buvchenko’s number was in Duberman’s wallet. He’d carried it with him since the day in the garage. He must have known this moment would come, that Wells would keep coming and upset the equilibrium Duberman had managed to create. He pulled out the wallet, battered brown leather, Orli’s first present to him. He riffled through a wad of brightly colored Hong Kong banknotes, panicked briefly when he couldn’t find it.

There.
His fingers shook as he plucked it out. Gideon was wrong. The FSB needed him as much as he needed them.
Spy service seeks wealthy older gentleman for mutually beneficial arrangement . . .
He’d give them Cheung.

A pimp. Serving a pederast.

But what if there was another way? What if—

Maybe. If he could find a way to isolate Cheung. Maybe. Of course the FSB would have to do its part. But why wouldn’t it?

Before Duberman could change his mind, he thumbed in the digits, pushed the green
call
icon. The phone was answered on the first ring. Like Buvchenko was expecting him.

“Mikhail? It’s Aaron. We need to talk.”