Alex Berenson - John Wells 4 - The Midnight House
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CIA agent John Wells returns in a cutting-edge novel of modern suspense from the #1 New York Times-bestselling writer. Early one morning, a former CIA agent is shot to death in the street. That night, an army vet is gunned down in his doorway. The next day, John Wells gets a phone call. Come to Langley. Now. The two victims were part of an eleven-member interrogation team that operated out of a secret base in Poland called the Midnight House. For two years, they put the screws to the toughest jihadis, men thought to have knowledge of imminent threats. The interrogators used whatever means necessary. When they were disbanded in the wake of public controversy, they were given medals for their heroism, Prozac for their nightmares. Now Wells must find out who is killing them. Islamic terrorists are the likeliest explanation, and Wells is uniquely qualified to go undercover after them. But the trail of blood he discovers will lead him and his boss, Ellis Shafer, to a place they wouldnt have imagined-and leave Wells facing the hardest of questions about the men of the Midnight House. Berensons work has been called superior entertainment (The Washington Post), heart-stopping adventure (USA Today), and a superb yarn reflecting the myriad dangers confronting our country today (The Providence Journal). He is one of the worlds best new thriller writers-and he is just getting started.
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Table of Contents
ALSO BY ALEX BERENSON
The Silent Man
The Ghost War
The Faithful Spy
The Number (nonfiction)
The Ghost War
The Faithful Spy
The Number (nonfiction)
G. P. PUTNAMS SONS
New York
New York
FOR THE MEN AND WOMEN OF CITY HARVEST,
WHO BRING FOOD TO THE HUNGRY
WHO BRING FOOD TO THE HUNGRY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my family for their thoughtful criticism; to Neil, Ivan, Leslie, Tom, and everyone else at Putnam and Random House UK for all their hard work making these books real; to Heather and Matthew for their advice; to Larry and the Times for keeping me around, and to Deirdre for catching the mistakes even the copy editors miss. Most important, thanks to Jackie, my lovely wife, partner, and friend.
And, finally, thanks to every reader who came this far. John Wells wouldnt exist without you. As always, e-mail me with comments, suggestions, or criticism at alexberensonauthor@gmail.com. With the volume of e-mail Im now getting, I cant promise to respond to every note, but I pledge to read them all.
Then Moses lifted up his hand and struck the rock twice with his rod; and water came forth abundantly, and the congregation and their beasts drank.
Numbers 20:11
PROLOGUE
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN. JUNE 2008
To the worst place in the world.
The worst place in the world.
George Fezcko and Dwayne Maggs raised their glasses and drank. The going-away party was over. One by one, the ops had said their good-byes and disappeared. Only Fezcko and Maggs were left. Fezcko, the guest of honor, leaving Pakistan after four years as deputy chief of station. And Maggs, his best friend at the agency.
The clock on the wall said 1:30, and theyd been drinking since dinner, but Fezcko felt solid. Maggs had gotten hold of a half-dozen Omaha steaks and two racks of ribs. The meat had soaked up most of the scotch in Fezckos belly.
Though not all. Fezcko put his head against the cool wood of the conference table and hummed tunelessly: We few, we ragged few, we motley crew... He trailed off. He couldnt remember the rest of the song, or even if there was a rest of the song.
Mtley Cre, Maggs said. Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.
Thats AC/DC.
Marine recon, too.
Why does it always go back to the marines? By now everyone in this country knows youre a jarhead. All one hundred fifty million. Fezcko tapped Maggs on the forehead. Tattoo it right there. The few, the proud, the stupid.
You wish you coulda been a marine, Maggs said. Berkeley boy. You wouldnt have made it through the first week of basic. Eaten up and spat out.
Maggs was the stations director of security. He was short and wide and strong, arms as big as an average mans legs. Fezcko had thinning curly hair and wild black eyes. In college hed played bass for a band that had almost broken out. They shouldnt have gotten along. But they did.
A marine? I wish I coulda been Tom Brady.
The Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Land of the free, home of the suicide bomber. Bet you miss it already, Maggs said.
Whats not to miss? The earthquakes. The weather. The fifteen pounds I put on cause its too hot to run outside. Fezcko poked at the belly hed gained.
Cant blame Paki for that. That gym in the basement is pretty good. As youd know if you ever visited.
I like to run outside.
How about the women? Those beautiful Paki women.
Fezcko sipped his scotch. Black-and-blue with the ugly stick, he said. I never should have let Marci divorce me. Maybe if our security officers didnt lock us in the embassy all the time, maybe then wed find out what those burqas are hiding. Cant even go down the block to the Marriott for a going-away party. Its a Marriott, for Gods sake.
Indeed, because of the risk of terrorist attacks, the agency barred employees in Pakistan from gathering at hotels and restaurants. Maggs had refused to make an exception, even tonight.
Dont mind getting you killed, but theres got to be a reason, Maggs said. You know better than me, they aim for that Marriott once a month. I know who youre gonna miss. The army and the ISIthe Inter-Services Intelligence agency, the Pakistani secret police. Between them the two services more or less ran Pakistan.
The army and the ISI. The ISI and the army. Ill tell you something about the ISI and the army.
Yeah. Give me the speech. With feeling. Like I havent heard it a hundred times before.
The Egyptians, the Saudis, when they lie to you, they do it with a smile. Pour you tea, tell a story that takes an hour, and when theyre done youre about ready to fall for whatever theyre spinning. These guys, they just yell, like if I give you this nonsense at high volume it wont sound so ridiculous. They arent all bad, maybe, but most of em...
Remember when they won that cricket match and almost burned down Karachi?
Fezcko looked into his glass. You really think Pakis the worst place in the world?
Somalias bad.
Worse than this?
Hotter. And blacker.
You think you can say that just cause youre black? Insult your African cousins?
Maggs smirked. I can say it because Im a marine.
Lets drink to Somalia, then, Fezcko said. The even-worse worst place in the world.
Somalia. See you there.
Three years. Itll be like that movie with the French chick
I always knew you were gay, George
Fezcko struggled for the memory lurking in his alcohol-fogged brain. Ethan Hawke. Julie Something
Gayer by the second.
Before Sunrise, Fezcko said triumphantly.
AND THEN HIS PAGER buzzed.
He pulled it off his waist, squinted at it. The scotch had blurred his eyes, and he didnt recognize the numbers. Then he did. 36963. Code for call me now from Nawiz Khan, a division chief for the ISI. Fezcko slid the pager across the table to Maggs.
Nawiz? Maggs said. Wants to wish you good-bye.
Fezcko didnt trust the ISI, but he did trust Khan, since a blown raid in Peshawar two years back. He and Khan had had to shoot their way out of an apartment. Khan took a round in the left thigh that night. He still favored the leg.
Fezcko stood, feeling the steak and the ribs twist in his gut, and headed down the hall, shielding his eyes from the fluorescent lights. He touched his thumb to the fingerprint reader beside the door of his office. Inside, he sat down heavily on the edge of his desk and called Khan.
Who answered after a single ring.
Fezcko, Khan said, somehow making the name sound glamorous. The years hed spent at university in London had given him a soft English accent.
Nawiz?
May I speak freely?
You asking if this line is secure? Yeah, its secure.
Also if you are as drunk as you sound.
Fezcko laughed. Not quite. Though its been a long night.
It has been a long night for me as well, George. But I have something you will want to see.
Something or someone?
Both.
Big?
If youre asking me, am I in line for your fifty million dollarsthe CIAs reward for the capture of Osama bin Ladenthe answer is no. But my friend, I wouldnt have called at this hour if this wasnt worth your while. You may want to let your CT team know as well.
CT was agency lingo for the practice known publicly as extraordinary rendition. The letters stood for collection and transfer, snatching suspected terrorists from their home countries and holding them in American custody.
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