Free The Ghost War by Alex Berenson Page A

the famous John Wells.” He put the handkerchief away and extended his hand. Wells let it dangle.
    “Right. You don’t like being called famous, Mr. Wells. And you don’t like counterintelligence.” Tyson’s accent was humid and southern.
    “Any reason I should?”
    “I want to tell you that Vinny Duto didn’t ask my opinion of you. Back in the day, I mean. He had strong ideas about you. Still does.”
    “And if he had asked? What would you have said?”
    “A fair question, Mr. Wells. But try to remember how you looked to us back then. With your Quran and your disappearing act. Accept my apologies, then, and shake an old man’s hand.”
    Wells reached out for Tyson’s big paw—and found himself gripping a joy buzzer. He grunted, more from surprise than pain, as the electricity rattled his palm. Tyson smirked. Wells vaguely remembered hearing about his practical jokes, his way of keeping alive the CIA’s traditions from the 1950s, before the agency turned into a bureaucratic monster.
    “Cute, Mr. Tyson.”
    “So now you’re wondering if I’m a fool, or merely pretending,” Tyson said. “Hard to say, I reckon. Maybe both.”
    “Actually I was wondering how many punches I would need to break your jaw.”
    “I’d rather we didn’t find out. It’s interesting, though, the way you responded to an unanswerable question with one that has a definite answer.”
    “Double as a shrink in your spare time?”
    “I’ll bet you don’t like them either, Mr. Wells.” Tyson turned to Exley. “And you must be Jennifer Exley. Where’s Ellis?”
    “Waiting in the car, like you asked,” Wells said. To Exley: “Whatever you do, don’t shake his hand.”
    “I’d never mistreat a lady.”
    They walked on, heading toward the Capitol. Then Tyson turned back toward the Monument, craning his neck like a curious tourist. “Mr. Wells? Would you say there’s anyone on us at the moment?”
    “I’d say no. Why? You have some genius tracker following us? Somebody who can smell bear scat at fifty paces?”
    “As a matter of fact, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, the fewer people who know about this meeting, the better.”
    “So we’re on the Mall? I see why you’re a master of counterintel.”
    “Come now, Mr. Wells. You know there’s nothing better than a nice open space where we can see anybody who wants to see us. I’m not concerned about these joggers.”
    “Yeah, you don’t strike me as the type to care much about exercise.”
    “John,” Exley said. She turned to Tyson. “Ignore him, George. He’s been acting out recently.”
    “So I hear.”
    “So you hear?” Wells said.
    “Mr. Wells. I heard only from Ellis. He’s concerned about you.”
    “Is that why you’re here? An intervention? To convince me to behave?”
    “Mr. Wells. Believe it or not, I’ve got a few other problems.” Tyson’s syrupy accent faded notably. He stuffed the joy buzzer into his pocket and leaned in close to Wells, putting his hands on Wells’s shoulders. “I said that Mr. Shafer is concerned about you. Not that I am. Others across the river may think that you’re some kind of superspy. You may think so, for all I know.”
    “No, I don’t—”
    “Please let me finish. Me, I’m not a fan of the great-man theory of history. The Confederacy had all the best generals and we still lost the war. I think you got lucky in Times Square. We all got lucky. You are here tonight because Mr. Shafer wants you to be. Not me. Are we clear?”
    Wells’s face tensed and he stood rigid under Tyson’s heavy hands. He stepped back, shook Tyson’s hands off his shoulders. For a moment Exley thought Wells might actually hit Tyson. Then Wells’s face softened.
    “We’re clear. Thank you.” He stuck out his hand, and after a moment Tyson put out his own. They shook for a long time before Wells finally let go.
    “Thank me?”
    “Somebody needed to say it. Thank you for not treating me like I’m something special. Or some