The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [127]
“That’s bullshit,” White yelled, saliva flying from his mouth. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“The reason we use this particular poison is that it’s impossible to identify without an extremely broad and very expensive toxicology scan,” Ari continued. “Most doctors just assume a heart attack, particularly with a decedent your age.”
“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