The Ghost Agent by Alex Berenson

Author:Alex Berenson [Berenson, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781407010847
Publisher: Random House
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-ONE

EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK

EVEN AT 2:50 a.m. on a Wednsday morning, East Hampton glowed with wealth. Wall Street skyscrapers, Hollywood back lots, Siberian oil fields – wherever the money came from, it ended up here, waves of cash crashing in like the Atlantic Ocean’s low breakers. Under the streetlamps, the town’s long main street shined empty and clean. The mannequins in the Polo store cradled their tennis racquets, poised to play in their $300 nylon windbreakers. To the north, toward the bay, the houses cost a mere seven figures. South, in the golden half-mile strip between the main street and the ocean, the mansions ran $10 million and up.

Wells and Exley were heading south.

Wells cruised at twenty-five miles an hour on his big black bike, its engine running smooth and quiet. Before him, the traffic light at the corner of Main Street and Newtown Lane turned red. He eased to a stop and patted the CB1000’s metal flank. The bike was his, but the license plate wasn’t. He’d liberated it from a Vespa scooter a few hours earlier. He’d also removed all the identifying decals on the bike, making it as anonymous as a motorcycle could be.

Exley stopped beside him at the wheel of a gray Toyota Sienna minivan that Wells had hot-wired from a parking lot at a bar in Southampton ninety minutes before. The minivan’s owner – the ‘World’s Hottest Single Aunt,’ at least according to the sticker on the van’s back bumper – was presumably still getting liquored up inside. By the time she discovered the Sienna was gone, it would have served its purpose. Wells hoped she had insurance.

The light dropped green. Wells eased past the forty-foot-high wooden windmill that marked the end of the town center. A half-mile later, he turned off Route 27 and onto Amity Lane. Besides his standard riding gear of black leather jacket, black helmet, black gloves, and black boots, Wells had on black jeans and a black long-sleeve cotton shirt. He wished he had a pair of black skivvies to complete the package. Tucked in a shoulder holster, he carried a pistol, a Glock this time instead of the Makarov. It was black, naturally, with a silencer threaded to the barrel. He hoped he wouldn’t even have to draw it. His black backpack held two other weapons, the ones he planned to use.

The afternoon before, Wells had for the first time found a way to take advantage of the fame he didn’t want. He walked into the East Hampton village police station, an unassuming brick building on Cedar Street, just behind the center of town.

‘Can I help you?’ the cop behind the counter said.

‘I’d like to speak to the chief.’

‘He’s busy. What can I do for you?’

Wells extracted his CIA identification card, the one with his real name, and passed it across the counter.

‘Hold on.’ The officer disappeared behind a steel door, popping out a minute later to wave Wells in.

The chief was a trim man in his early fifties with tight no-nonsense eyes.

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