“What is it?” I ask when he keeps reading without saying anything, his posture tensing more each second. My own neck muscles are locked tight, my heart racing as if I’m about to launch into a sprint.
Whatever’s in that email is not good. I can tell by his expression.
He lifts his eyes to meet my gaze. “Do you remember when I told you about the retired general, the one in charge of the Daryevo operation?” His voice holds a lethal softness. “The one I promised to leave alone in exchange for amnesty and immunity?”
“Yes, of course,” I say as my stomach tightens. “Henderson, right?”
“Right.” His nostrils flare. “Fucking Wally Henderson III.”
I suck in a breath. “Is he the one behind this?”
“It appears that way.” A muscle ticks in Peter’s jaw. “Before they came for me, I asked our hackers to look into the explosion because something about it just didn’t smell right. And they finally came through with the results.”
“They said Henderson framed you? But how? Why? How could he have known this tragedy would happen?”
They came for Peter less than twenty-four hours after the attack. Even someone with Henderson’s connections would need time to manufacture evidence strong enough to send a SWAT team into a quiet suburban neighborhood. Even if Henderson had embarked on the task as soon as he learned about the explosion, it should’ve taken days, if not weeks, to—
“Because he made it happen.” Peter’s expression is savage. “The fucker is the one who set the bomb.”
My jaw falls open. “What?”
“A man matching my description was caught on camera entering the building as part of a janitor crew the day before the explosion.” Peter’s voice is hard enough to break stone. “And my fingerprints were found on one of the surviving door handles from the third floor, where the bomb had been placed. As for the explosive itself, it was a very unique one, one that’s pretty much undetectable—which is how my doppelgänger was able to carry it through security in a lunchbox. Do you know who has access to that kind of explosive?”
I stare at him, bewildered. “I… no.”
“The US military. They source it directly from the arms dealer who manufactures it—Julian Esguerra.”
My heart rate kicks up again. “The same one who’d brokered the deal for you? The guy you did that favor for?”
“The very same.” Peter’s mouth twists. “So you see how they could think that I’m the one responsible, right? The US military buys up every batch of the explosive that Esguerra manufactures, and he has a waiting list a mile long in case they stop. However, someone who knows the arms dealer personally could obtain a pound or so. Hell, you probably wouldn’t even need that much. It’s powerful shit—like a nuclear bomb, just not radioactive.”
Oh God. I now recall Peter talking about this with Kent when we had dinner together in Cyprus. Something about Uncle Sam and manufacturing constraints for an undetectable explosive. Was that the explosive in question?
“So why…” I gather my racing thoughts. “Why do you think it was Henderson behind this? Could it have been someone else—say, Esguerra himself? You said he wanted you dead at some point, and he has the connections to make this happen, right? Or maybe it could’ve been some other enemy of yours?”
“Because this has CIA pawprints all over it,” Peter says grimly. “The janitor who looks like me, my fingerprints at the scene, my connection with Ryson and the bomb being planted on his floor—it’s all classic tradecraft. They’ve been doing this kind of shit since the Cold War. And guess who’s rumored to have been an undercover operative in his youth?”
“Right, Henderson.” I remember Peter telling me this at some point. “But doesn’t Esguerra also have some CIA connections? Couldn’t he have—”
“No.” Peter’s jaw is tight. “Aside from the fact that he could’ve already killed me in a thousand different ways if he’d truly wanted to, he had no reason to fuck up a mutually beneficial relationship with the US government. Right now, the authorities believe he’s complicit in the bombing, and they’re about to go after him as well.”
“Oh, that’s… that’s not good at all.” From what I know, Esguerra had been all but untouchable until now.
“No, it’s not,” Peter says darkly. “Which is why I need to speak to Yan right now. Because the other members of that janitor crew? Their descriptions match Anton, Yan, and Ilya, right down to the tattoos on one’s skull.”
42
Peter
I reread the email from the hackers for the third time, all the while compulsively checking the clock on my phone. Three hours ago, I called Yan to share what I’ve learned, but he didn’t pick up. I left him a voicemail to call me back, then texted and emailed him for good measure before doing the same with his brother.