The Faithful Spy (33 page)

BUT EXLEY KNEW
she was lying. Duto would never use Wells on an operation this sensitive. For the same reason that Duto had insisted the JTTF arrest Alaa Assad right away instead of waiting. No one would fault Duto for putting Wells in a hole until the agency was sure he was loyal. The CIA director didn’t get blamed for failing to prevent terrorist attacks; George Tenet, who had been running the agency on September 11, had gotten the Presidential Medal of Freedom after his retirement. No, the director got blamed for embarrassing the agency—or the White House. And letting Wells loose after he’d already disappeared once could be very embarrassing. Duto would never risk it. With a few weeks they might be able to change Duto’s mind. But they didn’t have a few weeks.

Duto wasn’t evil, Exley thought. Just a bureaucrat, like too many of the folks at Langley, more concerned about his career and his reputation than anything else.

Wells seemed to read her mind.

“If you really think that, then call him,” he said, and turned to walk away.

Suddenly Exley knew what she had to do. Some part of her had known from the moment she’d seen his truck roll into the parking lot. “Then I’m coming with you.”

He looked at her, seemingly trying to gauge her seriousness. Then he shook his head. “Don’t be stupid.”

She was tired of men talking down to her. Even this one. “So fucking arrogant,” she said. “I’ll watch. If there’s trouble, I’ll call in the cavalry. If not, I’ll wait while you play soldier.”

“Don’t do this—”

“It’s not negotiable. Either I come or I’m calling Duto. Now.” She pulled out her phone.

A crow screeched in the woods behind them. Wells turned from her, tilted his head to the sky. “Are you holding?” he said.

“What?”

“A gun? Do you have a gun?”

“No.”

When he turned back to her he held a pistol, a thick gray .45. In his left hand a cylindrical tube. He slowly screwed the silencer onto the barrel. The river and the park were empty. No one around to see. No, she thought. This is impossible. He can’t do this. He won’t.

“John,” she said. She held her breath.

AND THEN HE
held the pistol out for her to take.

She exhaled. Did he know what he had just done? Had she simply misread the situation? Or had he intended to terrify her, to remind her of the years he’d spent in the field while she’d been behind a desk? She’d never know, and she couldn’t ask. Either way, her fear, fading now, reminded her that they didn’t know each other nearly as well as she wanted to pretend.

She pushed her fear aside and focused on the pistol. It was heavier than she expected. She held it in both hands to keep it steady.

“When was the last time you shot one of these?” Wells said.

She couldn’t remember. She had learned to shoot at the Farm, of course, but that had been a long time ago. The agency didn’t make analysts practice. “A couple months ago,” she said evenly. “I go to the range every year.”

She looked at the pistol, remembering her training. She racked the slide to chamber a round, racked it again so the round popped out. Wells caught it in the air and slipped it into his pocket. She flicked the safety on and off. She slid the magazine from the grip, then pushed it back in.

Wells took the gun, racked the slide again, handed it back to her. “Shoot it,” he said. “Down the river. Hold on tight. It’ll pop on you.”

She hesitated.

“If you can’t do it now, you sure won’t do it with somebody in your face,” he said.

She raised the gun and pulled the trigger. As he promised, the gun kicked sharply. The recoil pushed her back a step, but she kept her arms steady. With the silencer the shot sounded hollow, like a hand slapping a wooden table. The noise faded fast, no echo. “What about you?” she said.

“What about me?”

“Where’s your gun?”

He pulled up his jeans to show her the knife strapped to his leg. “I’ll make do,” he said. “Listen. You need to know something about that forty-five.”

“I’m listening.”

“If you get to a place where you need it,
shoot first.
Don’t get fancy. Don’t tell anybody to freeze. Nothing like that. Not a word. Just shoot. Because if you get to that place and you wait, it’ll be too late.”

“How will I know if I get to that place?”

“You’ll know.”

She said nothing, only nodded. She wasn’t sure she could shoot someone with no warning. But Wells would never let her come if she admitted that.

“Good,” he said. He leaned in and tilted his head toward hers, opening his mouth to kiss her.

But she shook her head.

“When we’re done,” she said.

“When we’re done.”

They turned and walked back from the river, toward the parking lot. Toward New York.

17

WELLS TURNED OFF
the Major Deegan Expressway into the heart of the South Bronx, long dark blocks only beginning to share in New York’s renaissance. The open-air drug markets were gone, but women in skirts the size of handkerchiefs leaned against cars, looking for business. Outside brightly lit bodegas, men stood in clumps, sipping oversized bottles of malt liquor.

He wended his way through streets made narrow by double-parked cars, battered American sedans with tinted windows and
NO FEAR
stickers plastered on their windshields. Finally he found the address Khadri had given him. As he pulled over he saw in his rearview mirror that Exley had stopped a block behind. Not great tradecraft. She should have driven past and parked farther down. The slipup reminded him that she hadn’t been in the field for a long time. She didn’t belong anywhere near this.

But he had let her come, and now he was responsible for her, a complication he didn’t need at this moment. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to think of her promise.
“When we’re done.”
If they made it through tonight, they would find a quiet room and a big wooden bed and make love until they both were sated. That would take some time.

He shivered and coughed, a thick gurgle from deep in his lungs. The driving had gotten to him; he felt as if he’d been awake for three days straight. And he had developed a nasty headache somewhere in New Jersey. Adrenaline would have to carry him the rest of the way.

He opened his door, coughed again, spat a wad of phlegm onto the asphalt. He had given up trying to predict what Khadri had planned. Tonight he would end Khadri’s games. He cocked his head left and right. The street was empty. He stepped out of the Ranger and walked to the building, one slow step after the next.

The tenement was battered and gray, its bricks covered with sprawling whorls of graffiti whose meaning Wells could not decipher. Its front door was set back from the street, black with a porthole-shaped window, the glass reinforced with chicken wire.

The door opened easily, the brass knob loose as if the lock had been forced. Wells stepped inside and found a narrow hallway dimly illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights.

“Jalal.”

A man Wells did not recognize sat at the top of a narrow set of stairs, cigarette in his mouth, gun held loosely in his lap.

“Nam.”

“Come.”

Without another word the man stood and turned away.

Wells let the front door fall shut behind him and walked up the steps.

EXLEY SAT IN
her minivan, fighting the impulse to run into the tenement and bang on every apartment door until she found him. She had covered the digital clock in the Caravan to stop from being maddened by its slow march; she had never been so bored and so anxious at the same time. Wells had gone inside around midnight. Now four hours had passed with no sign from him. Or anyone else. The building had been silent since he went in. Where was he? she asked herself. What was he doing? She couldn’t wait much longer. Another hour? Until dawn? Perhaps she should have gone in already, but she didn’t want to blow his cover, the cover he’d worked so many years to build.

If only the agency hadn’t alienated Wells. If only he’d been able to convince Duto of his value. If only he hadn’t disappeared for so long. He ought to be wearing a wire. These blocks ought to be swarming with FBI agents and police. Though even that wouldn’t lessen the danger he faced. He was on the other side now, in a place where no one could get to him quickly enough to make a difference if something went wrong. Khadri—or whoever was up there—could put a gun to his head and pull the trigger in a second. All the cops in the world couldn’t stop that. No wonder Wells didn’t have much use for Duto and the rest of the Langley paper pushers.

Exley looked up as a black Lincoln Town Car rolled past her van. The Lincoln stopped in front of the apartment building and double-parked, its blinkers flashing. She held her breath. The Lincoln’s door opened. A man wearing a blue blazer—an unlikely sight in this neighborhood at this hour—walked out, looked around quickly, and stepped into the building.

APARTMENT
3
C
was small and shabby, a railroad flat with a windowless living room and a tiny bedroom that looked into an airshaft. Mold stained the peeling orange wallpaper, and the refrigerator produced a maddening electric hum. On a broken coffee table, a small television silently played a DVD of the hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. But even the jihadis around Wells looked bored with the tape.

Wells sat on a sagging couch in the living room, his hands cuffed in front. He had fallen asleep briefly after they cuffed him, fatigue overtaking him until the thought of Exley downstairs jolted him awake. Now he was hardly talking, harboring his energy while he waited for Khadri. The men with him didn’t seem to mind. There were seven, but only two had introduced themselves. Ghazi was the oldest and seemed to be the leader, a heavy man with a close-cropped beard and dark pouches under his eyes. The man who had been waiting for Wells called himself Abu Rashid—father of Rashid. He smoked constantly, flicking ashes onto the floor, putting his cigarette down only to spit into the sink. In fact all seven men smoked, and the room’s air was stale and heavy, worsening Wells’s nagging cough. He wished someone would crack a window.

With the possible exception of Ghazi, the seven men in here had never been professionally trained, Wells could see. They weren’t nearly as aware as Qais and Sami had been. Only three of them had pistols, the guns tucked loosely into their pants: Ghazi and Abu Rashid and a dark-skinned Arab with a long beard whose name Wells didn’t know. Most importantly Abu Rashid hadn’t found Wells’s knife because he hadn’t patted down his legs.

But Wells wasn’t about to make a move. Not yet. Not until he saw Khadri.

“Water?” Ghazi asked him.

“Please,” Wells said.

Ghazi looked him over with concern. “Are you all right? You seem unwell.”

“I could use a good night’s sleep.” Wells sipped the water Ghazi offered and closed his eyes, shutting out the room’s dim light. Around him the men spoke quietly in Arabic about the World Cup; for an hour they had debated Jordan’s prospects.

“Is Khadri coming?”

“Soon, my friend, soon.”

And then Wells heard the steps on the stairs.

KHADRI TOOK A
single step into the apartment and closed the door. A surgical mask covered his nose and mouth. “Jalal.”

“Omar. My friend.
Salaam alaikum.
” Wells began to stand. A wave of dizziness passed through him. Why the mask? he wondered.

“Don’t get up,” Khadri said. “You need your strength.”

Wells stood anyway. A violent cough shook him.

“I’m sorry about Qais and Sami—”

“You’re here now. That’s what matters. And you have the package?”

“There.” The briefcase sat on the kitchen counter.

Khadri smiled. “I knew they wouldn’t keep you at the border.” Khadri punched numbers into the briefcase’s digital lock. The latch popped open.

“Your secret’s in there,” Khadri said. “See for yourself.”

He sent the case skittering toward Wells across the pocked wooden floor of the living room. My secret isn’t in this apartment, Wells thought. She’s sitting outside in a green minivan.

Wells sat back on the couch and fumbled with the briefcase. “Ghazi, will you uncuff me?” he said casually. “I can’t open it like this.”

Ghazi looked to Khadri. After a moment, Khadri nodded, and Ghazi unlocked his cuffs.

Wells lifted the lid of the case. Inside, nothing. He ran a hand along its inside walls, looking for a false bottom. But he couldn’t find anything. He had been a decoy after all.

He shook his head wearily. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Who’s the courier? Where’s the package?”

Khadri pointed at Wells. “You are.”

“But—” Wells coughed again. He looked at Khadri’s mask. And suddenly he understood.

“I’m infected.” The words came out as quietly as the final fading notes of a symphony that had gone on much too long.

Khadri’s smile was the only answer Wells needed. He considered the possibilities. Anthrax didn’t spread person to person. Smallpox had a longer incubation period.

“Plague, right?” He kept his voice steady, as if the question were of only theoretical interest.

“Very good, Jalal.”

For a moment, only a moment, Wells felt the deepest panic overwhelm him. He saw his lungs filling with blood, his skin burning from the inside out. Unthinkable agony. But he kept himself still and waited for the fear to pass, knowing that remaining calm was his only hope of beating Khadri now. The panic subsided, and when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“But why like this? Why not just have me bring the germs in?”

“What would I do with a vial of plague? I’m no scientist. And plague is fragile. At least outside the body. Or so Tarik tells me.”

“I thought Tarik was a neuropsychologist.”

“He’s a molecular biologist. A very good one. Though he has some problems of his own.” Wells couldn’t be sure, but behind the mask Khadri seemed to smile. “He said infecting you would be the best way to make sure the germs survived.”

Another cough ripped through Wells.

“It seems he was right,” Khadri said.

Wells looked around. “Seven men. Where will you send them?”

Khadri considered. “I suppose I can tell you now, Jalal. Four here, on the subways, mostly. Times Square, Grand Central. The other three to Washington, Los Angeles, Chicago. Lots of plane rides. Seven martyrs. Eight, including you. The sheikh will be pleased.”

Seven men coughing clouds of plague bacteria into packed subway cars. Boeing 767s and Airbus 320s. Department stores and office lobbies. How many people would they infect before they died? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

“Brilliant, Omar.” And despite himself Wells couldn’t help but be impressed with the plan’s boldness. Then he remembered. “But…isn’t plague treatable with antibiotics?”

“
Nam.
If it’s diagnosed in time. But in three days your people will have something besides plague on their minds. And the germs move very fast. As you can see better than anyone. The hospitals will be full before the Americans recognize what we’ve done.”

“Another attack?”

Now Wells was sure he could see Khadri smile. He’s chatty, Wells thought. He’s talking to a dead man.

“Anthrax?” Wells wondered aloud. “Smallpox?”

“Jalal. You are not thinking clearly, I’m sorry to say. Would I use a biological attack to distract the Americans from a biological attack?”

“A bomb then. Like L.A.”

“Not exactly. This bomb is special.”

Wells’s fever seemed to rise. He mopped at the sweat that had suddenly beaded on his forehead. “A dirty bomb?” The agency had been right after all.

“I just think of it as the Yellow.”

“The Yellow?”

“You would have been very impressed with the Yellow, Jalal. I’m sorry you won’t be alive to see it.”

Wells wondered if he could get his knife, make it across the room, cut Khadri’s throat before he was tackled. Probably not. Seven men stood between them. In any case, killing Khadri would make no difference now. The other men surely knew where the dirty bomb was hidden. Wells couldn’t even slit his own throat and kill himself to stop the plague from spreading. He’d been coughing in this room for hours; he’d already infected the others.

“Will you tell me something, Jalal?” Khadri said from behind his mask. “Now that your martyrdom is certain. The truth. Are you one of us?”

Wells didn’t hesitate. “
Nam.
With my heart and soul.
Allahu akbar.
”

“
Allahu akbar,
Jalal. We’ll meet again. In paradise.”

With that, Khadri walked out.

EXLEY DRUMMED HER
fingers against the wheel of the minivan, listening to the same stale news WCBS had been recycling all night. The Lincoln had been double-parked for fifteen minutes. She was desperate to go inside the tenement. But she held back. Wells would come out soon enough, she thought.

The door to the apartment building opened, and the man in the blazer walked out. Alone. He stepped into the Lincoln and drove slowly away. So much for her intuition. She turned off the radio and considered her options. She had told Wells she would call in the cavalry if he got in trouble. She had to assume he was in trouble now, that he was being held captive and the man in the blazer had been checking on him.

But she didn’t know which apartment he was in. If she called the agency, the JTTF would surround the building, start kicking down doors. The al Qaeda operatives would know they were caught and kill Wells immediately. No. She would go in, find the apartment for herself. Then she would decide what to do.

She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the .45 and the silencer that Wells had given her. She held the gun in both hands. This was insane. She didn’t even know how many men were with him. What would her kids do if she got herself killed? Walking into an apartment full of terrorists? Insane.

Yet she began to screw the silencer onto the barrel of the .45. Insane or not, she couldn’t let him die in there. She would find out where he was. And then? said the nasty little voice in her head, the one she hated. Then what?

She ignored the voice and finished attaching the silencer. She would leave a message on Shafer’s voice mail at work, explaining what had happened, where she was. He always checked that mailbox when he woke up. Worst-case, the JTTF would only lose three hours. Anyway, al Qaeda wouldn’t attack now, with the streets empty. Whatever they had planned wouldn’t happen before morning.

She tried to tuck the pistol into her pants. It wouldn’t fit. She unscrewed the silencer and tried again. Still too big. A sure sign that she belonged behind a desk, not out here. But the frustration only made her more determined to prove them all wrong. Duto. Khadri. Shafer. Even Wells. These men who thought their war was too important for her to fight.