The Faithful Spy

“Alaikum salaam.”

“So you’re with us.”

“Inshallah.”

Sami smiled and tossed Wells back his keys. wells drove the Ranger, Qais in the passenger seat. Sami followed in the Lumina.

“Where’s your hotel?”

“No hotel. We’re staying at your apartment.”

“The neighbors will wonder.”

“We aren’t staying long.”

Wells waited for something more, but Qais didn’t explain further.

“Who trained you, Qais?”

“The Saudi Mukhabarat. And I spent six months at Quantico with your FBI.”

“No wonder.”

“Thank you.”

“So. ” Wells said in Arabic. “You and Sami didn’t come to Atlanta just to see me, did you?”

Qais laughed. “No. Nor just to waste gasoline.”

“Then would you like to tell me the mission? Or should I guess?”

“You won’t guess.” Qais was much more relaxed now that Khadri had given Wells his okay.

“The CDC? Centers for Disease Control?”

“No.”

“CNN Center? The Coke building?”

“No. Anyway, Omar likes Coca-Cola. It’s all he drinks.”

“Me too,” Wells said. “The Georgia Dome? Turner Field?”

“I don’t even know what those places are,” Qais said. “Look, it’s only you and me and Sami. And this isn’t a martyrdom mission. Omar needs us alive.”

“Then. it must be something simple. An assassination.”

“Very good. Who?”

Wells had no idea. The mayor of Atlanta? A CDC scientist? One of the senators from Georgia? Nobodies. And anybody really important would have a ton of security.

“You’re right, Qais. I can’t guess.”

“You’ve heard of Howard West? The general?”

Howard West had run the army’s black ops and counterterrorism units during the 1990s. Wells had met him once, at a memorial service for a Delta officer who’d died. West had spoken briefly, then disappeared into a helicopter to do whatever it was that three-stars did.

He had retired a few months after that — Wells couldn’t remember exactly when. Now he worked as a “consultant.” That meant he collected six-figure checks from companies that peddled spy gear. In return, he connected them with his old friends at the Pentagon. He kept a low profile. Wells hadn’t even known he lived in Atlanta. Attacking him was a brilliant way for Qaeda to declare its equality with the United States. You hunt our leaders? We’ll hunt yours. And since he was retired, West would have much less security than an active general. But killing West wasn’t the big job that Khadri had planned, Wells thought. “Omar needs us alive,” Qais had said. The assassination was a diversion. The drawbridge was only halfway down. Khadri was offering Wells a bargain: Kill West, or die trying, and I’ll trust you. Kill West and you’re in. If not, you’ll never see me again.

An ache creased Wells’s back. He felt like a puppet whose strings had been pulled too hard. Khadri had outsmarted him again. But maybe he could find a way out.

“We can get to West,” Wells said to Qais. “It’ll take some planning, though. When does Omar want it done?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight.” As he said the word Wells felt the trap snap shut.

12

w e l l s o p e n e d h i s apartment door to find that Sami had laid out his arsenal on the kitchen table, the guns and knives an invitation awaiting an answer. Aside from that, the place looked undisturbed, which didn’t surprise Wells. Like Qais, Sami was a professional, a former Jordanian cop.

“Shall we say the maghreb?” Wells asked, using the Arabic word for the evening prayer.

“What about your neighbors?” Qais said. Through the walls they heard a television blaring in the next apartment, the jokes and canned laugher running together monotonously.

“Wendell’s almost eighty,” Wells said. “And almost deaf. As long as we’re quiet.”