The Faithful Spy

w e l l s ’ s p l a n was simple. Split the jihadis up. Take out Qais, leaving him alive for interrogation if possible. Take out Sami before he got to West’s bodyguard. Disarm the guard before he started shooting, and then find West and explain what was happening. Call Exley and tell her everything. Have the agency put out a cover story to convince Khadri that Qais and Sami had died in the raid. Maybe even fake West’s death too. Do it all before the Atlanta cops showed up and blew his head off.

Well, “simple” might be the wrong word for the plan. But it was the best he could do under the circumstances, and so far it was working. “FBI!” he shouted up the stairs, hoping West wouldn’t freak out and come down the stairs shooting. Or worse, drop dead of a heart attack.

“FBI! General, please stay calm—”

But there was no answer.

“General—”

The house was silent. Maybe West was hiding in his bedroom, calling 911. though that wasn’t how Wells expected a three-star to act, even one old enough to collect Social Security. Doesn’t matter now, Wells told himself. I have to move. He turned and ran toward the guest house.

as he crossed the lawn he heard the rattle of Sami’s H&K from the cottage, a half dozen shots, a break, and a half dozen more, echoing through the humid Georgia night.

He arrived at the cottage a few seconds later to find Sami grinning at him, the H&K held loosely in his hands. Wells could see lights flicker on in the neighboring houses. So much for the plan.

“Sami—”

“You’re never gonna believe it, man,” Sami said in Arabic.

“Where’s Qais?”

“In the house, looking for West.”

Sami turned toward the house. “Take a look,” he said to Wells. Wells walked into the cottage.

Sami was right. Wells couldn’t believe it. Even in his wildest imagination he wouldn’t have expected this. But there they were. No wonder the front door had been unlocked. No wonder the house had been silent. And no wonder West’s wife had divorced him when he retired. A dozen rounds from H&K had done a lot of damage to West and the bodyguard, but not enough to obscure what had been happening in the cottage before Sami arrived. The bodyguard lay naked across the bed. A lubed-up condom hung on the end of his flaccid penis. West wore a studded black leather dog collar and what looked like a leather corset. One of his arms was handcuffed to the bed; the other hung limp at his side. Evidently the bodyguard had been trying to unlock him when Sami arrived. He had failed. And so had Wells.

.

wells glanced at his watch once more: 1:36:43. Not that it mattered. West, dead. The bodyguard, dead. He would never be able to explain to the police what had happened here tonight. He would never be able to explain to Sami what had happened to Qais. He had only one way out of this mess, and no time to spare. He stepped out of the cottage. Sami turned toward him.

“Can you—”

Wells raised the Glock and shot him. Once in the chest, and then in the head, just to be sure. He left the H&K but grabbed Sami’s.45. A good silencer might come in handy.

Wells ran to the house. In the distance he heard a siren. He had to finish Qais off. Qais would know now that he wasn’t loyal to Qaeda, and so Qais would try to blame this attack on Wells to get the agency after him. The agency might be able to figure out that Qais was double-crossing him, but not if Qais gave up Wells just a little at a time, like he really wanted to protect him. No, Wells couldn’t take that chance. Qais had to die. Wells stepped over the dead Rottweiler and into the entry hall. Qais lay unconscious on the floor where Wells had left him. As Wells looked down Qais sighed faintly, as if he had already accepted his fate. “Inshallah,” Wells said quietly. He shot Qais once with the.45 in the back of the head. A quiet pop. Another man dead. Then Wells did something he hated. He turned Qais over and aimed the.45 at his face. He stepped back so the blood wouldn’t spatter his legs and pulled the trigger until he had blown Qais’s nose and mouth and eyes into a bloody pulp. An unrecognizable pulp. Wells assumed that the surveillance footage at Hartsfield would show him with Qais, and that the police would check those tapes as soon as they could. But Qais wasn’t carrying any identification, and with what Wells had just done the tapes wouldn’t be much use.

wells jogged through the house to the kitchen, in the back. The sirens came louder now. He opened the kitchen door and sprinted through the garden behind the house. He pulled himself over the fence, landing on gravel in the unfinished backyard of the half-built mansion.