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The words were proper, but the phrases were off. English wasn’t this guy’s first language, or his second. “I’ll find it. I’ve got a pickup truck. Also white.”

Click. An amateur, Wells thought. Or a pro playing an odd game. tarik waited for his hands to stop shaking, then slid the phone into his pocket. Jalal had come, just as Khadri had promised. Now Tarik needed to keep his own promise and deliver his package. He had taken care of his wife, sealing her body in thick plastic bags and leaving her in the basement of the gray house. A temporary solution, sure, but Tarik was thinking short-term these days. The police had knocked on his door again this morning. He hadn’t answered, but they knew he was home. They wouldn’t wait much longer before they came back with a warrant. But by then Jalal would have his package. The plan should work, Tarik thought. Technically, the delivery mechanism was simple. The germs were ready. Yes, the plan should work. As long as he could keep his nerve.

so my lie at the border about Quebec City turned out to be true, Wells thought. He stopped for gas, picked up a map, and sighed as he saw that his new destination was another 150 miles away. Well, another couple of hours of driving hardly mattered. “Giddyup,” he said as he turned the Ranger’s ignition.

The garage in Quebec City was huge, and mostly empty. Wells drove through it slowly, doubling back twice. As far as he could tell he wasn’t being trailed, but he knew the limits of countersurveillance. Finally he parked. He tilted his head back and immediately fell asleep. Best to conserve his energy.

wells jolted awake. He snapped his head up to see a white Ford Windstar, a young man behind the wheel pressing the horn. The man swung open the minivan’s passenger-side front door. Wells slid out of the pickup and into the van.

The driver was small and thin, rings around his dark brown eyes, a twitch in his cheek. He licked his lips nervously as they shook hands. “So you like jazz,” he said.

“I listen to it every afternoon,” Wells said, completing the code. The driver seemed to relax a little. He put the minivan into gear and they rolled slowly away. Wells slung his bag behind him in the van.

“I am Tarik.”

“John. Or Jalal. As you like.”

Salaam alaikum, Jalal.”

“Alaikum salaam.”

Tarik guided the minivan out of the garage, turning toward Canada 40, the highway connecting Quebec City and Montreal. He was a careful driver, constantly checking his rearview mirror and signaling long before he switched lanes.

“Back to Montreal?” Wells said. “You sure you don’t work for Exxon, all this gas we’re burning?”

The muscles in Tarik’s skinny forearms jumped. If he wasn’t scared he was doing a great job of acting. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“It was a joke. forget it.”

Tarik looked at Wells. “Can you put on your seat belt, please?”

Wells clicked in without comment.

“Could I turn on the air conditioning? I like the cool,” Tarik said.

“You’re driving, Tarik. You can do whatever you want.”

Tarik flicked on the air and they rode for a few minutes in silence.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Wells said casually.

“Kept me waiting? No, no,” Tarik sputtered. “I just got there when you saw me.”

Then why did we meet in Quebec City instead of Montreal? Wells wondered. Tarik wasn’t using any countersurveillance tactics to lose potential pursuers. In fact, he drove so cautiously that anyone could follow him. “Where are you from, Tarik?”

“I grew up outside Paris.” That explained his accent, at least.

“Now you live here?”

“Yes. Montreal.” They were having an interview, not a conversation. Tarik was too nervous to ask any questions of his own. Wells could have switched to Arabic but decided to stay with English, to keep the kid off balance.

“You work there?”

“I’m a graduate student.”

“In?”

“Neuro — neuropsychology.” Again the muscles in Tarik’s forearms twitched. Wells began to wonder if the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would be waiting for them in Montreal. t a r i k wa s t ry i n g his best to act scared, though he hardly needed to act. Khadri had warned him that Wells would probe him, and walked him through how to respond. If he kept the lies to a minimum he would be fine, Khadri said. All he needed to do was stay calm for a few hours, give Wells the package, and send him along.

Tarik desperately hoped Khadri was right.

“do you like it?” Wells said.

“What?”

“Graduate school.”

“Yes.”

“Are you married, Tarik?”

“Not anymore.” He seemed to smile, though Wells was no longer sure about anything this kid did.

“Sorry it didn’t work out,” Wells said.

Wells waited, but Tarik said nothing more. “Tarik. You know who sent me. Is something wrong?” He switched to Arabic.

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is cool.” The phrase sounded ridiculous coming from Tarik’s mouth. He shook his head mulishly, like a sixth grader caught passing a note in class. Wells shifted gears. “What’s in the package, Tarik?”

“I don’t know. They came yesterday. I didn’t open them.”

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