The Faithful Spy

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 closecropped 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. k h a d r i to o k 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.”