The Faithful Spy

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?