The Faithful Spy

“Nicely.” Craig’s lips curled into a sneer. “You go out with faggots now, Nicole?” Craig swung again, another drunk wild punch. Wells caught Craig’s arm and counterpunched, hitting him in the stomach, a vicious right that bent Craig in half. Then a quick left jab to the face. Then another right to the stomach, Craig’s hands dropping as he wheezed for breath.

“Jesse—” Nicole said. “Let me call the cops.”

Wells hit Craig again, an uppercut this time, stepping forward and getting all his weight behind the punch. Craig’s mouth snapped shut and he fell backward onto the second-floor walkway. Wells followed him outside and waited. Sure enough, Craig grabbed the railing of the walkway and tried to stand. Wells kicked him in the ribs. Craig rolled onto his side and moaned, clutching his ribs, spitting blood and teeth, as Wells considered where to hit him next. Nicole jumped Wells from behind, screaming. “Stop it stop it you crazy psycho stop it!”

“Nicole—”

“You’re gonna kill him!” She let go of Wells and knelt over Craig. Wells stepped back. Nicole looked up at him. “You psycho. Leave us alone.” She pointed down the stairs. “Go. Don’t ever come back to the Nail. I’ll call the cops.”

He raised his hands and backed slowly down the stairs.

.

wells didn’t see another car as he drove home down the Buford Highway. He felt as empty as the road unspooling under his tires. He couldn’t understand what he’d just done. First off, he would be in serious trouble if Nicole or Craig called the cops. He should never have taken her to the pool place. Some of the guys at that place knew him from the parking lot. Fuck. So much for being the gray man.

They weren’t going to call the cops. Craig wouldn’t want to admit how badly he’d gotten his butt kicked. Nicole would want them both to disappear. The cops weren’t the real problem. He was the real problem. It wasn’t the violence that had freaked Nicole out. Not just the violence, anyway. She had surely seen fights at the Nail. But his coldness, his efficiency, had terrified her. These people, these civilians, they didn’t understand. And he would be wasting his time if he tried to explain. He had to remember this wasn’t a war. This was America.

he pulled over and reached for his cellphone, a prepaid model he had bought in Tennessee. He would ditch it and buy a new one tomorrow.

“Hello?” Exley’s sleepy voice said.

“Jennifer?”

“Who is this?” Recognition filled her voice. “John?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. Where are you?”

“I need to see you.”

“We can do that.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“I meant — just you and me. That’s all.”

“Forget it.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“I’m not in trouble. But tell me something. How will I know if I’ve gone too far?”

“You’ll know, John.” Her voice had a confidence he hadn’t expected. “I trust you.”

“Because I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“Do what?”

He was silent.

“Why don’t you come in so we can talk about it?”

“You’ll never let me out again.”

“John—”

He hung up.

the next morning he went to the Doraville library to check his gmail account. And, for the first time, he found a message in his inbox, from BigBoyK2@hotmail.com. “Hartsfield. 11:45 a.m. 9/19. DL561. Confirm at this address.” Wells hit the reply key as quickly as he could. He felt a strange gratitude to Khadri. At least now he had something to wait for. And somewhere to channel his rage.

8

Montreal, Quebec

t h e h o u s e l o o k e d like any other, a little two-story woodframe, its gray paint peeling at the corners after too many years without a touch-up. It sat on a quiet street off Saint-Laurent Boulevard, the center of Montreal’s Muslim community, separated from its neighbors by a few feet of close-cut grass. A close observer might have noticed that the gray house was less crowded than those around it. No kids. Just one man and one woman, both light-skinned Arabs. But being childless was no crime. The observer might have wondered why the house’s blinds were always down, even on summer nights perfect for leaving the windows open to catch the breeze off the Saint Lawrence River. But then the blinds stayed closed in lots of houses in the neighborhood. Muslim women prized privacy.

A very close observer might have wondered if the people in the house were running an unlicensed business. Every so often the man dragged cardboard boxes from his minivan to his front door. He usually made these deliveries just after sunrise, when the street was deserted. But, like being childless, starting the day early was perfectly legal. Anyway, what an observer might have noticed was irrelevant, conjecture only. For no one was watching the house. Tarik Dourant could work unmolested.