The Faithful Spy

exley kept her face straight. She should have been elated. A senior al Qaeda operative cracked. If he was a senior al Qaeda operative. If he had really cracked and didn’t need another month in the hole. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the quivering mass on the screen. I don’t know if I can face this anymore, she thought. It hurts but it works. And what if it didn’t work? What came next? I just want to live in the suburbs somewhere with my kids and work forty hours a week and have a nice, small life. Someone has to do this but it doesn’t have to be me. Or maybe no one had to do it. Maybe they just all needed to relax and treat the guys on the other side like human beings.

Then that little voice of hers: Even you aren’t that dumb, Jenny. You want this guy to nuke New York City?

Had Shafer brought her here as an object lesson? Did he believe this torture was necessary? Was it even torture? Farouk would be okay, at least physically. She didn’t have any answers anymore, only questions, and she couldn’t face any more questions. Suddenly she knew that Wells was going to die. He would be another human sacrifice on the altar of this war. He would die, and she would never see him again. The thought roiled her gut, and she wanted nothing more than to be back in her little bedroom, lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling, with Wells beside her, holding her. Anywhere but here.

Shafer tapped her. “You okay, Jennifer?”

She wasn’t, not at all.

“Fine,” she said. “Just thinking about what he’s gonna have for us. Great job, Saul.”

10

Albany, New York

ta p. ta p. a finger poked at Khadri’s shoulder. He turned to find a shapeless vagrant standing too close, her stringy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, an oversized cross hanging dully around her neck, her foul warm breath on his cheek.

“Excuse me, sir? Spare some change for something to eat?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.” Khadri could hear his English accent creeping out. He didn’t like surprises, even small ones.

“Please, mister? You look like a nice man.”

Khadri fished in his pocket for a dollar so she would go away. The woman’s eyes lit up when she saw the bill. She tugged it out of his hand.

“Thank you, sir.” Khadri shook his head and turned away, hearing her last words, almost a whisper: “I’m gonna pray for you.”

The prayers of an infidel. He mused over the woman’s promise as he opened the glass doors to Albany’s dingy downtown bus station, walking in for the third time that morning. Would she help the cause, or hurt? He stepped slowly through the station’s main hallway, his trainers — what the Americans called sneakers — squeaking on the dirty floor. Besides the trainers, he was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt, camouflage for this ridiculous country where everyone took pride in dressing as poorly as possible. A half hour later, after what felt like his hundredth loop through the station, he bought a cup of coffee and plunked down on a wire chair, which rocked under him on uneven legs. Running a hand through his close-cropped dark hair, Khadri cataloged his annoyances. The coffee was acrid and cold. The air was stale and hot. And he was surrounded by Americans. Sweaty fat poor Americans. Women in cheap white uniforms and hairnets trudged past, their mouths slack, their smiles missing teeth. By day’s end they would earn a few dollars, enough to feed their families if they were lucky. This station had lights and running water, but in its rank desperation it reminded Khadri of the most pitiful precincts of Islamabad. Khadri almost sympathized with these fools. Their infidel religion blinded them to the truth: they were nothing but chattel for the Jews who ran the United States. If only they would realize that Allah was the only God and Mohammed his prophet. If only they would rise against this corrupt country and their devil leaders. But they were caught up in their worship of Jesus. And anyway most Americans weren’t so poor, Khadri reminded himself. They enjoyed their lives, supported America’s wars. No, the United States would never redeem itself, not until the day when al Qaeda proved beyond doubt that only fools stood against Islam.

Khadri believed that such a day would arrive, believed it as he believed in the beating of his heart. So he tried not to overreact to disappointments, like the bad news he had just received from Tarik Dourant in Montreal. Tarik should worry less about his wife and more about his work, Khadri thought. Tarik was a brilliant biochemist and committed to the cause, but Khadri worried about him. He had come to al Qaeda out of loneliness, a man almost broken by the cruelties of the West.