The Faithful Spy

“Cloudy last night but clear this morning.”

Wells extended his hand, and they shook.

t h e y w e r e s i l e n t until Wells swung onto 285, heading east, back toward his apartment. The man who called himself Thomas leaned forward to peek at the right side mirror, checking for tails.

“Can you drive faster, in the left lane?” Thomas said. Wells did. A few minutes later Thomas told him to move right and slow down. Then to speed up. Wells followed every instruction.

“Where do you live?” Thomas said as they reached the intersection of 285 and I-20.

“Doraville. Northeastern Atlanta. About fifteen miles. Should be there in twenty minutes.”

“Where exactly?”

“The address?”

“Yes.”

Wells told him.

“We’re not going to your apartment. Get off here and go west on Interstate 20.”

“Toward downtown.”

“Yes.” Thomas said nothing more. And Wells knew his wait wasn’t over yet.

w e l l s p u l l e d i n t o the parking lot at a beat-up Denny’s in southwest Atlanta. He’d been driving for hours, making endless loops on the highways that scissored the city. Now they were back practically where they had started, a couple of miles from the edge of Hartsfield. Planes flew low overhead, on their approach to the airport. Wells fought down his rising impatience, telling himself that a few more hours wouldn’t matter.

Wells parked, and Thomas led him to the end of the lot, where a man stood beside a green Chevy Lumina. He was shorter than Thomas and dressed casually, jeans and a Falcons T-shirt.

“This is Sami,” Thomas said. He hugged Sami and murmured something into his ear.

“Sami.” Wells put out his hand. Sami let it hang in the air until Wells finally pulled it back.

“Give him your keys.” Thomas didn’t smile.

Without a word Wells flicked his keys to Sami, who caught them neatly and turned for Wells’s pickup. Thomas got into the Lumina, indicating with a wave that Wells should follow. Wells stayed cool as he watched his Ford disappear from the parking lot. These men were taking all this trouble for a reason. Khadri was putting him through one last test before finally lowering the drawbridge and letting him into the castle. Or so he hoped. Again they drove aimlessly. The Chevy’s little digital clock passed five p.m., and the traffic began to thicken. But Thomas showed no impatience. Wells figured he was giving Sami time to search the apartment. Fine. Let them play this game. No matter how hard they looked they couldn’t go deep enough to break his cover. Finally Thomas’s cell phone trilled. He picked up. “Nam.” He hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket.

“It’s clean,” Wells said.

“What is?”

“My apartment. Except for the guns. And those are for us.”

For the first time Thomas smiled. “That’s what Sami said.”

t h e y ro l l e d pas t Turner Field and the golden dome of the Georgia capitol, until Thomas turned right onto Fourteenth Street, into the center of a neighborhood called Midtown, a jumble of tall office towers and low-rise apartment buildings. Thomas found a garage and circled up the ramps, nodding to himself as the floors emptied. Finally he parked on the top floor, in the middle of a sea of empty asphalt.

“Out.”

“Thomas,” Wells said. “Are we friends?” He was speaking Arabic now, enjoying the smooth feel of the words. Aside from prayers, he hadn’t spoken the language since Pakistan. “I think so,” Thomas said, also in Arabic. “We’re making sure.”

“Then will you tell me your real name?”

“Qais.”

“Qais. Don’t you think I know there’s a gun under the seat? Don’t you think I could take it if I wanted?” Wells smiled tightly at Qais. I’m a professional too, he didn’t say. Give me a little respect. Qais showed no surprise. “You could try.”

Wells couldn’t help liking the guy’s style. Neither of them said anything else. Wells slid out, and sure enough, Qais locked the doors and reached under the driver’s seat, pulling out a little.22. He tucked the gun under his shirt and got out.

“Put your hands on the hood and spread your legs,” he said to Wells, back in English now. He frisked Wells efficiently. “Good.”

“Were you a cop in a past life?”

“Something like that. Let’s go. Somebody’s waiting. You’ll be glad to see him.”

the sun had slipped behind the office towers to their west by the time they left the garage. Qais moved easily now, comfortable that they weren’t being tailed. In a few minutes they reached Piedmont Park, a one-hundred-acre expanse of grass and trees around an artificial lake. On the hilly lawn at the park’s edge, shirtless college students tossed a Frisbee around in the twilight. Joggers in sports bras made their way along a path at the bottom of the hill. Beyond them a man sat alone on a bench, quietly reading The New York Times. Khadri.

He stood as Wells and Qais walked toward him, folding the paper under his arm. He was one hundred yards away now, fifty, twenty-five, ten. And then he was close enough to touch. Kill him now, Wells told himself. Drop him and break his neck. Or take the gun from Qais and shoot them both.