those chores were essential to building a lifelong relationship with kids. But Exley couldn’t lie to herself. She’d been desperate to get back to work after four months of maternity leave.
Now as she watched Kellie wipe off Jonah’s butt and pull on a clean diaper, she wondered: If she had another chance, could she be different? She and Wells? She didn’t know if she could imagine Wells as a father, though of course he was one already. He’d had a son with Heather, his ex-wife, just before he went to Afghanistan to infiltrate al Qaeda. But Wells saw the boy — Evan — only a couple of times a year. Not that he had much say in the matter. Heather, who had sole custody of Evan, was remarried and lived in Montana. She said that Evan had accepted his stepfather as his real dad and she didn’t want to confuse the boy by giving him too much time with Wells.
Maybe having another child would settle Wells, Exley thought. Or maybe not. He had so many days when he didn’t get along with the world, when he reminded Exley of a barely domesticated guard dog, half German shepherd, half wolf. But even at his an griest, Wells was sweet to her kids, sweet to kids in general. And kids loved him for his size and strength. What kind of father would he be with a boy of his own? Somehow Exley knew that she and Wells would have a boy. Though the truth was that the odds were against her getting pregnant at all.
Kellie finished putting on Jonah’s clean white diaper and ran a soothing hand over his face. “Pretty soon you’ll be a big boy and no more diapers.”
“No diapers!” Jonah yelled happily.
Kellie looked sidelong at Exley. “So what do you do, Joanne?”
“Me? I’m a consultant.” The word consultant was vague enough to mean anything, and boring enough that no one cared anyway.
“I used to be a lawyer,” Kellie said. “Then one day I woke up and I was
“You’re great at it, though.”
“When the little one gets to preschool, I’m going back to work. Of course, Eddie — that’s my husband — wants one more, but I told him unless he figures out a way to get himself pregnant, that’s not happening. Come on downstairs and let’s have coffee.”
“I wish I could have stayed at home for a while,” Exley lied. “We couldn’t figure out a way to afford it, though. Is your husband a lawyer too?”
“No. He works for the government. But we saved up when I was working and we’re pretty careful. How about yours?”
“My husband? He works for the government too. Not too far from here. Maybe they’re in the same business.”
“Sounds that way.” CIA wives liked to hint that their husbands worked at Langley. Proof that the agency hadn’t completely lost its mystique, Exley supposed.
Kellie pulled up Jonah’s pants. Now that he didn’t have a full diaper, he was pretty well behaved, Exley thought. Cute too. “You sweetie,” she said to him. “What’s your favorite thing to do in the world?”
“Hockey! Play hockey!” Jonah grabbed a miniature hockey stick and swiped the floor. “Play hockey.”
“Eddie’s got him on skates already.”
“He can skate?” Exley’s surprise was genuine.
“Play hockey play hockey—”
“You’d be amazed.” Kellie grabbed the boy’s hand. “Jonah, come on downstairs to the kitchen with us. You can play down there.”
“Can I have juice?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
They walked back to the downstairs, which was festooned with pictures of Kellie and Edmund on their honeymoon in Hawaii, Kellie and Edmund and Jonah at the rink, the kid cute as anything with his helmet and stick and skates… Edmund Cerys wasn’t the mole, Exley thought. Not even an Oscar-winning actor could fake the way he looked at his wife in these pictures. He’d gotten drunk at a Redskins game and picked up a misdemeanor for pissing in the parking lot, but he wasn’t spying for the Chinese or anyone else. Zero for one.
SHE SETTLED INTO THE KITCHEN and prepared to let Kellie tell her about the neighborhood. Then her cell phone trilled in her purse. Wells.
“Hi,” he said. “I have a favor to ask. Can you come up to New York? Today?”
21
EVEN AT 2:50 A.M. ON A WEDNESDAY MORNING, East Hampton glowed with wealth. Wall Street skyscrapers, Hollywood back lots, Siberian oil fields — wherever the money came from, it ended up here, waves of cash crashing in like the Atlantic Ocean’s low breakers. Under the streetlamps, the town’s long main street shined empty and clean. The mannequins in the Polo store cradled their tennis racquets, poised to play in their $300 nylon windbreakers. To the north, toward the bay, the houses cost a mere seven figures. South, in the golden half-mile strip between the main street and the ocean, the mansions ran $10 million and up.
Wells and Exley were heading south.
Wells cruised at twenty-five miles an hour on his big black bike, its engine running smooth and quiet. Before him, the traffic light at the corner of Main Street and Newtown Lane turned red. He eased to a stop and patted the CB1000’s metal flank. The bike was his, but the license plate wasn’t. He’d liberated it from a Vespa scooter a few hours earlier. He’d also removed all the identifying decals on the bike, making it as anonymous as a motorcycle could be.
Exley stopped beside him at the wheel of a gray Toyota Sienna minivan that Wells had hot-wired from a parking lot at a bar in Southampton ninety minutes before. The minivan’s owner — the “World’s Hottest Single Aunt,” at least according to the sticker on the van’s back bumper — was presumably still getting liquored up inside. By the time she discovered the Sienna was gone, it would have served its purpose. Wells hoped she had insurance.
The light dropped green. Wells eased past the forty-foot-high wooden windmill that marked the end of the town center. A half-mile later, he turned off Route 27 and onto Amity Lane. Besides his standard riding gear of black leather jacket, black helmet, black gloves, and black boots, Wells had on black jeans and a black long-sleeve cotton shirt. He wished he had a pair of black skivvies to complete the package. Tucked in a shoulder holster, he carried a pistol, a Glock this time instead of the Makarov. It was black, naturally, with a silencer threaded to the barrel. He hoped he wouldn’t even have to draw it. His black backpack held two other weapons, the ones he planned to use.
THE AFTERNOON BEFORE, Wells had for the first time found a way to take advantage of the fame he didn’t want. He walked into the East Hampton village police station, an unassuming brick building on Cedar Street, just behind the center of town.
“Can I help you?” the cop behind the counter said.
“I’d like to speak to the chief.”
“He’s busy. What can I do for you?”
Wells extracted his CIA identification card, the one with his real name, and passed it across the counter.
“Hold on.” The officer disappeared behind a steel door, popping out a minute later to wave Wells in.
The chief was a trim man in his early fifties with tight no-nonsense eyes. Even in East Hampton the cops looked like cops. “Ed Graften,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s an honor, Mr. Wells. Please sit.”
“Please call me John.” Wells was beginning to feel foolish. Did he really expect this man to help him?
“What can I do you for? Don’t suppose you locked your keys in your Ferrari or the brats in the mansion next door are making too much noise. The usual nonsense.”
