Fox, the usual talking heads blamed the FBI and the agency for failing to prevent the attacks, and debated whether they signified a new wave of terrorism or were a one-off. Wells figured he knew the answer to that question. And yet after a week of shock and impromptu memorials, most people — especially outside Southern California — already seemed to be putting the attacks behind them.
“I’m just happy it wasn’t worse,” one man said in an article in the
After two fruitless weeks, he decided to break out. Maybe he was making a mistake, but what choice did he have? What if Khadri had already contacted him and another attack was imminent?
IT WAS MID-APRIL, and cherry blossoms were blooming across Washington. Already thunderstorms had racked the city, hinting at the torrid summer closing in. But this Friday night was unseasonably cool. Wells pulled on a jacket and left the safe house, walking west toward the Capitol. In his hand he cradled a paper bag that held a hammer and screwdriver he had bought the day before. A black Ford sedan parked three houses down followed him, as it always did when he left the house. A block later another Ford began to roll.
Wells had walked the neighborhood every night since Shafer had put him here, and he was certain the surveillance ended there — no walkers, no truly undercover cars, no snipers or peepers. He was almost offended. They didn’t seem to know or care how easily he could lose them. At a little convenience store on A Street, he bought himself a Coke, then walked home, the Fords trailing.
Almost ten o’clock. Wells settled on his stoop and waited for the right cab. Capitol Hill hadn’t completely gentrified this far east; he saw the occasional dog walker, but the street was mostly quiet. Televisions glowed their eerie blue in the windows across the street. Wells sipped his Coke and smiled at the surveillance team in the Ford, fighting the urge to wave. He felt like a kid about to go off the high dive for the first time all summer.
A CAB WITH tinted windows rolled up. Perfect. Wells flagged it. “Okay if I sit in front?”
The driver, a black man in his fifties, sized him up. On the radio an Orioles — Red Sox game had just gone into the eleventh inning. “Sure. Watch my hat.” A brown fedora lay on the seat.
Wells slid in.
“Where to?”
“East Cap. Benning Road.”
“Get out.” East Cap, two miles east on the other side of the Anacostia River, was one of D.C.’s poorest neighborhoods, nearly all public housing. Cabbies didn’t like going there even during the day.
Wells handed the guy a twenty. “There’ll be more.”
The guy eyed him suspiciously. “Looking for rock?”
“No.”
“’Cause I won’t help you.”
“No drugs, I swear.”
“Pussy?”
“No pussy.”
They rolled off.
“What’s your name?” Wells said.
“Walter.”
Wells laughed involuntarily, a short sharp bark.
“My name funny?”
“I just met another Walter. He didn’t trust me either.”
“You strange, you know that?”
On the radio an Oriole batter doubled. “You like the Orioles over the Nationals?” Wells said.
“Been rooting for that team too long to change now. Yourself?”
“Gotta tell you I’m a Red Sox fan. But I love extra innings, any game.”
“Better than the Yankees.”
They swung past RFK Stadium onto the viaduct that crossed the Anacostia and 295, a busy commuter highway that paralleled the river. The Fords followed. The Friday-night traffic on East Cap was heavy in both directions, Wells saw happily.
“You know somebody’s following us?”
Wells handed Walter another twenty. “Two of ’em. They’re friends. We’re playing a game.”
“Game.” Walter looked at Wells.
“It’s called lose the man.”
“I want no part of this shit.”
“How ’bout for another hundred?”
Walter flopped open his jacket to show Wells a battered revolver. “You starting to piss me off.”
Wells shook his head. “What about two hundred? That’s all I got.”
They came off the viaduct and up a hill. Walter looked hard at Wells. “Man…you get in my cab…” Walter shook his head. “You not a cop.”
“I’ll get out now if you want.”
Walter pursed his lips. He seemed to be flipping a coin in his mind. Then he nodded. “A hundred’s fine. What next?”
“How well you know East Cap?”
“Better ’n you, I suspect. I grew up here.”
They cruised down toward the light where Benning and East Capitol intersected. Beyond that another hill led up to the city’s worst projects. To their right an overgrown park, really an urban forest, loomed over the road like a bad dream. Here there be dragons.
“Okay. Stay on East Cap. Come out of the light fast. When we get up the hill, find a break in traffic they can’t make.
“You gonna roll out.”
“I’ll be fine.”
They waited at the light, the Fords a couple of cars behind. Wells reached down for the screwdriver. He slid it under his ankle bracelet and twisted. The plastic strained and gave. No turning back now.
“What’s this about?” Walter said.
“There’s this song. From sometime in the nineties, I don’t know,” Wells said, more to himself than Walter. “‘Time is all the luck you need.’”
Walter shook his head in disgust. “Just gimme the hundred, man.”
Wells did. The light changed. Walter went.
WELLS ROLLED OUT of the taxi, paper bag in hand. He landed smoothly on his shoulder and popped to his knees, then scuttled behind a beat-up black Jeep Cherokee. The taxi disappeared. Walter had already closed the door, Wells saw. The two Fords came by, flashing their emergency lights, no sirens. Then they too were gone.
The Cherokee would do. No alarm. Wells swung the hammer at the front passenger window, breaking it with a satisfying crunch. He swung again to widen the hole, reached through, and unlocked the driver’s door. He jogged around the Jeep and slid inside. He popped open the steering column with the screwdriver and twisted together a pair of wires. The engine started on the second try. Wells looked down the road. The Fords were nowhere in sight. He rolled away.
HE CALLED EXLEY’S apartment from a pay phone on Massachusetts Avenue. “Hello,” she said on the second ring. Her voice was quiet and slightly smoky; she had smoked when Wells knew her last, but she must have quit. A pleasant shiver passed through Wells.
