“Must have been good,” Ann said. “You look tired.”
“Leave her alone,” Lynette said. “Least let the lady finish her wine.”
EXLEY HAD MENTALLY replayed the call from Wells a hundred times. She had traced the number — an exchange in Nashville, a cellphone, which meant it could have been made from anywhere. She could easily call a friend at the FBI to find out where. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to take that step.
Nor had she told anyone at the agency, even Shafer, about the call. She feared she would lose control if she did. They would tap her phone, monitor her apartment. After all, Wells was a fugitive. Duto had a couple of his goons searching for Wells in the United States without telling the FBI — even though the agency’s charter specifically prohibited it from operating on American soil. Duto had somehow convinced his general counsel that the CIA could search for Wells under an exception to its charter that allowed limited investigations of internal security breaches.
Exley assumed that the search for Wells was small and basically for show, so that Duto would have his ass covered in case something happened to Wells. She didn’t think Duto seriously considered Wells a threat. In fact, he might be glad to have Wells on the loose. This way Duto would still get credit on the off chance that Wells stopped an attack, while being able to blame Shafer if Wells screwed up or turned up dead. But she couldn’t be sure, since Duto refused to give her or Shafer any details about the search — though he had told her that she needed to tell him if Wells contacted her.
“I want to know
Disobeying direct orders from Vinny Duto was a bad idea. But Exley didn’t care. She was certain Wells hadn’t flipped. She wanted to protect him as best she could, save him from being warehoused in a cell somewhere. If he found anything important, he would reach out.
Meanwhile, she wished she knew where he was now, what he was doing, what he thought of the agency’s games. What did he think of the United States, after his years away? And what about her? Did he think of her the way she thought of him? He was a constant presence in her mind, and his call had made her believe that he felt the same, but she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he had reached out to her only because he had no one else. Yet when she’d hung up the phone she’d realized that the call hadn’t surprised her at all; subconsciously, she had expected it.
Her overwhelming desire for Wells confused her. She was basically logical, and yet somehow she had fallen for a man she had seen for all of two weeks in the last ten years, a man who had probably lost his mind somewhere in the hills of Afghanistan. But he hadn’t seemed crazy in the Jeep; his brown eyes had seemed entirely calm. In any case, he wasn’t like anyone else she had ever known.
In her more cynical moments she wondered if she wasn’t lost in an escape fantasy. A strong silent man to take her away. If he happens to be a renegade agent even better. She wished she could tell the Sophisticated Ladies about the situation. They would appreciate the irony. She had always prided herself on keeping her feelings out of the office. Women so easily got tagged as weepers who couldn’t be trusted under pressure. Even during her divorce only Shafer had known how badly she was hurting. Now she had thrown away her rules for a man she would probably never see again. If the stakes weren’t so high, she would have laughed at herself.
For the moment she had decided to think of the call as a dream. That way she didn’t have to report it.
A tap from Gretchen shook her out of her reverie. “Come on, Jennifer. Share.”
Fine. She would tell them about her date. “There’s nothing to share. His name’s Charles Li, a cardiologist at Georgetown. Divorced. We went out last week.”
“Where?”
“Olives.”
“Very nice.”
And so very predictable, Exley thought. Olives was an overpriced restaurant on Sixteenth and K with a big- name chef and a fancy wine list. She had to guess that Wells would never take her to Olives.
“So…how it’d go?”
“It went fine. I learned a lot about stents. And Lipitor. You all should have your cholesterol checked. Did you know that heart disease kills more women than any other illness, including breast cancer?”
Lynette shook her head. “That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t get to talk much.”
“You know you have to let them talk about themselves on the first date,” Gretchen said. “Has he called?”
“Oh yeah.” Called, sent flowers, called some more. Dr. Li was persistent. Persistent enough that she had considered giving him another chance, despite his potbelly and comb-over. At least the good doctor was making an effort.
“Well that counts for something—” Gretchen said as Exley’s cellphone rang. She flipped it open.
“Pack a bag for warm weather and get in here.” It was Shafer. Click.
SHE WAS GLAD for the excuse to go. She quickly said her goodbyes and arrived at Langley an hour later to find Shafer sitting on her desk, a suitcase at his feet.
“What took you so long?”
“Ellis. I set a land speed record getting here.”
“I have a special treat. Come on.” He grabbed his suitcase and strutted out of her office, leaving her to follow. Evidently she wasn’t the only one losing her mind.
At the best of times Shafer was an uncertain driver. Tonight he veered from lane to lane, speeding and tailgating, as they headed south, then east on the Beltway, toward Andrews Air Force Base.
“Where are we going, Ellis?”
“You’re an analyst. Analyze the situation.”
She felt herself flush with irritation. Shafer must be nervous. He wasn’t usually so juvenile.
“Ellis. This isn’t a fucking class trip.”
“Temper temper.”
“Fine,” she said. “Looks like we’re headed to Andrews. And you told me to pack for warm weather. I’ll say Gitmo.”
“Guantanamo?” Shafer laughed. “Come on, reporters tour that base. You think we keep anybody important there?”
“Then where?”
“A long way away.”
“Kuwait? Oman?”
“A place that doesn’t exist.”
“Diego Garcia,” she said.
“Well done.”
Diego Garcia was a U.S. naval base on a British island in the Indian Ocean, one thousand miles from the southern tip of India, even farther from Africa. The base wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t exactly well publicized either. The Pentagon always denied holding al Qaeda members there, mainly to soothe British sensibilities. The Pentagon lied, Exley knew; Diego was home to several al Qaeda operatives.
“May I ask why?” she said. “Or do I have to play Twenty Questions again?”
“A month ago we caught somebody in Baghdad. A Pakistani nuclear scientist.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“And?”
“And he’s got some interesting information. I thought we should see him for ourselves.”
THEY SAT IN the upper deck of a C-5 Galaxy at Andrews Air Force Base, a row ahead of two scowling men whose passes identified them only as Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. Below them, a company of Rangers sat in the aircraft’s giant cargo bay, along with pallets loaded high with MREs, ammunition, and even a couple of armored Humvees.
“Can this thing really fly?” Shafer said.
