As far as he could tell he wasn’t being trailed, but he knew the limits of countersurveillance. Finally he parked. He tilted his head back and immediately fell asleep. Best to conserve his energy.
WELLS JOLTED AWAKE. He snapped his head up to see a white Ford Windstar, a young man behind the wheel pressing the horn. The man swung open the minivan’s passenger-side front door. Wells slid out of the pickup and into the van.
The driver was small and thin, rings around his dark brown eyes, a twitch in his cheek. He licked his lips nervously as they shook hands. “So you like jazz,” he said.
“I listen to it every afternoon,” Wells said, completing the code. The driver seemed to relax a little. He put the minivan into gear and they rolled slowly away. Wells slung his bag behind him in the van.
“I am Tarik.”
“John. Or Jalal. As you like.”
“
Tarik guided the minivan out of the garage, turning toward Canada 40, the highway connecting Quebec City and Montreal. He was a careful driver, constantly checking his rearview mirror and signaling long before he switched lanes.
“Back to Montreal?” Wells said. “You sure you don’t work for Exxon, all this gas we’re burning?”
The muscles in Tarik’s skinny forearms jumped. If he wasn’t scared he was doing a great job of acting. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It was a joke…forget it.”
Tarik looked at Wells. “Can you put on your seat belt, please?”
Wells clicked in without comment.
“Could I turn on the air conditioning? I like the cool,” Tarik said.
“You’re driving, Tarik. You can do whatever you want.”
Tarik flicked on the air and they rode for a few minutes in silence.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Wells said casually.
“Kept me waiting? No, no,” Tarik sputtered. “I just got there when you saw me.”
Then why did we meet in Quebec City instead of Montreal? Wells wondered. Tarik wasn’t using any countersurveillance tactics to lose potential pursuers. In fact, he drove so cautiously that anyone could follow him. “Where are you from, Tarik?”
“I grew up outside Paris.” That explained his accent, at least.
“Now you live here?”
“Yes. Montreal.” They were having an interview, not a conversation. Tarik was too nervous to ask any questions of his own. Wells could have switched to Arabic but decided to stay with English, to keep the kid off balance.
“You work there?”
“I’m a graduate student.”
“In?”
“Neuro — neuropsychology.” Again the muscles in Tarik’s forearms twitched. Wells began to wonder if the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would be waiting for them in Montreal.
TARIK WAS TRYING his best to act scared, though he hardly needed to act. Khadri had warned him that Wells would probe him, and walked him through how to respond. If he kept the lies to a minimum he would be fine, Khadri said. All he needed to do was stay calm for a few hours, give Wells the package, and send him along.
Tarik desperately hoped Khadri was right.
“DO YOU LIKE it?” Wells said.
“What?”
“Graduate school.”
“Yes.”
“Are you married, Tarik?”
“Not anymore.” He seemed to smile, though Wells was no longer sure about anything this kid did.
“Sorry it didn’t work out,” Wells said.
Wells waited, but Tarik said nothing more. “Tarik. You know who sent me. Is something wrong?” He switched to Arabic.
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is cool.” The phrase sounded ridiculous coming from Tarik’s mouth. He shook his head mulishly, like a sixth grader caught passing a note in class.
Wells shifted gears. “What’s in the package, Tarik?”
“I don’t know. They came yesterday. I didn’t open them.”
Again Wells waited. Still Tarik said nothing. Finally Wells asked, as smoothly as he could: “They? There’s more than one package? How many?”
“I’m not allowed to talk about this.”
“Where’d they come from? Who delivered them?”
“Jalal, please.”
“Is there another courier, Tarik?”
But Tarik shook his head and said nothing.
SET THE HOOK and don’t say too much, Khadri had told Tarik. I don’t care what he thinks is happening. As long as he has the package when he leaves.
KHADRI WAS PLAYING games, Wells thought. As usual. Why hadn’t he sent the packages, whatever they were, straight to the United States? Why use this kid, who looked like he wanted to vomit? Why multiple couriers?
Tarik sat rigidly in the driver’s seat, his hands clenching the wheel. Wells could see that he was done talking, unless Wells put a knife to his throat. And as much as Wells wanted to take control, force the situation, he had to be patient. Tarik was only a courier. Wells would take the package, cross the border, and wait for Khadri.
THE SUN WAS low in the sky when they reached Montreal. Tarik turned off the highway into a run-down neighborhood. They passed a brightly lit Muslim community center with signs in English, French, and Arabic. A few minutes later Tarik turned into the parking lot of a run-down motel.
“Wait,” he said, and got out. He walked into room 104. Wells figured Tarik had rented the room for a night as a place to store the mysterious package. A dummy location, one Wells couldn’t trace. Smart.
Wells looked around for any signs they were being watched. He saw nothing. The street was quiet. No helicopters floating overhead, no UPS trucks cruising by, no Ford Crown Victorias parked away. On the other hand, if this really was a sting operation, the cops — or the agency — would wait until he had taken the package from Tarik. They might even wait until he got back to Quebec City.
So arrest me, Wells thought. Let this madness be the agency’s doing. At least I’ll know that Langley’s a step ahead of me, and close to catching Khadri. But as he looked around again, he felt sure the agency was nowhere near him. Or Khadri.
Tarik reappeared from room 104 carrying a soft-sided blue travel bag, large enough to hold a week’s worth of clothes, small enough to fit in an airplane’s overhead bin. He carefully placed the bag in the back of the minivan. “It has a briefcase inside. Don’t open it.”
“What if they search it at the border?”
“Omar said that’s up to you. He said he was sure you’d think of something.”
“I’m glad he has so much confidence in me,” Wells said.
Tarik said nothing more on the long drive back to Quebec City, and Wells didn’t press him.
THE GARAGE IN Quebec City was almost empty when they rolled up to the little white pickup. Wells had
