the angry curl of his mouth. The agency’s job was to predict chaos, and prevent it wherever possible. The lawyers, the top-secret classifications, the chains of command, all of them were efforts to bring order to a world that insisted on anarchy. More than anything, Duto hated to be surprised, hated unexpected questions from his bosses. This morning, he’d gotten lots of those, Wells was sure.
“What I’m saying is, if the Russians are involved we’ve got to play this carefully. But it will be our highest priority.”
“I get that part,” Wells said. He bit his lip to stifle his next sentence: And when Medvedev tells you to stuff it, that he’ll never let an American investigative team on Russian soil, what will you do then? Threaten to nuke Moscow if he doesn’t change his mind?
“Any ideas who did this?” Duto said.
“There’re a lot of people who don’t like me.”
“So let us investigate, get the evidence.”
The evidence is dead, Wells didn’t say. It’s lying on Constitution Avenue. I killed them a little too good. Should have let one live so we could talk to him.
Wells looked out at the camera trucks. “The media’s gonna go crazy on this. You going to tell them that this was aimed at Jennifer and me?”
“No,” Duto said. “And we’re going to ask anyone who figures it out to keep you out of it. Your name will just add to the fire here.”
“You want to tamp it down as quick as possible so you can investigate better,” Wells said.
“This isn’t just from me. The president told me directly, fifteen minutes ago, that he values our relationship with Russia. And that he wants us to be on firm footing, whatever we do. Assuming you’re correct about the nationality of the men.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Let us figure out who was paying these guys,” Duto said. “Build a case. Do it the right way. And then we’ll nail whoever did this.”
“I hear you,” Wells said. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll share everything you get with me.”
“Of course, John.” Duto extended his hand and they shook. Wells wondered if Duto knew that Wells had no intention of sitting back and letting the agency and FBI screw this up. Probably. He might not even care. He’d sent the message, officially. The Suburban was probably bugged. Just in case anyone ever wanted proof of this conversation. Now Duto was safe, whatever Wells did.
BACK INSIDE THE HOSPITAL the hours passed miserably. David and Jessica, Exley’s kids, showed up, along with Randy, Exley’s ex-husband, had brought them. The kids hugged Wells, but Randy didn’t even shake his hand. He was everything Wells wasn’t. Wearing business casual, a little paunchy, with close-cropped hair and a black laptop bag. He’d loved Exley, Wells knew. Maybe he still did. He stared across the waiting room at Wells, his eyes shouting an accusation:
Finally, around 2 p.m., a man in clean blue scrubs emerged from the double doors that marked the entrance to the emergency rooms. His surgical mask dangled from his neck and his eyes were tired, but he moved confidently.
He looked around the waiting area and signaled to Wells. Randy also rose and the three of them stood in an unfriendly huddle.
“I’m Dr. Patel. Are you both relatives?”
“I’m John Wells. Her fiance.”
“When did that happen?” Randy said.
“We were planning to tell you.”
“And you are?” Patel said to Randy.
“Her ex-husband.” He pointed to David and Jessica. “Those are our kids.”
“In that case, Ms. Exley’s injuries were quite severe. She’s fortunate she arrived at the hospital so quickly. The bullets were fired from behind, at an angle. They entered through her back.” Patel touched his back to indicate where the wounds had been. “One damaged her lower spine, the L-two and L-three vertebrae. The other pierced her liver. That was our immediate focus, since liver injuries bleed heavily. Indeed, Ms. Exley lost several pints of blood, but we’ve now stanched the bleeding and I believe she’s out of immediate danger. We’ve left the damaged vertebrae alone. She’ll need a second operation to repair her spine tomorrow. But I would say her long-term prognosis is favorable. As you may know, the liver is adept at renewing itself.”
“Thank you,” Wells said.
“Thank God,” Randy said.
Patel raised his hand. “Understand. Even if the second operation goes smoothly, she has rehabilitation ahead to regain full use of her legs.”
“She’s paralyzed,” Randy said.
“We believe it’s temporary. There’s severe inflammation around the spinal cord, but the nerve bundles appear intact. The swelling ought to fade over time and she’ll regain motor control. But there are no guarantees with this type of injury.”
“Can we see her?”
“For a minute.” Patel nodded at Exley’s kids. “I wouldn’t recommend letting them see her yet. She’s quite tired.”
“Quite,” Randy said. He turned to Wells. “Happy, John? Get everything you came for?” His breath was middle-manager minty and he had a forced grin on his face, the smile of a vampire about to plunge his teeth into a victim’s neck. Wells took a half-step back, wondering whether Randy would really be foolish enough to swing at him in here.
“Gentlemen,” Patel said. “Are you all right?”
“Fine and dandy,” Randy said.
“All right. Mr. Wells, please come with me.” To Randy: “You can wait here, sir, with your children.”
Wells followed Patel down a wide corridor and into a room marked “ER Recovery 1.” As soon as he stepped in, Wells understood why the doctor hadn’t wanted David and Jessica to see Exley. Her eyes were closed and sunken, her face drawn, exhausted, nearly white under the room’s harsh lights. Monitors beeped around her, measuring her pulse, respiration, and other vitals. Bags of solution fed a tube into her arm. Two more tubes, one slowly pulsing with clear liquid, the other bright red with blood, poked from the gauze that covered her stomach. His dear girl. And this was his fault, his and his alone.
Wells wrapped her hand in his. Her pulse fluttered fast and weak in his palm. Her eyes opened, slid shut, opened again and found him.
“John.” Her voice was dull and dry.
“Jenny.”
“Where?”
“You know if I’m here, it can’t be heaven.” Her eyes flickered and he saw that she hadn’t gotten the joke. “It’s GW Hospital.”
“The motorcycles.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Yes. I’ll tell you later. The whole story. Are you okay? In pain?” She grunted, a soft sigh that seemed to indicate that her consciousness had been dulled beyond quotidian concerns like pain.
“You’ll be fine,” Wells said. “Better than new. I promise.”
She closed her eyes. Patel touched his arm. “She needs to rest.”
“Jenny. David and Jessica are outside.” He kissed her cheek. “We’ll all be waiting. I love you.” She didn’t answer.
SHE STARTED TO BLEED AGAIN an hour later. The nurses called Wells over and whispered the bad news. She was back in surgery. He endured another two hours of miserable waiting before Patel emerged again, not as dapper or as confident this time. His shoulders slumped, and he spoke so quietly that Wells had to lean in to hear
