The Secret Soldier

He knew that she wanted to ask him if he would have followed through on the threat. The answer was probably. Robinson was overdue for a reckoning. But she stayed quiet, and after a few seconds Wells went on.

“How he looked? He looked relieved. Maybe not relieved but tired. Like he had been getting ready for somebody to knock on his door. I asked him why he called Janice, and he said he was lonely. He showed me in his closet he had cash, maybe twenty-five thousand dollars in hundreds and twenties. He had another passport, too, a Mexican one that said his name was Eduardo Marquez. He said it was real, that he’d paid somebody at the Mexican embassy in Kingston.”

“But he didn’t want to go anywhere else.”

“I guess not. He said he could have stayed hidden a lot longer. With that passport, he could have gone to Cuba or somewhere in Southeast Asia where there are enough white people that he wouldn’t get noticed. But he said it was wearing on him, being alone, never telling anyone who he really was. He said he was scared to death of prison, but that living this way was prison, too. I think there’s something else. I think he might be sick. He had all kinds of pill bottles in his bathroom. But when I asked him, he denied it. And choked up. Which was weird, because aside from that, he wouldn’t stop talking. But all the things he said, he certainly didn’t say he was sorry.”

“Did you think he would?”

“I hoped he would.”

“You know, I’ve arrested I don’t know how many. Eight years — say, one a week — that’s, ah, eight times fifty. Four hundred, give or take. Of course nothing like this. But serious stuff. Domestic violence, assault. Rape. Two murders. And I’ve never heard a genuine apology. Ever. It’s not in these guys.” She let go of him, pushed herself away. “I have to say, I don’t like what you did, John.”

He turned toward her. Her eyes were intense on his. “Say again?”

“You should have just called the FBI. Done it the right way. You almost killed somebody down there.”

“He was a coke dealer.”

“It’s a matter of time before you hurt somebody who’s completely innocent—”

“You wanted the story. You got the story. I’m going to sleep.”

“God forbid anyone question your judgment.”

“I hate to tell you, Anne, but Keith Robinson isn’t some DUI you Breathalyze on Main Street.”

“And I hate to tell you, John, but you’re a grade-A asshole.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You believe it, though. Push comes to shove, you think I have no right to express any opinion on this.”

Wells knew he should apologize, tell Anne the truth. He’d blown up because he was worried she was right. He had refused to involve the FBI for no better reason than his anger at the CIA and Duto. Over the years, he’d lost his moorings one by one. His wife and child. His parents. Then Jennifer Exley, his lover. Then his faith. He still believed in Islam, but how could he claim to be part of the umma, the community of believers? He prayed sometimes, but almost always in private, rarely in mosques. Faith was hard to sustain that way. Only his identity as a CIA agent had remained. But now he’d quit.

He believed he’d made the right choice in leaving. Even so. He’d severed his last connection. He was completely alone. An amnesiac without the consolation of forgetfulness. He knew who he was, what he’d done. After so much violence, killing came to him naturally. He’d always imagined that he could take off the killer’s mask as he wished. But he feared the mask had become his face.

He could have said some of this to Anne. Or all of it. Could have and should have. Instead he closed his eyes. “You’ve got every right to express your opinion,” he said. He hated the words even as he spoke them. He sounded like a lawyer. A lousy one.

“I can’t even start to imagine what you’re thinking,” she said. “Are you angry?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Are you happy I’m challenging you, then?” He was silent. “Do you have any emotions at all, John?”

“I’ll leave tomorrow if you want.”

She put her arms around him. “I don’t want you to leave. I just want to understand you a tiny bit. It’s like the longer you stay here, the less I understand you. And that’s awful.”

He heard her breathing quicken and opened his eyes. She was sitting up, her back to him. Women. She left the room and walked downstairs. A few minutes later, he heard the teakettle squealing. She came back holding a cup and lay beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

“This is why the others left, isn’t it? Your wife and the one from the CIA.”

“Maybe. My wife, we got divorced because I went undercover. And Exley, my fiancee, someone hurt her and I wanted to find out who did it and she didn’t want me to.”

“You wanted revenge. She asked you to stay away. And you ignored her.”

They lay in the dark and the minutes unrolled, a black carpet stretching to infinity. At this hour, North Conway was as still as a chimney with no fire. He put his arms around her, and she didn’t fight him.

“I meant it. If you want, I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Please. Have you looked at the quote-unquote eligible bachelors in North Conway? Slim pickings. Anyway, I see hope for you yet. You wonder if all this violence has destroyed your core. And I’m telling you that it hasn’t.”

“I hope so.”

Her laugh was music. “There you go. ‘I hope so.’ On the John Wells scale, that counts as a soul-opening revelation. You’re gonna be okay, John.”

He fell asleep feeling something close to peace.

HE WOKE ALONE, HIS cell phone ringing. A blocked number.

“John Wells.” The voice was soft, cultured, European. Immaculate as marble. The past was tugging him again. First Keith Robinson. Now Pierre Kowalski. Kowalski was a Swiss arms dealer, a gleefully amoral man who had made a fortune off miserable little wars that no one cared about.

“Pierre.”

“I hear you’re at liberty. I might have something for you. To supplement that government pension of yours. Nadia, you know, she still mentions you.” Nadia was Kowalski’s lover, a model, tall and blueeyed, the most beautiful woman Wells had ever seen. “She’s waiting for you to make your fortune.”

“Who told you I quit?”

“Word gets around. But I hear also that you’re having a hard time staying away.”

The intimacy in Kowalski’s voice infuriated Wells. As did the fact that Kowalski still had sources at Langley. He shouldn’t have known that Wells had left, and he definitely shouldn’t have known about Keith Robinson. “Do you think we’re friends, Pierre?”

“I would never make that mistake. Your friends have a short life expectancy.”

“Soon I’ll have no one at all to counsel me. Then I’ll decide to settle old scores.”

Kowalski sighed. “Please let me know when that day comes so I can hire more bodyguards. In any case. A friend asked me for a recommendation. Someone who operates with absolute discretion and certainty. Someone not connected to any national organization. Someone who speaks Arabic. I thought of you.”

“I have to tell you, if you want an assassination, I’m going to be seriously upset. People keep asking me to kill other people.”

“I see. And that makes you angry.”

“So angry I could kill somebody, yes.”

“Now you are being ironic, Monsieur Wells. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Do you know what I’m thinking right now? How much I’d like to make you strip naked and pull an oxcart in the middle of Zurich. Give kids rides.”

“That wouldn’t be much fun. For me or the kinder. But all this is a digression, and these international calls are expensive. So let me tell you, this job, it’s not an assassination. Undercover work.”

“Be specific.”

“It’s connected to recent events.”

The terrorist attacks in the Gulf, Wells guessed. “Who am I working for? And what do they want from me?”