The Secret Soldier

the eighteen-wheelers rumbled by heedlessly. “Kneel.”

The man went to his knees unwillingly, an inch at a time.

“Who do you work for?” Wells said.

“The DGSE”—the French intelligence service.

“The French don’t like Arabs. Who?”

“I tell you, the DGSE.”

“If you work for the DGSE, then so do I. Lie down.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, but I don’t want you following me. Lie down, face on the pavement, hands over your head.”

The man lowered his face to the asphalt, extended his arms. Wells patted him down, pulled a wallet from his back pocket. He’d check it later.

“You’ll regret this,” the man murmured.

“I’ll consider myself warned,” Wells said. He walked over to the Mercedes.

“I swear I didn’t know,” the driver said. “He hired me, told me to follow.”

“Turn off your engine, give me the key.”

The driver did as Wells said. Wells wound up and flung it onto the roof of the abandoned building at the edge of the lot. He grabbed the tire iron, walked back to the Fiat. Sylvie leaned against the sedan. He tossed his cigarette and whistled quietly as Wells approached. “Che stile.”

“Say again?” Wells threw the tire iron in the trunk.

“It means ‘What style.’”

Wells flipped him the Fiat key. “Let’s go.”

“That’s it?”

“What else were you hoping to see?”

AS THEY LEFT THE rest stop behind, Wells relaxed. He was off the grid for now. He flipped through the wallet he’d taken and found eight hundred euros, a credit card, and a Saudi driver’s license, both in the name of Ahmad Maktoum. He’d ask Shafer if the name showed up anywhere. He pocketed the card and license and handed the money to Sylvie.

“A bonus.”

“Grazie.”

Sylvie dropped him at Fiumicino at three a.m. A few travelers, unlucky or too cheap to book a hotel room before an early-morning flight, waited outside the locked terminals. Inside, janitors swept the floors halfheartedly. At this hour, the airport was asleep in an almost human way, alive but hardly moving.

Wells took advantage of the quiet to dump his pistol in a trash bin. He’d have to get a new one in Lebanon, but for what he was facing, he would need more than a pistol. He had to assume that he was looking at more than one or two jihadis. A training camp seemed likely. And even with surprise on his side, he needed help. Preferably an Arabic speaker who could pass for local.

He reached for his cell. The East Coast was six hours behind. “How do you feel about another vacation?”

Gaffan didn’t answer.

“This one isn’t personal. I promise.”

“You don’t do partners very well, John.”

“It’s gonna be interesting. And it’s not volunteer this time. Quite the opposite.”

“We have a sponsor? Anyone I know?”

“Yes and no.”

“I need more.”

“Tell you when I see you. Get the first flight you can to Larnaca tomorrow morning. Rent a room at the Hilton in Nicosia.”

“Where?”

“Cyprus.”

“Another island. Is this going to be wet?” Wet, in this case, referring to blood, not water.

“Eight ball says yes.”

Silence. Then: “I don’t think I can get there before tomorrow night. And I reserve the right to back out.” Gaffan sounded like nothing so much as a teenage girl who had theoretically agreed only to coffee with her ex- boyfriend while knowing she had committed to much more.

“Tomorrow night works.”

THE COUNTERS AT FIUMICINO lit up at 5:30 a.m. The workers appeared out of nowhere, as if they’d slept in the belly of the airport. Wells found the Cyprus Airways counter and bought a ticket — firstclass, of course — to Larnaca. He used his Canadian passport, hoping it might take a little bit longer to pop in the CIA’s database.

Nicosia, the Cyprus capital, was a boxy city stuffed with low-rise white apartment buildings and banks, shiny five- to ten-story glassand-steel towers that were designed to project honesty and rectitude but somehow sent the opposite signal. Eastern European and Russian money took vacations on Cyprus. Like its owners, it didn’t plan to stay forever, but it was happy enough to stop for a couple weeks and get a tan.

Wells found a Citibank and rented two safe-deposit boxes. He took $200,000 and 200,000 euros, all he could comfortably carry, from the briefcase. He left a million dollars loose in one box, and the briefcase, which had another million or so in euros, in the second. He FedExed the key to the second box to Anne and called her to explain.

“So this briefcase, what’s in it?”

“Money.”

“I don’t need money, John. And I definitely don’t need your money.”

“It’s not my money.”

“I still don’t need it.”

“Give it away, then. Start a no-kill shelter or something.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Anne said finally. “But you know what I’d rather have? I’d rather have you start that shelter yourself.”

“I’m not very good at no-kill.”

She didn’t laugh. “This is going to get messy, isn’t it?”

“It could.”

“Just be sure you’re on the right side, then.”

“I’m trying.”

A MESSAGE FROM GAFFAN: Plane late. Missed connection in London. Expect me in a.m. Two full days after the bombing in Jeddah. Wells hated to wait, but he didn’t see an alternative. He took a room at a hostel and rented a Fiat and drove south toward the coast. Cyprus was a jumble of poverty and wealth, run-down cottages and new mansions. Wells puttered slowly along the south coast road, looking for a fishing village that would suit his needs.

Gaffan arrived as promised the next morning. Wells picked him up at the airport, and on the way to the coast explained everything that had happened in France and Italy. Gaffan listened, didn’t ask questions. When Wells was done, he handed Gaffan the key to the first safe-deposit box.

“This is yours. A million dollars.”

“And if I say no?”

“Either way.”

“You trust these men, John?”

“I think so.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“They beat the alternative. And if these guys in Lebanon are connected to those bombings, we’ll be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of them. No matter who’s behind them.”