“It was. I’m so, so sorry—”
“It’s all right, cousin. You couldn’t have known.”
The afternoon passed in slow motion. Eric arranged the flight to Nashville, put together a statement on what had happened, talked to the Dallas cops and the FBI. And every few minutes, he found himself reaching for his phone to call Petersen and ask for a one-way ride to Moscow.
But that night, when he closed his eyes, he hadn’t.
The FBI, the CIA, all the rest, they didn’t know. They weren’t going to find out.
And he had to stay in Washington. He had work to do.
Saturday, noon. Shafer landed at Reagan National to find a half-dozen calls waiting for him from Julie Tarnes. Each saying the same thing a little more urgently. Call me.
“Julie. What’s up?”
“You know a guy named Jimmy Sanders?”
Shafer was surprised how happy hearing her brisk, no-nonsense voice made him. “I do not.”
“Paul Birman’s bodyguard. Ex-NYPD. Solid. Last night, he told the FBI that he wanted to talk personally to whoever found Miller. Pass along the Senator’s congratulations, he said. They said no. He said pretty please with sugar on top . . . And, by the way, you really want to piss Birman off right now? They got the message, kicked him to me. He has something to tell you. Says it’s important.”
“I just landed at National.”
“Conveniently enough, so did he.”
Sanders had flown from Nashville, left Birman not even twenty-four hours after the near miss?
“Guess it’s important,” Shafer said.
Tarnes stood just outside the security checkpoint, beside a forty-something guy. He was about her height and wore a dark blue suit and a tie a little too short. Shafer would have made him for an ex-cop even if Tarnes hadn’t said so. Sanders had that relaxed awareness, the ability to pay attention without seeming to try.
Tarnes introduced them. Sanders stuck out a hand and looked at Shafer like he wasn’t getting the joke.
“Nice job yesterday.” The unspoken question: You’re the one who shot Tom Miller?
“Thanks.” Shafer wasn’t going to explain, at least not until he knew what Sanders wanted. “What’s so important that you broke Shabbat rules to come see me?”
“My rabbi said it was okay.”
“Fair enough.”
“Don’t look so surprised. Might be Irish, but I’m from New York.” Sanders looked around, made sure no one was in earshot. “So, am I correct in assuming the FBI is less than fully informed on this? Based on the fact that if it had been up to them to find Tom Miller, we’d be making funeral arrangements for my boss.”
“Possibly.”
“They gonna find out?”
“There are obstacles.”
“Foreign obstacles?”
“It’s complicated.”
Sanders gave Shafer a satisfied nod: I figured.
“Nobody knows about this. Not even Paul. Maybe I should have told him, but, truth, I didn’t know what he would do.”
Shafer waited. They stood in a knot in the arrivals hall, passengers swirling by them, tugging roller bags and little kids, looking for carts and cousins. Sanders still couldn’t seem to say what he’d come to say.
“Jimmy,” Shafer said after a while. “I truly have no idea what you have. You want to play twenty questions or just spit it out like a grown-up?”
“It’s Eric. Paul’s cousin. You need to look at him.”
Suddenly the last piece fit.
“I know it sounds crazy—”
“No,” Shafer said. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all.”
New Hampshire, 1 p.m. Late winter now, the sun staying past 5, the snow crusty, melting during the day and freezing again each night. No flowers, no grass, no leaves, yet the cruelest days were unmistakably past.
Wells opened the front door to the farmhouse that was his and not his. Anne and Emmie were sitting, snugged on the rumpled couch, Anne’s arm around Emmie, Emmie’s hands high, telling a story so elaborate that for a moment she didn’t see Wells step inside—
“Emmie,” Anne said. Since Wells had last seen her, the pregnancy had taken over her middle.
“I’m talking, Mommy—”
“It’s your dad.”
Emmie jumped off the couch and ran at Wells, a cartoon of motion. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” He scooped her, hugged her to him.
He had to quit. He couldn’t quit.
He had to quit.
He couldn’t quit.
“Hi, Em.”
She stuck out her tongue to show him a pale green mint.
“She’s discovered Altoids,” Anne said.
Wells carried Emmie over to the couch, laid her down, knelt beside Anne. She gave him a tiny smile that could have meant almost anything and then tapped her lips: Kiss me. “Gently. Unless you want me to throw up.”
He did.
“How’s the boy?”
Anne lifted her shirt. Wells watched as her belly rumbled, tiny earthquakes from the fists and feet inside.
“Just like his dad. Can’t wait to get out.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wells is used to working alone, but I have plenty of partners. First and foremost, a shout-out to Neil Nyren, the editor of every Wells novel but The Faithful Spy. You may have noticed his name at the beginning of this book, and the dedication is well deserved. Thanks also to Ivan Held, Karen Fink, Alexis Sattler, and everyone else at Putnam.
Next up, a whole passel of lawyers: Robert Barnett and Deneen Howell for their advice and counsel; Dev Chatillon, who has kept me from getting into trouble more than once; and Mark Lanier, who practices what he preaches.
As always, Deirdre Silver and my brother, David, offered good advice on an early draft. Next time I’ll take it. I promise. Mark Herron offered advice on sniping. Any errors are mine.
This goes without saying, but Jackie, Lucy, and Ezra have taught John (and me) what really matters.
And finally, thanks to all of you for keeping me and John honest. I can’t wait to hear what you think! You know where to find me. (Just in case: [email protected] or facebook.com/alexberensonauthor.)
Until next time.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Sigrid Estrada
As a reporter for The New York Times, Alex Berenson covered topics ranging from the occupation of Iraq to the flooding of New Orleans to the financial crimes of Bernie Madoff. This is his twelfth John Wells novel. His debut, The Faithful Spy, won the Edgar Award. Berenson lives with his family in New York’s Hudson Valley.
alexberenson.com
AlexBerensonAuthor
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