The Prisoner's Wife

by Gerard Macdonald

  “Isn’t it against the law? Hitting hawks?”

  “Up here, Mr. Maguire,” said Henry, “you got no neighbors.” He discounted the Hallam Fox clan. “Who’d know?”

  “I’d know,” Shawn said. “They’re beautiful birds. I just wish they’d kill something else.”

  14

  FELBOURNE, WEST SUSSEX, AND CHASTLEFORTH, HAMPSHIRE, 23 MAY 2004

  Shawn took the flowers his gardener had cut for Martha—blooms in a dozen shades of blue: nepeta, delphiniums, campanula, geraniums, gentian, iris. Blue was her color, always. The little cat ran behind him. He was heading for the churchyard when his cell phone rang.

  A familiar American voice said, “Confirmation? You own a field? That’s correct?”

  “Bobby Walters,” Shawn said, “why would you want to know this?”

  Bobby, echoing a little, said, “I’m coming to visit with you.”

  “So soon,” Shawn said. “There’s a connection with the sheep field?”

  Bobby said, “In a chopper. It’s okay, buddy, relax. We have you in clear sight. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I wasn’t,” Shawn said. “Just watch out for my sheep.”

  He wondered then why Bobby was not in Paris; wondered why the man would be flying over Sussex; wondered what he planned. For some moments, he stood in the lane, thinking over their history. His and Bobby’s. For a while, they’d been like brothers, growing up together—sharing memories of Alabama, sharing women once or twice, until Carly died. They’d been close then: both sure they knew what America needed, if they could just get the intelligence through to the brass above. Then, at some point—Peshawar, maybe—they’d headed in different directions. Bobby was promoted; Shawn missed out. He was drinking and in debt. He had the feeling Bobby was moving away: He saw Shawn now as a liability. Not a fit associate for an agent on the up ladder.

  If Bobby never went as high as he hoped, his buddy went no place at all. Shawn left the building, dishonorably discharged. No word, after that, from Bobby. So much, Shawn thought, for brotherhood. For looking after a fat, unpopular kid.

  In the churchyard, he stood a while watching hawks circle the hills. He waited under the sycamores, holding the cat’s vibrating body, considering Martha’s grave. It was sixteen months since he’d buried his wife here, thousands of miles from her birthplace. On summer days, the churchyard seemed a haven where a body might rest; but, in the winter past, Shawn had grieved for his wife, alone in the earth. Rain falling on her face.

  The grave was at the highest point of the churchyard, shadowed in summer by sycamore, ash, and oak: a gray granite stone lying flat among flowers. Its stone-cut inscription read MARTHA SEMEL, 1951–2002. That was all she had wanted. Frightened, facing death, she’d written the words in shaky capitals, on a day when she knew she had days to live.

  Martha never trusted Shawn with practical tasks; he guessed arranging the carving of a stone counted as one of those.

  “Managed that,” he told her.

  Suddenly there was noise, downdraft, a heavenly heartbeat. Shifting shadows on the grave. Leaves swirled across the churchyard as a black helicopter circled, rising, dipping, until, over the rectory, it dropped from sight. Landing, Shawn guessed.

  He let the cat run and walked back though his garden, watching the chopper make its final circuit, hovering, sideslipping, and setting down in his field.

  Puzzled, uneasy, sheep huddled beneath a blackthorn hedge, eyeing the airborne intruder.

  The helicopter pilot scrambled from the craft. He wore, Shawn noticed, an army-issue M-9 Beretta. Under still-rotating blades, the soldier made his way to open the opposite door.

  From the cockpit, Bobby Walters waved, then beckoned.

  Avoiding wasp pits, rabbit holes, and badger runs, Shawn jogged across the field to the helicopter. “Going up in the world, Mr. Walters.”

  Bobby sighed as he unstrapped his seat belt. “You mean the chopper? Not this boy. Laid on for one of the conference brass. Guy’s tied up, so to speak, with a working girl. High-class ass. Misses his time slot. What do they do? Give it to me, so I bring you back.”

  Shawn thought this through. “Bring me back where?”

  “Chastleforth.”

  “This should mean something?”

  Bobby said, “Get in, I’ll brief you. We have a twelve-minute meeting with Rockford.”

  Shawn shook his head. “Rockford? Hugh Rockford? Son of a bitch that canned me?”

  Bobby sighed. “Same guy, different day. Now making you an offer you can’t refuse. He’ll take you back in the service. Sort out your pay. Update pension. I know you need it.” He checked the time. “Like I say, you have a twelve-minute window, meet the man.” He pointed behind him to an empty seat. “Come talk. Twelve minutes. How bad can it be?”

  The pilot held open the helicopter’s opposite door. Shawn glanced at the man’s pistol, checking the position of the safety as he climbed into the Apache. Firearms and flying machines, he believed, made a bad mix.

  “Fifty minutes,” said Bobby, “you’ll be back home. Round-trip, trust me. No one’s going to know you’re gone.”

  Shawn said, “Someone will. Okay, talk to me. What is Chastleforth?”

  “Country house in Hampshire.”

  Shawn said, “Where the hell is Hampshire?”

  The pilot lifted off and flew low along the flank of the downs. “Cute little hills you have, sir,” he told Shawn. “Remind me of home.” When no one asked, the man added, “South Dakota.”

  “Tell me something,” Shawn said to Bobby. “In Paris, whenever it was, you’re saying to me, go ahead, publish all the stuff you have. Pakistan, VP, nuclear ring, ISI, drugs—whole ball of wax. You know, I do that, it’s a shitstorm. Company’s going to hate it. Now, you tell me, no, no, no—make nice. Come buddy up with Rockford.”

  Bobby adjusted the shades he wore for flying. “Put it this way. I got talked to. They made me an offer. You know. Stuff happens. I changed my mind. You’re wise, you’ll change yours.” He picked up binoculars and looked down at the hills below as the chopper looped over a woman, her hair wild in the downdraft. “Jesus God,” Bobby said, “is that her? Damn, it is. That’s the girl. The one in Paris.” Shaking his head, he turned to stare at Shawn. “How’d you do that? Just tell me how the fuck you do it.”

  Shawn leaned over, seeing Danielle on a hillside track. She’d stopped, shading her eyes, watching the low-flying Apache.

  “I never did work out,” Bobby said, “how you get these women. You’re older than me. You’re no better-looking.”

  The pilot glanced first at Bobby, then at Shawn.

  “Thinner,” Shawn said. “More charming. Better disposition.” He watched as Danielle resumed her easy lope along the path toward his house. “In Paris, remember? I said I’d help look for her husband.”

  “The husband’s Darius Osmani? The guy we talked about?”

  Shawn nodded.

  “What I hear,” Bobby said, “you were looking for Osmani before you ever met her.”

  The pilot turned. To Shawn he said, “Sir, you’re asking where’s Hampshire.” He pointed downward. “That’s it there. Hampshire.” He indicated farther west. “Chastleforth.”

  Bobby looked at Shawn. “God’s sake,” he said. “You live here. Never heard of Chastleforth? Top honchos’ meet-up. Think Camp David, for Brits. Cuter. Older. Like, three hundred years.”

  Looking down as the Apache dipped, Shawn saw a vast country mansion, its formal gardens and lawns encircled by ha-has, beyond which grazed herds of those Charolais cattle Martha once desired.

  “Okay,” Shawn said. “We have Rockford. Who else is meeting?”

  Bobby thought for a moment, deciding what his companion needed to know. “Two-day talkfest. Brass from Langley. Some you might remember. NSC. OSP. CIFA. Whole alphabet soup. War on terror shtick. Plus Brits. MI5, MI6, so on. Got their panties in a twist.”

  “About?”

  Bobby shrugged. “Same old, sa
me old.” He tried an effeminate English accent. “Are you fellows quite sure it was Saddam set up al Qaeda? Can we put this before Parliament? Is that kosher? Are you quite sure the man organized 9/11? He does have nuclear weapons?” Bobby shook his head. “Parliament, what can I tell you? Private school pussies. You know? Eight out of ten cats prefer being fooled.” He gripped his seat as the pilot rocked the Apache, setting it down close to the ha-ha. “We gave them a present. Al-Libi’s confession. Eyes only. Nineteen pages.”

  “I questioned al-Libi,” Shawn said. “It was all lies.”

  “You know that,” Bobby said, unbuckling his belt. “I know that. Let’s hope the Brits don’t.”

  * * *

  Shawn climbed out of the helicopter to find himself in the sights of four black submachine guns, two held by British security, two by Secret Service men. He raised his hands. He had a long-established habit of treading cautiously with men who carried automatic weapons. He’d noticed that even a lousy marksman does damage if he’s using an Uzi.

  “What is this?” he asked Bobby. “Why Secret Service? Do we have the president here?”

  “Heartbeat away,” said Bobby. “We have the man who runs the country. The VP.” With his hands in clear sight, he offered the senior Brit his security documents and nine-zero passport. The Brit nodded at Shawn; not, he thought, a friendly nod.

  “Security cleared,” said Bobby. “Doesn’t have his documents right now.”

  Three men watched as Bobby and Shawn crossed the ha-ha. The fourth kept his weapon trained on the Apache in case its young Dakotan pilot proved to have jihadist sympathies. Under an arch of artfully pleached laburnum and Perle d’Azur clematis stood a biometric calibrator on a wheeled cart. When Bobby and Shawn had been fingerprinted and iris-scanned, they were allowed to cross the mansion’s inner, box-hedged curtilage.

  Bobby led the way down foot-worn steps to a stone-walled passage, deep underground.

  Lighting was low. Shawn considered the size of the blocks. “Brits dug this thing?”

  Bobby nodded. “Not recently. While back.”

  Shawn ran his fingers along stone slabs. A nice mortar-free fit. “Defensive?”

  “Guess again,” Bobby said. “It’s for servants. Head honcho, Earl Whoever-the-fuck-he-was, back in the day, has a bunch of servants. Hates seeing these low-rent folk litter up the pretty garden. Answer? Put ’em underground.” He stopped by a vast and empty hearth. “Up that chimney, you care to look, you see four fireplaces. One on each floor of the house.”

  Shawn doubted this. He bent to look upward. The chimney was square, four by four, he guessed. As Bobby claimed, it climbed through the floors of the house, clear and open to the sky.

  “No kidding.”

  Bobby checked the time and pushed Shawn forward. “Move. We’ll miss the window.”

  The tunnel narrowed and darkened. For a brief irrational moment, Shawn had visions of kidnap: of following Osmani to some black Moroccan jail. For reassurance, he touched the metal heft of his Makarov. Twelve rounds. If he went, he’d take one or two souls with him.

  “Watch this,” Bobby said.

  He entered a passcode, threw a switch. Momentarily, the stone passage shone with brilliant light. A metal shield—not, Shawn guessed, installed by the lords of Chastleforth—slid aside. Bobby led the way to a low-ceilinged underground room, its oak beams studded with pothooks. Once, it seemed, the manor’s kitchen. Now the room was full of communications gear, some of it, Shawn saw, newly installed. Secret Service, most likely. On the far wall, a CCTV monitor showed the front of the mansion, somewhere above their heads. It currently featured, in high definition, the head of the National Security Council in close conversation with the vice president.

  On the far side of the former kitchen sat Hugh Rockford, his army-booted feet resting on a metal desk. He chewed at a toothpick. He looked older than Shawn recalled.

  “Late,” said Rockford. He checked the time. “We have nine minutes. Two things, Maguire. Number one, here’s the deal. We now have an elimination unit. Reports direct to the VP.” He nodded at the monitor, which still showed, above them, the head of NSC. “Bypasses those guys. Security Council. Condi Rice, so on, so on. Your name came up.”

  “Eliminating who, exactly?”

  “You know,” said Rockford. “Problem people. Problem people in problem places. Gaza. Lebanon. Iran. Syria. NoKo. AfPak.”

  “You got my attention,” Shawn said. He was genuinely interested. “Reports to the White House? Do we have legal cover?”

  Rockford nodded. “No sweat. Office of Legal Counsel—pen pushers. VP wants a law, these guys write it.”

  “We’re talking assassination?”

  “Not a term we use.”

  “My name came up because?”

  “Because,” Rockford said, “you’re a top-percentile sniper. With security clearance. Uncommon cross-check.”

  “Okay,” said Shawn. “That’s number one on your list. What’s number two?”

  Rockford stared for what seemed a long while. It was, Shawn recalled, part of the man’s inquisitorial tool set. Finally, he spoke.

  “Give us what you know about Ayub Abbasi. Money, location, ideology, nukes. Sources tell us, what we’re hearing, the guy’s jihadi. Financing al Qaeda Web sites.”

  “In return,” Shawn said, “you will what?”

  “Think about reinstating you.”

  “While you’re thinking,” Shawn said, “I’ll think about whether I talk to you.”

  Rockford swung his feet off the desk, his color high. He spat the toothpick. His buzz cut bristled. He brought a hand down flat and hard on the metal desk. The noise was impressive.

  “Don’t fuck with me, son. You’re American. Ex-Agency. Damn, you have a duty, give me whatever fucking information I request. You familiar with the word ‘treason?’”

  “I’ve heard it,” Shawn said. “Here’s what I know. Ayub Abbasi’s a Pakistani citizen. He was close to Nashida Noon, when she ran the country—when she was prime minister. Abbasi came to see me. Offered work.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Find someone. Abbasi may have had Nashida in the car—I don’t know. Never saw her face. The guy pays the rent with import-export business. He travels. Spends cash on clothes. Italian suits. Wants Nashida back into power. Wants her running Pakistan. Wants her to exit the president.”

  “Locations? Money?”

  “Abbasi had business offices all over. Florida, Atlanta, Kandahar, Fes, Islamabad, Peshawar. I hear some of them closed.”

  “Jesus,” Rockford said. With the blunt end of his toothpick he began to clean beneath his fingernails. “This I can get from Google. Talk about the nuclear connection.”

  “Is there one?”

  On the wall monitor, Shawn saw the vice president turn his expressionless gaze on a CCTV camera. Deep underground, chilled by that saurian stare, Shawn was thankful for the distance between himself and the man who now ran his country.

  Rockford checked the time. “You’re looking for this Iranian guy. Osmani. Why?”

  “Mr. Abbasi asked me to find him.”

  “Again, why?”

  Shawn said, “Osmani has some documents, some information, Abbasi wants. Let me ask a question, Mr. Rockford. Who is holding Osmani?”

  “Only one of us asks questions,” Rockford said. “Right now, it’s not you.”

  He checked the time, then stood, about to leave.

  Shawn said, “What are you doing, Mr. Rockford? I mean, for me?”

  Rockford paused. “I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” he said. “As of this meeting I’m revoking your clearance. Putting you on a watch list. Suspected terrorist sympathizer.”

  “You’re what?” Shawn blurted. “You know what this means? Every time I take a plane I get some little pissant clerk dicking me around for two hours—”

  “You start helping your uncle,” said Rockford, opening a door on the far side of the room, “Uncle starts helping you.” />
  Shawn stood. Moving fast, he went to the same door. He was stopped by a small British policeman with the pink-cheeked face of a choirboy. This uniformed cherub held a Glock 17. It was not, Shawn knew, a particularly accurate weapon.

  Shawn was ill-tempered. “Sonny,” he said, “I made a resolution, I won’t take another human life. Not in this incarnation. But I tell you, kid, you even twitch, you’re an exception.”

  “Believe it,” Bobby told the tiny officer. He nodded at Shawn. “Marines’ top shot.”

  The diminutive angel lowered his Glock.

  “Good thinking,” Shawn said. “Bobby, thanks a bunch. Totally wasting my morning. Getting me on a watch list. Let’s go. Walk me back to the chopper.”

  Near the mouth of the stone-walled servants’ tunnel, Bobby paused. He said, “Shawn, I’ve known you a long time. You’re a patriotic guy. Why are you not worried about Paki nukes? We worked on this, did we not? It was your bag, your group. You tracked A. Q. Khan. Started NukePro. You were the go-to guy.”

  “I was,” Shawn said. “For a while. Look how that ended.”

  * * *

  Shawn’s Nuclear Proliferation Group was born in New York, in the summer of 2001. It was a time when he found it hard getting out of bed; even harder getting to work in the mornings. His wife had moved to an English village. Martha left Shawn to decide whether or not he’d follow her. In Manhattan, Shawn’s mistress, Ellen, was losing interest. When they’d first met—while her billionaire husband was out of town—Ellen magically shed her own clothes while, at the same time, undressing Shawn. She’d have them both naked in moments. That was then. Now, when Shawn wanted her, Ellen spent time in one of her several bathrooms, doing God knows what, while Shawn lay unclothed and horny in her husband’s king-sized bed.

  As if a wife and mistress weren’t enough, Shawn had other concerns: anxieties that kept him awake. Money, debts, and work. Work in particular preyed on him. Though no one had yet spoken the words, Shawn knew he was slipping down the Agency’s promotion ladder.