Batta and Baraq were a hundred meters away by then. The horse thrashed like a mustang, trying to throw Batta and break for Turkey. Batta leaned low into his neck and hung on. Finally, Baraq calmed, and Batta nudged him to the pickup. Mahmoud rooted in the truck as his brother and Girol watched.
“Daesh?” Ajmad said.
“Nam.”
“Maybe not.” Mahmoud came out of the truck with a black, hard-sided suitcase. He unlatched the locks and flipped the case open. Hundreds of pill bottles of all sizes were stuffed inside. Mahmoud opened one, poured tiny white pills onto his palm.
“Captagon.”
Captagon sounded like it belonged in a sci-fi novel. But it was real, a type of amphetamine popular in the 1970s before the United States outlawed it as overly addictive. It continued to be used in the Middle East. Militias in Syria produced it in underground labs. Despite its supposedly anti-drug stance, the Islamic State profited from the trade.
“Smugglers.” Mahmoud sounded irritated. “We didn’t need to shoot them.”
“Maybe.” Batta led him and the others around the pickup to the flag holder attached on the driver’s side. “You said they didn’t know about that cut.”
“If they were looking for us, they would have had ten trucks. Not one.”
Or maybe the Islamic State wouldn’t have risked sending ten trucks into Kurdish territory. Maybe it would have sent one, with guys who could have passed as smugglers. Or were smugglers. But of course if the jihadis had somehow learned the CIA was sending a team into Raqqa, why intercept them here? Why not wait?
Mahmoud was right. This encounter had been coincidence. Probably. Maybe. Batta wondered if they should search the pickup, check for identification or phones, but he wanted to move before they bumped into anyone else.
“You want to go back, Kareem?” Mahmoud’s voice had an edge, like Batta was a coward even for considering the possibility.
Dumb question. Of course he wanted to go back. He looked at Girol. “How are you on ammo?”
“No worries.” Girol nodded at the bodies in the truck bed. “They can spare theirs.”
“What do you think?”
Girol shrugged. He didn’t answer those questions.
Batta looked at Mahmoud, knew that, right or wrong, he couldn’t back down in the face of the smuggler’s certainty. “We’ll talk about it in Ain Issa.” Knowing they wouldn’t, that he’d made his choice.
They left the truck and the bodies and mounted up and rode south, every stride of their horses bringing them closer to the black hole.
1
NORTH CONWAY, NEW HAMPSHIRE
JOHN WELLS had never expected to fall in love again.
She was the most beautiful girl he could imagine: tall, brown-eyed, a dimple in her chin and a ballerina’s legs.
Her name was Emmie.
She was two.
—
WELLS HAD ENDED his last mission with a shattered wrist and an itch to go to ground in western Montana, a town called Hamilton. Where the plains met the mountains. Where he’d grown up. He’d barely seen it in twenty-five years. His parents were dead. His friends from high school had moved to Missoula or Seattle. But Wells didn’t miss the people. He missed the narrow trails off the logging roads, the streams that pooled beneath granite ledges, the firs that cooled the valleys even on summer’s hottest days. He’d grown up in those mountains, hunted deer with his father. Learned to track and kill.
Learned to kill, and put the lessons to good use. For twenty years, Wells had lived in the shadow world, as an operative and then a freelancer for the CIA. Messy would be the best word to describe his career, blood-splatter messy. But like the United States itself, he had survived his mistakes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with brown eyes that seemed warmer than they were and a tight, quiet mouth.
On his first day in Hamilton, he bought a two-room cabin in the Sawtooths, twenty miles from town, no electricity or running water, a mile off the nearest dirt road. A hunting shack. But a stream ran through the property and it was summer. Wells would worry about winter when winter came.
The best thing about the place was that he couldn’t get cell service. No phone, no Internet, no way for anyone to touch him. He passed the summer hiking, fishing, remembering how to survive in the woods. Born Christian, Wells had converted to Islam more than fifteen years before, as he lived with al-Qaeda jihadis in the Hindu Kush. His belief had ebbed and flowed over the years. Now it was waning again. God seemed everywhere in these mountains, prayer almost irrelevant. Wells felt an animism overtaking him, a mystic belief in the goodness of nature, that would last only until the first snow. His old friends in Afghanistan would have called him an apostate and cut off his head. But they would have cut off his head for a hundred reasons.
Every couple of weeks, he drove into Hamilton to pick up supplies, check emails, call his son, Evan. He was in a camping store on one of those trips, looking for a sleeping bag warm enough to last the fall, when his phone buzzed.
A 603 code. New Hampshire. Which could only mean Anne, his ex. They’d lived together in a farmhouse in the woods outside North Conway, a hundred forty miles north of Boston. She was a cop turned detective for the state police. She was smart and tough, and understood that Wells carried his secrets in a vault that even he couldn’t open. Almost a year before, Wells had proposed. Anne turned him down. He loved the field more than any woman, she said. He tried to argue, but he knew she was right. They had spoken only once since.
Seeing her number surprised him. The excitement he felt surprised him more. He couldn’t imagine her telling him she’d changed her mind. She was the opposite of fickle. The idea that she’d call for a casual chat was even more far-fetched. Had his world somehow touched hers? Had someone found her, threatened her?
Maybe the answer was simpler. She was getting married, wanted him to know.
“Anne?”
“John.”
“This is a surprise.” He didn’t know what to say next. He wanted to apologize for not calling her, but he feared he would sound self-justifying and lame. I wanted to give you space. “How are you?” The most banal of questions.
“I’m fine.” She seemed uncertain. Unusual for her. She’d never had trouble telling him what she thought.
“Is Tonka okay?” he finally said. Their dog. Anne had custody.
She laughed. “Tonka’s indestructible . . . John, we need to talk.”
“Sure.”
“In person. You in D.C.?”
“Montana. What’s wrong, Anne?”
Behind her, Wells heard the high, plaintive squeal that couldn’t be confused with any other sound. An infant’s wail. And he knew.
—
THE NEXT DAY, at the farmhouse in North Conway, she told him she was sure she’d conceived their final time together. “I remember,” he said. The night after she turned down his proposal. They’d both known it might be the last hurrah. They’d been aggressive, almost desperate. She had closed her eyes at the end and squeezed his biceps so tightly, the marks hadn’t faded for days.
“Yeah. Pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?”
“You want a medal? I guess you got one.”
Anne told him she had never even considered an abortion. She wanted children, and she had watched too many of her friends struggle to get pregnant to give this one up, even if she had to raise the baby alone.
“There’s a new OB group in Conway, bunch of doctors, I figured it was closer and I’d need regular visits. I’m barely in the door, say I’m pregnant, the first thing the tech says, Is this baby desired? Like, You like this sweater or should I put it back on the shelf? . . . This baby desired? Is that really the relevant question? This baby’s a baby. I guess some women say no. I went back to Dr. Gordon.”
“Can I hold her?” Wells said. Emmie was barely
a month old, round-faced and chubby-fingered and pushing out her tongue like a third lip, streaks of brown hair plastered to her head. After the briefest hesitation, Anne handed her over. Wells was shocked how insubstantial she seemed in his hands, how in need of protection. She blinked at him and shook her arms wildly.
“She likes you.”
“You say that to everyone.”
“Yes.”
“She’s perfect.”
“In case you’re wondering, there’s a hundred percent chance she’s yours.”
“I wasn’t wondering.” Wells had known immediately. From the cast of Emmie’s eyes, the faint tint of her skin, the ease he felt with her.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, John. But when she got here, I realized I had to. For her, not for you. She deserves to know you . . . This has nothing to do with us getting back together, by the way.”
“I know.”
Anne didn’t say anything. Wells realized she’d wanted him to disagree, he shouldn’t have dismissed the prospect so quickly. The baby whimpered and pushed her head against his chest.
“She wants milk,” Anne said.
Wells handed her back. Anne lifted her shirt, no modesty in front of him, maybe her way of reminding him of what they had once been.
“I can help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“If you’ll let me. I have money, Anne.” Far more than he needed.
“What, you rob a bank?”
“I told the President to give me ten million dollars and he did.” A story that sounded like a lie but wasn’t. “I gave half to the shelter where we got Tonka.”
“That’s where that came from. Should have known.”
They were at the scratched wooden table in the farmhouse’s kitchen, the autumn sun streaming through the window, casting long shadows. Fall in New Hampshire was tricky. Sunny days seemed almost gentle, but the nights came on fast, with teeth.
“I’ll get a place here. Whatever you want.”
“Until the phone rings. Some mission where only John Wells can save the world. I’m amazed the sun rises every day without you to cart it around.”
“I learned my lesson with Evan.” Wells had missed his son’s childhood and adolescence. He had worked to rebuild the relationship, but he knew that Evan would never see him as a real father.
“Just don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”
He’d learned that lesson, too.
—
HE RENTED a furnished apartment a few miles away, a charmless one-bedroom condo near the North Conway outlet malls. He had to admit that the first couple of weeks were a chore, not much for him to do but change diapers and watch Emmie breast-feed. But Anne went back to the staties when Emmie was three months old, and Wells had the chance to take care of his daughter. A stay-at-home dad. He heard her first word—which was neither Dada or Mama but dog. Saw her take her first step. She transfixed him. He had been a professional liar and killer for so long that he had forgotten he could be anything else. But Emmie knew nothing about him except that he picked her up and read to her and tossed her in the air. He loved her long eyelashes, the way she wiped her nose on Tonka’s fur, her giggles when he held her upside down. He loved everything about her.
Meanwhile, the world he’d left behind, the world of secrets and lies, spun on. Wells watched in horror and amusement as his old boss Vinny Duto won the presidency going away. Duto was the former CIA director, a man who’d saved Wells’s life more than once. But Wells neither liked nor trusted Duto. If the man had any principles other than a Nixonian love of power, Wells couldn’t find them. On Election Night, Wells watched Duto’s victory speech with bleary eyes, wondering how Duto had fooled the country.
Or maybe he hadn’t. He hadn’t tried to hide his edges. He was a throwback. Like Nixon or Johnson or even Truman, he promised tough leadership for an unforgiving world. During the final presidential debate, Rachel Maddow asked Duto if he had overseen “extralegal activities” at the CIA.
“Yes.”
“You admit breaking the law, Senator?” Duto had become a senator from Pennsylvania after leaving the agency.
“I just did.”
“More than once.”
“More times than I can count.”
“You were involved with rendition—”
“Wiretapping, assassinations, all of it.”
“Shouldn’t that disqualify you for the White House?”
“The choices I made, I’d make them again tomorrow. I did what I did to keep America safe. America and Americans. My conscience is clear.”
“You have no doubts.”
“If I did, I’d never share them with you. I don’t much care what you think, Rachel. You can’t understand that, too bad. I’ll take my chances with the people out there.”
I don’t much care what you think, Rachel sealed Duto’s victory. He went from one point down to five points ahead and never looked back. Now he had the power he’d always wanted. Wells wondered what he’d do with it.
A few days later, Wells’s phone buzzed. The code was 703 this time. Virginia. Wells was out on a walk with Emmie and Anne. He hated to take calls while he was with them, but he supposed he could make an exception for the President-elect.
“Vinny.” They hadn’t spoken since Wells went to Montana.
“I won’t ask if you voted for me. Respect the secrecy of the ballot.”
Duto sounded high to Wells. High on victory.
“No way.”
“I want to invite you down for January”—the Inauguration. “My personal guest. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Have to rub my face in your coronation. “I’m trying to atone for that.”
Duto went silent. “You change your mind, I’m here,” he finally said. “Maybe a tour of the West Wing—”
“Good luck, Vinny.”
Wells hung up. He had barely tucked away his phone when it buzzed again. Another Virginia number. Ellis Shafer, Wells’s old boss at the agency. They had fallen out near the end of Wells’s last mission. But Wells still trusted Shafer more than anyone else, with the possible exception of Anne. Shafer was clever always, wise sometimes. His sharp tongue had infuriated decades of agency executives.
“How’s Emmie?”
“Awesome. Is it a coincidence that you’re calling me five minutes after Vinny?”
“Our little boy, all growed up and president now. I’m so proud of him.”
“Let me guess. He invited you to the Inaugural. And you’re going.”
“Maybe I am. It’ll be fun, John. You remember what fun is?”
“You want to hang out with a bunch of rich guys in tuxedos.”
“It doesn’t mean you have to be secretary of commerce. It’s a once-in-four-years party and we’ll be VIPs. Up close with Jennifer Lawrence.”
“Jennifer Lawrence isn’t interested, Ellis. She sees enough slobbering old men in her day job.”
“Ask your girlfriend—”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Your baby mama. Whatever. Bring Emmie, tell her Grandpa Ellis wants to meet her.”
“Grandpa what?”
Anne looked at Wells, silently giving him the Pay attention to your kid, who do you think you are, being on the phone? stink eye.
“Gotta go, Ellis. Tell Jennifer Lawrence I said hi.”
Wells wanted to ask Anne what she thought. But he feared she would agree with Shafer, tell him that his silent protest made no difference, that—Inaugural tickets or not—he would jump if Duto called with a mission. So he didn’t.
—
TWO MONTHS LATER, they sat in the living room, fire roaring, snow cascading, Emmie napping, a picture-postcard New Hampshire January. They watched Duto swear to defend the nation and give a grim yet resolute Inaugural Add
ress: We will not shirk our challenges. That’s not my way. It’s not the American way. Together, we will face them. Overcome them. We will lead the world, because our leadership makes the world a safer and better place. Thank you. God bless you. And God bless America.
“How does it feel to have the President on speed dial?”
“Anyone even have speed dial anymore?”
She laughed. “You’ve been good up here. You’re a better dad than I thought you’d be.”
“That’s pretty much the definition of a backhanded compliment.”
“But I know it won’t last. And I want to tell you, it’s okay. When the call comes—”
“No one’s calling. If they do, I’m not answering.”
She leaned close, hugged him. “Shush. I want this little girl to have a brother.” She touched her hands to his face, kissed him hard and deep. And led him to the bed that they had once shared.
—
A YEAR PASSED, and part of another, and nothing changed. Anne got pregnant, but she miscarried. The world seemed to have forgotten Wells.
Then it remembered.
Even now, Anne sent him back to his apartment every night. She said seeing him in the house in the morning would confuse Emmie. Wells didn’t think Emmie was the one who’d be confused, but he didn’t argue. So he was alone when his phone buzzed him from a nerveless sleep. A mysterious number, led by a country code he didn’t recognize. An unknown country, a 2 a.m. call.
Wells knew picking up would lead him down the rabbit hole.
“This is John.”
“John Wells?” The voice carried the slurred consonants and long vowels of Eastern Europe. “Oleg Kirkov. From Bulgaria. Remember me?”
“How could I forget?” Though Wells didn’t remember Kirkov sounding quite so movie villain–ish. Kirkov ran the Bulgarian intelligence service. At least he had three years ago, when he helped Wells escape a tough spot by picking him up on the Black Sea coast. Inevitably, Duto had arranged the favor. “How’s Bulgaria?”
“So rich that soon Greeks come to us instead of the other way around.”
The Prisoner Page 3