Khoury glances toward the kitchen, then pitches his voice low so as not to be heard from there. “All right. I must trust you.”
“That would be good, yeah.”
Khoury hesitates, then he begins. “You have to understand. There are still some people in my country who regard me as a traitor.”
“Why?”
Khoury looks at Keller. “When your country invaded mine, everyone in my government tried to deny what was happening. We were going to repulse the invaders.”
“The mother of all battles,” Keller said. “I remember.”
Khoury nods. “Well, some of us saw what was coming. We…provided information to the Americans.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “We collaborated. To save ourselves and our families.”
Keller thinks about that. “So, these people who are after you. They’re people pissed at you because you sold out Saddam?”
Khoury looks down as if ashamed. “Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
Khoury looks up, angry again. “What did you say to me?”
“Spare me,” Keller snaps. “The people who supported Saddam ended up either in some overseas exile or at the end of a rope. They’re definitely not living and working here. Try again, Mr. Khoury.”
Khoury stares at Keller for along moment, eyes hard. “Fine,” he says. This time, he doesn’t break eye contact. “There is a large sum of money involved.”
Keller nods. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
THIRTY-TWO
“Wow,” Meadow says. “Sounds like the singer’s throwing up in a trash can.”
“I like it,” Ben says defensively. He’s sitting back against the headboard and she’s lying back, her head in his lap. The miniature stereo nestled on his bookshelves is blasting his latest metal obsession.
“I like it, too.” Francis looks up from the floor, where he’s building something complicated with his Legos.
“You tell her, buddy.” Ben smiles at him.
Meadow blows them both a raspberry. She looks up at Ben. “So, you going to call her?” She can feel him tense.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Do it now.” She sits up and smiles at him. “It’s the perfect time.”
“I don’t know.” He looks down. “She might be eating dinner.”
“Buk. Buk. Bucaw!” She flaps her arms in a clumsy imitation of a chicken.
Francis laughs with delight. “Bucaw,” he echoes, flapping his arms, but widely, more like a seagull.
Meadow laughs and slips down off the bed to sit cross-legged beside Francis. “Whatcha building, buddy?” As Francis begins a long and detailed explanation, Meadow looks at Ben and puts her index finger to her ear, pinky by her chin. “Call her,” she mouths.
Ben sighs. There’s no escaping Meadow when she has a bug up her ass like this. He takes out his phone and dials the number she’s given him for Alia Khoury.
THIRTY-THREE
Alia has just put the harissa, a stew made of leftover chicken and coarsely ground wheat, on the stove when her phone chirps. She glances at it, recognizes the number Meadow gave her earlier, and smiles. Then she casts a worried glance at Bassim, who’s slicing bread on the counter. She ducks out the door of the kitchen and bows her head as she answers. “Hello?”
“Hey. Ah. Alia?”
“Hi, Ben.” She tries to make her voice sound as welcoming as possible without sounding too eager. “How are you?”
“Um. Fine.” There’s a long and painful silence. “So,” Ben says finally. “We need to pick a team for the science fair. Have you joined up with anyone yet?”
Like that’s going to happen. “No. Not yet.”
“So…” Ben begins, then stops. Alia waits. Finally, Ben speaks. “Meadow—you know her as Melissa—and I. We’ve teamed up. We need a third. Would you like to, you know…”
She jumps in. “Yes, Ben. I’d love to join you two.”
“Awesome.” Ben sounds so relieved that Alia stifles a laugh. This awkward-but-cute thing, she thinks, could get old fast. But for the moment, she’s willing to go along with it. After all, what other friends does she have? “Shall we meet after Chemistry class? I have a free period then.”
“Yeah. Okay. Um. See you then.”
“See you then.” She ends the call and shakes her head.
Bassim interrupts her thoughts by popping into the hallway where Alia’s fled for privacy. “Sooooo,” he says brightly. “Who was that on the phone?”
She drops back into Arabic. “Shut up, Bassim.”
“Was it Ben? I bet it was Ben.”
“I swear,” she grates, still speaking in Arabic, “one of these days, I am going to strangle you.”
He puffs himself up and shakes his finger at her like one of the imams back home. “You must not swear,” he says in a pompous voice, “it is un-Islamic.”
Despite herself, she laughs. “Come on. We need to get dinner on the table.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“Oooh,” Meadow says. “So suave.” She pronounces it “swave,” but with a smile in her voice.
“Shut up,” Ben mumbles.
“Ben’s got a girlfriend, Ben’s got a girlfriend,” Francis sings out.
Meadow picks up a Lego and tosses it at him, laughing and careful to miss. “You stay out of this, Pintsize.”
Francis laughs and dodges away, even though the little plastic block is nowhere near his head. “Ben’s got a—”
He’s interrupted as the door opens and Marie sticks her head in. “Boys, dinner’s on the table.” She notices Meadow on the bed. “Oh. Hello, Melissa.”
“Mom, can Meadow stay for dinner?” Ben leans on the name the girl prefers.
“Yeah, Mom,” Francis speaks up.
Marie frowns. “I only made enough pork chops for us. Sorry.”
“That’s no problem,” Meadow says. “I’m a vegetarian.”
“She can have my vegetables,” Francis offers.
Marie sighs. “Okay. Sure. But, Francis, you will be eating your own veggies.”
“Aww…”
But Marie’s gone.
“I don’t think she likes me very much,” Meadow observes.
“She will,” Francis says. “Once she gets to know you.” He sounds so full of confidence, so like a little adult, that Ben and Meadow both laugh.
“C’mon, little man,” Ben says. “Let’s go eat.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“So,” Keller says. “A lot of USAID money went missing. Almost a billion. In cash. I remember reading about that. And there are people who took it who think you took it from them.”
Khoury nods. “That sums it up.” He looks around, gesturing at the modest house where he and his family live. “But look. Do I look like a man who’s sitting on a billion dollars?”
Keller shrugs. “Who knows? Whitey Bulger was caught living in a shitty condo in California.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. I still think you’re lying. But we’re getting closer to the truth.” Keller stands up, walks to the living room window, and raises the mini-blinds to have a look outside. “And the CIA keeps moving you from place to place.”
Khoury’s face darkens. “I am not moving again. I am sick of running.”
“Okay. Fine. I get that. I’ve done some running, too.” He smiles thinly. “It didn’t suit me. So I’ll do what I can to help.”
Khoury eyes him suspiciously. “I suppose you will want more money.”
“No, I’m good. I’m glad for the pay, mind you. But you know what? I like those kids of yours.”
The frown deepens. “You do?”
“Yeah. Alia? She was scared out of her wits this afternoon. But went and got that gun because she was ready to do anything to protect herself and her brother. And then she looked me in the eye and dared me to tell her she was wrong. That little girl’s a warrior, Mr. Khoury.”
Khoury mutters someth
ing in Arabic.
“What?” Keller says.
Khoury looks at him. “I said she is like her mother in that way.”
Keller nods. “And Bassim? He’s scared too, but he’s got guts. He tried to stand up for his sister and take the blame. He’s going to be a tough one himself, if you don’t beat him down.”
Khoury steps back, eyes narrowing in anger. “I do not beat my children.”
“Not what I meant. Figure of speech. Maybe it doesn’t translate well. But don’t…” He stops and sighs. “It’s not up to me to tell you how to raise your children, Mr. Khoury. But just know this. They’re good kids. Strong. Kind. You can be proud of them. Both of them.”
For a moment, it looks again as if Khoury’s iron facade is going to crack again. But he recovers himself and just nods. “Thank you. I am.”
“So, even though I’m pretty sure you’re still lying to me, I’m going to do whatever I can to protect Alia and Bassim. You need to know, Mr. Khoury, that the only thing keeping me from throwing you under the first bus that comes along is I know what it would do to those children. They think you hung the moon. But don’t mistake me, Mr. Khoury. If it comes down to a choice between them and you? That bus is waiting.”
Khoury looks at him and nods. Keller can’t help but notice the way he thrusts his chin out in defiance is an exact copy of Alia’s gesture. Or, more likely, she’s learned it from him. “I would expect nothing less. I would do anything to save my children. Anything.”
“I may just hold you to that.”
“And what about your children, Mr. Keller?”
Keller’s almost to the front door, but the words stop him in his tracks. He turns to look at Khoury. “What about them?” he says in a low, deadly voice.
“I’m just saying, Mr. Keller. There are bad people involved. Some of them are very bad indeed.”
“You’re saying they’d threaten my family.”
Khoury shrugs. “It’s possible.”
“Then all the more reason those people need to die.”
Khoury laughs scornfully, but for a moment, there’s a flash of uncertainty in his eyes, the look of a man wondering if the bars between him and the beast in the cage are quite strong enough. “You think you can deal with anything, don’t you? I tell you, these are evil men. Relentless. They will stop at nothing.”
“Good to know. But you need to know that neither will I.” He puts a hand on the doorknob. “I’m going back to my house, Mr. Khoury. You’ve given me some things to think about, and I need to make some phone calls. But I’ll be back. Sir. If you need any help in the meantime, you know where to find me.” Before Khoury can answer, he’s out the door and walking to his truck.
He has his phone out before he’s halfway there, punching the first number on his speed dial. The call goes straight to voicemail and he grits his teeth. “Marie,” he says when the outgoing message ends. “It’s Jack. I need to talk to you. As soon as possible. Call me.” He hesitates a moment before adding, “Please.” He hangs up before standing by the door of his truck. He looks up at the stars in the night sky, cold and impersonal as they look back down on him. He feels the adrenaline singing its high, sweet, keening song in his blood, feels the soft spring winds blowing on his skin. He knows that it’s a bad sign that moments like this, where he knows he’s heading for an inevitable violent collision, are still the moments when he feels most alive. It’s even more wrong to feel that way with his own son and the woman he loves possibly in the line of fire. But he can’t help it. Whatever this situation is—and he knows he still doesn’t have the whole story—he’s deep into it now. And he won’t back down.
As he thinks about the task before him, however, Keller realizes the difficulties he’s facing. There are too many soft targets here. Alia. Bassim. Add in Francis, and Ben, and even Marie, and the number of people he has to cover, to try to keep safe, becomes overwhelming. He’s only seen two threats so far, but who knows how many more people his still shadowy opposition may be able to put in the field. He knows he can count on Marie, especially where her children are concerned, but he still needs allies.
“Fuck,” he says out loud. “Wilson.” He’d blown Wilson off at the diner, but in a situation where he needs every gun, he really can’t afford to turn away possible help. He’ll just have to see if he can make the man his ally and see what resources he can bring.
THIRTY-SIX
With the beginnings of a plan in his mind, Keller gets in the truck and drives to the hotel where he’d seen Wilson earlier. The little blue car isn’t there. Keller frowns and parks in front of the unit he’d seen the Agency man coming out of. There are no lights behind the curtains. Maybe he’s checked out. There’s still a light on in the office and a VACANCY sign in the window.
A set of what look and sound like sleigh bells hanging from the door announce Keller’s presence as he enters. He can hear the sound of a television playing from a back room as he steps up to the Formica counter. There’s another bell on the counter, but Keller holds off on that one. After a short pause in which Keller hears the TV being turned down, a short, round black man with a receding hairline and a clip-on tie emerges from the back room. His plastic name badge identifies him as REGGIE. GUEST SERVICES.
“Help you?” he says, looking Keller up and down suspiciously.
“I’m looking for Ted Wilson,” Keller says, putting on what he hopes is his most ingratiating smile. “He still registered? I think he was in room 107.”
Reggie of Guest Services frowns. “You police? You don’t look like police.”
“No, no,” Keller says, “I’m just—”
“Guest register’s private. Unless you’re the police.”
“Fine,” Keller says. “But can I leave him a message?”
“Didn’t say he was here.”
“I know. But if he is still a guest here, you could get a message to him, right? Speaking hypothetically.”
The man snorts. “Hypothetically? Ain’t no hypothetically. He here or he ain’t.”
Keller resists the temptation to grab Reggie of Guest Services by the neck and throttle him. “Let me just leave a number. And if Mr. Wilson is here, give it to him. Okay?”
Reggie thinks about it for a moment, then nods grudgingly. “Ain’t sayin’ if he’s here or not. But if I see him, I’ll give him the number.”
“Thanks,” Keller says. “You got a piece of paper and something to write with?”
Reggie looks at him as if he’d asked for an assignation with his wife and daughter. Then he sighs heavily and reaches under the counter for a pad and a cheap pen.
Keller writes his name and number on the top sheet, rips it off, and hands it to Reggie. “Thanks.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for. I din’t say he was here.”
“Right,” Keller says. “Well, you have a good evening.”
“Have a blessed day,” Reggie says, then ambles back to his TV program.
Keller goes back out to his truck. He sits for a moment, then pulls out his phone. No calls. He dials Marie’s number again.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Al-Mansour is on the bed again, leaned back against the headboard, propped up with all of the pillows from both beds behind him. He’s dressed in what looks like the same bowling shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. He looks like an old man on a beach trip, but Waller wonders if he’s moved from the bed since the last time they saw him.
“So,” Al-Mansour is saying, his face an expressionless mask. “You have removed the problem of Mr. Wilson. And now you tell me there is a new problem. One requiring more resources. Do I have this right?”
The suspicion in his voice rankles Waller. “We’re not making it up, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Sir.”
Al-Mansour regards him for a moment, still not changing expression, before turning to Tench. “And your opinion?”
Tench shrugs. “There was a guy there. Armed. I saw the gun. But it was on
ly one guy.”
“Hmph.” Al-Mansour folds his plump hands across his ample belly and looks down at his feet, clad in huarache sandals. He doesn’t speak.
In the silence, Tench gives Waller an annoyed look. He doesn’t want to bring anyone else in. He’d have to co-opt them into whatever scheme he’s cooking up to double cross Al-Mansour, and conspiracies are harder to pull off the more people you bring in.
Finally, Al-Mansour speaks. “What exactly do you know about this man? This Keller?”
Waller is starting to sweat a little. “I haven’t looked at a dossier or anything. What I know is mostly what I’ve heard through the grapevine.”
“Campfire stories,” Tench says scornfully. “Boogeymen.”
Al-Mansour looks baffled. He clearly doesn’t get any of the idioms.
“Rumors and gossip,” Tench adds helpfully.
“Maybe,” Waller admits. “But some of it might be real. And if even half of it is, then this Keller is a very dangerous man. I can do some looking around. Some research.”
“There’s no time,” Tench argues, and Waller grits his teeth to see Al-Mansour nodding his head in agreement. “Look, no matter how bad-ass this guy is, he’s one man. And if we don’t try to take him face to face, it doesn’t matter how tough he is.”
“You can do this?” Al-Mansour asks.
Tench smiles. “I have just the thing.”
Al-Mansour nods. “Then do what you need to do.”
After they leave the room, Al-Mansour sighs. He’d had his misgivings about these hired guns from the beginning. They weren’t of the Faithful. He’s not a particularly religious man himself, but he understands the power of faith when it comes to manipulating warriors. These Americans only fight for money, and while it’s easy to find men who’ll kill for money, it’s never as easy to find men who’ll die for it. He’d seen in Waller’s face a fear of death that he knows no amount of money can overcome. He doesn’t know who this Keller is, but Waller is no coward. While he may think too much for a foot soldier, he’s not a man to run from shadows. This Keller, whoever he is, must be a serious opponent, requiring a serious response.
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