Calvin was back in the whitewashed room, shouting.
“Say what?” Shawn refocused.
“I said, great shot. Now give me the damn gun. The boys are going to trash it.”
Shawn passed the scope-sighted rifle to Calvin. He said, “There’s a guy down there, dwarf, standing on a bus. He saw me shoot.”
“Not the only one,” Calvin said. He pointed to Hassan, holding a small video camera. “If our Paki friend didn’t fuck up, we have us a hit movie here.” He laughed. “New star—Shawn Maguire, sharpshooter.”
Shawn saw that Bobby was back in the room. There were things he wished to say to his friend, but no words came.
Bobby said, “Shawn, terrific—pick one bad guy in a crowd. Now, move.” He pointed to the door. “We want you out.”
“Wait a minute,” Shawn said. He found his voice. He was shaking. Below him, in the square, men bent over the body of the fallen man. Beyond them, he could still see the dwarf on the bus roof, staring upward. “I have a question,” he said. “The president here—he’s still our guy? On the payroll?”
“Why?”
“Why am I asking?” Shawn pointed after the prime minister’s vanishing motorcade. “Next week, that woman’s in office.”
Bobby opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker. It was all the whisky you could buy in this town. Shawn saw that his friend, too, was shaking a little. “If she lives.”
In the square below, the crowd began to disperse. Men bore away a white-robed body.
“Okay,” Shawn said. “The lady’s in power, it’s good-bye Mr. President. Is that right?” Bobby nodded. “So you lose your man? Your asset?”
Bobby nodded.
Shawn pointed to the square. “Then why not let that guy throw the damn bomb?”
Bobby said, “You know Nashida’s flying to Rawalpindi.”
Shawn went to the basin to wash his hands and his face in cold water. He stood there for a while, turning the tap, looking at a portrait of the president, working something out. He said, “Rawalpindi. That’s ISI turf.”
Bobby poured himself a drink without offering one to Shawn. “So,” he said, “do the math. What’s it tell you?”
“Paki intelligence assassinates Nashida—”
Bobby finished his drink fast. He stood, considering whether or not to pour another. His diet allowed one measure of alcohol per day. He said, “Go figure. President has to act. Good-bye to the invisible soldiers. Good-bye ISI. We keep him, lose them.”
“And lose her,” Shawn said. “Jesus—you mean we just saved the prime minister—fuck it, I saved her—so ISI does a hit in Rawalpindi?”
Bobby shrugged. He made a decision; poured a second drink, calming his nerves.
“What kind of screwed-up deal is this?”
“I’ll tell you what kind of deal it is,” Bobby said. He came up close to Shawn, breathing whisky. “You know, I know, those guys, Inter-Service, they control nuclear production. Come on, we all know that. We leave them alone, they’ll hand out warheads all down the Arab street. Picture this, son—Khan and Co. dish out nukes like blueberry fucking muffins. Sooner or later, these things’ll get to al Qaeda.” He crossed the room and took Shawn’s arm. “We have 9/11 rerun—next time, it’s nuclear. You know what I’m saying? Small device, big enough. Good-bye New York. Adios. Hasta luego. So. Here’s the deal. We weigh, against the city of Manhattan, the life of one reasonably corrupt female politician who, we know, has already given nuclear secrets to North Korea. A woman who, if she lived, would have been prime minister of Pakistan. With all that implies for the U.S. of A.” He placed a plump hand on Shawn’s shoulder. “Moral equation, son. Above your pay grade.”
“If I go public? Talk to the press? Put this fuckup on the Web?”
Calvin was listening. “Please,” he said. “You know the answer. You won’t be alive long. You saw inside our jails. Think Cairo—think Fes. Guys hanging from hooks? Remaining time on earth, Shawn, would be deeply unhappy.”
“If I were you,” said Bobby, checking the time, and breathing deeply to help his heart, “at this point I’d get my ass out of here.” He pushed a small package into Shawn’s jacket pocket. “Something else you can do for us,” he said. “Do it for Uncle. Hold the girlfriend.”
“Danielle?”
“Indeed. We don’t want the lady leaving town. Not before we talk with her. Call me when you’ve hooked her up to something heavy.”
* * *
Going downstairs, Shawn felt weaker than he had in years. Tired now, exhausted, he rubbed a wrist across the dampness of his eyes. Leaving the stationery office, he closed its red-painted door and heard the tumblers of its electronic lock fall into place. Outside, still air swam with heat.
On a cobbled street, Shawn checked the package Bobby had given him: Agency-issue plastic handcuffs, in powder blue. He was returning them to his pocket when, behind him, a man started to scream. In Shawn’s head, the screams echoed, bouncing around his aching skull. He turned. At the end of the alley stood the tiny wild-bearded man he’d seen, minutes before, on a bus roof in the crowded square. Now the dwarf ran—still screaming, arms waving—at the head of a white-robed mob.
Their wild cries—Allahu akbar—counterpointed the midget’s howl.
For a moment, Shawn considered the Makarov he carried, thought of backing into a doorway, shooting it out, and knew, in the same moment, that dog wouldn’t hunt.
Not with these men, these numbers.
Turning, he ran, stumbling down a rug-lined alley, praying the crowd had cleared. Glancing back, he saw that the stump-legged dwarf moved with surprising speed, still screaming as he ran. From behind him men fired shots: .303 was Shawn’s guess. Hard to be accurate when you run with a long-barreled gun. Which might not matter, Shawn thought, as he searched for an exit. In this place, there were other ways of ending a life.
Already, he was slowing, limping, his breathing hard in the heat, legs still pained from the knife attack in Fes. At this rate, within minutes, the zealots would have him, and then—Jesus God, what then? Not something you want to think about.
In the dust and humid air Shawn struggled for breath. His throat’s lining burned; his lungs were on fire.
Glancing back, not watching his feet, Shawn collided with a smoking brazier. Tipping, it strewed burning coals and kebabs across the pebbled street. From somewhere, a woman wailed. Shawn turned his head toward her and fell forward into a shallow excavation: a reeking pit of Peshawar’s ancient pipework.
Shawn picked himself up to run again, ducking at the sound of another shot, knowing as he did that the shot you hear is not the shot that kills you.
High over rooftops, an onion dome swam in aureoles of evening light, stirring memories of a conversation somewhere, sometime, with someone—
Then he knew. Staggering, fighting the pain in his legs, Shawn ran through a maze of unpaved paths toward the golden mosque. Gasping for air, turning down a litter-strewn alley, he collided with the solid frame of Alfred Burke.
“Hey, hey,” said Alfred, stepping back. With sudden violence, he pulled Shawn through a wood-framed arch, closing nail-studded doors behind them both. “Hold your horses, son.”
Shawn was listening to sounds in the alley. In silence, the handyman led the way through the empty rooms of a derelict structure that might once have been a riad. The building’s walls were holed, its floors littered with shards of concrete, deep in dust. The only domestic objects were barbells leaning against a stuffed and brindled feline on a high marble plinth. The wildcat’s fur had been eaten away by whatever eats fur. It made the thing look mangy. In its mouth, it held a fish.
“Came with the house,” said Alfred, nodding at the animal. “It’s a fishing cat.”
Shawn turned to look at him.
“Does what it says on the tin. Swims rivers. Catches fish.”
Alfred shoved Shawn forward when he wished to stop. In a walled garden of dying cactus, the two men paused.
Alfred watched
as Shawn tried to regain his breath. He said, “You look like shit.” He raised a thumb. “Heard what happened. Nice bit of shooting. Take out a raghead, middle of a crowd. Seriously doubt I could do that.”
“He was a bomber.”
Alfred nodded. “They told me. Any of these meshuggeneh see where you’re shooting from?”
Faintly now, Shawn heard high-pitched screams. “One did.” He pointed back toward the alley. “Fucking dwarf. That’s him you’re hearing.”
Alfred laughed. “Dwarf?” he said. “Dwarf? You serious?”
Shawn nodded.
“You pick ’em, don’t you?” Alfred renewed his grip on Shawn’s arm. “Right, mate. Move.”
Within a mud-brick outbuilding, Alfred opened the door of a rusty dark-windowed Lada and pushed Shawn into the shotgun seat. As his legs bent beneath him, Shawn grunted in pain.
Taking his time, the handyman eased himself into the car’s driving seat, his joints stiff. On one knee, he set an aging—but, Shawn guessed, still functional—.38 Smith and Wesson.
Shawn’s breathing slowed. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Christ,” he said. “How the hell could I do that? What the fuck possessed me?”
“Do what, exactly?”
“You know what happened. I killed a man back there.”
“Well,” said Alfred, “you’re not the first. Cain, for instance. In the Bible.”
They sat in silence awhile, listening to the distant sounds of the street.
Shawn wiped away sweat; tried to breathe deeper; tried to still the beating of his heart.
“We’re driving?”
Alfred shook his head. “Not right this moment,” he said. He tapped the dashboard. “You’re wondering about the motor. What can I tell you? Blends in. Ragheads drive this crap.” He tapped the glass and shrugged. “They like black windows. Fine. Suits me.”
Shawn nodded, thinking this through.
“Let’s say I forgot you lived by the mosque.”
Alfred shrugged. “What’s it you carry?”
“Nine-mil Makarov.”
“Cap gun,” said Alfred. “Water pistol.” He considered Shawn. “My guess, son, you’d be brown bread by now. Bits of you messing up my street.” He paused a while, then said, “Something else you want to think on. They told me, take you out.”
“Who told you?”
“Who d’you suppose?” asked Alfred. He pointed east. “Your mate McCord. Didn’t ask directly, mind you. Troublesome priest kind of thing.” His tombstone grin. “I got the message.”
Shawn was fighting sleep. He forced his eyes open, eying the pistol on Alfred’s knee. “And?”
“Be honest,” said Alfred, “I thought about it. Thought, no. Told you, I’m too old for this game. You, too, way you was running.” He paused, then said, “Plus, I’m reading about Jesus.”
“You’re Jewish,” Shawn said.
“Just because I don’t believe he’s the son of God,” said Alfred, “don’t mean I ignore him. I read he was dead against killing. Jesus, I mean. Not God.”
“I’ve never been religious,” Shawn said, “but that sounds right.”
Alfred mused for a moment. “Owes me money,” he said finally. “Mr. McCord does.”
“Problem,” said Shawn.
“For him,” said Alfred. He was turning something over in his mind. “Being against killing don’t mean I give up altogether.”
They sat in silence awhile, until Alfred started the car. “Here’s what we’re doing,” he said. “I drive you back to that shithole where you’re staying. You go inside, grab an hour shuteye, so you don’t go banging in the fucking furniture. Then you’re out the door.”
Alfred pulled the Lada from the outbuilding to the street. He drove with care along the Qissa Khawani Bazaar. Through darkened windows, he watched the thinning crowd. Men made their slow way home, awakening in Shawn memories of his own home. Memories of Martha.
“Told you,” said Alfred, “didn’t I? You stay here, someone sure as shit’s going to slot you. Bet on it. If it’s not your buddies, it’s the towelheads. One or the other.” He nodded at passing men. “Silly bastards out there, barking at the moon. Plus,” he said, “these days, I get the feeling, whatever God these guys pray to, someone round here’s about to feel His wrath.”
Against his wishes, Shawn’s eyes were closing. “If it was you, where would you go?”
“Like you told Mr. Abbasi,” Alfred said, “before he was taken. Spend time in Cuba. Take the bird. Miss Baptist, whatever her name is.”
Catching his breath, Shawn rolled down the darkened car window.
Alfred looked across the car. “Christ. You do want to die, don’t you? Roll the fucker up.”
Outside the Indus Grand Comfort Hotel, the handyman pulled the Lada to the sidewalk, killing the engine.
Shawn pointed back the way they’d come. “The Agency,” he said. “What’ll happen?”
“To Mr. McCord?” asked Alfred. “Believe me, none of your business.” He pointed toward the hotel’s door. “Move your ass inside. Sleep. Then get the fuck out of town.” He restarted the Lada. “Stick around here, son, you’re ace of goddamn spades.”
* * *
Shawn climbed the darkened stair of the Grand Comfort Hotel. He had the sense of being in a building drained of life: suddenly deserted, as if by men in flight from encroaching plague. He moved slowly, his legs still heavy. He thought of the device keeping Bobby’s heart alive. His own heart beat oddly, faster than it should.
On a landing, he sat awhile on a concrete stair, wondering if he’d make it to his room. When he did, the room was hot and empty. Water ran; he guessed Danielle was in the shower. He wondered about the illness she claimed; wondered if he’d imagined her watching presence at the window overlooking the now-ruined American jail.
Sweating, Shawn shed his clothes, letting them lie where they fell, on the floor by the bed. He was too tired to care. Exhausted, drained, he fell to the bare mattress and lay on his back, watching patterns of what might be blood move on the ceiling’s whitewash. He saw shapes shift, mutate, fade—now sinister, now benign. Once he saw a severed head. He closed his eyes, shutting out light, hoping sleep might erase the vision of red on a white robe; a man he’d killed sinking in a human sea. A bundle that might be a baby, or might be a bomb, tossed hand to hand, until it, too, sank in the sea.
A distant explosion shook the hotel. Flakes of ceiling plaster fell on Shawn. In his mind, the assassin’s face became the face of Nashida Noon. Weeping, burning, dying, she was transformed into naked dreams of Danielle. Who came naked from the shower, standing by the bed, watching this sleeping man and then stretching on the bed beside him. Her body a blessing, a benediction.
Dazed by dreams, unwilling to wake, Shawn lay awhile in her arms, his head between her breasts. There was something in his mind; some half-remembered … something he should—
“Nashida,” he whispered, “Nashida Noon—we ought to—” She bent close to hear him. “They might—”
Quietly then, she said it was over. “It’s on the radio. Nashida’s dead.” She drew him closer to her naked body. “In Rawalpindi—a plane crash—”
“Jesus God. Too late.”
“Did your people?” she asked. “Did they do that?”
He said something inaudible. She bent her head. “Say again?”
“I said, I love you.”
Danielle raised herself, looking down at him. She kissed his closed eyes, her naked body covering his.
“Could you,” he asked, “could you live with—?”
“Is this”—she bent to touch her lips on his—“is this a proposal?”
Something had changed. He sensed it. She was tender now, more loving than he’d known her; her thighs wet, her body open to his. For a time, she touched him, looking down, her nipples, expectant, brushing his chest. The scent of soap on her skin drowned in the loamy smell of her sex.
He felt the slow shift of her body above him as
she leaned across the mattress, searching for something in the clothes he’d dropped. She knew he carried condoms; sex addicts do. Moments later, before he could tell what she had in mind, she fastened a plastic handcuff to his right wrist, the other link to a metal rail of the bed. Moving fast, she was away from him, pulling on underpants, buttoning a shirt.
He jerked his wrist against the cuff—the hopeless tug he’d seen in men who knew they faced darkness and death.
As he might.
Danielle took the short-barreled Makarov from his jacket. Watching him, she weighed the pistol in her hand. “You were going to give me to that man who hurt my husband.”
“To Calvin?” He shook his head. “No. Never to him.”
“Truly? You weren’t?” She pointed at his shackled wrist. “Why carry the cuffs?”
He said nothing. What could he say? The cuffs were for her.
She checked shells in the pistol, leveled the gun. “Why would you wish to live with me? A woman who might kill you?”
He knew then how Martha had felt, facing death. “Danielle,” he said, “I wanted—”
In truth, she was all he wanted.
“You just shot a man.”
He wondered how she could have known.
“Would your death not make things even? Eye for eye, your Bible says. A life for a life.”
Your Bible?
She put down the pistol, pulled her jeans over her hips, and slipped her feet into sneakers. She said, “I’m leaving you, Shawn. We’ll take Darius somewhere safe. Someplace he’ll be treated for what your friends did.” She brushed hair back from her face. “He’s hurt. He’s ill. He may not live.”
The Prisoner's Wife Page 25