The Prisoner's Wife (10 page)

Shawn's height was part of the problem. Short-legged, low to the ground, Wallace could turn on a dime; twice he left Shawn flat on his face in nettles and clover.

The second time Shawn stood, testing his limbs, he saw Danielle. Today she wore oversized shorts, cinched in at the waist and turned up at the cuffs, and a hunting shirt—all borrowed, he guessed, from someplace in the house. She made this unlikely outfit look good. She leaned on his field gate, laughing, the fears of the night forgotten. Seeing her took Shawn back to meeting her, falling for her, in a Paris apartment. Seemed longer ago than it was.

Limping a little from his last fall, he walked to the fence. “This is amusing?”

“Mmm. It is. Don't stop.” She had her hand over her mouth now, trying not to laugh out loud. “Myself, I bet on the sheep.”

“Come to the house,” he said. “I'll make breakfast.”

“When I'm done.” She was back on the bridle path, ready to run. “Good luck, catching her.”

“Him.”

“Sorry.” She shrugged. “I have trouble with sex.”

She waved and moved away, loping through long grass.

Moments later, she was on the hill, climbing toward Shawn's beech wood. He opened the gate and watched Danielle scale a leaf-strewn slope, moving at an easy pace.

The warm air chilled. For an art historian, he thought, this was one remarkably fit girl.

Shawn guessed he could match that pace for a quarter mile, not more. Once, he'd run for miles without breaking a sweat. In the marines, it was part of his training. No longer. Time catching up. He should start jogging again. In Virginia, in the Agency, he ran every morning. Not here; not now.

Heading back to the house, thinking of Danielle, Shawn found Martha's cat bouncing through the grass beside him. It was the first time he'd owned a cat. He kept an eye out for Miss Mop's enemy—a ginger tom, a mangy barrel-chested beast.

Last winter, the tom came nightly through the cat door. It sprayed the curtains, ate Mop's food, found the little cat in her basket, and attacked her. For days afterward, the little cat was sad and still, refusing to play.

Shawn was alone that season, the first time in his adult life. He unpacked a hunting rifle and sat all of a summer evening by the attic window. In his last job, as a marksman, he'd been in the top percentile: one shot, one kill. He reckoned he could still take out a moving cat, but that didn't seem neighborly. Not for a man who'd recently moved to a small, close-knit English village. Shawn waited until he saw the tom edge through rushes and iris around his lake. He fired three times—one shot to the left, one to the right, and one over the tom's head. The shots came close. The cat skulked behind a bust of Venus and scanned the garden for gunmen. Giving up, it scuttled, belly to ground, for the cover of trees.

Shawn sent one more shot shaving the cat's left shoulder as it went over the flint wall skirting his wood. He didn't doubt there'd be another round. Like the Taliban, like the Terminator, this cat would be back.

*   *   *

Now Henry Thackeray, Shawn's gardener, stood at the kitchen door, waiting.

“Problem, Mr. Maguire?”

“Three problems,” Shawn said. “Sheep. Washing machine. Hawks.”

The hawks—magnificent birds—were killing Shawn's doves, which had until now lived peacefully in a whitewashed cote by the lake. That was before the peregrines came. These hawks hung over the hills behind the house, drifting, planing, circling on westerly winds, swooping at speed on Shawn's doves. They took the white birds on the wing, without pause, bearing bloodied bodies away. They killed one dove a day.

Henry sighted along his forefinger.

“Shoot the bastards.” He meant the peregrines. “You could.” Since he'd seen Shawn's target practice—picking pine cones one by one from a Douglas fir—Henry respected his employer's marksmanship.

“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, same 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?”