The Prisoner's Wife (14 page)

Minutes later he called the cell phone of his protégé, Calvin McCord.

“McCord,” Shawn had said, “I know what time it is. I also know you're working for me, so get your ass out of bed, if that's where it happens to be. Go to Harlem, check these bars. They're closed, open them up. One of them has my laptop, I hope to hell.” He listened, then said, “Of course it's got classified shit on the fucking disk. You think I'd be standing here pissing my pants if it didn't?”

Shawn confirmed that Calvin had a pen and something to write on, then gave the names of three uptown bars. As it turned out, he could have saved his breath. At 3:00
A.M.
, he found his machine where he'd left it, untouched, in La Cucina, still open in the Village.

“Which,” Shawn said, “didn't stop the little mother telling Rockford I lost my laptop.”

“Come on,” said Ashley. “You were right about Afghanistan. Right about A. Q. Khan. That was enough to get you fired. You just made it easy for them.”

“You know Calvin got my job?”

Ashley said, “Of course I know. Boy done good. Wrote the speech for Colin Powell.”

This was news to Shawn. “You mean—
that
speech? United Nations? Why we had to invade Iraq?”

“That's the one.”

“But,” Shawn said, “Jesus God, it was fiction—end to end. I mean, please. Mobile labs? Armed nukes? Fucking fiction.”

“What can I tell you?” Ashley asked. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

In the shotgun seat of the Merc, with the door open, parked outside St. Perpetua's churchyard, Ashley was giggling.

“Shawn,” she said, “Shawn, you can still make me laugh. Such a gift for screwing up your own life. Coloring way, way outside the lines.” She shook her head. “Even by your standards, losing your laptop—that was a clusterfuck.”

“I'd be amused,” Shawn said, “if there was something I could do about it. My career, I mean. Something I could do to get back in the business. I guess that door's closed.”

Ashley climbed out of the car, treading carefully across the lane to the graveyard.

“You guess right,” she said. “As we speak, Calvin's locking it.”

*   *   *

Ashley knelt in sun-dappled grass by Martha's grave, arranging the flowers she'd brought. Seven shades of blue. Though Shawn had worked with her since they met in Fayetteville, Ashley had been Martha's friend more than his. The two women came together when Ash was investigating a sophisticated system of money transfers that she believed (rightly, it proved) were financing terrorist cells. Martha was a highly paid money hunter, first for Kroll and then for other firms. She led Ash through the intricacies of financial migration: the tsunami of hot and cold cash washing daily around the world. The two women worked together for months until Ashley felt ready to move on the money laundry. When she did, her boss, of course, took the credit. It was, Ash said, no more than she deserved after the trouble she'd caused the guy.

When Shawn had his own troubles with the covert-action outfit he joined after being retired from the Agency, Ash offered a shoulder to cry on, as he and Martha once did for her. Now she stood by the grave, brushing dirt from ill-fitting designer jeans, a dampness about her eyes.

“I miss her, Shawn. God, I miss her.” Sunlight through sycamores cast shifting shadows on the grass. “Such a beautiful place she's buried in. I'm sure she knows it.”

“It's what she wanted,” Shawn said. “To lie here. She told me that when she—when she knew, she kind of knew, I think, she wouldn't make it.” Ash leaned over and kissed him then, this time a sisterly kiss. “I didn't—I didn't handle it too good.” He thought back to Martha, alone in a white hospital ward. “Seeing her in bed. Those damn tubes in her body. Hickman line in her neck. Then”—he gestured around him—“you know, hearing her talk about this place. The churchyard. She just lay there, Ash. No illusions. Didn't listen to the doctors. Knew she wouldn't make it. Knew she'd die.” He paused a while, then said, “You think—I used to think—death, it's final. One minute you're here, in life, next minute, gone. Well, it's not like that. It's slow, it's rough. Messy. Real hard to bear.”

“For all of us.”

“That's the truth,” he said. “The ones who stay, the ones who go.”

Ash watched him, wondering how to respond.

“You'll think I'm crazy—some days in the house I hear her voice.”

“Martha's?”

Shawn nodded.

“That's not crazy,” Ash said. “She loved this place. She won't leave easy. She'll be with you awhile.”

They were silent then, one on each side of the grave, remembering the woman who lay between them. The churchyard was thick with wild cyclamen and flowering primrose. Late bluebells were still in bloom. The scent of jasmine drifted across the lane.

At last, Ash moved away. “I know you loved her. I'm sure you did. And yet—there's Ellen—”

“If you think love's that simple, Ash,” Shawn said, “you maybe saw the signs, but you've never been down the road.”

*   *   *

Ash was moving toward the churchyard gate, looking across the lane to the rectory. In Shawn's driveway stood a van that had painted on its side the words
SQUIRREL MAN
.

She pointed. “Does he have a name?”

“Squirrel Man? Another name? I asked him that. He said, call me Squirrel Man.”

Ash shifted her gaze to the rectory. “It's so much her house. I can't imagine you living here. Not alone.” She was watching him. “You came back, though.”

“I was out of work. You know that.”

“You would have come anyway. Martha could always beat out whoever you had over there.” She turned her gaze to Shawn's croquet lawn, which spread to the right of the house. “Is that the current squeeze?” She pointed. “On the grass?”

Shawn looked where Ashley was pointing. Danielle was on the lawn, in a deck chair, reading in the sun. She wore a bikini top and shorts. It was the first time Shawn had seen this much of her body. He felt he was getting to know the girl in stages, like one of those kids' books where you fold down sections—head, torso, loins, leg—to create complete people.

Crazy, he thought, this thing with Danielle. He should quit. Let her find the prisoner. He walked through the leaf-strewn churchyard, toward the lych-gate.

“On the lawn? That's Dani. Squeeze, no. I'm trying to get her out of my life.”

“Doesn't look like you're trying too hard,” Ashley remarked. “She's staying here?”

“Not the way you think.” He pointed to the rectory's east wing. “Separate bedroom.”

“Because?”

“Her choice. She's married. Decent girl, she says.”

Ash paused at the gate to the garden, by Squirrel Man's painted van. “What she's wearing now—does that count as decent?” She glanced sideways at Shawn. “You never learn, do you? It's always body—never brain.”

“She wasn't raised by wolves,” Shawn said. “Speaks in whole sentences. Come meet her. She's the reason you're here.”

“Really?” Ash said. “I thought you liked my company. Maybe wanted to marry me.”

“You're a wonderful friend,” Shawn said. “Could we settle for that?”

“I have friends,” Ash said. “More, I don't need.”

*   *   *

On the rectory lawn, Shawn introduced these two very different women. “Ashley Victoria Caburn, Danielle Baptiste.” Danielle unfolded herself from her canvas seat. Her skin was darkening in the pale Sussex sun. There was a narrow gap between her stomach and the belt of her shorts. “Ash works at the embassy,” Shawn said. “She has some data, might help you find Darius.”

Danielle shrugged herself into a denim shirt, which, Shawn believed, was one of his. She held a hand out to Ashley. “Enchanted.” A comprehensive gesture. “How do you like the place? Or have you seen it before?”

The garden was at its most beguiling: stephanotis flowering, cherry blossoms lingering, iris around the lake, summer foliage unfolding. Chestnuts—their leaves like open hands—learning to be trees. Bumblebees staggering from flower to flower. A faint scent of wood smoke. Somewhere, the crazy knocking of woodpeckers.

Ash lacked interest in the natural world. Falling out of love, she ate too much. Overweight, she sweated lightly in the sun. “Shawn tells me you're worried about your husband.”

“What would you think?” Danielle asked. “I mean, he is in Paris, one day he goes missing, we hear he is taken from the street. There is no word for a week. You believe I would not worry?”

Ash was impervious to anger. “You assume it's a Company heist?”

Danielle shook her head a little, catching up with this turn of the conversation. “Heist? It means—?”

“In this case, kidnap,” Shawn said. “CIA kidnap.” To Ashley he said, “Who knows? It has the marks. Foreign territory. Fast, efficient. Flown out of France, most likely. No airport record. Leaving aside whether they got the right guy.”

“Modus?”

“Paris,
quatrième.
Two men in masks, we're told: cuffs, a sap, head bag. Black car, Volvo, in this case. Drives off, direction of the airport. Prisoner in back.” He made a hypodermic gesture. “Injected, I guess.” He pointed toward the house. “Come inside. Tell us where Osmani could be. Tell us about the jails. I have maps.”

Walking across the mower-striped lawn, Ash spoke quietly. She said, “I know what you're doing, Shawn. You're looking for another Martha. You won't marry me. I'm not the body you want. Not that thin, not that sexy.” She paused, looking back to where Danielle watched the cat leap at dragonflies hovering around the edge of the lake. “She's not the one. Whatever you have going with this girl, it'll end in tears.” She pushed open the door of the house. “Remember where you heard it first.”

In Shawn's front hall, at the foot of the stairs, a small man in overalls knelt in silence, perhaps in prayer. His skull was clean shaven, though his face was not. As Ashley entered, he stood, turned, and ran up the stairs.

“Squirrel Man,” Shawn told his visitor. “Also a warlock, he tells me. It's why he prays before he kills critters.”

“Like our president. Muslims, in his case.”

Shawn watched the vanishing warlock. “Clears them out of the roof space.” He pointed Ashley to her left. “This way. Books, maps, Pimm's.”

Danielle, buttoning her shirt, caught up. “Warlock is what?” she asked.

From upstairs came the sound of furniture moving.

“Male witch. Don't ask what it has to do with squirrels. No clue.”

*   *   *

In the drawing room, Ash, thirsty, poured from a jug full of greenery into a crystal glass.

“My,” she said to Shawn, “aren't we English? Country house, lake, dovecote. Sheep. Pimm's.” She considered her glass. “More like a marsh than a drink.” She glanced around the room: the cornices, the murals, the chairs, the colors. “God, Martha had such taste. I could live here, if I was asked. Wouldn't change a thing.”

Danielle was not drinking. “After kidnap, what then?”

Ashley said, “I don't know. Ship the guy someplace. Selected location. Post 9/11, we keep them offshore. Someplace they don't have Red Cross inspection.”

Shawn poured more Pimm's. “But do have electrodes.”

“Shawn, shame,” said Ashley. “I see why Calvin has his doubts.” With her refilled glass, she moved to one of the maps Shawn had set out on a cherrywood table. “Here we go. All this stuff's in public domain. If it's not on the Web, it will be. We have black prisons”—she moved a finger from place to place—“Poland, Jordan, Morocco, Belarus, Egypt, Libya, Pakistan, Syria, North Korea, Myanmar—”

“In the axis of evil?”

From somewhere on an upper floor came the sound of running feet.

“You know how it is,” Ash told Danielle. “Evil's relative. Depends who's talking.” She marked jail locations on Shawn's map. “These I can tell you. Some guy did an FOI on the Agency's flight plans. Seems we fly suspects in Gulfstreams—”

Shawn was listening to noise from the floor above.

“Gulfstreams?” Danielle asked.

“Executive jets from Georgia. Georgia, USA.” Ashley moved round the room, examining paintings Martha had bought. “Nice way to fly, if you're not head-bagged, cuffed, shackled to a bed.”

“When you have flight plans—what?”

Ashley was bored with this woman. She wanted to lie down, stretch out, talk to Shawn about marriage or, at least, living together in this half-empty mansion.

“We have flight plans, we know where the planes go. Where they go, honey, that's where the jails are.”

Danielle was quiet then. She stood by a long window, looking out at the garden, her breathing uneven. When Shawn put a tentative hand on her shoulder, she shrugged him away.

Shawn saw Squirrel Man exit fast from a side door into the garden. He carried a metal cage and a package.

“A person is picked up in Paris. Like my husband. Where would they take him?”

Kicking off her shoes, Ashley lay back on a chaise longue: one that Martha had bought at a village auction. She, too, looked out at the garden. She'd been at a Mayfair party last night. Now she wanted to sleep, though not alone. She raised her head to drink.

“Where would they take him? My dear, it could be anywhere. We move them, country to country. Frequent flyers.” She tried to focus on Danielle, on the girl behind the looks. “Your husband's Iranian?”

“Darius? Yes. He has a French passport, and Iranian. His research base was here.”

“Why was he in Paris?”

Danielle said, “I can't tell. Maybe a girlfriend.”

“Ahh.” This was territory Ashley knew. “He had lovers?”