The Prisoner's Wife Read Online Free

summerhouse. A cloud of white doves spread high through still air, planing and gliding in leaderless synchrony.
    â€œI don’t believe this. You’re worried about bugs? Here? An English village? Do you want to pat me down?”
    â€œIf you would not mind. To be sure you do not wear a wire.” Ayub Abbasi ran his hands over Shawn’s body. “You are very fit.”
    â€œFor your age,” Shawn said. “That’s usually how the sentence ends these days. I’m fifty-one. I lose fights.”
    â€œI know your age,” Abbasi said. “I read the file. You are fifty-three. You still attract women.”
    â€œThat,” Shawn said, “I’m seriously trying to give up.” He unpacked a new box of shells.
    Abbasi eyed the rifle and the pear tree. “I know that you trained as a sniper. I had not realized you were such a shot.”
    Without looking down, Shawn reloaded the M-24. “I used to be good. Trying to get back there.”
    â€œFor your own amusement? Or some other reason?” Abbasi seated himself at a wrought-iron table set on a mower-striped lawn. “You may know I also worked for your agency. Your former agency.”
    â€œCIA?”
    â€œIndeed. I was, as you say, on the payroll. Liaison between America and Pakistan.”
    â€œNot Pakistan as such,” Shawn said. “Liaison with Inter-Services Intelligence, is my guess. ISI was always the target. Always the problem.”
    â€œFor our purposes,” Abbasi said, “and your purposes, ISI is Pakistan. You know, we all know, they are not just a spy service. Invisible Soldiers Incorporated, we call them. They take the dollars your Congress sends. They run my country, and much of Afghanistan, of course. Taliban is their creation. As is the drug trade.” Abbasi smoothed his lightly oiled hair. “Sadly, now, those invisible soldiers wish to kill me.”
    â€œWhat can I tell you?” Shawn said. “I’m not a bodyguard.” He glanced toward his sheep field. “These days, I’m a shepherd.”
    Abbasi made a dismissive gesture. “If I were hiring a bodyguard, I would not be here. You have heard of Nashida Noon?”
    Shawn searched his now-fallible memory.
    â€œI know the name. Prime minister of Pakistan, right?”
    â€œShe was, three years ago. Next month, she will be again, if our president fails to rig the election. He has a problem, poor man. A dilemma. When she takes power, Nashida will dismiss the invisible soldiers. Dismantle ISI.”
    â€œShe’ll try.”
    â€œShe will try. If she succeeds, our president loses the people who keep him in power.”
    Shawn watched Martha’s Persian cat, Miss Mop, climb a tree, tailing a squirrel. “You’re telling me this because?”
    â€œBecause I had some papers, some items—e-mails between ISI and your CIA—which would help Nashida do what she plans.” Abbasi looked around the deserted garden. “You have heard of Darius Osmani?”
    Losing its hold on a branch, the cat fell into long grass. Shawn stood, to see if it was hurt.
    â€œQuick change of subject there,” he said. “Osmani.” He thought for a moment. “Again, I know the name. I believe we had a file on him; not much in it. Memory’s not so good, these days. Would you like lunch?”
    Abbasi shook his head. “In five minutes, five or ten, I should leave. Osmani is, he claims, a research scientist. An archaeologist; a paleobotanist. Somehow, for some reason, he was among a group of Taliban fighters who overran the U.S. base outside Kandahar. These people also invaded my office. They took documents. None of them could read those papers.”
    â€œExcept Osmani?”
    â€œExcept Osmani. Iranian. Graduate of the grandes écoles. Now, I very much need to know what Osmani knows. I need those documents. They are my insurance against being tried in my country. Or