The Prisoner's Wife Read Online Free Page A

yours.”
    Shawn spent a few moments thinking this through. Unhurt, the cat skittered crabwise across the lawn.
    â€œMr. Abbasi, be serious. No one’s about to put you on trial. Not in America. Even in Gitmo. We still have court records. Documents, no documents, either way, you’d be an embarrassing guy if you started talking.”
    From the arm of Shawn’s chair hung a twist of paper on a string. On its hind legs, the cat reached up, paws batting the paper Shawn swung above it. Left, right, left, right came little cat blows. Back in his boxing days, Shawn would have given a lot to hit that fast.
    â€œRemember Noriega? Dictator of Panama? When I was young,” Abbasi said, “in those far-off days, I worked for Manuel. He was a son of a bitch but, as you people say, he was your son of a bitch. As we know, he, too, was on your payroll. George H. W. Bush, director of the CIA, put him there. The Agency knew Noriega was in the drug business, of course they knew—they protected the trade—but still, Manuel was useful. Arms go one way, drugs the other. So, as I say, all is okay. Until Congress outlaws the contras. Until George H. W. Bush becomes president. Until the canal must be returned to Panama. Suddenly, Noriega is no longer useful. What happens? America invades Panama. Thousands killed. Manuel is captured and tried. What comes out in court? Nothing. Do we hear of CIA drug-running? Not a word. CIA supporting Noriega? Paying Noriega? Of course not. Simply, he is a bad guy. Lock him up, throw away the key.”
    Shawn scooped up the little cat and cradled it on his lap. “He was a bad guy.”
    â€œIndeed he was. And President Bush, your forty-first president, the accomplice? The man who paid Manuel? Kept him in power?”
    On Shawn’s knee, the cat stretched upward, claws out, clutching at azure-winged dragonflies. “Okay,” he said. “Point taken. You don’t want to go to trial. Or jail. You want me to find this Osmani guy. You want your papers back. Why would you think I can do that?”
    â€œBecause,” Abbasi said, “you have friends. In the world there are two databases containing a great deal of useful knowledge about these things. One belongs to Mossad, the other to your friends in American intelligence.”
    â€œMain Core?”
    â€œIndeed. Main Core. I have no contacts in Mossad. They would not help me if I had. However, I know you, and you know people—”
    â€œâ€”who can access Main Core?” Shawn paused. “I do. One or two.”
    â€œSomething else I know,” Abbasi said. “You need money. A lot of money.”
    â€œLast time I looked,” Shawn said, “it was illegal for U.S. agents to work for a foreign power. I take your cash, I’m out of intel for good.”
    Abbasi smiled. “Some would say you are already. There are many paths in life. Roads less traveled. Of course, there is also the question—do you have other ways of paying the rent?”
    Shawn shook his head. He glanced back at the bundles of bills in the summerhouse. “Serious money. How do you know I won’t take it and run?”
    â€œYou have many faults,” Abbasi said. “I have never heard dishonesty was one of them.” He made a comprehensive gesture, taking in house and garden. “Also, as they say in movies, we know where you live.” His tone changed. “There is something else. When he was not riding shotgun with the Taliban, Osmani claims he was conducting an archaeological dig in Afghanistan. Excavating cellars in Ghorid ruins, somewhere on the Turquoise Mountain. Near Chist, I think. Now, whether he was doing that or not, he claims he found something of interest.”
    â€œClaims how?”
    â€œHe called me from Paris. Before your colleagues picked him up. Some time ago.” From his diary Abbasi took a handwritten note. “Osmani wanted money for information. A great deal