The Prisoner's Wife Read Online Free Page B

of money. There you have the phone number. The address, in the quatrième. ” Abbasi paused. “I had a second call, from the same number. This time, it was his wife.”
    Shawn paid attention.
    â€œIs that surprising?” Abbasi asked, noting the reaction. “The man has a wife?”
    â€œIt’s a lead,” Shawn said. “It’s interesting. So tell me. What’s Osmani claim he found? What does he believe you’ll pay for?”
    â€œA small nuclear device, a semiportable device, built under the direction of Dr. Qadir Khan. You do know of Dr. Khan?”
    Shawn said, “I worked on his proliferation file. He’s a problem for us.”
    â€œWhile for us, for Pakistan, a national hero.”
    â€œWell,” Shawn said, “you got my attention. If I do take your money, where do I start?”

 
    4
    WEST SUSSEX, 1:15 P.M. , 18 MAY 2004
    In early-afternoon heat, an olive-skinned man stood sweating in an ancient English beech wood, overlooking the rectory of Felbourne village. He was dressed in what he hoped would pass for pheasant-shooting garb: green multipocketed Barbour jacket, tweed cap, trousers tucked into thick woolen socks, and soft-leather ankle boots. He carried a borrowed shotgun and, for quite other reasons, a nine-mil Beretta in a shoulder holster.
    Uncomfortable in these clothes, and this place, the watcher wiped perspiration from his eyes. He had never shot a pheasant; had never, to his knowledge, seen a pheasant. Resting the shotgun against the trunk of a beech, he raised binoculars, focusing on Ayub Abbasi, who sat at ease on a lawn where woodland ended and the rectory grounds began. Abbasi was on more than one American watch list, which raised, in the watcher’s mind, several questions. Among them, the puzzle of what the Pakistani might be doing here, talking with the blacklisted CIA agent Shawn Maguire.
    *   *   *
    The couple on the lawn were too far away for the watcher to hear their conversation. He knew, though, that Abbasi would, at some point, be kidnapped and questioned. In the watcher’s experience most of the Agency’s guests—even those initially reluctant to talk—eventually answered whatever questions their interrogators asked.
    The watcher’s reflection was interrupted at that moment by shouted greetings. Lowering his binoculars he saw, coming through the trees, a heavyset man dressed in shooting clothes similar to his own, though more worn.
    To his dog the hunter said, “Sit, boy. Sit. Stay.” Then, to the watcher, “Any luck, young man? Got a bird?”
    The watcher, reluctant to speak, shook his head.
    â€œNothing down there,” said the hunter, nodding toward the margin of the wood. “American chappie’s place.” He pointed in the opposite direction, to where woodland opened onto acres of crops. “Watch this. Take a bet—dogs’ll put one up.”
    The hunter spoke incomprehensible words to the dog. Head down, nose to ground, it dashed for the nearest field. Moments later, in a whirr of wings, two dun-colored birds rose in arcing flight.
    â€œWhat’d I say?” called the hunter. “Go!”
    The hunter and the watcher fired at the same time, the watcher’s shot passing dangerously close to the hunter. Lowering his gun, the man turned to stare at the watcher.
    â€œMy God,” he said. “My God—could’ve killed me.” He pointed to the watcher’s double-barreled gun. “Tell me something, son. You ever used that thing?”

 
    5
    SUSSEX, EARLY AFTERNOON, 18 MAY 2004
    Two shots came in rapid succession, and a high, clattering bird call.
    Abbasi stood, tipping his chair. Then he knelt, bending low on the lawn, as if in prayer.
    Shawn extended a hand to help him up. “Shotgun,” he said. “My neighbor Justin, shooting birds.”
    Abbasi dusted his clothes and righted his chair. “You are