Alex Berenson - The Secret Soldier

Meshaal had come with them, too, Wells’s only request of Abdullah. The kid’s life expectancy in Saudi Arabia could be measured in weeks. Wells figured Meshaal had earned the chance to sort himself out in the United States. If he wasn’t happy, he could always go to Gaza.

When they landed in New York, Gaffan took his bag and the briefcase with what was left of his million dollars and gave Wells a manly half-hug. “It’s been real, it’s been fun,” Gaffan said. “You want to do it again, let me know.”

“I’ll do that,” Wells said. He didn’t know yet if he’d go after Saeed, or if Saeed would come after him. Though he had a feeling that their dance wasn’t finished.

HE’D THOUGHT A LOT about Kurland’s last words. “Tell her I fought.” He had seen Barbara in Chicago the day before the funeral. She sat alone in her study, her eyes half closed, grief etched in her cheeks. Wells silently reached into his pocket, gave her the ring. It was in a plastic bag. He hadn’t wanted to touch it. It belonged to her, no one else. She shook it out and slipped it onto her finger beside her own wedding band. It was much too big. Its yellow gold caught the light as she twirled it loosely.

“He asked me to be sure you got it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.” Wells didn’t know what to say next. I tried? I wanted to save him? If I’d had just a few more seconds? Like he’d been caught in traffic and missed his flight. “He wasn’t scared. At the end. He was lucid. And he wasn’t in pain. He asked me to tell you something.”

He told her. She listened and nodded, and then their conversation seemed to be over.

Wells wanted to go to the funeral, but someone might recognize him and wonder. There were too many unanswered questions already. So he stayed away.

HE DIDN’T TELL ANNE about Abdullah and Saeed, or what had happened in Lebanon. But — two weeks on, the same night the secretary of state made her trip to Riyadh — he told her about Kurland. They sat in her kitchen, eating dinner, homemade lasagna. Tonka lay curled under his feet, chewing happily on a piece.

“I should have shot through the hatch. But I couldn’t see the setup inside—”

“The whole world was looking for him, and you almost saved him by yourself.”

“Only I didn’t.”

She didn’t say anything, just stood, walked behind him, wrapped her arms around him.

“Something else that’s bothering me.” He told her Kurland’s last words. “What I don’t understand, why wouldn’t he say he loved her instead? He did, too, even in those few seconds I could tell. And it was the same when I met her.”

“You really don’t see?”

He tilted his head so he was looking over his shoulder, into her eyes. “No.”

“Saying it would have dishonored what they had. He didn’t have to, John. She already knew.”

One problem with writing a book a year is that the acknowledgments can get stale. But the crew at Putnam never does. They’re as hardworking as ever. Thanks to Neil, Ivan, Leslie, Tom, Marilyn, and everyone else who makes these novels more than a Word file. Thanks to Heather and Matthew, agents extraordinaire. Thanks to Susan Buckley and Dev for watching my back. Thanks to Deirdre and Jess for those close first reads, and for not being afraid to say what doesn’t work, and what does. Thanks to my parents and brother for your support and suggestions. Most of all, thanks to Jackie, my wife, who always finds the time and energy to be a great friend and partner.

And — this part never gets stale either — thanks to everyone who took the time to read this far. Without you, John Wells would have retired a long time ago. I appreciate your feedback, and you can always reach me at alexberensonauthor@gmail.com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter. I can’t promise to respond (though until now I’ve managed to write back to just about everyone), but I pledge to read every note I get.