“Written guarantee? You think he wants a contract that says, ‘If I deliver al-Zawahiri, my family gets free passage to the United States.’ What’s he going to do, keep it in his underwear?”

“I could hold it—”

“Then it’s really useful to him. Come on. You’re overthinking this. The guy’s a moderate Muslim, they do exist. He’s pissed that his brother killed himself, that’s a totally reasonable motive. Now he’s helping us. You’ve got evidence to the contrary, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

She had nothing to say. He rapped his knuckles on her desk.

“Good girl.”

FOUR WEEKS PASSED, no word. Despite — or because of — her fears about Rashid’s reliability, Marci was desperate to hear from him. For the first time, she understood what other case officers had meant when they said an assignment had eaten them alive. She felt almost literally as if she were being consumed. She hardly ate. She’d always been skinny, but now she could count her ribs. She pressed her husband for sex two and three times a day. Finally he rebelled.

“What you’re doing, it’s obvious.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Being used like a fence post so you can distract yourself. No. I don’t like it. I keep waiting for you to call me Marburg. ‘Oh, yeah, Marburg. That’s so good. Gimme some of that.’”

She had to smile. “I really have been unbearable, haven’t I? Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For putting up with me, you ninny.”

“Didn’t know I had a choice.”

She rested her arm on his chest. CIA guys came in three sizes: muscled-up ex-military types, trim guys who’d run in college, and chubby desk jockeys. Pete was a runner, with narrow shoulders and tightly knitted abs. “Have I ever told you you have a great body?”