Dogs Read Free Page B

his friends.
    It all came up clean. Two months later, she married him. He moved to D.C. and took a job at the World Bank, who were overjoyed to hire a native speaker from one of the few Arab countries friendly to the United States. Suddenly money was not a problem in Tessa’s life. Salah and she bought a townhouse on Capitol Hill. They redecorated, gave dinner parties, made love. Tessa was happy. The only fly in the truffle was that she kept being passed over for promotions she deserved, promotions her outstanding record had earned.
    But not, of course, because she had married an Arab. There was no such official policy.
    She hiked up E Street to the Hoover Building, thinking for the thousandth time that it looked like an ugly, lopsided fortress, and stopped at Security. “Hello, Paul. John Maddox called me back in.”
    â€œYes, ma’am, he called down about it. Good to see you back, Agent Sanderson.”
    â€œIt’s not Agent Sanderson anymore, Paul. But thank you.”
    â€œI’m afraid you have to go through the metal detector. And can I have your bag and coat, please?”
    Tessa submitted to having her purse and jacket searched, and to walking through the metal detector. Paul said fumblingly, “You’re looking good, ma’am.”
    â€œThank you again.” She made for the elevators.
    Well, she was looking good. She’d planned it that way. New coat in her favorite dark red, short skirt, red lipstick, shine gel in her black hair. No way she was coming back here looking either like a whipped frump or like an agent wannabe, in dark pantsuit and no make-up.
    â€œHello, John,” she said to Maddox; Mrs. Jellison had waved her right in. “What intelligence chatter concerns me?”
    â€œRight to the point, as always,” Maddox said. “Sit down, Tessa. How are you doing?”
    â€œFine. What intel chatter?”
    He grimaced, a weird movement of mouth and eyes she’d come to know well over the years of working with him. It meant he didn’t like what he had to say but was going to say it anyway. “I can’t show you the direct translations, Tessa, not anymore. All I can say is that your name and Salah’s have been reported as turning up in conversations with overseas agents. In Paris, in Tunis, and in Cairo. So I need to run some other names by you, people we’re watching, and see if you can put any of it together. Hakeem bin Ahmed al-Fulani?”
    Tessa shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
    â€œAktar Erekat?”
    â€œNo.”
    Maddox went through more names; Tessa had heard of none of them. She said, “What else has been consistent throughout the reports? Anything?”
    Maddox hesitated, then said, “Nothing.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Tessa said. The hesitation meant there was more but Maddox couldn’t officially say so. Not to her, not anymore.
    â€œDoes the chatter look amateur?” Amateurs babbled—before, during, and after attacks. They bragged to family, colleagues, friends. Pros said nothing. In terrorism, silence was the mark of the truly dangerous. The FBI hadn’t known the Oklahoma City bombing was coming until it happened.
    Maddox said, “I can’t tell you that, either.”
    â€œWhat are you doing looking at Arabic-language intel reports, anyway?” That was not within Maddox’s area.
    â€œI wouldn’t be looking at them if your name and Salah’s weren’t in there.”
    â€œBernini is taking it that seriously?”
    â€œHe is.”
    â€œSo are we about to go Code Red because of me?”
    Maddox let that one go by.
    Tessa leaned forward. “Are you taking this seriously?”
    Maddox seemed to realize that they were now talking about more than a few Arabic/English transcripts. He said carefully, “We investigated Salah pretty thoroughly when you married him.”
    â€œAnd has anything happened to make you change your mind about