The Sleeper Read Free Page A

here?”
    Griffin looked into my eyes for a long time, waiting for me to fill the silence, but I just looked back. Last time I’d seen him he was part of Clinton’s detail. He’d been steroid-hard, pumped up, like he ate and slept on the weight bench. Now his face was rounder, his shoulders not so square. I figured he had a desk job. “I came just to see you,” he said.
    â€œAin’t I lucky.”
    â€œListen, Kurtovic, I know all about you.”
    â€œUh-hunh.” If he had, I wouldn’t have been in Westfield, I’d have been in Leavenworth. Or dead.
    â€œI know about you and the muj.”
    â€œSeems like a long time ago,” I said. “I’m a carpenter these days.”
    â€œYeah, I know that, too. Self-employed.”
    I shrugged. “What do you want, Griffin?”
    â€œKind of like Uncle Sam,” he said. “I want you.”
    â€œNot interested.”
    He held up the paper so I could look at the picture of the Trade Center in flames. I nodded. “Nothing I can do about that,” I said.
    His eyes narrowed. “Hell, you say.”
    I smiled. “You ain’t working for the Secret Service anymore, are you?”
    â€œChanged agencies.”
    â€œI figured. And what you want—let me guess—what you want is for me to get in touch with some of my old buddies in the muj.”
    â€œThat’s about the size of it.”
    â€œBecause you think they did this.”
    â€œWe know they did this.”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBullshit. It’s only been twenty-four hours since the attack, and now you know for sure who did it? If you know that much that quick, you knew enough to have stopped it. You don’t know anything. You’ve got no idea and, you know what, me either. I got no idea what’s going on. But I can tell you one thing, I don’t have any old buddies in the muj. If I ever did, they’re dead. You still pray?” Griffin made a motion with his hand like we were playing cards and he was telling the dealer he’d pass.
    â€œNo?” I said. “Did you let your bosses know how you prayed? I’ll bet you didn’t. But I’ll bet you think you got great insights.”
    â€œHere’s my insight. In 1992 you quit the Rangers. Seems you got religion, found Allah during the Gulf War or something. You went to Bosnia, where your father came from, and you joined the muj there. Then you came back to the States and landed a job Xeroxing stuff at the Council on Foreign Policy for a researcher named Chantal Richards, a middle-aged broad you were fucking. You were in contact with Rashid Yousufzai, who was at that time planning the first attack on the World Trade Center. His body was found in Atlanta, hung from the catwalk in the CNN center. Your brother-in-law’s body was found there the same day. Also on the same day, we have video of you at the Atlanta airport. How’s that for insight?”
    â€œYou guys don’t share much with the FBI, do you?”
    â€œWe can if we need to.”
    â€œY’all ready to order?” The waitress stood over us, and I had the weird sense she’d materialized out of nowhere.
    â€œJust some more coffee,” said Griffin.
    â€œHam and eggs. The eggs over easy,” I said, “with hash browns.” And she went away.
    Griffin nodded and smiled. “Ham?”
    â€œI’m dereligioned,” I said. “I’ve got no use for preachers, no use for imams, and no use for holy warriors.”
    â€œSo you’re our man.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t work for the USG. Not now. Not ever again.”
    â€œDon’t say no,” said Griffin. “Say you’ll think about it.”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œYou will think about it,” he said. “You can’t help thinking about it.”
    About that much he was absolutely right.

Chapter 4
    Betsy’s old