Free The Prisoner's Wife by Gerard Macdonald

need me, call. You know I’m living in this little village? In England?” Shawn removed his arm, and passed Bobby a scrap of paper. “Use that cell. It’s not traceable to me. Or her.”
    Bobby turned toward the door. “Got to go. Have a meeting. How are you guys traveling?”
    â€œTrain.”
    â€œYou serious? Didn’t know those things still ran.”
    Bobby shook Shawn’s hand, then kissed the girl’s mouth before she could turn away. He felt strange, kissing a woman like this, with his new mustache.
    â€œWe’ll talk,” he said to Shawn.
    Through the window, Danielle watched the spy climb into a waiting vehicle. There were two men in the front seats. They did not look around.
    â€œWhat kind of car is that?”
    â€œVolvo,” Shawn said. “Swedish automaker. Now owned by Ford. If you were going to ask what color the car was, the answer’s black. Wouldn’t you think that’s a coincidence?” He left on the restaurant table more cash than a New York tip.
    He said, “I know I would.”

 
    11
    PARIS–LONDON EXPRESS, 22 MAY 2004
    For a while, traveling through Normandy, when rail ran alongside road, Shawn saw from the TGV that even the fastest cars—the Astons and Ferraris—were left behind. In the train’s dining car, sitting across from Shawn, Danielle rearranged misplaced cutlery and pointed out an empty wineglass to a passing waiter.
    Shawn was used to choosing wine for women. “The merlot. Napa Valley merlot.”
    â€œAbsolument pas,” Danielle told the waiter. “Nous prendrons le vin de Cairanne.” When the man set down menus and turned away, she said to Shawn, “You think, in France, we will drink this California pissat d’âne? ”
    For a while then, she was quiet, watching flat Norman fields unroll beside the train. He asked what she was thinking; saw that she was weighing her words.
    â€œI was thinking about you. You say you were a soldier? A sniper?” He nodded. “I wonder why you left.”
    â€œI can tell you.” He thought back. “Nineteen eighty-something, Special Ops, we’re in Afghanistan. Hiding in a valley, waiting for dark. Had us a bunch of Stingers for the mujahideen.”
    â€œStingers?”
    â€œShoulder-mounted ground-to-air missile. Heat-seeking. So the muj could bring down Russian choppers. The gunships.”
    She shook her head. “You gave these things to mujahideen? To the Taliban? The men you are fighting?”
    â€œWeren’t fighting them then. Later, we had to buy the damn things back—the Stingers.”
    The waiter brought wine and let Danielle taste. She raised a finger; he poured.
    â€œAnyway,” Shawn said, “we’re in this little valley, old guy comes past, on the ridge—he’s got this herd of goats. Lieutenant tells me, waste him. I say, sir, what do you mean? This guy’s not fighting. He’s old. Take a look. He’s a goddamn goatherd. Lieutenant says, can’t risk it. He’ll tell the Reds we’re here. Lieut takes my piece—sniper rifle, nice sight—blows the head off this old hajji. Lucky shot—guy never was that good with a gun. Anyway, end of story, I’m out. Disobeyed a direct order.”
    â€œYou were, what do you say? Unemployed?”
    â€œUh-huh. It was a bad time. Next year, my buddy Bob—the one you met—he gets me this intel gig. Which I needed. Paid the rent, paid off some debts. Didn’t save my marriage.”
    Danielle sat, thinking. When she looked directly at him, Shawn felt the same sexual shock he’d experienced when he’d first seen her, in the Parisian apartment.
    â€œI was asking myself,” she said, after a time, “why I would agree to come with you. Why will I go to another country, with a man I hardly know? A man who takes cash to find my husband. How to say—a hired hand.” She sipped