Or maybe that’s what Henderson wanted me to think when he got this CIA agent or whoever to pose as his wife.
The waiter comes over to my table, and I order pancakes and an omelet as I keep studying my target. It’s still ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet, but the woman seems to be getting antsy, looking at the door, then around the restaurant with increasing nervousness.
Her gaze touches on me once, but without any particular suspicion.
The waiter brings out the pancakes first, and I make a production out of devouring them with gusto, though I scarcely taste them. If this “Bonnie,” or whoever else Henderson has planted in the restaurant, is looking for any abnormal behavior, they won’t find it at my table.
It’s five past nine when she starts getting really nervous. She gets up, as if to leave, then sits down again.
Not very professional for a CIA agent.
My omelet comes out, and as I fork the first bite into my mouth, she gets up, her thin body taut with anxiety. Chewing on her lip, she looks around again, then starts heading for the exit.
Well, that’s interesting.
Acting on instinct, I grab her wrist as she passes by my table.
“Bonnie Henderson?” I say, keeping the British accent, and she goes completely stiff, fear twisting her face.
“Let me go,” she hisses in a low, terrified tone. “I’m not going back to him. Let me go, or I will fucking scream.”
Even more interesting.
“I’m Peter Sokolov,” I say with my normal accent, releasing her paper-thin wrist. “You wanted to meet me?”
She freezes again, gaping at me. “But you…”
“It’s a disguise,” I say calmly. “Please, sit.”
She fumbles with the chair across from mine, her hands shaking as she pulls it out. If I were a gentleman, I’d get up and help her, but that’s not what I’m here for.
If this really is Henderson’s wife—and I’m starting to think it might be—she’s going to lead me to her husband one way or another.
The waiter comes over, curious about the sudden addition to my table, and I order two cups of coffee just to get him to leave. Something strange seems to be happening with Bonnie/whoever. Now that she’s sitting across the table from me, she looks calmer and more composed—at least if you ignore the fine trembling of her hands.
“You emailed me,” I say as soon as the waiter is gone. “Why?”
She takes a deep breath. “Because I had to. This madness has to end.”
“I agree.” I smile coldly. “How nice of you to hand yourself over like this.”
“You misunderstand.” She squeezes her hands into a tight ball on the table, hiding the tremors. “I’m not handing myself over. I’m giving you what you want: my husband.”
I cock my head. “In exchange for what?”
She lifts her chin. “For you leaving me and my children alone.”
Ah. I was beginning to suspect it might be something like that. Still, this doesn’t fully make sense. Why betray her husband and expose herself to such danger?
“Why would I accept that bargain when I already have you?” I ask. “Unless you think you’re safe because we’re meeting in public?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re capable of.”
“And yet you’re here. Interesting.”
The waiter reappears in that moment, and we both fall silent, waiting for him to pour us coffee and leave.
As soon as he’s gone, Bonnie grabs her cup and takes a sip of the scalding-hot liquid. “He won’t trade himself for me.” Her voice shakes slightly as she sets down the cup. “So you can forget about using me as a bargaining tool. It won’t work any better than it did with the hostages.”
So she knows about that. This is getting more intriguing by the second.
“What are you proposing then? I promise not to kill you and your children, and you lead me to your husband’s hideout?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly.” She drags in a breath. “I can’t lead you to him outright because I don’t know where he is. He would’ve fled our last hideout as soon as he learned that I ran off with the kids—in case you found us, you see.”
“So what are you offering? And why did you run off?”
She hesitates, then asks quietly, “Do you know how Wally and I met?”
I try to recall if I’ve come across the information in the huge file I have on Henderson. “No,” I admit after a moment. “I don’t.”
Her lips press together. “I thought so. No one really knows about that. Wally likes to tell people we met at a bar, but that’s not the case. I mean, we got together at a bar, but we met earlier—when I was a brand-new trainee at the agency, and he was its star operative… and my teacher.”
I conceal my surprise. I might’ve initially thought her an agent playing the part of Henderson’s wife, but I did not expect Henderson’s actual wife to be CIA.