The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,72

decision, and it was suddenly obvious to him that he had to protect her from it.

“I think you know what it is,” he said.

She nodded. “Iran,” she said. She understood him better than he realized.

“There are people who want another war. They want me to help. But I’m not going to do it again.”

She looked toward the other tables. Nobody was listening.

“What are you going to do, then,” she whispered, “if you can’t be a good soldier? Are you going to quit?”

“No. I don’t think so. That would make things worse.”

“Well, what, then?”

“I don’t know.”

A shadow fell over her face. She was putting the pieces together. “You can’t go against them. They’ll destroy you.”

He nodded. This was not something to discuss further, even with her, especially with her. Someday people might ask her questions, if things went bad.

“I won’t do anything that’s wrong, or too stupid. Trust me.”

She rolled her eyes.

They got a room in the hotel and made love that night, something they hadn’t done in many months. The next afternoon, Harry left again for London. He did not tell his colleagues at the agency.

GREATER LONDON

Adrian Winkler was waiting at Heathrow on Sunday morning. Harry had sent him a jabberwocky message from his personal email account. “Let’s get incremental,” adding his arrival time in London. Harry slept soundly on the long flight, the first good night’s sleep he’d had in a while. In the Arrivals Hall at Terminal 3, Adrian was holding a sign that said “Mr. Fellows.” That made Harry laugh when he first saw it, but he realized it wasn’t a joke. That was his work name now. He was Adrian’s agent.

Adrian had a car waiting; a late-model Rover, nothing too fancy. He was dressed simply, in jeans and an old sweater. The Sunday morning traffic was light on the M-4 into London. Adrian asked if Harry wanted to sleep after his flight, but Harry said no, he needed be back in Washington in forty-eight hours; they should use every minute they had. They stopped at a simple hotel in West London near the Hammersmith flyover; Adrian waited in the car park while Harry checked in and changed into jeans and a black leather jacket. The two men looked like punters out to do a bit of business; not quite shady, but not entirely respectable, either.

The Rover chugged to a suburb called Neasden, almost to the North Circular Road. There wasn’t a more anonymous neighborhood in London. The housing estates and council flats had been built for the working classes of several generations ago, but now it was a neighborhood for immigrants—Pakistanis and Indians, mostly. Adrian drove through the market streets of Neasden until he reached the Dollis Hill Housing Estate, and then pulled up outside a garage. A Pakistani man was inside, working on a motorcycle—a muscle bike, big and bright with chromed exhausts. Bhangra music was playing on a boom box inside the garage.

Adrian parked the car and got out. “Hey, mate,” he called out.

The Pakistani emerged from the shadows of the garage and waved. He turned down the music, but you could still hear a faint exotic beat. The man’s skin was a dusky brown, the color of tobacco. He was wearing coveralls, but you could see from the way he walked that he was a muscular man. His neck was thick, his shoulders broad.

Adrian extended his hand. The two men shook hands, palms and then fists together.

“What up, my man?” said the Pakistani.

“Hakim, I want you to meet a mate of mine,” said Adrian, motioning to Harry. “His name is Bill Fellows. He’s working with me on that little project we discussed.”

“My brother.” The Pakistani bowed.

Harry looked at the tough little man. He was taller than the Pakistani by almost a head, but he doubted he could take him in a fight.

“How’s your bike?” asked Adrian.

“Pretty fucking good, man,” said Hakim. “I had it up to one-forty the other day.”

“Not on the road, I hope.”

“Nope. Out at Credenhill. Putting on a show for the lads in Hereford.”

“Hakim used to race motorcycles,” said Adrian. “He used to do a lot of things. That’s part of his cover, eh?” He punched Hakim on one of his thick biceps and the Pakistani ducked into a fighting crouch, bobbing and weaving.

“You used to box, too?” asked Harry.

“Still do,” said Hakim. “Amateur only, man. Not a professional.” He laughed. The Pakistani was a professional killer, that’s what he was. Adrian took the Pakistani by the arm and pulled