The Cover Wife: A novel

Praise for Dan Fesperman's The Cover Wife :"A sharp, smart novel that hits fast and hard, its reverberations echoing after the last page is turned. . . . Gripping. . . .xa0As violence erupts and the truth unravels, we find ourselves in a thriller, one that is all the more chilling for running right into fact, and then diving straight into the darkest days of our own recent past. And here the author uncovers a deeper truth, about human limitations and the consequences of systemic failure. In the end, The Cover Wife lands like a punch in the heart, or an arrow finding its mark."xa0—David Gordon, New York Times Book Review “[Fesperman] specializes in humanizing the internecine turf battles between and within competing intelligence agencies. With The Cover Wife , he has produced another intelligent, tense and sharply written espionage thriller.” —Tom Nolan, Wall Street Journal “Both gripping and scarily plausible; from the first page to its chilling conclusion, The Cover Wife is a book that demands to be read.” —Kevin Wignall, author of A Death in Sweden "Fesperman uses . . . excruciating dramatic irony superbly, showing once more, as le Carré did, that spies are often their own worst enemies." — Booklist " The Cover Wife smoothly incorporates a gripping plot with insightful character studies as Fesperman illustrates the thrill, frustration and challenges of those whose undercover personalities often overwhelm their humanity and their reality."xa0—Oline Cogdill, Shelf Awareness "This is the thinking-man’s espionage book and the type of story you will have a difficult time not finishing in one sitting. Fesperman’s writing style does not overload you with data and acronyms, but makes you feel like you are there with the characters and experiencing each plot twist along with them. This brilliant read is not to be missed.” — BookReporter “Gripping.” — Publishers Weekly “An absorbing tale of terrorism with a tantalizing what-if at its core.” — Kirkus Reviews DAN FESPERMAN's travels as a journalist and novelist have taken him to thirty countries and three war zones. Lie in the Dark won the Crime Writers' Association of Britain's John Creasey New Blood Dagger Award for best first crime novel, The Small Boat of Great Sorrows won their Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for best thriller, and The Prisoner of Guantánamo won the Hammett Prize from the International Association of Crime Writers. He lives in Baltimore. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rain clouds parted an hour before sunset, and the hiker’s shadow finally rejoined him on the mountain trail, his only companion all day. Or so he hoped. Ascending to a granite outcrop with a sweeping view, he paused to look back at the way he’d come: lacy spring foliage and a meadow in bloom, with the trail stitched through it like a dirty suture. Not a soul on it. The air was golden with pollen, and he considered digging into his pack for an allergy pill before remembering he’d already taken one. He cleared his throat, spit, and immediately regretted it. He rubbed the spot with the toe of his boot, only to make a bigger mess. Sighing, he checked his watch and set off. Still lurking to his rear was the unseen presence that had haunted him since dawn. All in his head, perhaps, but the reports from the briefing had been sobering enough: two men, well trained and unaccounted for, meaning they might be anywhere. He imagined them back there now, moving briskly just beyond the nearest ridge. He picked up the pace. A mile later, reaching the level grade of a narrow ridge, he eased into a long and limber stride. Better. His scuffed old boots were a comfort, a reminder of past hikes among friends. Their voices returned to him in the murmur of the leaves, the creak of swaying limbs—xaddistant echoes of dewy mornings and twilight encampments, those long-xadago weekends when they would cook up a hearty fireside meal and scrub their mess kits in the gravel of a stream. A tin cup of whiskey to pass around the campfire, everyone carried off to slumber on a tide of laughter and familiar old tales. Caught up in his memories, he imagined himself later that night, rubbing his hands for warmth as he brewed coffee on a tidy blaze. Or, no, because that would be like lighting a beacon in the night. So instead he would boil water on his tiny stove, eat one of those dehydrated meals from a pouch. He would turn in early, listening carefully from his tent to the noises of the night. Sleep as well as he could, and then rise before dawn. An old song came to mind, so he whistled a bar just to hear the sound of something human, his footsteps keeping rhythm as the trail steepened. The last notes drifted up into the trees and he fell silent, conserving his breath for the climb. He recalled a boyhood tale of a cavalry scout trying to outrun the Comanches, in which days had turned to weeks. He had packed enough food for five nights, but what if he needed to rexadsupply? From above came the grumble of a single-xadengine plane, which stopped him in his tracks. He remained still for a full minute, watching as it passed low enough for him to read the tail number. No one had mentioned this possibility, although he supposed it was within their capabilities. Various weapons had been discussed, of course. But this? Yet here he was, cowering beneath the leaves. Sunlight glinted off the fuselage as the plane moved toward the horizon. He exhaled and reached for his water bottle. Yet again he gazed back at the way he’d come. The trail was still empty, so he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view. There was much to admire—xadlow sunlight sparkled in the wet branches like diamonds, or the twinkle of a vast city in a valley, stirring to life at dusk. The forest smelled as fresh as a mown pasture, and birdsong was everywhere, the final chorus before nightfall. Such beauty. And for the first time all week, he took hope. Smiling, he drew a deep breath of the clean mountain air and resumed walking. He had covered fourteen miles today, a tiring distance at his age, but “a good tired,” as his wife liked to say, the kind that settled your mind for a deep and healing sleep. So, after another mile, he decided to leave the trail to scout for a campsite. The good omens multiplied. He quickly found a level patch of downy grass beneath a spreading beech, where a pale band of fallen leaves pointed like an arrow to the optimum spot. It was like an illustration for a fairy tale, a place of enchantment. He heaved off his pack, set it down by a big log, and unzipped the top. Fresh, cooling air rushed up the back of his shirt, and the crinkly tent released old, familiar smells as he flattened it on the grass. The rituals of making camp were a comfort, and it felt as if the forest had enveloped him in its arms. Nature, so often harsh, was for the moment his cloak of invisibility. This was his home ground, not theirs, and that counted for plenty. Yet as he slid the tent poles into their sleeves he noticed that the birds were no longer singing. Were they done for the day, or had something put them on notice? The wind shifted, and for a fleeting moment he thought he detected a whiff of something human—xadsweat, soap, the smell of exertion. Or maybe it was his own scent, coming back to him on the turning breeze. The hairs on his arms stood on end. A twig snapped to his rear, and he nearly lost balance as he wheeled awkwardly and rose from his crouch. Looking left, then right, then over his shoulder toward the trail, he saw only the brown expanse of the forest floor, leaves and limbs, the white flash of a squirrel’s belly as it leaped from tree to tree. But the odd smell lingered, unmistakable now, and he remained still. To his rear, the thump of a footfall. He spun as a metallic click sounded from the edge of the clearing, and he saw a man dressed in black just as the bolt from a crossbow struck him below the breastbone and plunged into his heart. Crying out in agony, he slumped to his knees and collapsed sideways. Blood pooled brightly on the deflating tent, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He gasped for breath, but no air would come. The birds held their silence. The only sound now was of footsteps approaching steadily across the leaves. They halted, a moment of peace interrupted by the click of a camera—xadtwice, as if to make sure. Then, two more steps, followed by a grunt of effort, and the slurping, ripping sound of the bolt being pulled from muscle and flesh. Unable to move or speak, he groaned a final time. His last thought was of disappointment in himself for having mistaken beauty for hope. The woods had failed him, and he had failed himself. The footsteps receded. The birds again took up their song, sounding the all-xadclear from the trees. Read more