The Expats by Chris Pavone Read Free Book Online

permits newly issued to Americans.”
    Dexter folded his arms across his chest, but didn’t say anything.
    “When was it issued?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your work permit, Mr. Moore. When was it issued?”
    “Um, I’m not sure … It was … recently.”
    The men stared at each other through the thick glass.
    “There must be some mix-up,” Dexter alleged.
    “There must.”
    “Do you need a copy of it? My work permit?”
    “We do.”
    Kate could feel the tension coming off Dexter, an electrical field.
    “Then I’ll come back,” Dexter said. “With a copy. Do we both need to return?”
    “No, Mr. Moore. Just you.”

    “ONE LAST SUBJECT, Katherine.”
    She’d been staring at the tabletop, unburdening herself of the proprietary information in her brain. There would be more of this tomorrow, and the day after, and for who knows how long, as someone ran through her files and projects and personnel, revisiting the same details again and again. Making sure she wasn’t lying.
    “Is there anything further you want to add now, about your decision five years ago, to leave the field?”
    She’d looked up at Adam, a challenge in his eye. She stifled a panic. A vision that she’d been unable to quash the night before, of being escorted to the parking lot, a windowless van supposedly on its way to another office but really to an airfield, a small private jet, accompaniedby two burly guys on a nine-hour flight, deposited at the prison entrance in North Africa where she’d be beaten daily for the next month, until she died of internal bleeding without ever having seen her family again.
    “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
    Adam dropped both hands from the table down to his thighs, in exactly the type of pose he’d adopt if he were preparing himself to take physical action.

    KATE SHOOK OUT the umbrella, left it on the welcome mat to dry. The message light was blinking on the telephone. First the children needed to be settled in front of the television, after finding appropriate programming in French. Groceries needed to be unpacked. Dinner needed to be started in the kitchen with the German appliances—the dozen options on her oven’s dial included the likes of Ober-Unterhitze, Intensivbacken , and Schnellaufheizen . She loved the sound of Intensivbacken , so she used that setting for everything.
    Then she dropped a glass bottle of peach nectar. It shattered on the stone floor, sending not only chunks and shards and slivers of glass everywhere, but also sprays and drips and puddles and pools of thick, sticky juice. This took her fifteen minutes to clean up, on hands and knees, with paper towels and sponges and the cheap upright vacuum cleaner that had come with the rented furnishings.
    It was impossible to overstate the extent to which she hated what she was doing.
    A half-hour passed before Kate got around to pushing the message button.
    “Hi, it’s me.” Dexter. “Sorry, but I’m not going to make it home for dinner tonight.” Again. This was a tiresome new development. “I have a six o’clock call, then an eight. I’ll be home about nine thirty. I hope. Tell the boys I love them.”
    Erase.
    “Hello, Kate, this is Karen from the AWCL.” What the hell is the AWCL? “Just wanted to touch base, and to let you know that another American couple just arrived in town.” Who cares? “Thought you should meet.”

    “YOU’RE SURE?” ADAM had asked.
    Kate had struggled to keep her breathing even.
    This could be about that thing that happened in Barbados, which hadn’t been entirely authorized. Or it could be about the missing file on the Salvadoran goons, which she hadn’t had anything to do with. Or it could be nothing more complicated than that Joe didn’t trust her, pure and simple.
    But most likely it was about Torres. For the past five years, Kate had been convinced that Torres would come back to haunt her. To take revenge upon her.
    Or it could be about nothing other than