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not happy about this.”
    “I’m disappointed in him.”
    She thought a moment, then said, “I’m sure it’s easier if both spouses are in the same business.”
    I didn’t reply.
    A few miles later, she asked me, “Am I making a mistake? I mean about wanting to be an FBI agent?”
    “Look inside. Your inner light will guide you.”
    “That’s stupid.”
    “That’s correct.”
    We traveled in silence awhile, then Tess informed me, “I’ve applied for a gun permit.”
    “Holy shit.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    “Sorry. That just slipped out.”
    “Be serious, John. I need to know if I have what it takes to carry and use a gun.”
    “I’m sure you do.”
    “Have you ever used your gun?”
    “Now and then.”
    “Did you ever… you know, shoot anyone?”
    “What do you hear?”
    “I heard you were shot three times.”
    “All on the same day.”
    “Did you get them?”
    “No.”
    “Do you want to talk about this?”
    “Not at this moment.”
    “Okay.” She asked me, “Do you have any tips? I mean for when I go to Quantico and take the Pistol Qualification Course.”
    “You’ll do fine on the Q Course. But here’s a tip for when you’re going to a real gunfight. Borrow money from the agents with you. It gives them an added incentive to protect you.”
    She laughed.
    “Remember,” I continued helpfully, “anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap. And if your shooting stance is good, you’re probably not moving fast enough.”
    Tess nodded, then glanced at me.
    I went on, “When approaching a suspect, watch their hands. Hands kill. In God we trust. Everyone else, keep your hands where I can see them. Be polite. Be professional. But have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”
    Tess again glanced at me, probably wondering how anyone so clever got plugged three times. I wonder about that myself. Shit happens.
    I concluded, “Use a gun that works every time. As George Washington said, ‘All skill is in vain when an angel pisses in the flintlock of your musket.’ ”
    We continued in silence. Finally, Tess said, “Thank you.”
    So it’s come to this. Giving tips and assurance to a dilettante who’s rebelling against her background and her husband. How are the mighty fallen.
    We were entering an area called the Pine Barrens, an empty stretch along the Expressway, and traffic was light here.
    Tess asked me, “Why aren’t we calling this in?”
    “We have nothing to report.”
    “We’re a hundred miles from where we started, John.”
    “Eighty.”
    “The case agent should know that.”
    “The phone works both ways.”
    She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Maybe we should get some backup moving.”
    “We’re not having any problems or issues.”
    “Maybe they’re leading us into a trap.”
    “I never thought of that.”
    “I know it sounds crazy, but—”
    “It’s beyond crazy.”
    “All right… but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    “I won’t say that.”
    “Do you have an extra gun?”
    “If I did, you’re not getting it.”
    “You’ll be begging me to take it if this is a trap.”
    “Change the subject.”
    To be fair to Ms. Faraday and her paranoia, Vasily Petrov
was
a killer, but he wouldn’t risk carrying a gun. If he did, and we decided to have the local police pull his car over on some pretext, he’d be booted out of the country tomorrow, and that’s not what Colonel Petrov wanted. Or what the CIA wanted. The State Department should have rejected his diplomatic credentials and barred his entry into the U.S. But I’m sure the CIA wanted to see what Petrov was up to. I get this. But that’s like opening your door to a killer to see what he wants.
    Tess suggested, “Maybe we should call for aviation.”
    “Negative.”
    “Why are you being stubborn?”
    I informed her, “We are being tracked at 26 Fed through our GPS, so anyone there who wants to know where we are can know. We are on a routine surveillance in broad