“I’m glad,” Kealey said. There was the habitual awkward pause. “Will she see me?”
Everett shook her head sadly, just as she’d done every day for the past month. “She can’t, Ryan. She’s just not ready.”
Kealey looked away, struggling to hide his disappointment, but the nurse stepped close and put a comforting hand on his arm.
“It’ll happen. Just give her time.”
Kealey nodded. When he turned back, his face was set. “As much as she needs.”
A noise to his right caught his attention. He looked over, hope springing up, but it was just Jonathan Harper. He’d come out through the kitchen and was holding two steaming Styrofoam cups. He held one out and said, “I heard the gatehouse on the radio, so don’t start thinking I’m telepathic. I thought we might go for a walk.”
Kealey looked out the window. It was about to snow again, but that was fine; he needed the air. “Sure. Let’s go.”
They went out and turned right, crossing the grounds toward the pond, moving at a slow, deliberate pace. The gristmill was off to the right, the wooden walls covered in lichen, sagging with time and lack of maintenance. The waterwheel was half frozen in the surface of the pond. They crossed the narrow trestle bridge, heading for the gravel footpath on the other side.
“When did you get here?” Kealey finally asked.
“Just a few minutes before you did,” Harper replied. He hesitated, wondering what Kealey was thinking. It was the first time he had come to Windrush since the start of October, and he knew how that must look to the younger man. He hurried to change the subject.
“How’s the arm?”
Kealey looked down at his left arm, which was still in a white sling. “Not bad. They fixed it up pretty quick.”
“That’s bullshit, Ryan. I talked to the paramedics, as well as the doctors. I know you almost bled out on the way to the hospital, so don’t try to play it down.”
“Yeah, well…” Kealey looked away. “What happened to me was nothing, really. Not when you think about it.”
The unspoken thought seemed to cloud the air between them, but neither felt up to discussing it. They walked for a time, drinking their coffee, talking around the subject of Naomi. Most of what they went over had already cropped up over the past month, but so much had happened, it was helpful to go back and check the facts.
When the white Isuzu truck outside the Renaissance Hotel in Midtown Manhattan was finally opened by the NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit two hours after it tipped over, the contents generated an enormous amount of press coverage. Predictably, the news was followed by public outrage, and Will Vanderveen — even in death — quickly became the focus of an intense media storm. The former U.S. soldier was depicted as a psychopath and a terrorist-for-hire, but those were just two of the less-than-inventive titles bestowed upon him by Western media, none of which were complimentary.
Following the events of September 16th, it seemed as if his face was everywhere. Official U.S. Army photographs acquired through dubious means had appeared on the cover of Newsweek and Time. Indirectly, the latter image stirred up a storm of controversy, as it depicted Vanderveen standing outside a hangar in Somalia in 1993, deep in discussion with Major General William F. Garrison.
The networks immediately jumped on the opportunity to boost ratings and began speculating that Vanderveen might have deliberately warned the Somali militia of the impending raid in which 18 U.S. soldiers were killed, later known as the Battle of Mogadishu. Before long, the theory evolved into something approaching fact, despite the absence of any supporting evidence beyond the grainy photograph, which wasn’t really evidence at all, except in the world of sensationalist journalism.
There was no limit to the coverage, or to America’s rabid fascination with the man who had turned against his own. Vanderveen was the subject of an MSNBC investigative report as well as a CNN indepth special, which aired during prime time. A hastily composed biography had hit the bookstores a week ago and was already topping the best-seller lists. Everyone wanted to know about the Special Forces soldier who’d betrayed his country, lending his skills to some of America’s worst enemies, with the goal of destroying thousands of innocent lives. His infamy was only enhanced when it became clear that the bomb he had brought into the country would have wreaked devastation on a scale rivaling 9/11, had Nazeri been allowed to reach his target. Strangely enough, Amir Nazeri was hardly mentioned in the ensuing media storm; Vanderveen alone seemed to have captured the nation’s attention.
Harper had done his best to keep Kealey’s name out of the whole thing, but it had proved impossible; the two former soldiers had too much shared history, and there was no avoiding it. Even so, the situation would have been tenable were it not for a lengthy article that appeared in the New York Times less than a week after the failed attack. The article contained information that could only have been leaked through an Agency source, and while the Times reporter had refused to divulge his source — resulting in another Valerie Plame–like incident — it had been clear to everyone who mattered — Kealey included — that the leak could only have come from one person.
It had been clear to the president as well. Rachel Ford had ample motive. It was well known that she’d despised the entire operations directorate to begin with. Beyond that, however, she’d made it clear that she didn’t buy the official record of what had transpired in the warehouse on West Thirty-seventh Street. The Bureau’s internal investigation had determined that Special Agent Matt Foster had killed his partner, Samantha Crane, before being shot to death himself by Naomi Kharmai. The Bureau would have preferred to avoid the tarnishing link to Vanderveen, but there were just too many fingers pointing toward Foster. Kealey, for one, had demanded that the Bureau come clean, and in the end, he’d gotten his wish.
Ford had instantly started screaming about a cover-up, accusing Kealey of involvement in her niece’s death. A few people listened at first, but she lost any support she had when she leaked Kealey’s personnel file to the press. Even before that, Hakim Rudaki had been making noises about where Foster was getting his information — namely, from Samantha Crane — and that could only mean one thing: that Ford was involved, at least on the periphery. The president had quietly offered her a choice. She could either endure some painful and very public inquiries, or she could quietly resign her post. In the end, the choice had been easy to make.
Less than a week after the president accepted her resignation, he’d submitted Jonathan Harper’s name for the vacant post. The Senate had yet to confirm the nomination, but word had trickled down that Harper was a lock for the job. His skillful handling of the crisis had ensured he would sail through the confirmation process, but there was something infinitely more important at work, and that was the fact that no one else had seen it coming. Had it not been for the work of Harper, Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai, the attack would have easily succeeded, with disastrous consequences. In essence, giving Harper a promotion — with the implied promise of an eventual nomination to the top job — had been the best way for the president to defuse a more thorough investigation into his own personal handling of the entire situation, which was sorely lacking.
Ironically, David Brenneman had gotten the most mileage out of the incident, even though he’d done nothing but stand in their way since the embassy break-in. The plot had failed, and that automatically worked in his favor, but when it became clear that the bomb was meant primarily for the thirty-five members of the United Iraqi Alliance staying at the Renaissance Hotel, Brenneman received some of the credit for preventing — at least indirectly — what might have been a disastrous setback in Iraq. His political advisors milked the story for all it was worth, pointing out that the loss of the UIA’s core leadership would likely have led to civil war, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of U.S. soldiers before a suitable plan for withdrawal could be put into effect.
The political spin made Kealey sick; the troops wouldn’t even be there without the president’s a
pproval, and suddenly he was being portrayed as their guardian, the man watching out for them. But he knew voicing this opinion wouldn’t get him anywhere, so he kept his mouth shut. He doubted whether the president would care what he thought, anyway, as Brenneman had won reelection the previous day, with a staggering 58 percent of the popular vote, defeating Democratic governor Richard Fiske in a landslide.
In the meantime, the insurgent activity in Iraq had returned to normal levels, aided in part by public appeals for peace by leading Shiite and Sunni clerics, including Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, easily the most revered religious leader in the region. The U.S. commanders had done their part to restore the status quo, which was about the best they could hope for.
As they walked, Harper brought Kealey up to speed on the most recent news. First, he mentioned the ongoing hunt for Vanderveen’s traveling companion, the woman inadvertently photographed by MI5 in London. Since that single sighting, she had disappeared without a trace. The Agency still had no idea who she was, and although the surveillance shots had been distributed to a number of friendly security services, no one was holding out much hope for her capture. Kealey didn’t speak as Harper relayed this information, but privately, he sided with the majority: the woman would probably never be found. The Agency just didn’t have enough background information to conduct an efficient search, and a few distant photographs were not enough to build on. Out of all the collaborators, it looked as if one had walked away clean. While this wasn’t really acceptable, Kealey knew there wasn’t much they could do to resolve the situation; the woman had simply covered her tracks too well.
Moving on, Harper laid out the specifics of Operation Clean Sweep, a massive endeavor involving 1,400 U.S. soldiers, including units from 10th Mountain, the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the 82nd Airborne. Clean Sweep was primarily geared toward cross-border raids into Syria in search of arms caches, and the operation had proved wildly successful. More than thirty tons of small arms had been seized, then transported back to Iraq, where they were either stored or destroyed. The joint U.S.-Iraqi forces seemed to have regained dominance on the ground, but there was still the question of Hakim Rudaki and his cousin, Reza Bagheri.
“So the Bureau’s done with him?” Kealey asked.
Harper nodded. “As far as they’re concerned, everything that came out of Rudaki’s mouth was a lie. They’ve washed their hands of it… or at least, they’ve tried to. This has really hurt their reputation, especially since it wasn’t that long ago that they had to deal with Hanssen and all the damage he did.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Rudaki might have given us some truth, if only by accident.”
“Because of his cousin,” Kealey said.
“Exactly. The defense minister was supposedly passing us info because he was unhappy with the regime’s attempts to disrupt U.S. policy in Iraq by killing Tabrizi and the prime minister. Of course, it wasn’t true; Iran was never involved. But if Bagheri had nothing to do with it, why would Rudaki bring him up to begin with?”
“He needed a cover for the lies he was selling us,” Kealey pointed out. “Maybe the cousin was just the most convenient excuse.”
“Maybe,” Harper muttered. “We’re still talking to him. I think Bagheri might know a lot more than he’s letting on, so we’re looking for leverage. If anything comes of it, I’ll let you know. The question is, would you want to be involved?”
Kealey looked over. “Is that what you came here to ask me?”
“No, because that would imply a temporary role.” The other man paused. “Look, I want you back in the fold. What’s it going to take to get you back to Langley?”
Kealey brushed some snow off the wooden railing, watching absently as it drifted down to the frozen surface of the pond. “John, it’s a possibility. I want to come back, I think, but for now, my place is here.”
“She won’t see you, Ryan. She probably won’t want to see you for a very long time.”
“Then I’ll wait,” Kealey said simply. “As long as it takes.”
Harper thought about saying something but decided against it. He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting over to the manor house and the black government SUVs parked nearby. “Okay. I understand. When you’re ready, give me a call.”
Kealey nodded. Their eyes met, and they shook hands firmly. “Have a safe trip. Say hi to Julie for me.”
“Will do.”
Kealey watched him go, but before long, his gaze drifted back to the house. For a brief instant, he thought he saw a face swathed in bandages at one of the third-story windows, but then it was gone.
He stayed that way for a long time, staring out at the frozen pond, just thinking about things. What he had said was the plain truth, but he knew Harper didn’t really understand. Kealey would stay in town and drive out here every day forever if that was what it took. He wasn’t sure how Naomi had come to mean so much to him in so short a time, but he couldn’t deny his feelings. All he wanted was to see her again. There were things he wanted to say, of course, but mostly, he just wanted to see her. He thought he’d give anything to see her.
By the time he turned and finished crossing the bridge, a light snow had started to fall. He had almost reached his truck when the heavy oak door cracked open behind him. He turned instantly at the sound.
It was Everett, and she seemed relieved to have caught him. “She’s changed her mind, Ryan. I think she was just waiting for Mr. Harper to go. She’ll see you now.”
CHAPTER 58
LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA
Kealey followed her up the narrow staircase. They continued past the second floor, up to the third. When the house was first built, the top floor had been used as a storage area for commercial goods, but since the extensive renovation in the mid-1970s, the open space had been divided into four large rooms separated by a single hall, each with its own private bathroom. As he followed her down the corridor, he was distinctly aware of a growing unease; Naomi had finally agreed to see him, but he had no idea what to expect.
He wondered if she hated him, if she blamed him for not taking the shot before Vanderveen could cut her. It was a distinct possibility, he knew, though the thought was almost too painful to bear. From her point of view, it must have seemed so simple. He had a gun; Vanderveen had a knife. She couldn’t know that Vanderveen had given him no target, that he’d done everything possible to keep her body between them. Nor could he have explained it to her, at least not to any purpose. It would have sounded like an excuse, nothing more.
The hall ran the length of the building. They were halfway down when Everett stopped and turned to face him. It seemed as though her genial nature was relegated to the ground floors; up here, she was a much harder person. He watched as she adopted a serious, clinical expression, and knew at once that she was about to relay unwanted information.
“Ryan, before you go in, I want to make you aware of a few things. I know you’ve expressed no interest in her specific injuries, but—”
“It’s not that I don’t have an interest,” he said. His voice was low but firm; he wanted to be clear on this. “It’s just that I’m here for her no matter what. I don’t see that knowing the specifics makes a difference.”
“I understand, and I can appreciate your point. But I think you need to know.”
Kealey took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Nearly all the damage is superficial. She was extremely fortunate in that respect. The knife missed the cervical branch of the facial nerve, but the wound to the cheek was very deep. There was no damage to the parotid gland, but there was some damage to the zygomatic muscles, both major and minor, as well as the buccal branch of the—”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” Kealey said, trying to push down his rising fear. “How bad is it? Just tell me that.”
The head nurse blew out a short breath. “All of the muscle damage has been repaired. Her recovery should be in the ninetieth percentile, maybe higher. She’s already made a
mazing progress. The buccal branch of the facial nerve — that controls movement of the mouth and nose — was partially severed, but the sutures held, and the prognosis is good… extremely good, in fact. The nerve damage is almost certainly temporary, but her speech is still a little off, so be prepared for that.” Everett broke off, gathering her next words. “Most of all, it’s just a very… traumatic injury. The way it happened, I mean. She’s been having nightmares, insomnia, loss of appetite, things of that nature. And of course, the injury is to the face, so…”
“So what?”
“Well, she was a beautiful woman,” Everett said uneasily, as if that explained everything.
“She still is.”
Everett nodded slowly; Kealey’s tone was tight and insistent, and she knew better than to argue. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I have the feeling she’s very nervous about seeing you. Or rather, nervous about you seeing her. I hope you can handle it.”
He stared at her until she looked away.
“Sorry,” she started. “I—”
“It’s okay. Can I go in now?”
She nodded. “The door’s open, but she needs to rest. You can have thirty minutes, but that’s it. You can see her again tomorrow if she’s up to it.”
Everett turned and walked back down the hall. A second later he heard her feet on the stairs. Kealey put a hand on the door and took another deep breath. He thought about knocking, then realized that she might not want to raise her voice or even talk at all. In the end, he just tapped lightly and pushed inside.
The room was half in shadow, the curtains pulled back. Kealey could see snow drifting past the large windows overlooking the pond. The walls were the color of clotted cream, the furnishings simple enough: a large bed with a thick lavender comforter, an armchair and a couch against one wall, antique bookshelves against the other. There was also a small TV and a number of end tables scattered over the rough oak floor. Every spare surface was covered with floral arrangements in all manner of vases.
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