The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  Ramirez was the only person who hadn’t entered the van through the sliding door on the right. Instead, he walked to the driver’s-side door. It swung open, and the driver climbed out, leaving the keys in the ignition. Then he turned, walked down the alley, and melted into the mass of humanity on Calle de Tutor. The driver knew what needed to happen as well as anyone, but Kealey preferred to keep the 4-man teams intact. That way, everyone was sure to be on the same page. In his experience, even a short amount of time spent working with the same people could make a crucial difference, especially if they encountered a major hitch in the plan.

  As the last door closed and the van lurched forward, Kealey dropped the bag from his shoulder and wedged it between his feet. In the time it took him to do that, Marissa Pétain had opened a plastic container near the front of the cargo area, which was bolted to the floor. She removed a weapon and handed it over, butt first, along with two spare clips. Her left eyebrow arched in a silent question, and Kealey nodded his approval: the gun was fine.

  As Pétain handed Naomi a weapon and selected one for herself, Kealey locked the slide to the rear and examined the chamber, then the length of the barrel. The CZ 110 was a chunky handgun manufactured in the Czech Republic. It featured a strong but lightweight polymer frame, as well as a generous trigger guard. This particular model was chambered for 9mm rounds. He loaded a 13-round magazine, then let the upper receiver snap forward, chambering the first round. Looking over, he saw that Naomi was slipping a magazine into what looked like a Glock 26, and Pétain had selected an FN Forty-Nine. The weapons would do what was needed, if it came to that, but there was another reason these particular models had been selected. None were in standard use by any U.S. government agency, which would help deflect blame if the worst were to happen. Still, that was a last resort. Kealey was counting on the contents of the bag at his feet to get them the answers they needed.

  As the Toyota van made its way through the dense afternoon traffic, Kealey looked over at Naomi. She was sitting upright, her face alert, but he couldn’t forget the distracted look she’d been wearing ten minutes earlier, as well as what he had seen in her eyes. And that had been in a brightly lit hallway. He knew it didn’t necessarily mean anything; for instance, eyedrops could cause temporary mydriasis, or dilation of the pupils. But so could a slew of pharmaceuticals, many of which were highly illegal. Kealey couldn’t be sure what she was into. He didn’t want to believe it was anything dangerous, but when he stopped to consider everything he’d seen over the past couple days, it was hard to ignore the truth. As the van swung a hard left onto Calle de San Leonardo de Dios, the suspension groaning in protest beneath their feet, he made a reluctant decision.

  “Pétain?” The young operative looked over inquiringly. “I need you to go in there with me. Are you up for it?”

  “What?” Naomi said, her head whipping around in surprise. “Ryan, I’m supposed to be—”

  “Not anymore,” he told her. He shifted his gaze back to Pétain. “Well?”

  Pétain nodded and was about to respond, but Naomi got there first, her voice elevated and laced with anger. “Ryan, what the hell are you talking about? This is my assignment, not yours. Director Harper gave it to me personally, and you can’t pull me off just because I showed up a few hours—”

  “Eight hours, Naomi.” He leveled her with a steady, uncompromising glare. “You were gone for eight hours. Nearly nine. You should consider yourself lucky. If Harper knew about what you pulled this morning, he’d want you on the first plane back, and your career would be all but over.”

  “We’ve been over this,” Naomi tried again. Her hands were out, palms up, in an imploring gesture. Her eyes were wide with anger, but he could also detect a hint of desperation. It was something that Kealey hadn’t seen before, and it made him uneasy; she had never begged him for anything. “I know what has to happen in there, and—”

  “Forget it,” Kealey interrupted. He didn’t want to do this to her, but she wasn’t giving him a choice. Besides, if he reversed course now, it would only undermine his authority. “You had your chance.” He turned back to Pétain. “You know the drill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Just stay relaxed and follow my lead.”

  Pétain nodded again as the van slowed to a halt. A square hole measuring 12 by 9 inches had been cut out of the thin, custom-made metal partition that separated the cab from the rear of the vehicle. It was large enough to allow face-to-face communication between the passengers and the driver, but not so large as to allow people looking through the windshield to see the contents of the cargo area. Kealey shifted on the bench, moving close to the gap, and addressed Ramirez over the constant sputter of a police-band radio. “How are we looking?”

  The swarthy, middle-aged operative scratched his chin and let out a short cough, but he didn’t shift his gaze from the windshield. “There’s a demonstration forming in the Puerta del Sol. Nearly a thousand people have shown up so far. They’re students, mostly, protesting the upcoming summit in Barcelona. The CNP has five riot-control vans forming a loose perimeter. Nothing’s happening so far, but they’re keeping an eye on it, and they’re about to commit another hundred officers to the scene. Two local cars are responding to an accident near the art museum…That’s less than a quarter mile from here. That’s about it. Why? You want to hold off?”

  Kealey thought about it for a second. Typically, one of the first things he looked at when preparing to stage an operation on foreign soil was the local police presence. It was vital to know where the stations were located, which roads were most heavily patrolled, and how long it might take units to respond once they got the call. Usually, it wasn’t that hard to get an idea of the local capabilities, but in Spain, things were more challenging. Particularly in the larger cities. He’d seen as much when they’d first landed at Madrid Barajas, the international hub located 15 kilometers north of the city center. The security inside the terminal had been impossible to miss. Dozens of officers with the National Police, otherwise known as the CNP, had been scattered throughout the building, along with soldiers in the Guardia Civil and private security guards. Outside the terminal, security and traffic control were handled by the local police, but their presence was just as imposing.

  For Kealey, the skill, dedication, and sheer size of the Spanish police force were not factors to be taken lightly. However, the three teams assigned to Ghafour in Madrid had been keeping a constant watch on the building site north of the Plaza de España. It was determined right from the start that the site would be the best place to make contact, and part of their assignment had been to keep tabs on police movement in the area. Kealey had studied the logs in detail. Unfortunately, they hadn’t presented him with a clear window; the patrols were reasonably light, but also constant. Still, he didn’t think they would get a better opportunity than the one in front of them.

  More to the point, they didn’t have time to waste. The events of the previous day in Pakistan had thrown the missing tourist situation into a whole new light. He and Kharmai had learned what had happened at Keflavík International: every television inside the terminal had been tuned to CNN. Harper had called less than ten minutes later to give them the official version of what had transpired, and he’d also relayed the predominant stance in Washington. For once, Kealey happened to agree with the president’s advisors. The fact that the secretary of state had been abducted in Pakistan—the same country in which 12 other Americans had recently vanished—could not be a coincidence. It seemed entirely possible—even likely—that Amari Saifi had played a part in the secretary of state’s abduction, and although he had accepted Harper’s proposal with reluctance, to say the least, Kealey was beginning to find himself drawn into the task of tracking down the Algerian terrorist. At the moment, the only way to do that was through Kamil Ghafour, so it was vital that everything ran smoothly once they were inside the gates. Kealey felt sure the man would accept the Agency’s offer, but he couldn’t operate sol
ely on that assumption; he had to be ready for anything.

  “We’re not going to wait,” he finally said, addressing Ramirez’s last question. “I want to know what this guy has to say. Besides, the longer we push it back, the bigger the risk.” All the watchers were traveling on false passports supplied by the Operations Directorate. There had been no direct contact with the embassy, and the Agency would deny any involvement if their cover was blown, as would the U.S. government. It was one of those situations where—despite having a vested interest—the administration was unwilling to put itself out on a limb, even to save the life of the secretary of state. Kealey had seen it all before, though that didn’t make the self-serving politics any easier to stomach.

  “Where do you want me?” asked Ramirez.

  “Drive to the corner of the next street and look for a place to park. If you can’t find one, and you probably won’t be able to, circle the block until I get in touch. Either way, we’ll walk up to the intersection, where this road meets San Bernardino. Worst comes to worst, you can pick us up en route. We’ll get out here.”

  Ramirez nodded. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Kealey turned away from the hole in the sheet metal and shouldered the bag containing the money. After making sure the CZ 110 was secure at the small of his back, he pulled his T-shirt over the grip of the weapon. It didn’t provide much camouflage, but it wasn’t far to the gate, and the heavy pedestrian traffic in the area would help ensure their anonymity.

  He looked over at Pétain. “Ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Kealey turned to Naomi. “Stay here. Don’t move an inch.”

  “You’re wrong, Ryan.” Naomi’s gaze was still angry, but also adamant. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re making a big mistake by cutting me out of this.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said, fixing her with a meaningful look. “But this isn’t the time to get into it.” Kealey pulled open the sliding door and climbed out, Pétain following close on his heels. Seconds later, they disappeared into the crowd, and the van pulled away from the curb, joining the traffic streaming north on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios.

  CHAPTER 15

  MADRID

  Ramirez had selected the spot well. Kealey realized as much as he moved down the sidewalk, Pétain trailing a few steps behind. The operative had dropped them 100 meters south of the gate leading into the building site, but more importantly, he’d picked an area where the road was completely shielded from the site. Not only by the 5-foot chain-link fence, but by a flimsy wooden fence. It meant the workers wouldn’t have seen the vehicle that dropped them off. It was a small point, admittedly, but major operations had been blown on far less. Every intelligence agency around the world had suffered its fair share of embarrassments, including the CIA. Hopefully, today’s work wouldn’t fall into that category.

  As they approached the east gate, Kealey saw with relief that it was already open. It would save them some time loitering outside, where they might be noticed by the wrong person. The second gate was on the other side of the site, where it opened onto a parallel street. A dump truck filled with stone was edging into traffic, and a number of workers in khakis, T-shirts, and hard hats were waiting to close the gate once the vehicle had made the turn.

  The street wasn’t especially busy, but noise seemed to be hitting them from all directions: the staccato sounds of rapid-fire Spanish, the groan of machinery on the other side of the fence, as well as the steady thump of rap music emanating from a passing Land Rover. To their left, an African street vendor plied his trade, his wares—bootlegged CDs and DVDs, for the most part—neatly lined up on a white cotton sheet spread over the cement. A few tourists stopped to gape at the blatant display of illegal merchandise, but the vendor ignored them, his wary eyes scanning the crowd for the smallest sign of an undercover police officer.

  Kealey shifted his eyes from the scene and kept moving forward, Pétain a few feet to his rear. The strap of the bag was biting into his shoulder, and sweat was streaming down the back of his neck. Every inch of his skin was damp, his shirt soaked completely through.

  A hand tightened around the back of his arm, pulling him out of his distracted state. He turned to face Marissa Pétain.

  “What are you going to say?” she shouted over the roar of the dump truck and passing traffic. He frowned, pulling her close, and she caught the hint, lowering her voice as she put her mouth next to his ear. “They’re not going to let us walk right in there, you know. How are you going to get us in?”

  “I’m going to tell them the truth.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, her mouth hanging open. He didn’t wait for her to snap out of it, instead hurrying forward, sliding past a tight knot of wayward tourists. Someone bumped him hard, nearly shoving him into the road, where cars were streaming by at a steady clip. He swore under his breath and kept going. He was angry with himself for letting the heat distract him. Pétain’s question had slowed him down as well; he shouldn’t have stopped to answer her. In truth, he would have preferred to leave her out of this altogether. She wouldn’t be contributing much to the conversation; he just wanted her there to lower the tension, or at least keep it in check. Ghafour would be less suspicious, less confrontational, with a woman present. At least, that was the hope. According to the file, Ghafour had lost his father at an early age, and he’d grown up with his mother and four older sisters. That kind of upbringing would likely leave a lasting impression.

  Kealey sprinted the last few feet as the gate swung shut. He reached it and grabbed the chain-link with his fingers. The man who was trying to pull it closed stopped and shot him a confused, slightly irritated look. “¿Qué deseas?”

  “Deseo hablar con un hombre que trabaje contigo,” Kealey replied. “Kamil Ghafour.”

  The burly Spaniard froze and looked at him hard, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the plastic brim of his hard hat. “¿Por qué?”

  “That’s my business,” Kealey continued in Spanish. Pétain stood next to him silently, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. “But he’ll want to talk to me. Tell him I have something to give him. Something to offer.”

  The man shook his head, spat on the ground, and turned to walk away. Kealey called out, and when the man looked back, he lifted a crumpled fistful of Euros. The worker walked back cautiously and eyed the obvious bribe.

  “One hundred Euros,” Kealey said. “Fifty when you let me in, another fifty when you point him out.”

  The Spaniard hesitated, looked around slowly, then nodded his agreement. He lifted a finger, indicating they should wait, and walked off. Pétain started to speak, but Kealey silenced her with a quick gesture. “He’ll be back,” he told her. “Just give it a minute.”

  The construction worker reappeared in two. He opened the gate, waved them in, and handed them a couple of hard hats. They put them on and Kealey handed over the first fifty. The man held it up to the afternoon sun, as though verifying its authenticity. Satisfied, he turned and waved a heavily calloused hand, indicating they should follow. Kealey thought it strange that the man hadn’t given Pétain so much as an appraising glance, but he quickly pushed aside the distracting thought.

  They walked toward a series of trailers, following the deep impressions left by a heavy vehicle’s tires. The ground was hard beneath their feet, red soil heaped to the right, the concrete pad to the left. The sound of an electric bolt gun filled the air, drowned out a moment later by the low, throaty rumble of a diesel crane.

  After another 50 feet, the Spaniard stopped and pointed to the third trailer. “He’s in there,” he said in his native language. There was a hint of derision in his voice, and he paused again to spit on the ground. “The maricón doesn’t get his hands dirty anymore, not since the police came. He sits inside, where it’s cool, and does the paperwork.”

  Kealey looked around, trying to get a better sense of his surroundings. No one was paying them too much attention, and he
didn’t see the face he was looking for. As far as he could tell, the construction worker was telling the truth.

  He handed over the second fifty, and the Spaniard grunted his approval. He shoved the money into the right pocket of his filthy khakis. Then, finally, he shot a lecherous look at Pétain. She pretended not to notice as she nudged the solid clay with her foot, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the trailer in the near distance. Finally, the man snorted and lumbered off.

  “Asshole,” Pétain muttered. Once the worker was out of earshot, she turned to Kealey and said, “So, what do you think?”

  “I think he’s in there. Most of these guys are natives. They’ll put up with an Algerian boss, if the money is right, but I doubt their goodwill extends to a favored employee. Especially one born on foreign soil.”

  “That’s how it looks,” she agreed. “So what now?”

  “Now we go in.” Kealey moved forward suddenly, Pétain scrambling to keep up. As he crossed the uneven terrain, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of doubt. There was no guarantee that Ghafour could point them in the right direction, and just approaching him entailed a huge risk. All he had to do was call out for his coworkers. They might not care for him, but they would back him up if it came to that; Kealey was sure of it. If summoned, they would arrive in a matter of seconds, and the police wouldn’t be far behind. Should that happen, the whole operation would be blown wide open. The Agency would suffer a major embarrassment, and they’d be no closer to finding Amari Saifi. At the same time, they only had one shot at this—one shot at getting Ghafour to talk. If he did know something, they had to get it out of him. By any means necessary.