The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  Kealey considered training his gun on the man and shouting some kind of threat, but it wasn’t necessary. He simply pushed him aside and climbed behind the wheel. The man didn’t even protest, just fell to the ground and looked on in stunned disbelief. Pétain jumped into the passenger seat, and Naomi arrived on the run a few seconds later. Behind them, several shots rang out, pounding into the trunk of the car. One round penetrated the rear windshield, narrowly missing Naomi’s head as she threw herself into the backseat. Keeping her body below window level, she reached back to close the door and screamed at Kealey to move, but he was already slamming the car into gear. The Escort jolted forward, then accelerated rapidly as he expertly shifted into second, his left foot working the clutch. The car scraped against another vehicle on the narrow road, swerving slightly, and the driver’s-side mirror came off with a loud bang, arcing into the air before shattering on the pavement 20 feet behind them.

  They were coming up on the intersection. The light was red, and a number of vehicles were waiting for it to turn. An erratic stream of cars was flowing east on Calle de San Bernardino, blocking their only escape route, but Kealey knew he didn’t have a choice. Two CNP officers had already retrieved their vehicles and were coming up fast behind him.

  “Get down!” he shouted as he turned the wheel hard to the right, bouncing the car up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dove out of the way as the Escort raced toward the intersection. The sidewalk wasn’t especially crowded, but a few people weren’t able to get out of the way in time, their bodies bouncing off the front of the vehicle. When they were almost through the light, Kealey flinched involuntarily and turned his face away from the driver’s-side door. The inevitable impact came an instant later as an eastbound sedan caught the rear end of the Escort, spinning it around in the intersection, the glass exploding in the rear windows. Kealey heard the ear-wrenching crump of metal on metal as one car after another smashed into the back of the car that had plowed into them. Everything seemed to spin crazily for a few seconds, the surrounding buildings hurtling past his eyes, and then the car came to rest facing oncoming traffic, rocking slightly on its worn suspension. The engine had died, and Kealey instantly downshifted to first and turned the key, praying it would start up again.

  Amazingly, it did. The engine caught for an instant, but then came to life. Kealey pushed the accelerator down and swerved back into the right lane, the damaged car surging forward, racing southeast toward the city center. The pileup behind them had blocked the police cars in pursuit, but it was only a temporary delay. More units were clearly on the way, as evidenced by the wailing sirens in the near distance.

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Kealey asked, “Is everyone okay? Anyone hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Pétain said, sounding strangely breathless. Looking over, Kealey saw that she was gingerly pulling the seat belt away from her chest; clearly, the collision had caught her completely off guard, and the belt had snapped taut across her body, forcing the air from her lungs.

  “What about you, Naomi?”

  “I’m okay,” she said in a strange monotone. Kealey shot a look over his shoulder, alarmed by the tone of her voice, but she appeared unhurt, staring fixedly past him and through the windshield. He was relieved to find they had both been wearing seat belts. He had forgotten his, but somehow he’d managed to come through unscathed.

  “Take the next left,” Pétain urged as Kealey swung back around in his seat. “Calle de los Reyes.”

  “Is there a parking garage on that street? Somewhere with a little privacy?” Kealey asked.

  “No, but a garage would have cameras, anyway,” she reminded him. “We’ve got to dump this vehicle right now. The CNP will have the area sealed off in a matter of minutes.”

  Kealey nodded sharply; he was annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t considered the cameras. Following her directions, he turned onto the narrow side street and found a parking spot alongside the curb. They all climbed out, ignoring the strange looks the battered vehicle was drawing. A number of sirens seemed to be converging on a point in the near distance, but Kealey decided they were mostly responding to the scene of the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. None were close enough to indicate an imminent threat.

  He turned to Pétain. “You still have your phone?”

  She ran a hand over her right pocket and nodded in the affirmative. Thinking back to the maps he had studied that morning, Kealey checked his watch and said, “We’ll meet at the botanical gardens off the Prado Road. Let’s make it two hours from now. I’ll call you in advance to give you a specific time and place.” He didn’t need to expound on this; the night before, they had each memorized the codes they would use in the event they were caught and forced to speak under duress. He felt sure they had slipped through the net, at least for the time being, but the precautionary steps were like rote to him, drilled in after years of operating illegally on foreign soil. There was no way he could discard them completely, not even under this kind of pressure. “Got it?”

  Pétain nodded again. “Got it.”

  “What about me?” Naomi asked.

  Kealey shot her an appraising look and frowned, deeply troubled by what he saw. She was still sweating profusely, and while her face was blank, her limbs were trembling violently. Her appearance alone was more than enough to attract attention, and that wouldn’t work at all. The first thing they had to find was a public restroom, a place where she could clean herself up. Then they would have to set about finding a change of clothes.

  “You’re coming with me,” he told her. He turned back to Pétain, but she was already moving away, slipping through the static crowd of pedestrians, many of whom had stopped to stare at the gray black cloud drifting past the towering skyline. Grasping Naomi’s hand firmly in his, Kealey turned and started off in the opposite direction, wondering how Harper would react when he heard the news. They had acquired the name they needed from Ghafour, but somehow, Kealey didn’t think that would be enough to justify the disaster that had just transpired. In fact, the situation could hardly be worse. At least one innocent man was dead, and now—despite the overall success of the operation—they were going to have to face the music. The only question was how bad it would end up being.

  CHAPTER 20

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Jonathan Harper sat uneasily in the Oval Office, an untouched cup of coffee resting on the end table near his elbow. He’d been waiting for ten long minutes and wasn’t expecting the president anytime soon. Director Andrews had been called out of the room a few minutes earlier, leaving Harper to dwell on what was coming next. Apart from a solemn Secret Service agent standing post at the door, he was alone. As he waited, he let his mind wander over what had transpired in Madrid less than three hours earlier. The president had been caught up in a press conference; otherwise, Harper knew he would have been expected at the White House earlier. He had used the unexpected delay to the best of his ability, working the information Kealey had given him through the system. The younger man had called him shortly after the disastrous encounter with Kamil Ghafour, and while the report as a whole was less than welcome, the name of Benazir Mengal seemed promising, at least based on what the Operations Directorate had dug up so far.

  Reaching over for his coffee, Harper winced as a sharp pain shot through the left side of his chest. Knowing all too well what was about to happen, he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and worked on controlling his breathing. He’d found that to be the hardest part; once he let it get away from him, it only compounded the other symptoms. The pain started to build, like his heart was being squeezed inside his chest. Then, after nearly a minute of pure agony, the edge wore off, and the pain began to subside.

  “Sir?” Harper opened his eyes and looked up at the agent’s worried face. The man had crossed the room to check on him. “Sir, are you all right? Should I get a doctor?”

  “No.” Harper managed a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. It comes and goes…Trust me, I’m
getting used to it.”

  The man looked uneasy. “Can I get you some water, at least?”

  “Yes, that would be great. Thanks.”

  “No problem, sir.” The agent crossed to another table to fill a glass from a chilled pitcher of water. He returned a moment later, still looking extremely concerned. Thanking him again, Harper drained half the glass, then dug out a clean handkerchief. He used it to wipe the cold sweat from his face, then leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. Over the next few minutes, his breathing returned to normal. As he’d just said, the pain came and went, but the other part wasn’t true. He wasn’t getting used to it. The attacks were a constant reminder of the bullet he’d taken eight months earlier. To be precise, he’d taken four, but one had done significantly more damage than the other three, and he’d been advised by his doctors that the effects of that particular wound would be long term. So far, he’d found that assessment to be entirely accurate.

  He’d been prescribed medication for the pain, of course, but he did his best to use it as little as possible. He drank very little alcohol for exactly the same reason: he preferred to be in complete control at all times. Given the secrets he was charged with protecting, he thought it a prudent course of action. It was a decision he’d made more than twenty years earlier, when he’d first joined the Agency, and he’d never regretted it.

  That wasn’t to say he didn’t harbor regrets. Twenty years in the intelligence business afforded one the time and opportunity to generate plenty of self-recrimination. One incident above all others haunted him day in and day out. As he considered this fact, he involuntarily touched his suit jacket, feeling for the scar tissue beneath the layers of clothing. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew it was there. He could hardly forget. Eight months of relentless searching, Harper thought to himself, the anger welling up as it always did, and the Agency was still no closer to finding the identity of his would-be assassin. The woman who’d risked her freedom—indeed, her very life—to kill him.

  The act itself was only part of the puzzle. The underlying question was how she had found him in the first place. Harper had his suspicions, but knew he’d never be able to prove his theory. The woman he suspected of leaking the information was his predecessor, a former congresswoman by the name of Rachel Ford. She had resigned under pressure from the White House shortly after the failed assassination attempt and, in doing so, had largely protected herself against prosecution. Simply put, she was an embarrassment to the Agency, as well as to the president, who’d nominated her to begin with. No one was in a hurry to give her an audience. For this reason, Harper suspected he’d never know the whole truth. It was something he had yet to come to terms with, and if he was entirely honest with himself, he doubted that he ever would.

  The DDO, or deputy director of operations, was the individual charged with running the Agency’s covert operations around the world. In its entirety, the Directorate of Operations, or DO, comprised less than 10 percent of the Agency’s total workforce. Nevertheless, it was the CIA’s most recognizable element. In short, the DO was the Agency, at least as far as the general public was concerned. It was the same directorate that all the movies and books were based on. Despite its notoriety, the DO was quite adept at concealing its ongoing operations from the public eye, and the identity of the department head was one of its most prized secrets. At least, it should have been. The knowledge that this information had slipped out on his watch was deeply unsettling to Jonathan Harper; indeed, he had nearly resigned over the incident. As it turned out, he’d been nominated for the second-ranking position at the Agency instead. The promotion—which had been confirmed by the Senate in record time—was largely based on Harper’s adept handling of the attempted attack in New York City, as well as his role in limiting the fallout.

  With this thought, Harper couldn’t help but shake his head, a small, wry smile creeping over his face. It was the way things worked in the District, and despite his years of experience, the audacity of the players involved never ceased to amaze him. When it came right down to it, politics was nothing more than a game, albeit a game played on the world stage. That wasn’t to say that the players in Washington were immoral, uncaring people, just that many of them frequently prized things other than the nation’s welfare. It was human nature to covet, Harper knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Or to witness, especially given what was at stake.

  At that moment, the door leading in from the main corridor of the West Wing swung open, and the president stepped in. He was immediately followed by Robert Andrews, the director of Central Intelligence. Exchanging a brief nod with his immediate superior, Harper got to his feet and accepted Brenneman’s proffered hand. Despite the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised by the president’s gracious behavior. He had never found Brenneman to be anything less than courteous and composed, regardless of the circumstances. Still, he knew it was forced, at least on this occasion. When he spoke, the man’s voice confirmed as much. It was curt and carried a slight edge that hinted at his true level of anger and frustration.

  “Take a seat, John,” he said, without preamble. “Sorry to be so blunt, but if you don’t mind, we’ll get started right away. I’d like you to tell me what happened in Madrid. What went wrong? I thought we had this well in hand.”

  Harper couldn’t help but hesitate, his eyes darting up to the ceiling, where the presidential seal was prominently displayed. He knew the Secret Service monitored the Oval Office with hidden cameras, a fact that never failed to bother him. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

  “They’ve been turned off,” Brenneman interrupted impatiently. “Back to my question, John. What went wrong in Spain?”

  Satisfied, Harper leaned back. “It’s hard to say, sir. Based on their initial surveillance, the teams we had in place decided that Ghafour was…better protected, more isolated than we first expected. There were very few ways to get to him, and it was determined that a straightforward approach—that is, a cash-for-information exchange—would offer the best chance for success. Especially given the time constraints.”

  “And whose decision was that?” Brenneman demanded. “Kealey’s?”

  “Yes, sir. He made the call.”

  The president leaned back, an impenetrable mask sliding over his face. “We’ll get back to that later,” he finally said. “For now, walk me through it. Explain what happened, from beginning to end. I need to know the specifics.”

  Realizing that Andrews had only offered up a preliminary briefing, Harper nodded and started in on a detailed explanation. He ran all the way through, starting from the time Pétain and her team had initiated surveillance on Ghafour, and ending with the aftermath of the improvised diversion on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. To Harper’s surprise, Brenneman didn’t interrupt once, although his face tightened in anger or disapproval on several occasions.

  When Harper was done, the president nodded slowly, thinking it through. “So in other words,” he summed up, “all we took out of this was a single name. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Harper conceded, “but in truth, that was all we really expected. Remember, we were operating on the possibility that Kamil Ghafour might have no knowledge at all regarding these events. As far as I’m concerned, sir, we were fortunate to get anything useful out of him.”

  Andrews shot a warning look across the table, but Brenneman seemed to have missed the deputy director’s uninvited candor. “I take it you’ve followed up on this man Mengal,” he continued slowly. “What have you learned in that direction?”

  “Well, Ghafour gave us the basics. Mengal retired as a general in the Pakistani army, and for a number of years, he served with Inter-Services Intelligence. That was a rumor we were able to quickly confirm. Obviously, we make an effort to keep tabs on people like that, and in Mengal’s case, we’ve actually managed to amass quite a bit of information over the past twenty years. In particular, the contacts he developed over that time are worth noting.”

  “What do
you mean by that?” Brenneman inquired. “Is there anything there to indicate why Mengal wanted to get Saifi out of prison? Or why he’s working with him now, if that’s the case?”

  “There is no clear link between the two men,” Harper conceded. “Mengal has ties to al-Qaeda, as does Saifi. That’s one angle we’re working, but that doesn’t necessarily relate to this situation. The general has also forged links with the Afghan mujahideen, the North Koreans, the Iranians, and a number of Kashmiri rebels, many of whom once served under him in an official capacity. He may well have turned to the latter group if, in fact, he was involved in Secretary Fitzgerald’s abduction.”

  “And that is starting to look more and more likely,” Andrews put in. “The rebels could have easily provided the experience and firepower he needed to mount a successful attack on the bridge.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can rule out the Pakistani Army’s involvement,” Brenneman reminded them, his voice taking on a cautionary tone. “As you said, Mengal spent more than twenty years in the service. His primary connection is to the army and the men he served with.”

  “That’s a fair point, sir,” Andrews said. “Again, we’re pursuing all angles.”

  “What about Mengal’s current location?” Brenneman asked. “Did Ghafour—”

  “No, he didn’t.” The words were out before Harper could catch them. “Excuse me, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “That’s fine,” Brenneman said, waving away the apology. “But do we have any indication of where Mengal might be? I mean, if he’s disappeared into thin air, the name by itself won’t do us much good.”