The main thing that stuck out in Harper’s mind, though, was the ambassador’s reputation, which was that of a shrewd political operator. This wasn’t surprising in a man who’d accomplished as much as Vázquez had, but nevertheless, it was a worrying fact. At the very least, it meant he would not be easily intimidated. If he had the evidence to support his government’s claims, he would not hesitate to deliver a very forthright message to the president, regardless of his surroundings.
This fact was weighing heavily on Harper’s mind as Claire Bouchard, the president’s secretary, showed Vázquez into the room. Everyone was standing as the ambassador crossed the presidential rug and accepted Brenneman’s proffered hand.
“Miguel, it’s good to see you again,” Brenneman said, with a warm, apparently genuine smile. Harper had always been impressed by the man’s courteous nature, which rarely seemed to slip. He had always wondered if it was real or just a façade, but now, recalling the president’s words of just a few minutes earlier, he could see just how skilled an actor David Brenneman actually was. He was greeting the Spanish official like an old friend, even as he was preparing to lie right to his face.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Vázquez replied, bobbing his head politely, “and thank you for taking the time to see me. I realize this is a difficult time for you and your country. I understand that the leaders of my country have already contacted you to express their concern and outrage over the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald in Pakistan, but please allow me to convey my personal condolences. My family and I are praying for her safe recovery, as are the people of Spain.”
The president accepted the expected words with a slight inclination of his head, then grasped the other man’s hand in both of his own. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I appreciate that, and I’m grateful for your support and that of your government. It means a great deal, not only to me, but to everyone here.”
Releasing the other man’s hand, Brenneman began making the introductions. Vázquez cordially shook each man’s hand, his face revealing nothing at all. When Harper’s turn came, the deputy director thought he saw something flash across the ambassador’s face, an expression that fell somewhere between distaste and contempt, but given the situation and their surroundings, Harper had no choice but to let it slide.
Gesturing to the numerous chairs in front of his desk, Brenneman invited them all to sit. The president took the seat closest to his desk, on the south side of the room. Vázquez sat to his immediate right, and Lawrence Hayden took the next seat down. Andrews, Harper, and Chavis picked out chairs on the other side of the coffee table, the chief of staff selecting the seat closest to the president. As they were settling in, a Navy steward entered the room with coffee, cream, and sugar on a silver tray. He left the tray on the table, along with cups for everyone present. Then he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke as Stan Chavis began pouring the coffee. Then the ambassador turned to Brenneman. As he did so, he placed both hands on top of the file he was holding in his lap.
“Mr. President,” he began cordially, “I believe you know why my government requested this meeting.”
“Actually,” Hayden said quickly, trying to shift Vázquez’s attention away from the president, “the reason for this meeting has not been made entirely clear, Mr. Ambassador. As you can probably guess, we tried to contact certain people through the usual diplomatic channels in an effort to learn more, but we’ve had a difficult time accessing certain members of your government over the past eight hours. Perhaps you could tell us why this is the case.”
“I’m afraid I can’t speak to that,” Vázquez replied mildly, one hand lightly tapping the top of the file. “Unfortunately, I’m somewhat out of the loop myself. I’m sure you understand that things have been very hectic over the past couple of days.”
No one believed that for a second, but the unwritten rules of diplomacy did not allow them to question the statement. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and then Vázquez continued, aiming his words once more at the president.
“Mr. President, I believe you’re familiar with the recent events in Madrid. I’m referring, of course, to the bombing two days ago that claimed the lives of six innocent people. Indirectly, that incident also resulted in the death of an Algerian national by the name of Kamil Ahmed Ghafour. Ghafour, as you may or may not know, was not killed in the bombing, but in a related shooting incident just minutes before. Both events occurred on the same street in downtown Madrid.”
Brenneman nodded slowly, ignoring the cup that Chavis placed before him. “I’m familiar with the situation. As you probably know, I’ve already contacted the king and Prime Minister Zapatero to express my condolences.”
“Then you probably also know,” the ambassador continued, acknowledging the president’s words with another bob of his head, “that less than a week prior to this incident, the U.S. State Department submitted an official request to the Foreign Ministry in Madrid. In this request, they asked that Ghafour be made available for an interview regarding his association with a man named Amari Saifi, another Algerian national and a prominent member of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat, otherwise known as the GSCP.”
Once again, Hayden jumped in. “Yes, that’s correct. We had reason to believe that Saifi was responsible for the recent abductions of twelve U.S. tourists in Pakistan. As I’m sure you know, that initial theory was right on the mark. I assume you’ve seen the tape.”
Vázquez nodded slowly, though the question was clearly rhetorical. He had seen the tape that al-Jazeera had first aired two days ago, and he was now fully aware—along with everyone else in the civilized world—that Amari Saifi had been implicit not only in the earlier kidnappings, but also in the abduction of the secretary herself. He had known this would probably come up, but given the evidence he was holding in his lap, he was not about to go on the defensive.
“In retrospect,” he finally conceded, “we probably should have made a greater effort to accommodate your earlier request. But wouldn’t you agree, Secretary Hayden, that this entire episode strikes one as quite a coincidence?”
“What, exactly, are you referring to?” Stan Chavis asked tightly.
“I would have thought that was clear, Mr. Chavis.” Vázquez stared directly across the table, not backing down an inch. “I’m referring to the exquisitely short gap between the State Department’s request to meet with Ghafour and his rather untimely death in Madrid.”
Brenneman cleared his throat gently. “Miguel, I can see where you’re going with this, but you’re a career diplomat. You know how this works, and I don’t have to tell you that you’re treading on dangerous ground. If you’re insinuating what I think you are, you’re making a grave mistake. Making that kind of accusation without proof would not be in your best interest, or in the interests of your government, for that matter.”
The Spanish ambassador’s eyes widened slightly, and he raised one hand, palm out, in a conciliatory gesture. “Mr. President, I did not mean to level any kind of accusation, and please forgive me if I left that impression. I merely wish to emphasize the unusual timing. That both incidents should occur so close together seems to strain credulity.”
Hayden opened his mouth to speak, but Vázquez raised his hand once more. “Please, Mr. Hayden, bear with me a moment. I think you’ll be interested in what I’m about to say.”
Settling back in his chair, the ambassador looked at them each in turn. “As you can probably imagine,” he said, “the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios immediately prompted a large-scale investigation. Personnel and material resources from a number of our agencies, including the National Police and the Guardia Civil, were dispatched to the scene to begin searching for evidence. What they found was very surprising. You see, the explosion was not caused by a conventional explosive, such as dynamite or TNT, or by a plastic explosive, such as Semtex—a favorite of the Basque separatists—or C4. The explosion was caused by
the detonation of two tanks, one of which contained acetylene. The other contained oxygen. According to the preliminary report issued by the CNP, both tanks were either full or close to it, which would account for the extensive property damage and loss of life.”
“Acetylene?” Brenneman murmured. He shook his head slowly. “That seems…unlikely.”
“I can assure you, Mr. President, it’s true.” Vázquez seemed pleased that the president had spoken, Harper noticed uneasily. Personally, he wished that Brenneman would stop talking completely; every word that came out of his mouth was something that might potentially incriminate him later. Besides, that was the reason for Hayden’s presence. If anyone was going to go out on a limb, it should have been him.
“Fortunately, it didn’t take long to trace the source of the tanks,” Vázquez continued. “Both were removed—stolen, actually—from a vehicle repair shop less than twenty meters from the site of the explosion. The owner was quickly able to verify that the tanks were missing. Apparently, he’d had trouble with theft before—unfortunately, there is considerable demand for black market tools in Madrid—and after the last incident, which occurred two months prior to the bombing, he installed a closed-circuit TV in the repair bays. Obviously, this turned out to be a major break in the investigation.”
Vázquez opened the folder on his lap. Removing the first of several eight-by-tens, he handed the photograph to the president. Brenneman examined it briefly, his face giving nothing away. Shaking his head slightly, he passed the photo to his left. The DCI studied it briefly, then gave it to Harper. The image had obviously been cleaned up, but it hadn’t been forged. Harper knew it was real because the person he was looking at was none other than Naomi Kharmai. In the photograph, she was standing in the middle of the first bay, looking around, as if deciding what to do next. A moment later, Andrews handed him another photograph. The time stamp in the upper left-hand corner indicated that it had been taken less than five seconds after the first. This image showed Kharmai wheeling a hand truck out of the shop. Two tanks—one green, one unpainted—were strapped to the hand truck.
“As you can see,” Vázquez was saying, “these images are less than perfect. First, the tape had to be compressed, to improve the quality. Then the still images were extracted from the tape itself. Obviously, it’s difficult to print a usable image when the source is lower than print quality, but our technicians did their best. The result isn’t ideal, but the woman’s face is clearly visible in each shot. That’s the main point I wish to impress.”
Removing a third image from his folder, the ambassador passed it to Brenneman. When it reached Harper, he studied it briefly. He could immediately see that it had been taken at the airport, from a ceiling-mounted camera. The image clearly depicted the same woman in the first two photographs.
“This image,” Vázquez said, once he was sure they had all seen it, “was captured at Madrid Barajas International Airport one day prior to the bombing. According to customs, the woman you see here was traveling on a U.S. passport issued to one Sarinder Kaur Nagra. I’m sure we can all agree that all three of the images depict the same person. If there is any doubt in your minds, however, I can show you data provided by our facial-recognition software, which conclusively matched the face in all three photographs.”
No one had spoken as the ambassador had made his presentation, but Harper could no longer remain silent. “Mr. Ambassador, it’s gratifying to see that your government has made such remarkable progress in its investigation, but why, exactly, are you bringing this to our attention?”
“I would have thought that was obvious, Mr. Harper. This woman has an American passport; therefore, she’s a U.S. citizen. We would like the FBI to locate her, take her into custody, and begin extradition proceedings.”
The room fell silent. After what seemed like an eternity, Harper asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us with respect to the investigation?”
Vázquez nodded curtly; clearly, he’d been expecting the question. Removing a final photograph from his folder, he handed it to the president. Brenneman looked at it for what seemed like a very long time, his eyes narrowing, his jaw visibly tightening. By the time the photo was passed to Harper, he already knew what he was going to see.
“This final image,” Vázquez said quietly, “was printed in Time magazine ten months ago. The photograph was taken by a fast-thinking tourist during the failed terrorist attack in New York City last September, and as you can see, the content speaks for itself.”
Harper had seen the image a thousand times, but he forced himself to study it once more. The photograph, which had been taken outside the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square, depicted William Vanderveen, the soldier turned traitor who had once served under Ryan Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai. In the photograph, Vanderveen was using Kharmai as a human shield, his right hand holding a knife to her throat. In the foreground, a man was pointing a gun in Vanderveen’s direction. Ryan Kealey’s back was to the camera; the only part of his face that was visible was the right hinge of his jaw.
Kharmai’s face, on the other hand, was only too clear. In the picture, her hands were up and pulling against the restraining arm wrapped round her throat. Her mouth was wide open, frozen in a silent scream, but it was her eyes that had made the picture famous. They were filled with sheer terror, the kind of pure, unadulterated fear that was rarely caught on film. Harper despised the picture for obvious reasons, but he had to admit that it was a powerful image. He felt sick every time he looked at it.
“The woman in this photograph,” Vázquez was saying, “is clearly the same woman who carried out the bombing in Madrid. Interestingly enough, the name Sarinder Nagra cannot be found in any U.S. periodicals dating back to September, which strikes me as extremely unusual, given the considerable fame of this photograph. It seems as if Ms. Nagra would have been interviewed by every major network, newspaper, and magazine in the country. After all, the accompanying article states that she survived the attack, after which she received medical treatment at an undisclosed location in Virginia. That last part is a direct quote, by the way.”
Vázquez paused and looked at them each in turn. “Needless to say, my government is going to keep working until this woman is brought to justice. The magnitude of this incident does not allow us to look the other way. Therefore, I feel compelled to ask the obvious question.”
There was a short, tense silence, and then Andrews said, “Forgive me, Mr. Ambassador, but perhaps it isn’t so obvious. What, exactly, are you asking?”
Vázquez leaned over the table and put a finger on one of the eight-by-tens, which had made its way back to him. Then he looked up at the DCI and asked, “Is this woman employed by the CIA?”
Andrews stared directly across the table, meeting the other man’s eyes. “No, she isn’t.”
“Is she employed by any state or federal agency?” Vázquez asked.
“No,” Brenneman said, shaking his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. I can tell you right now, unequivocally, that she has no affiliation with the U.S. government whatsoever.”
Vázquez nodded and leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “Then I assume my government can count on your cooperation in this matter. It shouldn’t be too hard for the FBI to track her down, and once they do, we can begin extradition proceedings.”
Hayden hesitated, then said, “That seems a bit premature.” He tapped the photograph that showed Kharmai wheeling the hand truck out of the auto-repair shop. “You can’t prove that this woman detonated the bomb.”
“At the very least, she’s an accomplice,” Vázquez pointed out, “and she must be held accountable. If she is willing to help the police piece together what actually happened, it might go easier for her. Either way, for this matter to be fully resolved, she must stand trial.”
“We don’t even know if she’s a U.S. citizen or permanent resident,” Hayden remarked cautiously. “The passport she was traveling on might have been forged. That’s a problem we�
��ve been dealing a lot with lately. If she’s well funded, with the right kinds of connections, she might be beyond our reach.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Hayden, I find that hard to believe. It takes great skill and a number of tools, many of which are hard to find, to forge a credible passport. Very few people can do it successfully. It would likely take the combined efforts of an experienced group of people to do it right, such as the forgery department of a major intelligence agency.”
Vázquez paused for a beat to cast a long look in Harper’s direction, driving the unsubtle hint home. “We’ve back-checked passenger lists for all commercial flights leaving Spain over the past two days, and we have yet to find the name Sarinder Nagra. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean much. She could have crossed into France or Portugal with relative ease. Personally, I suspect she’s already back in the States. If that is indeed the case, you must decide what happens next.”
Vázquez turned to Brenneman. “Mr. President, I trust that you will do what is best in this situation. My superiors value the relationship between our two countries very highly indeed, and we would like nothing more than to continue working in a positive direction. However, this woman could be perceived as a serious stumbling block. If she is not apprehended soon, I’m afraid it could cause a considerable strain on our current ties. Naturally, it would also impede any forward progress.”
The Invisible (Ryan Kealey) Page 30