“How’s any of that lead him to an act of retribution against us?” Harper asked.
“I don’t know how his mind connects the dots. Or even what dots they connect. But it’s a moot point, anyway. There are witnesses.” Stralen pounded his right hand into his left to emphasize the point. “The camp’s doctor, Beckett, the man who reported the attack in the first place. He ran when the bombs started to fall, but he didn’t run far. He saw the whole thing from a distance, and he swears that he saw a man in army uniform getting out of a white Mercedes. Besides, there was a plane. If there was no government authorization, where did the plane come from?”
“I don’t know,” Harper said carefully.
Stralen narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me you don’t think the Sudanese government has a hand in this?”
“I think it might bear some level of culpability.”
Stralen narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean, ‘some level’?”
“I mean Bashir provides funds and training for the Janjaweed through the army,” Harper explained. “But he does not direct ongoing operations in Darfur. He leaves that to his generals. There is a good chance he wasn’t even aware of this particular attack, much less who was stationed at the camp.”
“You can’t be serious.” Stralen looked at Andrews, then back to Harper, as though searching for an explanation. “Do you really expect us to believe that this was a mistake? Some kind of coincidence?”
“No, of course not. That is not what I’m implying. I’m simply saying that Bashir might not have authorized it,” Harper asserted.
“And what about the plane? Let’s not forget that bombs were dropped,” said Stralen.
“I haven’t.” Harper sighed. “But a lot of ordnance and combat equipment is floating around out there on the black market. And across the region. Tanks, attack boats—”
“I repeat, Harper. This was a bomber. An F-7N, according to our real-time infrared satellite data. What does that tell you?”
Harper didn’t answer. Acquired from Iran back in the late nineties, the Chinese-built warplanes were known to have been used in Sudan’s bombing campaigns against rebel ground troops during its last civil war. Which in his mind still proved nothing.
He turned toward the president; the last thing he wanted here was a spitting contest. “Sir, I know it must seem pretty clear-cut from where you’re standing. But I don’t think there’s sufficient evidence Omar al-Bashir ordered the attack, and I don’t think we’ve established motive. He knows the consequences for himself and his government. To go after you personally, and in this way, would be an incredibly stupid thing to do at a time when he’s already under siege. Bashir is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. It would be an act of sheer lunacy for him to authorize your niece’s murder.”
Harper paused, painfully aware that it was the first time those words had been spoken aloud. For a long moment the president didn’t respond, his red eyes fixed on some random point on the far wall. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously low.
“There’s that plane, John. Let’s not dance around it. And those men were wearing army uniforms,” he said. “Bashir controls the army. It’s one thing for them to raid a local village with impunity. But they’re still undeniably on a leash…a long one, maybe, but a leash nonetheless. Say what you will, they don’t lift a finger against us unless he tells them to.”
Harper was momentarily shaken by the quiet rage he heard in the president’s voice—as well as the utter conviction. But he did his best to set it aside, knowing that he couldn’t stop now. Someone had to bring the man back from the brink, and it was clear that he was the only person still willing to try.
“Yes, but that just supports my point, sir. Even if they destroyed the whole camp, some of the refugees were bound to escape. There were going to be witnesses either way, so why would Bashir make the government’s role in the attack so blatantly evident? Why would he allow the trail to lead right back to his doorstep?”
“To send a message,” Stralen said. “Isn’t that obvious? He claimed he was going to do as much when the State Department issued the sanctions last month.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time he spouted inflammatory rhetoric,” Harper pointed out, “and not once in twenty years has he lifted a finger to do even half of what he threatens. What would make things different this time?” The deputy director shook his head and looked back at the president. “Sir, again, I’m not saying Bashir didn’t have a hand in this. Plain and simple, I’m trying to point out that we need to have all the facts, look into every possibility, before you decide on a course of action.”
“And what happens in the meantime?” Stralen asked quietly.
Harper reluctantly turned his attention back to the air force general.
“You want us to sit on our hands while Bashir sits in Khartoum, laughing about what he’s done?” Stralen said, not giving an inch. “About what he’s gotten away with? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“What are you suggesting?” Harper asked, meeting the other man’s cold blue eyes. He knew he had crossed a line, but he couldn’t back down. Andrews had already done that, and someone had to stop this conversation before it escalated to a far more dangerous level. “What do you propose we do instead, General?”
“What I propose,” Stralen growled, “is that we send in a two- or three-man Delta team to verify his position, and then we drop a JDAM right on top of the bastard’s head. What I suggest is that we take him out, once and for all.”
There was complete silence in the room. Harper stared at the newly appointed head of the DIA for a long moment and couldn’t help but wonder if the man understood the full gravity of what he was saying. Then he turned to look at the president. “Sir, please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”
Brenneman had turned to face the window, but his shoulders were tense, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. He did not respond, giving Harper no idea what he was thinking. “Sir,” Harper said, trying again, “I implore you to look at the larger picture. Omar al-Bashir may be a ruthless dictator, but he is still a head of state, the president of the largest country in Africa.”
“He’s also a wanted man according to the ICC,” Brenneman said.
“And we’ve consistently opposed the court’s authority on the basis of its determinations shackling our political and military policies…and creating a global standard of justice that may conflict with our own. It would be hypocritical to use the indictment as an excuse to go after Bashir.” Harper gave that a moment to sink in. “We all need to remember that while Bashir stays within his own sovereign borders, he has practical immunity from any indictment. We can’t legally send forces across those borders to arrest him. And we can’t just assassinate him.”
“So he gets away with it,” Brenneman murmured. He was still facing the window. “Is that right? Is that what you’re proposing?”
For a few seconds Harper wasn’t sure how to respond. It was suddenly apparent that the president hadn’t really heard a word he’d said, and for one simple reason—he didn’t want to. He was lost in his own private world of pain and grief, and for the time being, he was looking for one thing alone…a way to lash out. In that respect, Stralen was giving him exactly what he wanted, someone to blame and punish for his niece’s death.
Harper could see the appeal. Any human being with a beating heart would be tempted by the lure of immediate vengeance. But that didn’t make it sane or right.
“Mr. President.” It was Andrews who had spoken now, and Harper turned toward him in mild surprise. This was the first time the director had made his presence known since his deputy had entered the room. “With all due respect, Jonathan is right. We can decide Bashir is accountable, but we can’t take him out. The international community would never stand for it.”
“Who cares what they’re willing to stand for?” Stralen said. He fixed his counterpart at the CIA with an angry, accusing stare. “That isn’t the iss
ue here, and for a change our primary concern shouldn’t be world opinion.” He shifted his attention to Harper. “As for your remarks about the ICC…I don’t give a damn about that organization. The indictment is fine with me but should have no bearing on our actions one way or another.”
“Okay, forget the ICC,” Harper said. “With all due respect, General Stralen…are you aware Sudan has an estimated oil reserve of two hundred billion barrels in its very large chunk of the Muglad Basin? And that Russia has made monumental financial and material investments in the Sudanese oil industry? The deals Putin has cut with Khartoum…specifically exercising his political clout through Slavneft—”
Stralen speared him with his gaze. “Don’t lecture me. I know all about Slavneft.”
Harper looked back at Stralen without blinking and went on with slow deliberation. “Then I assume you’re aware it is not only Russia’s seventh or eighth largest oil firm but is wholly state owned,” he said. “I’m sure you also realize the Russians, via Slavneft, have spent something in excess of two hundred million dollars to develop the Abyei petroleum fields in south-central Sudan as part of an umbrella trade agreement—I think it’s fair to use the term alliance—that requires Sudan to subsidize a large chunk of that investment with the purchase of Russian military hardware. Given what you know, I probably don’t have to add that Sudan set an earlier precedent for this relationship with China, which now drills as much of a sixth to a quarter of its total oil supply from fields in the western part of the country. That’s about two hundred thousand barrels every day of the week. The exchange there has involved weapons, too. Primarily small arms, though there were separate arrangements for the sale of Chinese attack aircraft and pilot training to Sudan. And assurances that Beijing would massage the United Nations Security Council in all matters relating to Bashir’s regime, including his genocidal slaughter of the Dinka tribe—”
“Enough.” Brenneman had turned away from the window without warning. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear any more.”
Everyone in the room fell silent. His anguish was plain for all to see. If Harper had to guess, he would have said that the president’s grief was surpassed only by his barely suppressed rage.
“Sir, I understand that you’re upset,” Harper continued quickly. All he could think about was cutting off Stralen before he could do any more damage. “My apologies if this is repetitious…but going after Bashir directly would be a huge mistake. There’s no stressing that enough. It is not a viable or responsible course of—”
“Upset?” The president stared at him with a blank, uncomprehending gaze. The deputy director instantly realized that he had missed something in Brenneman’s tone of voice moments ago and, in doing so, had made a monumental error in judgment. Before he could take it back, though, Brenneman continued in a voice tinged with the wrong kind of amusement. “My niece has just been murdered by a pack of savages in a third-world country, and you think I’m upset? That’s very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation.”
“Sir, I…”
The president held up a hand to stop him, then shifted his gaze to a far corner of the room, his face fixed in a tight expression of barely suppressed fury. “That will be all for now, John. Would you step outside, please? Josh will come and find you if we need anything else.”
Harper opened his mouth to respond, hoping to repair the damage, but nothing came out, and he could see that Brenneman would not tolerate any further argument. He shot a quick glance at his boss and saw that Andrews was studying him with a mixed expression of frustration, sympathy…and, perhaps worst of all, futility. He didn’t have to look at Stralen to know he would see something very contrary to that in the general’s eyes.
Harper knew when he was beaten. With a sinking feeling, he acknowledged the president’s order in silence. Then he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.
It was still raining when Jonathan Harper stepped outside a few moments later—a warm, soft rain that seemed to drift out of nowhere. He walked past the agents standing post, down the steps, and continued on the drive, unconsciously trying to put some distance between himself and the president’s cabin. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the empty black sky and closed his eyes. His head was buzzing, and he was completely unaware of the inclement weather, even though the rain was dripping down his face and his suit coat was already soaked through.
Harper was stunned to the core by what had just taken place. He had been advising David Brenneman for nearly six years, and in all that time he had never seen the man behave in such an irrational way. That’s very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation. Harper regretted his verbal miscue, but it probably hadn’t worsened matters so much as exposed their already dire nature. Brenneman was allowing his grief and anger to cloud his judgment, and Stralen’s provocative statements—none of which were based on confirmed facts—were only making things worse.
Harper had lost track of how long he had been standing there when he heard voices behind him. He turned to see Director Andrews walking down the steps, followed closely by Joshua McCabe. The two men paused at the top of the drive to shake hands, and even from a distance, Harper could see that they were both subdued, their shoulders slumped beneath a shared, invisible burden. As he looked on, McCabe turned to go back into the cabin. Then the director lifted a hand in his deputy’s direction and pointed toward the Tahoe parked nearby. A minute later they were both seated inside the large truck.
Harper was tempted to apologize for the damage he had caused, but decided it would be better to let the other man breach the awkward silence.
The director pulled a linen handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and used it to methodically wipe the rain from his face. When he finally spoke, he did so quietly and without turning to face his subordinate.
“You didn’t help us in there, John,” he said. “You didn’t help us at all. You did your homework, and I thought it might have been enough to get through to Brenneman. But it would’ve been better if you’d quit while you were ahead and given him some time to mull things over. By pushing it, you went and played right into Stralen’s hands. Made him seem almost reasonable. Now, thanks to you, we’re on the defensive.”
Harper bit his tongue, though he was sorely tempted to remind the other man of his own meager contribution to the heated argument inside the building. Instead, he simply agreed quietly.
Andrews acknowledged the words with a short nod, though judging by the testy look on his face, he could tell that his deputy’s apology was less than sincere. “Look, I think I managed to talk him down a bit,” he continued. “At least for the time being. Of course, Stralen is a problem for us, and he’s not going away. He’s probably still in there trying to undo everything I just said.”
“He doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about,” Harper snapped, his demeanor of feigned calm slipping away with the mere mention of the other man. “I can’t believe he doesn’t understand the consequences that come with killing a head of state, especially when you don’t have ironclad proof to justify direct action. In this day and age, it just isn’t done.”
Andrews shook his head wearily. “Don’t sell Stralen short, John. He’s a very smart man who understands more than you might think. And he has a great deal of power at his fingertips. You would be wise to remember that. More to the point, he has the president’s ear. He can’t be discounted simply because you don’t like or agree with him.”
“That isn’t the issue, Bob. The man is beyond dangerous. You heard what he was saying in there. I send out a warning flare about getting into a pissing contest with Russian and China, and he does his best to shoot it right down.” Harper shook his head. “Normally, the president would never consider something so crazy. He just doesn’t want to listen to reason right now…. He’s too wrapped up in what happened to his niece. Too emotionally invested.”
The director di
dn’t seem to hear. His mouth was pursed into a sullen frown; his dark eyes locked on the seat in front of him.
“What is it?” Harper said. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t even paying attention.”
Andrews shook his head. “Wrong,” he said. “I’ve registered every word out of your mouth.”
“Then you’re keeping something from me, Bob, because you normally don’t go blank like you did a minute ago.”
Andrews sat in silence for a long moment, that expression of brooding dismay again dropping over his features like a curtain. Finally he let out a deep, heavy sigh.
“The secretary of state is this close to jumping on board with Stralen,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger slightly apart.
Harper stared at him, incredulous. “Brynn Fitzgerald?” he said. “Do you know this for a fact?”
“It’s my informed read,” Andrews said. “I spoke with her before heading over here. Actually, she called me after speaking to the president.”
“You’ve got to be mistaken. She’s one of the most reasonable people in Washington. How could she suddenly be that knee-jerk?”
“I don’t know,” Andrews said. “Loyalty to the president? Or maybe the residual effect of having been taken hostage in Pakistan…and watching one of her good friends cold-bloodedly shot to death in the process. Whatever explains it, we’re seeing a lot of clouded judgment around us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s take this thing a step at a time, John. It isn’t as if we have a choice, anyway. You have to remember that the president’s had only an hour or so to soak it all in. Besides, I think I managed to talk some sense into him. At least for now. Needless to say, we’re going to have to watch this closely. If he decides to do something drastic, it’s going to come back on us, whether we were involved or not. That is just the way it goes, and I have no intention of letting the Agency take the fall for something Stralen talked him into doing.”
The Exile Page 4