Among the members of the intelligence community, however, Harper was a renowned figure, a man who not only had a close relationship with the president but had also been among those who’d once uncovered a plot to assassinate some of the world’s most powerful leaders. That accomplishment alone would boldface most careers, but his exploits went back to the late eighties, when he had conducted some of the most incredibly daring missions of the Cold War behind the Iron Curtain—including one he had personally told Allison about, which involved his hanging from the skids of a Black Hawk chopper while snapping recon photos of ancient Thracian passes over the Balkans. And that itself had been part of an operation in which he’d smuggled a Communist defector and his family out of Sofia, Bulgaria, negotiating miles of rugged, wooded terrain to eventually rendezvous with a Sturgeon-class submarine in the Black Sea….
Allison smiled a little. If she had heard that story from anyone but Harper, she might have smelled a very ripe fish.
To be sure, she’d learned nothing about his mysterious career from Julie during their time together at Mayo, or after moving on to her residency at Johns Hopkins, though they’d periodically stayed in touch with one another over the years. It was only after she’d been introduced to DCI Jonathan Harper sometime early in her tenure with the Agency that she’d registered the possible connection…and even then, her suspicions weren’t fully confirmed until she attended a dinner symposium in Washington at which both Harpers were guests, arriving at the affair arm in arm.
Still, she would have never imagined the legendary Harper would wind up seeking her out for therapy. Never viewed him as being made of flesh and blood like anyone else. Until the unthinkable occurred about two years ago.
Allison’s smile faded as she recalled the details of the shooting that nearly claimed his life. He’d been right on his doorstep after his morning run, doing some stretching exercises as Julie prepared breakfast inside. Right there on the doorstep of his General’s Row home. Harper did not so much as glimpse his female assailant until the first shot left her gun, clattered around his rib cage, and punctured his right lung. The next two shots had caught him in the arm as he’d reflexively whirled around to face her, and it was lucky he had been turning in that split second, because otherwise those bullets would have struck him square in the chest and inflicted more serious damage than they did. As it was, the fourth .22-caliber slug to issue from her weapon barely missed his heart—and her intended fifth would have been the fatal shot.
What saved him was the chance proximity of a D.C. Metro police car over on Q Street. The officer inside the cruiser had heard the distinctive pops of gunfire, jolted to a halt, and pushed out his door just as the woman moved in to finish off the stricken Harper. He’d started pulling his gun, momentarily drawing her attention from her intended victim, but she had taken him out with one shot, killing him instantly. Meanwhile, Julie had heard the commotion, had come racing out onto the stoop, and had dragged her unconscious husband into the house.
Harper would later discover that he’d actually lost his vital signs for almost a full minute before the EMT wagon arrived. Were it not for Julie rapidly administering CPR and applying towels and pressure to staunch his hemorrhaging, he’d have died right there in his foyer, bleeding out on the carpet. He would later joke that marrying a nurse with a taste for expensive jewelry and clothes had finally yielded some practical dividends.
Besides Julie’s resuscitative and emergency first aid skills, the commotion on the street would prove a major aid to his survival, the gathering crowd outside the house having forced the gunwoman to run for cover. Unfortunately, it also gave her a perfect chance to blend in amid the morning foot traffic. Despite roadblocks and cordons and airport alerts—and even with a massive deployment of law-enforcement personnel, which the Washington media would liken to the hunt for John Wilkes Booth in terms of its geographic scope and allocation of manpower—she’d managed to go to ground.
It was about a month after Harper was released from the hospital that Julie left Allison a voice mail telling her to expect a call from him in the “next couple of days.” He’d been having bad dreams, night sweats, and sudden onsets of nervous tremors. He had feared for Julie’s safety to an extreme degree, to the point where he grew nervous whenever she left the house, and even more ill at ease when she was home alone. For a while he insisted to Julie that those episodes would pass. But she’d known they wouldn’t, not unless he got some professional help.
As it turned out, a couple of weeks, not days, would pass before Allison actually heard from him. Which came as no surprise. She’d dealt with CIA men for too long…their throwback macho ethos; the illogical shame born of associating trauma with weakness, vulnerability, and even cowardice; the assumption of guilt for everything negative they could not control. It was an embedded part of Agency culture that was difficult, and frequently impossible, to counteract.
Fortunately for Harper, his wife’s stubborn insistence had done the trick. And to give him his fair share of credit as well, he had listened, admitted he had problems, and had the courage to do something about them.
Sighing over her coffee cup, Allison shook off her thoughts and glanced at the pendulum clock again. Ten fifty-one. It was starting to look as if Harper’s compulsive earliness had gone by the wayside, after all….
Her intercom buzzed, prompting a wry smile. She’d always been okay with the notion of a mostly random universe. But throw her a few token constants—nothing to tag her as greedy—and she could nestle into existence with a far greater degree of comfort.
She punched the speaker button. “Tell Mr. Harper to come right in, Martha,” she said, rising from her chair before the receptionist could utter a word.
Harper entered a moment later. His graying hair impeccably trimmed, he looked fit and lean in a conservative gray Brooks Brothers suit, gray and red striped tie, white shirt, and buff cordovan wing tips.
“John, it’s been a long time,” she said, extending her hand.
He set down his briefcase and clasped her hand warmly in both of his. “Much too long,” he said. “Julie sends her regards. She’s been meaning to throw a get-together, invite some of our close friends for cocktails. But you know….”
“We’re all busy folks,” Allison said, thinking they both knew her days of socializing with Julie were over, beyond their yearly exchanges of Christmas cards and occasional breezy hi-how-are-yous over the telephone. For all intents and purposes, their closeness had ended once Allison became her husband’s therapist and was entrusted with confidences he could share with no one else, including, and sometimes especially, Julie herself. For Allison this had been expected; it came with the territory. The instant she’d agreed to assist with Harper’s psychological healing, she had understood that her responsibilities as his doctor would not only override her longtime friendship with his wife but most likely also require its sacrifice.
“Pour you some coffee?” she asked.
Harper declined with a quick shake of his head. “Trying to cut down on the caffeine intake,” he said. “My limit’s six cups before noon.”
She smiled. “That few?”
“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays excepted,” he said.
“And weekends?”
“Two cups at breakfast, maximum. Scotch and water the rest of the way.”
Allison’s smile grew a bit larger. “I suppose progress is progress,” she said.
Harper was silent. After a moment she motioned him into the wingback leather chair in front of her desk, then went around to sit opposite him.
“So,” she said, “how’ve you been?”
“Personally, fine,” he said, hefting his briefcase onto his lap. “Professionally, troubled.”
She regarded him closely. “I don’t recall you ever having a clear-cut line of control there, John.”
Harper gave a shrug. “You said it yourself,” he said. “I’ve made progress.”
Allison kept studying his features in th
e sunlight streaming through the window behind her. She could see small, radiating creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, which hadn’t been immediately apparent as he entered the room.
“When you called yesterday, you told me you needed to ask a favor,” she said. “Which side of this new Harper line does it fall on?”
“The troubled part,” he said. “As I think you might surmise.”
“Does it have anything to do with Sudan?”
He gave her a sharp look. “Pretty astute of you.”
“Not so much,” she said, leaning forward. “I read the papers…follow the stories about Sudan. And right now that’s monopolizing the headlines until you get to the gossip and sports pages.” She paused. “It’s evident that the president’s been under pressure from nearly all sides to retaliate. I assume that whatever’s coming at him publicly is being multiplied exponentially among his advisors. I also assume you’re one of the people who have his ear.”
“That’s debatable,” Harper said with a shrug. “I’ve taken the minority position, Allie.”
“Can you tell me what that means without spilling state secrets?”
“Generally,” Harper said, “it means I’ve urged patience. But after what happened to his niece, David Brenneman hasn’t had much of it with Omar al-Bashir. Or with me.”
“I get the sense your minority element isn’t very large.”
Harper smiled soberly. “He’s six foot three and weighs about a hundred eighty pounds,” he said. “And amiable.”
“Will he admit to having a coffee jones?”
“I think you’d have to ask him in the capacity of his analyst,” Harper said. “Given a choice right now, though, I’m very certain his preference would be to speak to you as a friend.”
Allison sat looking thoughtful for a full thirty seconds. “I’m listening, John,” she said then.
He took a long, deep breath. Allison noted that he had his hands on the hard-shell briefcase on his lap, his fingers spread out atop it, lightly pressing down on its black leather surface.
“You’ve heard of Ryan Kealey,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “If memory serves, you recruited him, isn’t that right?”
“Memory serves,” Harper said.
Allison was nodding. “I was at Langley for nearly a decade,” she said. “In all that time, I can think of only one operative who managed to become the lead story on the evening news. Although it’s understandable how getting into a shoot-out on the streets of New York City can have that rather exceptional result.”
Harper had to chuckle. “Kealey admittedly had a flair for the dramatic,” he said.
“Past tense?”
“In terms of the Agency, yes,” Harper said.
Allison raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been out of the loop, granted. But somehow I’m surprised to hear that.”
“If you knew him, you wouldn’t be,” Harper said. “Kealey is…I suppose the word would be unorthodox. That’s sometimes brought attention to him. But he’s never gone looking for it. Or frankly even been keen on taking credit.”
“Can you tell me why he pulled out of the game?”
“He’s mostly been a reluctant player from the beginning, “Harper said. “And he’s been through a lot of things. Carries a lot around with him.”
“That isn’t so unusual,” Allison said. “The majority of my time at the Agency was spent trying to lift unnecessary burdens from people’s shoulders. But I suppose that’s true of any clinician.”
Harper sat a moment, crossed his ankle over his knee. “A question, Allie…Why did you pull out?”
“Is it really important?”
“It might be for your understanding.”
“Of Kealey?”
“And the reason I came here to talk to you this morning.”
“Which is presumably tied to Kealey.”
He gave a slow nod, waited, meeting her gaze with his own. After a while Allison shrugged.
“Every mind is a complicated piece of machinery,” she said. “If there’s one that isn’t functioning to optimal performance, and you’re going to muck around inside, you’d damn well better have steady hands. It’s serious business, whether someone comes to you because he or she has intimacy issues, problems with self-worth, or is phobic about crowds, clowns, riding in a car, or chickens.” She linked her fingers together more tightly on the desk. “But I didn’t mean to switch metaphors, John. So getting back to yours…At the Agency every game is high risk. I just felt that I was wearing down. And that’s when people make mistakes.”
Harper watched her in silence for a moment, lightly drumming his fingers on the case. “Did you lose someone?”
“Bad guys get away. Patients die. Loss comes with the job when you’re in the business of saving lives.”
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
Allison gave a fleeting smile. “I guess you’ll have to settle, bub.” She nodded her chin at the briefcase. “So what’s in there that’s got you tapping out finger rolls, and how’s it related to the favor you’ve come to ask?”
Harper snapped his eyes down at his hands, frowning as if they’d been guilty of insubordination. Then he raised them back to her face.
“It goes back to what we were talking about when I walked in here. Sudan, President Brenneman, and your observation that retaliatory action may be imminent,” he said. “I’ve already told you I believe it would be a mistake at this point. I can’t tell you why I believe it, and I can’t tell you what I think is necessary to forestall that course of action….”
“But you’re hoping to find a way do it.”
He sat quietly again, his forehead seamed with concentration, the crow’s-feet Allison had noticed around his eyes spreading and deepening. “I’m going out on a limb telling you this, Allie. But there are things that need to be looked into under certain people’s radar. And I’m convinced Ryan Kealey is the only person capable of pulling off the job.”
“Have you asked him if he’s interested?”
“Not yet. And I can guarantee he won’t be. But I’m going to try to persuade him. It means flying fifteen hours and eight thousand miles, and that’s okay. When I reach him, though, I’m going to have only one crack at it.”
Allison sat there thinking. She was no mathematical whiz. But basic addition wasn’t a problem for her.
“You want me to profile him for you,” she said, pointing her chin at the briefcase. “Based on…what information?”
“His psych workups and personal history. Files going back years before he was Agency. Everything about everything in Ryan Kealey’s life.” He lifted the case off his lap and placed it on the desk. “It’s all in there for you to read and evaluate. And just to be harshly explicit, Allie, I’m requesting more than another psychological profile. What I want to know from you is how to push his buttons. Pull his strings. Manipulate him by any and all means possible. Whatever it takes to get him to come aboard.”
She went bold straight in her chair, eyes widening, boring into him, her shoulders as stiff as wooden pickets.
“My God, John…this is beyond unprincipled. Do you realize how many ethical codes you’re asking me to violate?”
Harper met her stare and didn’t blink. “I’d be breaking a few myself,” he said. “In fact, I’ve blown a few to smithereens just getting hold of his files. And probably more coming here to discuss them with you.”
Silence.
“If I agree to do this,” Allison said, “it would be done without conscience.”
“No, Allie. It wouldn’t. For a couple of reasons. The first is Kealey. It isn’t as if we just lost him at the Agency. He’s lost himself. I don’t know how else to put it. But the course he’s on right now isn’t a good one. Or the kind that lasts long before there’s a major train wreck.”
The Downbound Express. Allison looked at Harper as if he’d prepared for their conversation by wiretapping her earlier thoughts.
�
�And your second reason?”
“If I’m right in what I’m doing—and successful—you might be helping to prevent a tremendous, unnecessary amount of destruction. Americans’ lives are my primary concern. But we’re talking about people in Africa and elsewhere. And about possible escalation on a level I don’t even want to contemplate.”
She was shaking her head with a mix of incredulity and denial. “John…I wish you could be more specific.”
“I don’t have to be,” Harper said. “Look at the foreign governments with vested interests in Sudan. China. Russia. The old tried-and-true biggies. And then, of course, you have Bashir’s Moslem brethren who are on the cusp of supporting him.” He paused. “You used the word ‘retaliate.’ By definition that means hitting back. But contemplate for a minute what it would mean if the United States picked the wrong target for its vengeance.”
The renewed silence between them surpassed the previous one in its length and weight. Allison could feel it pressing on her like the compounded gravity inside some inescapable black hole. She willed a breath into her lungs, trying to absorb everything Harper had told her, struggling to put it into some sort of order and context.
It seemed forever before she managed to exhale.
“I’m not a world rescuer—not in the sense you are,” she said. “I take it one person at a time, you understand?”
Harper looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”
She nodded, willing the immense weight that had borne on her to shift in his direction.
“Good,” she said firmly. “Because if I’m going to make a pact with you, the devil, or both, I mean to be able to live with it. Maybe not easily, and certainly not without lasting regret. But what I’m requiring that you provide in return will allow me to tenuously hang on to my self-respect. And maybe salvage something else besides.”
Harper’s expression showed that he had grasped her meaning at once.
“Kealey,” he said, articulating it with a single word. “You want Kealey.”
“And your commitment that I will have a chance to help him, whenever he’s through saving the world.” Allison said with another nod. “God forgive me if it borders on psychological manipulation. But get him here to me, just get him here, and I’ll prepare you for your meeting with him. And then find a way to live with this bargain.”
The Exile Page 8