Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  And you’re advising the president on things that don’t concern you, Harper thought. Ford was an outside appointee; most of her career had been spent serving the constituents of Michigan’s 3rd Congressional District. After four terms in the House, she had turned her attention to Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government, where she’d served as dean prior to accepting the president’s nomination earlier in the year. In Harper’s opinion, she still had a lot to learn about her new position, particularly the limits of her questionable expertise.

  It looked like Brenneman caught it, too. He glanced sideways at his deputy DCI, the message clear in his stern expression, but she missed it entirely as a noise intruded. Ford snatched her cell phone off the table and flipped it open impatiently. “What is it?” She listened intently, then turned to the president. “Sir, this is urgent. May I…?”

  He nodded abruptly. Ford jumped to her feet and walked into the adjacent Cabinet Room, closing the door behind her somewhat harder than necessary. Brenneman shot his subordinate a bemused glance. Harper worked to keep his face impassive, but suspected the president knew exactly what he was thinking.

  His suspicions were confirmed an instant later. “Something on your mind, John?”

  Harper shook his head in the negative. Leaning forward to pour himself some coffee, he idly wondered why he harbored such an intense, transparent dislike for Rachel Ford. It wasn’t that he found her lacking in intellect; her education, beginning with Sarah Lawrence and culminating in a JD from Harvard Law, could hardly be found wanting. The fact that she was technically his superior didn’t bother him, either; Jonathan held no reservations when it came to working for a woman. After all, he had done so often enough in the past, and it had never been a problem before. In short, he didn’t know how the animosity, which was decidedly mutual, had come about.

  The president was leafing through a briefing folder. “Seventeen American casualties? Is that right?”

  The DDO cleared his throat and said, “Actually, sir, that report is several hours old. The latest numbers in from the embassy confirm nineteen dead. Five more are critically injured.”

  Brenneman’s dark brown eyes grew darker still, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he tossed the folder onto the table and appraised his visitor for a long moment. Finally, he said, “She brought up a good point, you know.”

  Harper was momentarily caught off-guard. “Al-Maliki,” Brenneman reminded him. “What was he doing outside the zone?”

  The other man considered his response for a moment, wondering if the president’s main concern lay with the American loss of life or the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister. “Sir, when was the last time you were in Baghdad?”

  “Six months ago, I think. I went to address the troops and to take a look at the new embassy.”

  “What were the roads like?”

  “God awful, and that’s probably generous on my part. Of course, it’s a straight shot from the airport to the zone, so at least the travel time wasn’t too bad.”

  “A straight shot for you, sir. Moving around Baghdad is different for everyone else, even senior Iraqi officials.”

  A slight frown appeared on the president’s face. “How so?”

  “Well, first they have to fill out a form that states where they’re going and why. Then they have to request vehicles and bodyguards. All of this has to be done the day before a scheduled movement. It’s very inconvenient, especially when, even after all of that, you still get stopped at three different checkpoints on your way in and out. Most of the top guys look for ways to avoid it.”

  “Like avoiding the zone entirely.”

  “Exactly. Only problem is, once you’re outside, you’re fair game.”

  Brenneman nodded slowly, a little piqued at Harper’s description. Iraq had topped his foreign policy agenda for the past four years; he didn’t care to hear the place described as a war zone, though, in fact, it could hardly be described as anything else. “Okay, next question. How did they know he would be there?”

  “It’s all speculation at this point. I’m guessing we’ll have to wait until they come up with a list of casualties. Then we’ll focus on who’s missing, such as bodyguards and hotel employees. We’ll also take a look at building security…Like I said, sir, the gates were manned by the IPS. That might be a good place to start.”

  Brenneman sighed heavily and ran a hand through his silver brown hair. “It doesn’t sound like we have much to work with.”

  “I know,” Harper agreed. “But we’re just getting started, sir.”

  “Fair enough. What kind of fallout can we expect from this?”

  The DDO mulled over the question for a moment. “It’s been unusually quiet over the past several months, but this could definitely serve as a catalyst. We’ll probably see increased insurgent activity in the major cities, particularly Baghdad and Fallujah. Of course, some of that depends on what happens with the prime minister.”

  Brenneman got to his feet and moved to the windows, looking over the South Lawn for a long moment. “This couldn’t come at a worse time,” he finally murmured. “Even if he makes it through. It’s hard to justify troop withdrawals when we can’t guarantee the safety of the senior leadership.”

  He suddenly seemed to come back to reality. “What kind of assets do you have over there?”

  Harper ran through the list in his head. “Exley, sir. He’s one of our guys in the embassy, used to be army intelligence. He’s connected in all the right places. Keith Moore is chief of station. Jenna Thompson’s the head tech officer—”

  “What about Kealey?”

  The question seemed to hang in the air for a long time. “He’s in the area. A little farther to the west,” Harper replied cautiously. “But I don’t know if he’s…”

  “Available?” The president turned from the window to stare at his subordinate. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  Harper frowned but didn’t respond.

  “Is he up to speed in the Middle East?”

  “As much as anyone.”

  “You may not be aware of this, John, but I took an interest after what happened last year. I know he asked to come back in an official capacity. I also know that his request was initially rejected by Director Andrews, and that you intervened and signed the waiver when he wouldn’t talk to the in-house counselors.”

  The president paused and shot the DDO a curious glance. “Why did you do that, by the way? I never had the chance to ask you.”

  Harper was uncomfortable with the question, and it showed. “Kealey’s a good man, sir. He’s been through a lot, but he’s not the type to respond to any kind of counseling. It wouldn’t have helped. As for bringing him back inside…Well, let’s just say I couldn’t turn him down. Not after what happened.”

  Brenneman considered this for a long moment, finally turning back to his guest. “John, I need to know if this goes any deeper. The press will be all over me if I don’t stick to the timetable, but I can’t start pulling soldiers out with the knowledge that I’ll have to send them back in six months. More to the point, someone has to be held accountable for this. I need someone who can move fast and get results. If Ryan’s already over there, so much the better.”

  Harper shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think he’s the right man for this.”

  The president did not respond. Instead, he assumed a neutral expression and motioned for Harper to continue.

  “For most things, I’d put him out there in a heartbeat. But not in this case. There’s too much riding on it, and lately, he’s been…taking chances.”

  Brenneman furrowed his brow. “I know he got hurt. Is that the problem? Because if that’s an issue…”

  “Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. That’s not what concerns me.”

  Another aching silence. “Look, John, I appreciate your honesty. At the same time, you brought him back to the Agency for a reason. Unless you can point to something specific, we need
him on this. I need him on this.”

  Reluctantly, Harper nodded. Brenneman glanced at his watch and stood, ending the conversation. As the other man got to his feet and started toward the door, the president’s voice brought him to a halt.

  “This will not pass, John. Find your man, and bring him up to speed. I want to know who was responsible, and soon.”

  CHAPTER 3

  FALLUJAH

  A dirty gray dawn was just beginning to lift as a helicopter beat a steady path east from the Habbaniyah air base, a small facility located 80 kilometers west of Baghdad. The Soviet-designed aircraft, now passing over the Euphrates River valley, had been used by both Taliban and Northern Alliance forces during the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan. Since the enemy on the ground had been reluctant to open fire for fear of engaging their own commanders, the Mi-17 had been adopted by the CIA as a preferred means of travel in the region. Its popularity had begun to fade in recent months, as its role in the American fleet was becoming a well-known fact in all the wrong circles, but it still offered better protection than some of the Agency’s more conspicuous aircraft.

  From his seat just aft of the cockpit, Mark Walland peered through a grimy window on the starboard side as the outskirts of Fallujah appeared through scattered clouds, revealing broken walls of pale stone and low-slung cinder block homes. Although the view was far from scenic, Walland knew that things would look much worse on the ground. He wasn’t looking forward to going down there, but it seemed as if he had been doing just that—heading into harm’s way—for the better part of his short career.

  Like the men in the cockpit, Walland was attached to the Special Activities Division, the Agency’s elite paramilitary force. He was short but well built, with dark, restless eyes set deep in a sunburnt face. His light brown hair was trimmed close, which put it at odds with the thick beard he had grown over the past few months. Walland had joined the CIA following his departure from the army three years earlier, at the surprisingly young age of twenty-seven. He’d seen plenty of action as a captain in the 82nd Airborne Division, particularly in the mountains of Afghanistan. Still, the former Ranger knew that his experience was nothing compared to that of the individual who was seated directly across from him, on the other side of the wide, empty aisle.

  Walland had been working on and off with Ryan Kealey for the past six months, yet the man remained a mystery. He’d heard a few things, of course, brief snatches of conversation caught during his time at the forward operating bases to the east. Mostly, they were rumors with respect to Kealey’s military record: his time with the 3rd Special Forces Group, his role in the death of a senior Islamic militant in Syria, the two lost years during which his name had been placed on the Security Roster, the army’s list of covert operators. Walland knew something of his recent work as well; Kealey’s role in the prevention of a major terrorist attack the previous year was too big to have been covered up entirely, despite the best efforts of the operations directorate. For the most part, however, the man—and his past—remained a closed book.

  The young operative broke from his thoughts as the airframe shuddered, the engines flaring as the pilot applied the aft cyclic. The helicopter dropped through the clouds with startling speed, the wheels bouncing once, then settling into the dirt a moment later. Walland stripped off his in-flight headset and saw Kealey do the same. The side door was pulled open after a few seconds, and they jumped down from the elevated fuselage, shielding their eyes from the rotor wash as they hurried toward the waiting vehicles.

  The dust began to clear as they approached, revealing half a dozen soldiers in civilian clothes and three battered Toyota pickups. The soldiers were spread out in a loose perimeter around the vehicles, which were parked next to the train station, a low-slung building marked by bullet holes and large areas of blackened cement. Located just north of the city, the station had been carefully selected for its value as a defensive position and its proximity to the meeting point. Kealey adjusted his load as he waited for Walland to catch up, slinging his AK-74M over his shoulder so that the black plastic grip of the rifle dangled a mere few inches from his right hand. When Walland appeared at his side, they walked over to the lead Tacoma. A lanky, dark-haired individual was leaning against the passenger-side fender. He straightened as they approached.

  “Good to see you, Ryan,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

  Kealey took the proffered hand. “You’re right about that, Paul. It’s good to see you, too.” He gestured to Walland and made the introductions. The two men shook hands in turn.

  Paul Owen was an army officer based out of Camp Fallujah, the marine base located fifteen miles east of the city. As a lieutenant colonel in the 1st SFOD-D, he’d been one of Kealey’s commanding officers during the younger man’s time at Fort Bragg. Due to the peculiar relationship between the CIA and the Special Forces community, the thirty-three-year-old Kealey now more or less shared command with the man who had once been his superior officer. On the ride east from Habbaniyah, Kealey had wondered, with some trepidation, about how this turn of events might play out, but his fears were soon abated. With the introductions out of the way, Owen turned back to him and said, “So, how exactly do you want to handle this?”

  “What have you been told?”

  “The bare minimum. We have a location and a guarantee of safe passage on your end. At least, that’s what you said when you called to set this up.”

  “And that still holds.” He caught the Delta officer’s skeptical expression. “Look, Paul, we’ve dealt with this guy before. It’s in his best interest to get us in and out of there without an incident. He definitely has the influence; he could probably lock down the entire district if he wanted to.”

  Owen nodded in reluctant agreement. “Fair enough. I’ve heard the same thing. How long will it take?”

  “About ten minutes.” Kealey slapped the hand guard of his weapon. “I’ll be leaving this with you. They’ll disarm me when I go in, anyway.”

  “Okay. You said you had some imagery for me.”

  Kealey was carrying a black Jansport backpack in addition to his rifle. Shrugging the pack off his shoulders, he unzipped the front compartment and extracted a thin manila folder. The folder was placed on the warm hood of the first Tacoma, and the contents withdrawn. Both Owen and Walland leaned in for a closer look.

  “These shots were taken when we first set up shop in Fallujah,” Kealey explained. “Two years ago this guy was low priority, and nothing’s really changed in that department. The DO was never able to justify satellite imagery, so all we have are digital shots from the air.”

  Selecting one of the closer shots, he pointed out a squat, dun-colored two-story structure. “This is it. I know it looks like every other house on the street, but they’ll have armed guards posted outside and possibly in the buildings across the road.” He fixed Owen with a serious look. “Tell your men to watch how they handle their weapons. These guys will be jumpy, and I don’t want any accidents.”

  “I’ll tell them, but I didn’t bring rookies.”

  Kealey cast a glance around, reappraising the faces. His twelve years of experience told him that Owen had chosen well. They all had dark hair and complexions, and the weapons they carried, combined with their style of dress, would enable them to blend into the city landscape. “Are they yours?”

  “Every one of them.”

  The younger man was satisfied. “You already have your route, right?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty straightforward, but we set up the GPS just in case. It’s easy to get turned around if the bullets start flying. I figure it’s about three minutes in, once we cross the tracks. Then ten minutes for you to take care of business, and another few minutes out.”

  The Delta officer straightened and seemed to hesitate. “This is a bad place to waste time, Ryan. I want to limit the risk to my men.”

  “I know,” Kealey replied. “I’ll make it quick.”

  Another hesitation, as though Owen coul
d see through the younger man’s façade. “This is just a drop, right? I mean, we’re not equipped for—”

  “It’s just like I told you,” Kealey said. “A simple drop.”

  It was something new for him. He had made a decision back at the air base, a decision that, at the very least, would likely cost him what was left of his career. With the helicopter blades already turning, he had tracked down the necessary materials…He had lied to Owen, lied to all of them. A year earlier he would not have considered it. He waited for a tinge of guilt, but it didn’t come.

  He realized that Owen was staring at him. To break the awkward silence, he said, “Are the patrols still going out?”

  “No. I personally spoke to the brigade staff for the 1st MEB. We’re gonna be all alone out there.”

  “Good.” Kealey closed the folder and handed it over. “Show this to your guys. Maybe they’ll have some suggestions. Let me know when you’re ready to move.”

  Owen took the folder and walked off. Kealey picked up his pack and started walking back to the last vehicle.

  “Where are you going?” Walland called out.

  “I saw a cooler back there. I’m going to grab some water. Just sit tight.”

  The small convoy rolled out a few minutes later. Kealey rode in the first vehicle with Owen, who was behind the wheel. They pulled away from the train yard, wheels bouncing over the twisted remains of the rails as they crossed the 300 yards of open ground leading into the densely packed warren of the Jolan district.

  The state of the city grew steadily worse as they headed south through the narrow streets. The rubble-strewn roads were bordered on both sides by shattered buildings and scorched cement. Although most of the damage could be attributed to the fighting, Kealey doubted that Fallujah would have been much to look at before the American invasion. The mosques in the city center were hardly visible from his location, the skyline obscured by thousands of drooping power lines. The buildings all looked alike; the only color to be seen was the occasional green of the date palm and olive trees that had survived the bombing runs.