“Look, I’m not trying to say you don’t have what it takes,” he said, backpedaling quickly. Then he caught himself and stopped. He couldn’t keep playing it safe; he had to tell her what he really thought. He desperately wanted to keep things civil, but she was the one who had walked out without saying a word. She was the one who’d left him hanging for months on end, and now she was dropping another bomb-shell: the fact that she’d just taken on another, much more dangerous role at the Agency, barely ten months after a lesser role had nearly taken her life. It was just too much to take in at once, and her aggressive attitude was only making things harder. “I just don’t want you to jump into something you can’t handle.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward, imploring her with his eyes. “Have you really moved past it, Naomi? Do you really believe what you’re saying right now? I was with you when you went through the worst of it, remember?”
Her face darkened as she stared across at him; clearly, she wasn’t prepared to back down, much less admit he was right. “Ryan, you haven’t seen me in six months. I don’t care what you believe. I’m not the same person I was back in January, and you know what? I’m not entirely sure I want to work with you on this. Especially if you’re going to fight me the whole way.”
Kealey looked at her in disbelief, at a complete loss for words. It was clear she’d been expecting an argument from the very start, and she wasn’t about to deprive herself. In short, she was telling the truth. She was acting like a completely different person, so unlike the woman he’d known six months earlier. So unlike the woman he loved.
“What about us?” he asked quietly. He deeply resented being forced to ask the question; it felt too much like he was pleading with her. But he had to know, and she was clearly unwilling to broach the subject. “I thought we had something good. Is that over now? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
She didn’t respond for a long time, but a familiar look crossed her face, and for a split second, she was the same person she’d been the last time he saw her: hurt, scared, and vulnerable. When she finally spoke, it was in a low voice, her eyes aimed down at the table. “I don’t know, Ryan. Please don’t make me think about that right now.”
He hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. “Naomi, I—”
“Look, I can’t think about it,” she repeated, snapping her defenses back up in a heartbeat. She looked annoyed, as if he’d tricked her into giving something away. “Besides, that isn’t the issue here. I just want to know one thing, okay? Are you in or out? If you don’t want to go after Saifi, if you don’t want to help find those missing tourists, just say so. I can do it myself.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked. He kept his voice low and calm, ignoring her show of bravado. “Do you want me to turn Harper down? Would that make it easier for you?”
She searched his eyes for a few seconds; clearly, she was trying to assess his sincerity. “It’s up to you, Ryan. I can’t make the decision for you. But if you don’t think I’m ready, we’re obviously not going to be able to work together. Maybe you should…” She looked away uneasily. “I don’t know. Maybe you should tell him you don’t want any part of it. Maybe that would be best for both of us.”
He shook his head and looked down at the table. Her words had stung him deeper than she could have possibly known. When he finally lifted his head, he realized she was no longer glancing away. She was staring at him intently, waiting for his answer. Her stubborn, uncompromising gaze knocked something loose inside, and when he spoke, his words were just as hard and combative as hers.
“Unfortunately for you, Naomi, you can’t stop me from getting involved. I really don’t want any part of this, but I can already tell you’re not going to give me a choice. So if I can’t talk you out of it, then I guess you’ve found yourself a partner. Bear in mind, though, that I’m only doing it for one reason.”
“Yeah?” She squared her shoulders, her eyes flashing in response to his tone. “And what’s that?”
Kealey stood up and snatched his jacket off the back of his chair.
“To make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” He turned again and walked to the door, regretting the conversation more and more with each weary step he took. He didn’t know what could have happened to change her this much, but he knew he wouldn’t rest until he had figured it out. In the meantime, all he had to do was keep her out of harm’s way. Easier said than done, said a little voice inside, but he pushed it down. He had done it before, and he’d do it again. He’d do whatever it took to keep her safe, regardless of how she felt about it.
CHAPTER 5
ISLAMABAD
In his twenty-two-plus years with the Bureau of Diplomatic Security, Special Agent Mike Petrina had been charged with a wide range of duties. He’d couriered documents, investigated passport fraud, and protected senior U.S. officials in thirty-four countries on six continents. In that time, he’d witnessed some truly historic events, but he’d also experienced those rare, worrisome moments where the prevalent mood was downright hostile. Nosing a Suburban through a crowd of angry protestors could be dangerous enough, but that was a regular occurrence, and he’d endured far worse. In the fall of 2000, he had been standing a few feet away when Madeleine Albright first set foot on North Korean soil. He could remember the trepidation he’d felt when the first female secretary of state shook hands with Kim Jong Il, and he could recall—with crystal clarity—the plastic smile of the reclusive communist leader, as well as the icy stares of the North Korean soldiers standing guard. While the current situation wasn’t quite as bad as that, the mood in the room was undeniably tense, and it was getting worse by the minute.
The wood-paneled press room of the presidential palace was filled to capacity with journalists and cameramen. Small, ornate chandeliers hung overhead, illuminating the crowd and the smiling portrait of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan. As far as Petrina could tell, Jinnah’s was the only smiling face in the room. Two polished lecterns were standing before the portrait, positioned less than 3 feet apart. Behind the lectern, to the right, was the Pakistani foreign minister, Malik Bokhari. The lean, angular Pakistani was dressed in a dark suit and red tie. To his left was acting Secretary of State Brynn Fitzgerald. From where he was standing, Petrina had an excellent view of both officials, as well as the crowd, and the collective tension was hard to miss.
“Madam Secretary,” came a voice from the crowd. Petrina instantly looked for the speaker and picked out Susan Watkins, the senior correspondent for CNN. The foreign minister had already finished his prepared remarks, as had Fitzgerald, and they had moved into the question-and-answer phase of the briefing. “I’d like to refer, if I might, to Israel’s recent decision to complete a major arms sale to the Indian government. I assume President Brenneman has had time to reflect on that announcement, and given the sensitive nature of such a transaction, I was wondering if he might have reconsidered his decision to—”
“Ms. Watkins, I’ve already addressed this,” Fitzgerald interjected. “The president has no intention of interfering with Israel’s foreign affairs, and he’s made it clear to everyone that this is a situation that can only be resolved by dialogue between the affected nations.”
“By which you mean India and Pakistan.”
“Yes.”
“But surely he recognizes the international call for American engagement on this issue, especially since the United States is the largest exporter of arms to Israel in the first place, and now they’re selling off the very weapons we provided them with.”
Fitzgerald looked down and met the other woman’s insistent gaze, but to her credit, her diplomatic façade didn’t slip an inch. “I hardly think that’s a reasonable statement, Susan, and it’s also a fairly simplistic way of viewing this situation. Israel has a major domestic arms industry, and according to the documents I’ve seen, more than one hundred fifty million dollars of the proposed sale will be used to purchase the Hermes 180 UAV. The Hermes 180, of course, is an unma
nned aerial vehicle manufactured by Elbit Systems Ltd., a company based in Haifa. So the Israeli government is well within its right to make that technology salable on the international market. And on a more general note, the proposed sale to India in no way violates Israel’s commitments to the United States on foreign arms sales. If you’ll recall, the standards I’m referring to were drawn up after Israel considered a lesser sale to China in 2004. In that case, there were issues involving the unauthorized sale of sensitive American technology, which doesn’t apply in this situation. And Israel signed a memorandum of understanding to that effect in 2005. To date, they’ve adhered to the letter of that agreement. So, to reiterate, we see no basis for disrupting this sale.”
“But isn’t it true, Dr. Fitzgerald,” Watkins persisted, “that the Pakistani defense minister sent a letter to the Pentagon asking the United States to reconsider its stance, citing the damage the sale would cause to regional security in South Asia? Mr. Bokhari, if you would care to comment on that also.”
Fitzgerald didn’t respond for a long moment. Her counterpart turned toward her, awaiting her reaction, and the cameras started clicking away. Petrina winced involuntarily from the sidelines. Although she had an excellent rapport with the diplomats and world leaders she’d met so far, Fitzgerald’s previous position hadn’t prepared her for this kind of exposure. When the cameras were rolling, the slightest hesitation could have disastrous effects, as it automatically fostered the impression that the speaker in question was concocting a lie. Petrina just hoped she had the presence of mind to realize that before she answered the question.
“I haven’t had the chance to examine that letter,” Fitzgerald finally said. “Nor am I aware of its exact contents, so I can’t—”
“But you are aware of its existence, correct?” asked another reporter.
“Yes,” Fitzgerald replied, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “And so is the president. But as I said before, he—”
“Dr. Fitzgerald, if I may,” her counterpart interrupted. Fitzgerald nodded once, reassuming her neutral expression.
“Of course, Mr. Bokhari.”
Malik Bokhari turned back to the reporter who’d posed the question. “It’s true that we have appealed to many American leaders on this matter, not just the president. In fact, President General Musharraf has personally reached out to several influential members of Congress. Obviously, we’re vastly concerned over Israel’s proposed arms sale to India, and the escalating number of soldiers on both sides of the Line of Control is a testament to the dire nature of the situation. Pakistan has no intention of provoking a conflict in the areas of Azad Kashmir, but any further attempts by the Indian government to increase its military readiness will be met in kind, and any incursion on territory controlled by Pakistan will be met with swift and harsh resistance.”
The silence in the room was deafening as the foreign minister paused to let these words sink in. “I’d like to emphasize the fact that Pakistan has not sought additional arms or munitions since this impending sale was made public. We have no desire to be seen as the aggressors in this situation, and we seek only a return to normal levels of readiness. However, we do not believe that this can happen until India demonstrates its goodwill by canceling the upcoming purchase.”
Bokhari paused and turned to Fitzgerald. “Do you have anything to add?”
“No, that’s all.” Fitzgerald appeared slightly shaken, but she offered a tight smile and extended her hand, which the foreign minister took. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Bokhari.”
“Thank you for coming, Madam Secretary.”
The press pool erupted in a flurry of questions as both speakers turned away from the crowd and walked to the rear of the room, where a member of Bokhari’s entourage was waiting to open the door. As Fitzgerald followed the minister through, Petrina closed the distance between them smoothly and adjusted the Motorola microphone/receiver system positioned in his right ear, which allowed him to communicate without the use of a PTT (press to talk) button. He was a little shocked by what had just transpired, as it was rare to hear such vitriolic remarks in a public forum, but he couldn’t dwell on the minister’s words. He still had a job to do, and he wouldn’t relax until the secretary was back on the plane and cruising at 35,000 feet. Brynn Fitzgerald’s first official trip as secretary of state had just come to a close.
“Edsall, this is Petrina. The briefing just finished. Where do we stand?”
There was a crackle of static over his earpiece, then the reply. “We’re right on schedule. The flight plan is filed, and the plane is fueled up and ready to go. The route is in order.”
“Chase cars?”
“They’re in position. We’re waiting on you, over.”
“Good,” Petrina replied. He glanced over and saw that Fitzgerald was engaging in a few last-minute pleasantries with a member of the Pakistani Secretariat. “She’s finishing up in here. It could be ten. It could be twenty. I’ll let you know. For the moment, just have everyone hold their positions.”
“Got it, boss.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fitzgerald stepped out into the hazy afternoon air. The cameras were still rolling, the press pool having moved to the bottom of the stairs. The motorcade was waiting a few steps beyond the assembled journalists. The acting secretary of state smiled in her practiced way—she’d gotten the hang of that already—and turned toward the foreign minister, shaking hands with him one last time. Standing at Fitzgerald’s side was the U.S. ambassador to Pakistan, Lee Patterson.
Patterson was a twenty-year veteran of the Foreign Service and a career diplomat. The tall, patrician Bostonian was one of the better-known members of the diplomatic community, as he’d inherited a substantial fortune several years earlier. His 1 percent stake in Texas Instruments alone was worth nearly twenty-one million dollars, making him one of the wealthiest public servants in the world. Once the last polite farewells were out of the way, they descended the stairs side by side, surrounded by members of Fitzgerald’s permanent detail. As the head of that detail, Special Agent Mike Petrina walked directly behind the acting secretary of state, his watchful eyes shielded by a pair of black Ray-Bans.
As soon as they hit street level, the doors were pulled open on the waiting vehicles. Petrina waited until Fitzgerald and Patterson had climbed into the rear seat. Then he shut the door after them and climbed into the front.
“All set, ma’am?” he asked over his shoulder.
The secretary of state broke off from her animated conversation with the ambassador. “Yes, we’re ready to go, Mike.”
“Would you like me to…?”
She knew what he was asking. “If you don’t mind.”
Petrina pushed a button to raise the partition behind the front seats, giving the officials some privacy. Although the secretary of state had the same controls at her disposal, she always waited for Petrina to suggest their use. Fitzgerald’s unfailing courtesy was just one of the reasons he had come to not only respect, but genuinely like the acting secretary of state.
Turning to the driver, he said, “Let’s keep the speed above sixty once we hit the main road.”
The driver nodded once as Petrina relayed the instruction to the lead vehicles. Then he waited for the cars ahead to pull out of the compound. Soon they had left the presidential palace behind and were streaking down Constitution Avenue, toward Chaklala Air Base, where the State Department’s Boeing 757 was fueled and waiting. Formerly part of the U.S. Air Force’s fleet, the plane had been specially recon-figured to meet the secretary of state’s needs. Essentially, it was a less elaborate version of Air Force One, but for anyone accustomed to flying coach, the soft leather seats and surplus of legroom would have seemed impossibly luxurious.
Petrina leaned back in his seat, ran a hand over his shorn scalp, and tried to relax. They had been in Pakistan for less than twenty-four hours, but his nerves had been stretched taut the whole time. Few countries could top the Islamic republic when it came to anti-Ame
rican sentiment, and that attitude was largely responsible for the extreme security measures that had surrounded Fitzgerald’s first official visit. For starters, the press pool had been supplied with a false time of arrival; instead of arriving at midday, the secretary of state’s plane had landed the previous night under cover of darkness, with the running lights off and the interior shades drawn. A number of false convoys had been dispatched from the airport several minutes before Fitzgerald made the short trip to the diplomatic enclave in Islamabad, and police checkpoints had been set up throughout the city.
Everything that could be done to ensure the secretary of state’s safety had been put into effect, but Petrina knew he’d feel more secure when they reached the air base, and he’d feel even better once they were wheels up. Judging by the elevated voices drifting through the thin partition, the person he was currently charged with protecting felt exactly the same way.
“Lee, what the hell just happened in there?” Brynn Fitzgerald demanded. She angrily brushed some lint from the sleeve of her navy pantsuit as she glared at the man sitting next to her. She knew that Petrina and the driver could probably hear every word through the thin partition, but she was beyond caring. “I thought you said they had tempered their position on this.”
“Well, that’s the impression I got when I met with the chief of protocol last week. He assured me that—”
“I don’t care what he told you.” The acting secretary of state strained to keep her voice at a reasonable level. “I was just blindsided in front of the pool, not to mention the foreign correspondents. Do you realize how bad that’s going to look when it airs? The president is going to be furious.”
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