Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “You know I can’t,” Harper responded quietly.

  Another long silence. “The president wants Kealey and Kharmai to stay on, John, so that’s the way it will be,” Andrews said. “For now, anyway. But they will answer for what happened today, and you’d better make sure they understand that they’re walking a fine line. From what you’ve told me, as well as what I’ve read in their files, both have troubling incidents in their past. Frankly, their backgrounds don’t inspire a great deal of confidence. The only reason they’re involved at all is because you wanted it that way.”

  “I understand that. But as you told the president, you can’t argue with what they’ve accomplished over the past couple of years.”

  “Yes,” the DCI conceded reluctantly, “I did say that, and I meant it. But again, my patience is running short, along with my gratitude. Reel them in, John, or hand this assignment off to someone else. Even if it puts us further behind than we already are. We can’t afford another mistake. Certainly nothing like what happened today.”

  Harper nodded and voiced his agreement, doing his best to appear reluctant. He didn’t want Andrews to know that he was harboring similar concerns. In fact, his concerns were far worse, since he knew much more about both operatives than the director did. Still, he wasn’t about to reveal the truth. The second he did, Kealey and Kharmai would be pulled out immediately, and they would lose their forward momentum. Like it or not, his best option was to let them see it through and hope for the best.

  Andrews turned to begin making his way back to the cars, and Harper fell into step beside him. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, and the air seemed almost electric. As they walked, sprinkles started to spatter the path ahead, the first tangible sign of the forthcoming storm.

  “One more thing,” the DCI said. “I’d like to devote some additional resources to Kashmir. I’m talking about personnel, hardware…whatever we can spare. Before long, the president is going to shift his focus back to that situation, and when that happens, he’s going to want some hard intel. You said six satellites were pulled from the NSA and the NGA to watch Mengal’s known places of residence?”

  “That’s right. Six at last count. Obviously, they’re being run out of the NRO.” The National Reconnaissance Office was the primary government agency tasked with developing, building, and operating U.S. reconnaissance satellites. In the spring of ’99, Harper had been seconded to the office, where he had served as a liaison officer for nearly a year. It had been a relatively boring, albeit enlightening, experience.

  “How many of those satellites were diverted from the areas of troop movement in Kashmir? I realize we still have the four 8Xs over the area, but what about the KH-12s? How many were taken off?”

  Harper hesitated, then said, “All of them.”

  Andrews shook his head in disbelief, but he was clearly resigned to the situation. “I don’t like it. Retasking those satellites does nothing but limit our flow of information. I shouldn’t have to rely on CNN for the latest developments. We’re supposed to be ahead of the game, and right now we’re playing catch-up.

  “Still,” he added, after a brief moment of internal debate, “that is a secondary result of the president’s orders, so it’s out of our hands. The way I see it, the only way we can get back on track is to find the general.”

  “That’s how it looks,” Harper agreed reluctantly.

  “Then make it happen, John.” Andrews paused to wipe his brow once more, then turned to face his deputy. “Make Kealey understand. Kharmai, too. They need to find Benazir Mengal, and they need to do it soon.”

  The Sheikh Zayed Postgraduate Medical Institute, so named for the famed sultan of Abu Dhabi, was one of several major hospitals in Lahore. It was a fairly well-administered facility, at least judging by the standards of the Islamic republic. When he’d first arrived in-country, Randall Craig had been surprised by the friendly, professional demeanor of the doctors and nurses who staffed the 286-bed hospital, though it had never occurred to him why this should be. He considered himself to be a reasonable person, a man open to cultures other than his own, but at the same time, he subconsciously harbored the same prejudices shared by so many of his fellow Americans. It wasn’t a conscious bias; rather, it was something that lingered just below his active thoughts, a vague awareness of his own place in the world. A sense of entitlement, based on his nationality. There was a natural order to things, he had always suspected, and while he’d never stopped to really consider this point of view, it seemed to him that, for better or worse, the rank of nations was much like a food chain and that, as an American citizen, he was parked right at the top.

  Regardless of whether this was actually the case, it was a comforting thought. Empowering, even. It was also a notion he found easy to reinforce in Pakistan, a country where the average citizen earned less than eight hundred American dollars every year. Of course, that sum went much further in the Islamic republic than it did in the States, but it was still a hard statistic to ignore. It was something that Craig had witnessed firsthand from the moment his flight had touched down in Rawalpindi. It never ceased to amaze him how the Pakistani people could make so much with so little. When he took in the poverty that surrounded him daily, he couldn’t help but wonder how this country had managed to become a nuclear power.

  Nevertheless, over the past couple of weeks, he had seriously considered cutting his work at Sheikh Zayed short. Ever since the announcement of the upcoming Israeli arms sale to the Indian government, the tension in the streets—particularly in the heart of Islamabad—had become nearly tangible. The abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald in Rawalpindi had brought things to a boiling point. In the end, though, he’d decided against leaving. Pakistan and India had engaged in conflicts before, he reasoned, and it had never really amounted to anything. Even the Kargil war in ’99 could hardly be described as anything more than a cross-border skirmish. Hardly worth fleeing the country over, he thought, especially since he was so close to leaving, anyway. It had been ten months since he’d departed the University of Washington for Sheikh Zayed on a yearlong visit, and he was more than ready to get back. In truth, the first of September couldn’t come soon enough for Randall Craig.

  He left the locker room on the ground floor shortly after eight in the evening, pausing on the way out to examine his reflection over the sink. A former girlfriend had once described his face as “kindly,” though Craig had no idea what in the hell that meant. His lantern lower jaw was completely concealed by a thick beard, which he’d worn as long as he could remember, and despite a fair degree of worrisome searching, he had yet to find a trace of gray in his light brown hair.

  Overall, he was pleased with what he saw. At thirty-eight, he was still carrying more muscle than fat on his six-foot, four-inch frame, despite an appalling diet that consisted of two to three servings of McDonald’s a day. It was something he never remarked upon in the presence of his patients, even though few of them—including the very few who spoke fluent English—would have been able to decipher his strong Southern dialect, a remnant of a youth spent in the soft, wooded hills of Etowah, Tennessee. The fast-food chain had recently opened a few restaurants in Lahore, and though the closest was something of a drive from his apartment in New Garden Town, it was well worth the trip. He simply couldn’t abide the local cuisine, which typically seemed to consist of overcooked rice and some kind of rubbery, unidentifiable meat. Even the Pakistani version of McDonald’s was preferable to that.

  Craig passed through the waiting area at a brisk pace, nodding to a few of his colleagues as he approached the front entrance. Before long he was making his way through the tightly packed parking area. As he approached his vehicle, he was startled by the sound of squealing tires to his right. He stopped, then took a quick, unconscious step back as a black van came to a sharp halt a few meters away. The driver’s-side door was flung open, and a young man jumped out. His hair was askew, arms flapping out by his sides. He looked extremely agitated, but despite
his distracted state, he seemed to lock on Craig instantly.

  “Doctor? Are you a doctor? I need help!” he shouted frantically. Half the words came out in fractured English, the rest in a language Craig recognized as Urdu. He’d made a genuine attempt to learn the various languages of Pakistan over the past ten months, but there were just too many. Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, Balti…the list went on and on, and not one of them seemed to be common to all his patients. Despite his inner drive to succeed at all things, he could recognize a hopeless endeavor when he saw one. He’d finally given up back in January. As a result, he had no idea what the young man was saying. The only thing he caught was the word doctor.

  “Yes,” he said quickly, taking a few steps forward. “I’m a doctor.” Thinking fast, he uttered one of the few phrases he knew in Urdu. “Kyaa aapko angrezee aatee hai?”

  The man seemed to freeze, but only for a second. “Yes!” he shouted triumphantly. “I speak English!” It was almost as if he was just realizing he had the ability. “It’s my brother. He’s badly hurt….” The man was babbling as he moved fastto the back of the van, reaching for the handle. “He was hit by a car. I saw it happen, but the car drove away before I could do anything. I didn’t want to wait for the ambulance. Please, help me….”

  Craig moved forward instinctively, despite the warning bells going off in the back of his mind. If he’d thought it through a little longer, he would have realized that it didn’t make sense. The emergency-room doors were on the other side of the lot and clearly marked. A person arriving with a patient would naturally try to get as close as possible to those doors before getting out of a vehicle. Unfortunately, the truth dawned much too late. As the rear door of the van swung up, Craig moved round the rear of the vehicle to get a better look. He froze when he saw that the cargo area was empty, except for a spare tire and a few ratty blankets.

  Suddenly, he was wrapped up from behind. The same man who had drawn him in was now holding him in place, or at least trying to. It was a near-impossible task, given that he was much smaller and lighter than the man he was trying to control, but he was strong and determined. Craig shouted for help and started to struggle, but just as he was about to break free, the right side of his head exploded with pain. He had enough time to realize he’d been hit with something hard before the blackness moved in, his legs collapsing beneath him. He slumped forward, his limbs turning to water. He heard a hissed command in Urdu, then sensed a shadow darting in from the right, a person moving forward to break his fall. Then the dark tide swept over him, clouding out all thought, and the pain gave way to nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 22

  CARTAGENA, SPAIN

  It was just after nine in the evening when Kealey woke with a start. Slowly but surely, his surroundings began to swim into focus. He lay still for a moment, trying to piece it together, and then it came back to him. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, aware of low voices drifting into the room. There was the sound of the wind as well, and as he stood and walked over to the open French doors, the brightly colored curtains rippled gently against the interior wall.

  Stepping outside, he moved to the railing and put his hands on the waist-high bar of the balcony. Night had settled over the landscape, but small lights scattered round the perimeter helped illuminate the garden below. It was obviously well kept, a thick line of Spanish fir blocking the view of the road beyond. The trees were swaying in the cool, salty breeze moving in from the Mediterranean Sea, which wasn’t more than a mile to the east. The towering pines were positioned just inside a black fence of wrought iron, where they framed a large square of grass. Although it was dark, the grass appeared as green as it would have during the day, the lawn luminescent in the clean white light.

  A white aluminum table was centered on the grass, and two figures were seated there. One was a woman in her mid-fifties. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was touched with gray, but otherwise, she appeared far younger than her years. Her complexion was fair, her face remarkably free of wrinkles, and she was dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a green cotton cardigan.

  The other person at the table was Marissa Pétain. Her dark brown hair was damp, shining wetly in the moonlight, and she was wearing a cream-colored blouse and a pair of wrinkled chinos. It was different clothing from what she’d arrived in; obviously, she’d taken the time to shower and change. The two women were talking quietly in French, but from where Kealey was standing, the conversation was barely audible. As he looked down at them, Pétain glanced up, as though sensing his presence. She smiled pensively and gave a little wave, but before Kealey could acknowledge the gesture, he heard a gentle tap behind him. He turned as the door opened slightly, a sliver of light creeping into the room.

  “Kealey? ¿Estás despierto?”

  “Yeah, I’m up. Come on in.” The door opened a little wider, and a large man with dark features, unkempt eyebrows, and long, iron gray hair appeared in the doorway, his bulk drowning out the light in the hall. Born in Valencia in 1937, Javier Machado had graduated from the Autonomous University of Barcelona in 1960, before immigrating to the United States, where he’d earned a master’s in economics at the University of Southern California, followed by a doctorate at Princeton. It was there that he’d been recruited by the CIA. He’d served as a case officer for more than thirty years, running agents in Mexico, Morocco, Algeria, Portugal, and France, among other places. According to Marissa Pétain, he’d spent the better part of that time trying to get out from under the shadow of his own father, Luis Méndez Machado, a famed poet who’d served a lengthy prison term for opposing the rule of Francisco Franco during the sixties.

  Pétain had been unwilling to provide many specifics, but based on what she’d said in the car, Javier Machado had largely succeeded in this endeavor, having accrued a long list of intelligence coups during what could only be described as a stellar career. He had retired fifteen years earlier, after finishing up a stint as the CIA station chief in Lisbon.

  Pétain had explained it all on the nerve-wracking six-hour trip from Madrid to Cabo de Palos. Although she seemed reluctant to speak of her father, Kealey had caught the reverence in her voice when she spoke his name. When they’d arrived earlier in the evening, Machado’s eyes had lit up with complete adoration when he first caught sight of Pétain. He had embraced her fondly, as had his wife, Élise. On witnessing this warm reunion, Kealey felt vastly reassured. It was clear they had made the right move. He and Naomi were there with Pétain, which made all the difference. Machado had welcomed them into his home, apparently unswayed by what had taken place in Madrid, as well as by his visitors’ role in that disastrous incident.

  “Did you manage any sleep?” Machado asked. Kealey had noticed that the older man preferred to speak Spanish whenever possible, and he had made a conscious point to do the same.

  “Yes, I did, thanks. Has Langley been in touch?” He had given Pétain the Globalstar sat phone once they’d arrived in Cartagena, and Kealey assumed she would have informed her father if Harper had called.

  “No,” the older man replied, shaking his head grimly. “Nothing yet. I think you are in some trouble, my friend.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Kealey muttered. He crossed to the door and, keeping his voice low, asked, “What about Naomi?”

  Machado shrugged uneasily, his frown deepening. “She has not come out of her room since you arrived. Élise tried to talk to her, but…” The Spaniard shrugged again and looked away. “It’s your decision, but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you should leave it alone. She needs to work it out in her own time. Of course, it will not happen overnight. These things never do.”

  Kealey nodded slowly, a number of emotions racing through his mind, all of them bad. After procuring a second vehicle off the Prado Road in Madrid, they had begun making their way south to Cartagena, following Pétain’s directions. The first reports had come over the radio quickly enough, but they had been sparse at best. For the
most part, it was all guesswork, the kind of wild speculation employed by reporters around the world. As they turned off the E901 near Albacete, the reports began to firm up. It was then that Radio One had confirmed the worst: at least 4 people had been killed as a direct result of the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios, along with a two-year veteran of the CNP. Another 6 civilians were in critical condition at a local hospital, and two were not expected to live.

  Kealey had been driving when the report came in, Pétain in the passenger seat, Naomi in back. When the announcer moved on to other news, Kealey could have sworn he heard a noise behind him—something between a groan and a choked sob—but he didn’t look back. He simply couldn’t bring himself to do it, because the truth was inescapable, and Naomi would know that better than anyone. She had set off the improvised device with the best of intentions, her goal being to help them escape the construction site. She had succeeded in this endeavor, but in doing so, she had committed an act that would haunt her forever.

  To make matters worse, Kealey knew something that Pétain did not. Ten months earlier, Naomi Kharmai had taken two lives in an act of self-defense; at least, she had thought it was self-defense at the time. One of those people had turned out to be innocent. It was just one of the events that had contributed to her current state, but Kealey knew all too well how much it had changed her: he could see it every time he looked into her eyes. Now she had done something ten times worse. Kealey was trying not to think about it, but given her fragility prior to the day’s events, he suspected that what had taken place in Madrid might prove to be her final undoing. The thought was hard to take, impossibly hard, in fact, since she had only been trying to help them escape, but he simply couldn’t dislodge it from his mind.

  Machado had said something, and Kealey snapped out of it, turning his attention back to the other man. “Sorry?”