Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  Owen barely managed to catch the question, as something in the background was overlapping the younger man’s speech. To Owen’s ear, the nearly constant, high-pitched noise sounded a lot like someone screaming, but he quickly dismissed the thought, knowing it had to be something else. “Yeah, I talked to him earlier. He’s not happy.”

  “Fuck him,” Kealey snapped. “I don’t give a shit how he feels. He’s got a lot to answer for when we get back. In the meantime, I need you to get your people moving. I’ll meet you on the other end shortly.”

  “What about Pétain?”

  There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry about her,” Kealey finally said. “Just get moving. I’ll call you back.”

  Owen started to ask another question, but the line was already dead. He swore viciously under his breath, prompting a sharp look from the halal vendor, but as he turned to head back through the gate, his anger started to dissipate. Instead, he found himself consumed by a deep-seated concern. As he began punching Walland’s number in on his phone, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d heard in the background on Kealey’s end of the conversation. He had decided the sound couldn’t possibly be that of someone screaming, but given Kealey’s strange tone and his curt, strained reference to Marissa Pétain, Owen was no longer sure.

  Either way, he was certain that the information Kealey had learned—or was about to learn—had come at a steep price. The only question was how steep, but that, along with his many other questions, would be answered soon enough. For now, he had other things to focus on, not the least of which was getting to Lahore as soon as possible.

  After ending the call with Owen, Kealey lowered the phone and looked down at the man he knew as Fahim. The Afghan was pale. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and despite the rain, Kealey could tell he was sweating. It wasn’t a serious injury, but from the placement alone, the CIA operative could tell that he was in a great deal of pain. After he had pulled the gun away from Pétain’s knee, Kealey had fired a single shot into the Afghan’s leg, more to disable him than anything else. The round had gouged a considerable chunk of flesh from the outer part of his thigh. For the moment, that was all Kealey wanted. For this man, the real pain had yet to begin.

  He had not been able to pull the trigger on Marissa Pétain. He didn’t understand it, because it should have been easy. In fact, it should have been beyond easy. After all, she meant nothing to him, whereas Naomi meant…well, everything. He didn’t know why he had turned the gun on Fahim instead. He didn’t understand how he could have betrayed his own emotions—his own gut instincts—to that degree. It had not been a conscious decision, and to make matters worse, he believed everything Machado had said. On some level, Kealey knew what he had done, and he knew what it meant. By sparing Pétain, he had probably just condemned Naomi to death, but that was something outside his current realm of acceptance. He didn’t even need to push the thought away, because he could not fully appreciate its true meaning, just as he could not appreciate the consequences of his actions. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could bear to deal with. Not now. Not in this place, and maybe not ever.

  As if reading his thoughts, the Afghan looked up at him. He was clutching his wounded leg, and his face was tight with pain. “You fool,” he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. “Do you know what’s going to happen now? Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Nothing compared to what I’m about to do,” Kealey assured him coldly. He could ask himself those questions, but he wasn’t about to take them from someone else, especially the man he had just put down. His fear for Naomi was already hitting him hard, and he knew it was just a matter of time before it completely crippled him. For the moment, though, he knew he had to maintain his composure—to set it aside. Otherwise, everything he had done so far would have been for nothing.

  Pétain was still handcuffed to the transformer; Kealey could see her from the corner of his eye. Her legs—still intact—were curled up under her body, and her right hand was clutching her left arm, which was still pulled over her head. Kealey could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t shift his gaze from the man lying at his feet. He crouched down so their faces were almost level.

  “Listen to me, Fahim,” he began, straining to keep his voice even. Straining to force Naomi’s face out of his mind. Straining to believe she might still make it through, despite the fact that he had just betrayed her in the worst way possible. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. Nothing has changed; helping me is still in your best interest. You’re going to supply me with everything you have. In Cartagena, Machado told me you have an exact location for Benazir Mengal. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else do you have?”

  “Everything. Weapons, ammunition, surveillance shots…We’ve been watching him for days.”

  “And are your people still watching him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to make another call, and then I’m going to give you the phone. You’re going to start pulling them out. I want them gone by the time my people get there, and I mean gone. I don’t want them within five miles of that house. Then you’re going to call your driver. Is he still out there?” Kealey gestured toward the other side of the substation, which was blocked by a number of large transformers.

  The Afghan nodded tightly. “Good,” Kealey said. “You’re going to tell him to lie facedown on the road and stay that way until we come out. Tell him that if I see a gun in his hand when we walk out there, or if he isn’t flat on his face, he’s a dead man. Do you understand?”

  “Why would I do all of that?” The Afghan’s voice was flat and resigned, despite the obvious pain of his wound. In spite of himself, Kealey could not help but admire the man’s resilience, but it didn’t change how he felt. He would make all the promises he needed to for now, but eventually, he was going to kill everyone who had forced him into this position, including the man he had just shot. “You’re going to kill me, anyway,” Fahim observed.

  How clever you are, Kealey thought, a dark tide sweeping over his mind. He was quietly impressed by the Afghan’s foresight, but he could not let that show.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m not going to kill you. But even if you’re right, you have nothing to lose. If you cooperate, I might let you live, but if you don’t help me, then I no longer have any use for you.” Kealey paused to let the full weight of that statement sink in. “So what’s it going to be? Yes or no?”

  It seemed to take a long time, but finally the Afghan nodded, grimacing with the pain in his leg. “Yes. I can get what you need.”

  “Good,” Kealey said. “Now, where is Benazir Mengal?”

  The Afghan started talking immediately, and less than a minute later, Kealey was punching in Jonathan Harper’s direct line. The deputy DCI answered immediately.

  “John, it’s me. Listen, I—”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Harper said. His voice was laced with fury he was beyond trying to control. “You were supposed to—”

  Kealey cut him off with a few harsh words of his own, then launched into the story. It took a few minutes, but Harper gradually began to understand what he was being told. Once that happened, he stopped trying to interrupt and listened, with escalating disbelief, as Kealey explained what had just taken place. He remained silent until the younger man was done, and by that time, he had forgotten why he was angry to begin with.

  CHAPTER 37

  WASHINGTON, D.C. • NORTHERN PAKISTAN

  It was just after eight in the morning, and Harper was standing in the West Wing, just outside the Oval Office. He’d excused himself to take Kealey’s call, and he was still trying to get over what he’d just heard. If it had come from anyone else, he would not have believed it. It seemed too farfetched to be possible. But at the same time, part of him was not surprised to hear how far Javier Machado had gone to protect his only living child. He knew something of
the Spaniard’s background, and he had been with the Agency—albeit in a lesser position—when Caroline Pétain had died in Colombia. It was something that Harper couldn’t fully understand, as he and his wife did not have children. Still, he knew how he would feel if something were to happen to Julie, and he could imagine that losing a child would be ten times worse. Maybe twenty times worse, and the way Caroline had died…Well, it didn’t get much worse than that. Clearly, her death had affected Javier Machado more than anyone had ever suspected, including those closest to him, namely, his own family.

  Lifting the phone, Harper called Diane Neal, the director’s secretary, and had her patch him through to the station chief in Madrid. Without going into specifics, he explained the situation quickly, and the station chief agreed to dispatch two of his people to Machado’s house in Cartagena. Harper thanked him and ended the call. Then he tried to call Machado direct. Unsurprisingly, the man didn’t pick up, and neither did Naomi when Harper tried her sat phone.

  Harper tried to think of something else he could do, but he had exhausted his options. He had done his best to reassure Kealey during their brief, tense conversation, but it hadn’t really worked; they both knew Machado’s background in operations, and they both knew he would have planned this out extensively. The embassy personnel would almost certainly find an empty house when they arrived in Cartagena, but they had to be sure. He wondered how he would ever be able to tell Pétain what her father had done; part of him hoped that Kealey would take care of it for him.

  Checking his watch, he turned, opened the door, and stepped into the Oval Office. Brenneman, Andrews, DNI Bale, and Stan Chavis were engaged in quiet discussion around the coffee table, and they all looked up as Harper approached.

  “What was that about?” Andrews asked.

  “We’ve got a lead on Mengal,” Harper replied. He didn’t bother relaying the rest of it; right now, they didn’t need the whole story. Besides, they wouldn’t have been able to sit through it. Not after what he’d just told them. All four men shot up in their seats, giving him their full attention. “It looks like he might be in northern Pakistan, in a town called Sialkot.”

  “What about Brynn?” the president instantly asked, momentarily forgetting how high Fitzgerald ranked in comparison to Harper, Hayden, and even Andrews. Normally, he would never have used her first name in their presence.

  “At this point, it appears that Secretary Fitzgerald is probably in the same location,” Harper said, and he watched as all four men breathed a shared sigh of relief.

  Brenneman sprang to his feet, and the others followed suit, although they had nowhere to go. “What do you mean, ‘probably’? What makes you say that, and where did you get this information?”

  Harper quickly relayed everything Kealey had just told him, limiting his words to what they needed to know. He finished by explaining that a considerable number of guards were stationed outside the house in Sialkot, which elevated the probability that Fitzgerald was being held inside the building.

  “But we don’t know for sure,” Andrews clarified, once Harper was done. “We can’t verify that she’s on-site.”

  “No,” Harper admitted. “But we can’t know for sure until we’re inside.”

  “You’re suggesting we raid the house?” Brenneman asked skeptically.

  “No,” Harper replied. “At least, I don’t think we should do that yet. But I do believe we need to have reliable eyes on the target until we’re ready to move decisively. Sir, as I mentioned before, we have four 8X satellites over the region. We can easily shift one away from the area of fighting to cover this part of the Punjab. We have a number of well-trained paramilitary officers in the area, including Ryan Kealey, and with satellite coverage, we have nothing to lose by setting up surveillance on the residence. Even if Mengal moves unexpectedly, we’ll be able to track him. He’ll have nowhere to go.”

  “These people you have in the area…,” Chavis began slowly. “Are they armed?”

  Harper hesitated, but only for a second. “No, they aren’t. But that’s a problem we can fix easily enough, once the president clears this course of action.”

  “How many men are we talking about?” Brenneman asked. “How many do we have in the area?”

  “Five men, including Kealey, and one woman,” Harper replied. “Of those six, two are current or former members of Delta, and one is a former army ranger, a captain with the 82nd Airborne. Another, Aaron Massi, served as a combat controller in the air force.”

  “Still, that’s six against a force of eight to twelve, plus another unknown number of guards inside the house,” Andrews remarked. He shook his head uneasily. “It’s a risk. There could be a lot of unknowns in that equation, and if the surveillance is blown…”

  “Alerting the Pakistani government would be even riskier,” Harper pointed out. “I’ve been thinking this through over the past couple of days, debating how it might play out if we actually got a lead on Fitzgerald’s location. And I have to tell you, I think it would be a mistake to go through official channels. Mengal still has a lot of friends in high places. If we ask Musharraf to move on this and word gets out to the wrong man, which it will, Mengal will kill the secretary of state and leave before we can even get into position.”

  “Jesus,” Brenneman said shakily, his face turning pale. He retook his seat, and after a moment, everyone else did the same. Looking over to Harper, he asked, “How long do we have to decide on a course of action?”

  Harper wondered why the president had used the word “we.” In the end, it was his decision and his alone; everyone else was just there to advise. Harper wondered if Brenneman was already attempting to spread the blame around, at least subconsciously. Harper knew it didn’t really matter either way; if the president took his advice and the surveillance was blown, Harper would almost certainly be out of a job, as would Andrews and Hayden. Chavis would probably survive the fallout, but not because of his position. He and the president shared a personal friendship that dated back to their college years at Georgetown, and that, more than anything else, would insulate the chief of staff if the worst were to happen.

  “Sir, there is no time to waste,” the deputy DCI cautioned. “Mengal won’t want to stay in one place for long. He’ll be moving around as much as he can, but it would be pointless to launch a rescue operation until we have reliable surveillance in place. Once we have eyes on the building, we can strike in a matter of hours, if that is what you decide to do.”

  “But with satellite coverage, we don’t need to—”

  “Sir, forgive me for interrupting, but IMINT isn’t enough. We need men on the ground.”

  Brenneman let out a weary sigh, then lowered his head in thought. After a minute, he looked up and said, “What happens next? I mean, what do you need to do right now, assuming I agree with your proposal?”

  “With your permission, I’d like to head over to the NRO. We need to get an 8X over Sialkot as soon as possible. A call from you to the director would help greatly in that regard, sir. Once that’s done, we can establish things here. By that, I mean we can set up downstairs in the Situation Room.”

  “I’ll call him before you get there,” Brenneman said. He seemed to think for a few seconds more. “John, I want you to draw up a plan to recover Secretary Fitzgerald. As of now, we’re proceeding with the understanding that the Pakistani government will not be alerted in advance. That may change before I authorize anything, but for now, that’s the plan. Start getting your people in place.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harper said. The president looked at Andrews, just to make sure they were all on the same page, and the DCI acknowledged the order.

  “Sir,” Bale cautioned, “if you do this, the diplomatic fallout—”

  “Will be worth it,” Brenneman said, finishing Bale’s sentence. He fixed the director of National Intelligence with a stern glare. “If Musharraf had control over the subversive elements in his country, Ken, we wouldn’t be in this position to begin with.
We might only have one chance to get her back, and I’m not going to let it slip through our fingers.”

  Bale nodded, and the president shifted his gaze to include them all. “We’re going to find her and bring her home, gentlemen, by any means necessary. Is that clear?”

  Everyone murmured their agreement. The president stood, and everyone followed suit.

  “Good. Let’s go to work,” said Brenneman.

  Kealey had been staring out the window for the last half hour, but the passing scenery meant nothing to him. He was entirely fixed on the images running through his mind. All he could see was Naomi, and it was killing him. He still couldn’t believe he had misjudged Javier Machado that badly, and he wondered if the man was actually capable of doing what he had threatened to do. His background said that he wasn’t. People with that kind of temperament didn’t last long in the Operations Directorate, and that was assuming they even managed to get through the doors in the first place. Machado had spent thirty years in the DO, and his career had been marked by a long string of accomplishments. Simply stated, he was one of the best operatives the Agency had ever seen, and by extension, that made him a consummate professional. If that had been the only factor involved, Kealey would have felt sure that he was bluffing—that he had no intention of really hurting Naomi.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Machado’s actions were clearly based on an emotional element that Kealey couldn’t fully appreciate. When Pétain had told him about her sister’s gruesome death in Colombia, Kealey had been shocked by the sick nature of the crime, as well as what had come after. But he hadn’t really considered how much that must have affected the people Caroline had left behind, namely, her immediate family. The pain of that event would have been bad in the beginning—Kealey knew that much, because he had once suffered a similar loss—but over time, the initial impact of that tragedy had clearly evolved in Pétain and Machado. In the former, it had fostered a desire for revenge; in the latter, it had fostered something else. Something far more dangerous. A willingness to go to great lengths—any lengths, perhaps, if he was serious about the threat he had made—to protect his only surviving child.