Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “He’s dead,” Owen said grimly. “So is the hostage.”

  Shit. Kealey supposed he had already known, but now he had confirmation, and nothing made it hit home like hearing the words. Owen started to say something else, but Kealey had already turned his attention to the scene unfolding before him. Four Delta troopers had reached Fitzgerald and were escorting her back to the Pave Low in front of the house. Escorting wasn’t exactly the right word, Kealey thought absently, as the four men were practically carrying her at a dead sprint back to the waiting helicopter. At the same time, a series of dark shapes were moving toward the incapacitated van, weapons at the ready. Kealey couldn’t see them, but he knew there were other soldiers lying prone between the MH-53 and the house, covering the secretary’s evacuation.

  The trooper who’d pushed him to the ground was standing a few feet away, murmuring calm, authoritative orders into his lip mic. Kealey suddenly realized that this man was probably leading one of the elements. He was about to ask a question, but it was gone before he could get it out. In fact, he couldn’t seem to fix on any one thought; it was as if his mind was bleeding out, just like his…

  Kealey glanced down at the gunshot wound on the left side of his abdomen. It didn’t look too bad—just a neat hole surrounded by a large circle of blood—but then he reached around and realized why his vision was starting to blur. The hole in his back was significantly larger than the one in front. The exit wound, he realized, with a sense of sudden fear, had to be at least 6 centimeters in diameter. He briefly wondered how the soldier standing next to him could have missed it; after all, he’d been looking right down at his back a scant forty seconds before. But then he realized that the blood would have been hard to spot on his dark clothing, especially since it was still dark and raining. He had not felt the pain when the man’s foot had been wedged into his upper back. The adrenaline had been pumping too hard for that, but he was definitely feeling it now. The dizzying waves of pain were radiating throughout his abdomen, and they were only getting worse….

  As he brought his hand away from the wound, he saw it was dripping with blood. Glancing in his direction, the soldier—who was still on the radio—did a double take and started to turn in Kealey’s direction, his eyes opening wide. He had seen it, too, Kealey realized.

  It was his last conscious thought. The Delta trooper lunged out to stop him from falling, but Kealey’s legs were already going. The night sky started to fade, replaced by something much deeper and darker, and then the world was gone completely.

  He was unconscious before he even hit the ground. He never heard the master sergeant’s urgent call for a medic, and he didn’t see the look of utter despair that crossed the young staff sergeant’s face when he arrived on the run twenty seconds later. The medic had seen this kind of wound before, and he knew the odds. Still, he had to try, and he set to work, frantically pulling items out of his rucksack, wondering if he had even the smallest chance of saving this man’s life.

  CHAPTER 45

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was just after one in the afternoon when Jonathan Harper was shown into the Oval Office by the president’s secretary. It was the first time he’d ever been alone in the room, and he knew that Brenneman probably wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes. The president was just a few hundred feet away, speaking to the dozens of White House correspondents camped out on the South Lawn. It was a good day for it, Harper had to admit, and in more ways than one. At least, that was the predominant feeling in Washington on this warm Tuesday afternoon. Through the towering colonnade windows positioned behind the president’s desk, Harper could see the sunlight streaming through the trees and the brilliant blue backdrop beyond. But try as he might, he could not appreciate the picturesque view.

  The previous day’s operation had been labeled a success, in spite of the many mistakes that had marked its execution. Even Harper had to admit that when viewed objectively, it looked like a win on every front. Brynn Fitzgerald had been recovered intact, Amari Saifi was dead, and Benazir Mengal was in custody. The former Pakistani general had already revealed where the remainder of the hostages were being held—a secluded village in the Karakoram range—and a second rescue operation was already in the works. Best of all, it had all been accomplished with minimal loss of life. But that, Harper thought soberly, was the objective version, and when one looked at the value of the lives that had been lost, the mission didn’t seem like such a great success. However, he had to admit the truth: for the president—and for the general public at large—success rested with the recovery of the secretary of state, and that had been accomplished.

  When the assault force had returned to Bagram, they had found the State Department’s customized 757 standing by, along with a full medical team and eight newly appointed members of the secretary of state’s protective detail. From there, Brynn Fitzgerald had been transported to the military hospital at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, where she was currently being treated in a closed, secure wing of the building. For the most part, she was still in one piece, though doctors had discovered evidence of recent injuries, at least two of which were potentially fatal in nature. At least, they would have been fatal had they been left untreated. Those particular injuries—a partial pneumothorax of the left lung and a mild to moderate hemopericardium—had been adequately attended to by Said Qureshi in Pakistan. The doctors at Ramstein had grudgingly admitted as much, but the surgeon’s efforts had not been enough to satisfy them, and they had made it their personal mission to find the things that Qureshi had missed.

  A full workup had been ordered on the secretary of state’s arrival, and it had already revealed two cracked ribs, a cracked cheekbone, a hairline fracture on the left tibia, and the beginning stages of post-traumatic stress disorder, accompanied by possible psychotic depression. Only time would reveal the true extent of the psychological damage Fitzgerald had suffered at the hands of her captors, but the psychiatrists who’d examined her on arrival had already expressed some serious concerns. The preliminary reports of what she had gone through had leaked that very morning, and they had been graphic enough to provoke a large-scale emotional response. Hundreds of thousands of citizens from across the nation had been flooding the major news outlets ever since with calls to express their outrage. Harper was one of the few who had not felt a sense of personal outrage, partly because he was able to keep it all in perspective. Overall, Brynn Fitzgerald was a very lucky woman, especially compared to some of the people who had worked so hard—and suffered so much—to bring her home.

  Harper collapsed onto a couch in the seating area and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. He was exhausted, but more than that, he was weighed down by what had happened in Sialkot. All things considered, he knew he should have been pleased. The director certainly was. The Agency had performed an important role in Fitzgerald’s recovery. Indeed, were it not for Ryan Kealey’s misplaced trust in Javier Machado, they would almost certainly still be tracking down false leads in Pakistan. But it hadn’t turned out that way. They had managed to find her and bring her back, and because they had succeeded, the accolades were pouring in.

  So why, Harper wondered absently, do I feel like we failed? He had been weighing that question for the last eighteen hours, and he had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. At that moment, the east door leading out to the Rose Garden opened, and the president stepped into the room, followed closely by Robert Andrews, Kenneth Bale, and Stan Chavis. As Harper wearily stood, the first thing he noticed was the exultant, satisfied look on their faces. He could see right away that the press conference had been a tremendous success, but there was nothing surprising in that; the media was always kind when the news was good. He had been asked to attend by Brenneman himself, but he had been unwilling to submit himself to the adoration of the press. Praise from the media was something that senior CIA officials rarely received, but that didn’t make it any more enticing, especially when so much had been sacrificed to make it possible.


  The president crossed the room and extended a hand, grinning broadly. He was dressed immaculately in a navy suit with a pale yellow tie, but he was typically groomed for the cameras. There was nothing unusual in that; naturally, the most powerful man in the free world was expected to look presentable at all times. But the others had clearly made an effort, as they were dressed with more panache than usual. Even Chavis, who usually resembled a harried accountant in his standard rumpled dress shirt and Dockers, had taken the opportunity to sharpen his image in front of the Washington press corps. This afternoon he was dressed in a charcoal single-breasted suit with a patterned navy tie, which was only slightly crooked. For once, the man looked almost presentable. Bale was wearing his customary dark suit, as was Andrews.

  “Thanks for coming, John,” Brenneman said, as though the deputy DCI had a choice in the matter. They shook hands briefly, but with clear enthusiasm on the president’s part. “I’m sorry you opted out of the press conference. There are a lot of relieved people out there today, and you helped make that possible. You should have been there…You deserve the credit.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Harper replied, not knowing what else to say. He felt the complete opposite, of course, but one did not contradict the president, especially not in the Oval Office.

  “Let’s take a seat, shall we?” Brenneman said. Harper resumed his place on the couch, and the other men took their customary seats, Brenneman with his back to the fireplace. A Navy steward entered with coffee, deposited the tray, and left without a word.

  “So,” the president began. Harper saw that his face had taken on a sober expression, which was fitting, since he knew what Brenneman was about to ask. “Let’s start with the obvious question. How is Ryan doing?”

  So it’s Ryan now, Harper thought silently. In the past, the president had always referred to the young operative by his last name, and that was on the rare occasion he referenced Kealey at all.

  Harper cleared his throat. “It’s touch and go, sir.” He saw their shoulders slump with relief, and he knew what they were thinking: at least he’s alive. He couldn’t blame them; he’d felt exactly the same way when he’d received his last update forty minutes earlier. “He might make it, and he might not…There’s no way to know for sure, and we probably won’t have definitive word for another few hours. The major problem was the hemorrhaging, but there was some internal damage that has proved…well, sort of hard to seal off. Still, it could have been much worse. If that sergeant hadn’t been thinking…”

  The other men nodded slowly; they had already heard the story. Shortly after Kealey had lost consciousness outside the house in Sialkot, the master sergeant standing nearby—an eight-year Delta veteran by the name of Deakins—had remembered that the house belonged to a board-accredited surgeon, a scrap of information he’d picked up during the pre-mission briefing. A quick search of the house had turned up Said Qureshi, who’d been locked in his own surgical suite. It had taken only a minute to explain the situation, and a confused but compliant Qureshi had instructed them to move Kealey into his OR on the ground floor. He’d set to work immediately, his efforts helped enormously by the fact that both MH-53 Pave Lows had been preloaded with bags of plasma of every blood type, as was standard operating procedure in any CSAR mission.

  A quick call to Langley had verified that Kealey’s blood type was O+. From there, it was just a matter of luck and skill, and Qureshi was very skilled indeed. Harper had personally talked to the medic—the first man who had worked on Kealey—and the young sergeant had made it abundantly clear that Qureshi had saved the CIA operative’s life. And for that, not to mention his work on Brynn Fitzgerald, the Pakistani surgeon would be handsomely rewarded, although he probably didn’t know it yet. Harper was going to enjoy making him the offer, though. He had read through Qureshi’s background, and he thought that the man deserved another shot at practicing real medicine, along with a tax-free annual sum deposited in any offshore bank of his choosing.

  “And where is Kealey now?”

  Harper, still thinking about Qureshi, snapped back to the conversation. He looked at Bale, who had asked the question, and said, “He’s en route to Ramstein, sir. Said Qureshi agreed to accompany him that far; he’s keeping him stable until they arrive in Germany. That should happen sometime this afternoon.”

  “He’s a good man,” Brenneman pointed out quietly. For a second, Harper wasn’t sure if he was talking about the surgeon or Kealey. “I don’t think I ever realized just how good, but if he makes it through this, he will have the gratitude of an entire nation. Hell, he already does. I, for one, would like to see Ryan Kealey receive the recognition he deserves in person.”

  Harper nodded along, knowing full well that even if Kealey did survive, he would never set foot in front of a camera. Nor would he dream of attending a press conference, regardless of its purpose. It wasn’t his style to bask in his accomplishments. Part of this was due to his intensely private nature, but mostly, his dislike of the limelight could be traced back to his training, which had drilled into him the need for secrecy, deception, and operational security from day one.

  Harper suddenly realized that the room had gone quiet. Looking up, he saw that the president was watching him steadily, and the other three men looked suddenly awkward. It occurred to him that the mention of Kealey had reminded them all of what Javier Machado had done to Naomi Kharmai. Or presumably done, anyway. He had briefed them all on the specifics that morning, focusing on the means through which Kealey had acquired Benazir Mengal’s location to begin with. There had been no word from Kharmai or the retired Spanish operative since Kealey had refused to heed the Spaniard’s bizarre order in Pakistan, and there was little doubt in any of their minds that Machado had carried out his threat.

  Privately, he wondered if they were secretly pleased that Naomi was no longer a threat to the administration. What had taken place in Madrid three days earlier was still a hot button issue. So far, the president had stuck with the story he had fed to Miguel Vázquez, and though it was only a matter of time before the Spanish government unveiled their evidence, they still didn’t have a personal admission of guilt, and now they never would. If they couldn’t produce Kharmai in person, the story would die a quick death in the media, and what had transpired in Madrid would soon fade from the collective public consciousness. Harper had no doubt that everyone in the room had already considered this, though none of them would ever admit to it.

  As if reading his mind, the president cleared his throat and said, “So, still no word on Kharmai?”

  “No, sir,” Harper replied neutrally. “Nothing yet.”

  “But I assume you have people watching Machado’s house in Cartagena,” Brenneman said.

  “Yes,” Andrews said, making his first contribution to the conversation. “We have people talking to Élise Pétain now. She’s been moved to the embassy, and she’s proved very cooperative, though understandably, she’s also very upset.”

  “How much does she know?” Brenneman wondered aloud.

  “Not much,” Andrews admitted. “Just the basics. That her daughter was in line for an important operation, and that her husband was willing to do pretty much anything to prevent Marissa from taking that assignment. She’s already told us everything she knows, but none of her information has really panned out. At the moment, nothing has changed. Machado is still missing. Obviously, Kharmai is also missing and, I’m sorry to say, presumed dead.” Andrews fell silent for a minute, then added, “I doubt that she ever really had a chance.”

  The president absorbed this silently. “How long,” he eventually asked, “will you wait before you call off the search?”

  “It depends,” Harper said. “If anything comes up to indicate she’s still alive, we’ll wait as long as we have to, and we’ll keep diverting resources. But eventually, we’ll have to call it off. It might be three months, or it might be a year, but we can’t look forever. We just don’t have the ability.”

 
“As far as I’m concerned, her actions in Madrid are forgotten,” the president said, a note of command authority entering his voice. “I remember what she did for us last year in New York City, and the year before that right here in Washington. Any way you cut it, she gave her life for this country, and I want it noted, right here and now, that I intend to award her the Presidential Medal of Freedom, whether it’s post-humous or not. We’ll do it in secret, given her background, but it will be done.” He looked around slowly, searching for signs of dissent. “I assume no one has any objections.”

  They all murmured their approval, not that anyone would have been brave enough to object. The Medal of Freedom, first established by Harry Truman in 1945 to reward meritorious acts during World War II, was generally considered to be the nation’s highest civilian honor, the kind of thing that most people would have been thrilled to accept. Privately, though, Harper sincerely doubted that Naomi would have wanted a medal after what she had done in Madrid, even if she had acted only with the best of intentions. Besides, despite Brenneman’s forceful tone, Harper didn’t put much stock in the president’s words. If Naomi were to suddenly reappear, which she wouldn’t, she would never see a medal of any kind.

  He was also fully aware that he himself had played no small role in her death; by using her to bait Kealey into the search for the missing tourists in Pakistan, he had essentially set her on the path to her own demise. Worse, he had done so knowing full well about her addiction to painkillers, which only compounded his guilt. And she was dead; Harper didn’t doubt that for a second. The search was merely a formality. He could not pretend that this didn’t bother him, but the fact that Kealey might know the extent of his duplicity was something that scared the deputy DCI more than he cared to admit. Not to the point that he wanted the younger man to succumb to his wounds—he had not fallen to that level and knew he would never allow himself to do so—but still, it was frightening to acknowledge the possibility that Kealey might someday decide his old friend and trusted employer was as guilty as the man who had actually arranged for Naomi’s death.