The Invisible

by Andrew Britton

  He was admitted to the conference room. Like the rest of the West Wing basement, the room had been extensively remodeled in 2006. The mahogany walls had been largely replaced with a specially designed, sound-absorbent fabric, and sensors built into the ceiling alerted the Secret Service to the presence of activated cell phones, which were prohibited for reasons of security. It all combined to make for a very quiet space, but never more so than today. The faces around the long mahogany table were understandably grim, but they were all recognizable, at least to anyone with a passing interest in the U.S. government.

  Flanking the president was Emily Susskind, the recently confirmed director of the FBI; also, her deputy, Harry Judd; and Kenneth Bale, the director of National Intelligence. To Bale’s left was Robert Andrews, the ample, dark-haired director of Central Intelligence. He nodded a curt hello when he caught his subordinate’s eye. The other side of the table was occupied by the undersecretary for political affairs, Elliot Greengrass; Jeremy Thayer, the national security advisor; and Stan Chavis, the president’s chief of staff. There was one other person in the room, seated next to DCI Andrews. He appeared more shaken than the other officials around the table, which was understandable. As assistant secretary for the Bureau of Diplomatic Security and director of the Office of Foreign Missions, Gavin Dowd was responsible for the day-to-day operations of the DSS, as well as the protection of numerous State Department officials, including Brynn Fitzgerald. If blame was to be dispensed at this meeting, the sixty-year-old former prosecutor would likely receive the lion’s share.

  “Jonathan,” the president said from the head of the table. David Brenneman usually looked at least a decade younger than his fiftyfour years. His short, wavy hair still held more brown than silver, and it was no secret that his open, honest features had assisted him greatly over the course of his political career. On this particular morning, though, he looked every inch his age. Harper took that as a bad sign, as the day had hardly begun. “Pull up a chair. We were just about to get started.”

  There was only one chair to be had, but Harper didn’t point this out as he sat across from Dowd. “That’s fine, sir. Please, don’t let me hold you up any longer.”

  “Very well.” The president nodded and turned to Andrews. “Bob, if you could bring everyone up to speed.”

  “Yes, sir.” The DCI used a remote to power up the NEC plasma televisions strategically placed around the room. After a few seconds, the presidential seal dissolved, and the first of several grisly images appeared. A few people winced, including Dowd, but no one looked away as Andrews began the briefing.

  “Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen. As you can probably guess, what you see here is the aftermath of the attack on Secretary Fitzgerald’s motorcade. These digital photographs were taken less than twenty minutes ago. For those of you who’ve never been to Pakistan, Airport Road is several miles north of Chaklala Air Base, approximately halfway between Islamabad and Rawalpindi. It’s a fairly common route between the presidential palace and the air base. The agent who took these shots was part of the twelve-man reserve team that responded to the distress call. As most of you know, the signal is automatically broadcast once a tagged vehicle in the motorcade is incapacitated. In this case, the secretary of state’s detail leader, Mike Petrina, had time to relay an additional request for assistance. Unfortunately, the reserve team was unable to respond in time. Special Agent Petrina was killed before he could get the secretary of state clear of the area, along with six other members of the protective detail.”

  Andrews paused and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it. It’s my unhappy duty to report that Ambassador Patterson did not survive the attack. He was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head, which, according to eyewitnesses, was inflicted at point-blank range. These same witnesses saw armed men leaving the scene with a woman matching Secretary Fitzgerald’s description. That was about two minutes before the first police units responded. She has not been accounted for, and at this point, I think we can safely assume that she has been kidnapped.”

  The room was completely silent. Everyone knew what had taken place, but until this moment, it hadn’t really sunk in. Not for most of them, and nothing made it hit home like hearing the words aloud. Harper was slightly surprised that Gavin Dowd hadn’t been asked to provide the initial assessment—it was his bureau, after all, that was responsible for losing Fitzgerald—but that was probably the exact reason Brenneman had settled on Andrews: he wanted a concise, unbiased account. It was Bale, the director of National Intelligence, who finally broke the silence.

  “Do we have any idea how the secretary’s route was compromised?”

  “Not at this time,” Andrews said simply.

  “I take it, we’re still waiting on a claim of responsibility,” Chavis said.

  “That’s correct,” the DCI replied. “We can probably expect a claim to be made within the hour. That will give us a better picture of who we’re dealing with, as well as what kind of demands they’ll eventually make.”

  “But won’t we get the demands when the claim is made? Isn’t that the way it usually works?”

  “Not necessarily,” Harry Judd put in. He looked over at Stan Chavis, who had posed the question. “In the case of a kidnapping, it’s not unusual for days or even weeks to go by before a ransom demand is made.”

  “I understand that,” the chief of staff said dryly. “But then again, this is not a typical abduction. Time is not on their side, Harry. Whoever is responsible for this must know that we will bring the full weight of the government to bear in tracking them down.”

  “With all due respect, Stan, you couldn’t be more wrong.” Ignoring the cold look his words earned him, Andrews went on. “Let me clarify. We will do everything we can to get the secretary back, but they—whoever ‘they’ are—have the clear advantage here. They have all the time in the world. Pakistan is their turf, not ours. With enough money and the right support network, the people who carried this off can hide indefinitely. They don’t have to reveal themselves, and if they’re patient and careful, they won’t make the mistakes that get most people caught.”

  “On that note, what’s happening right now?” Brenneman asked. He looked down the length of the table. “Gavin, what are you hearing from your people on the ground?”

  “Sir, I spoke with the head of the reserve team less than fifteen minutes ago,” Dowd said. His voice was shaky, but he seemed to be in control. “They arrived shortly after the Pakistani police, and so far, they seem to be getting all the cooperation they need. They’ve secured the scene, but it’s still unclear exactly what’s going to happen with the evidence. By that, I mean it’s unclear where it will be taken, including the vehicles that were damaged and destroyed in the attack. Wherever it goes, though, our people will have access. I’ve been assured of that by the head of Inter-Services Intelligence, and I think we can take him at his word.”

  Dowd paused to check his notes. “When the incident occurred, there were a number of checkpoints already set up in the area, owing to heightened security for Secretary Fitzgerald’s visit. Since her disappearance was verified, my people have been working with the Pakistanis to firm up the perimeter. Additionally, they’ve—”

  “Firm up the perimeter? ” Emily Susskind shot an angry look down the length of the table. “That’s crap, Gavin. There’s no way to secure that kind of urban area, especially not with an hour’s notice. It’s dense, highly populated, and there are roads all over the place. Hundreds of roads . . . too many to set up blocks on all of them.”

  “Look, I’m just telling you what I know,” Dowd replied defensively. Normally, he would have taken offense to the challenge, particularly one made by the head of another agency. Given the circumstances, though, it was hard for him to sound anything other than defeated. “They’ve already expanded the perimeter twice, based on the amount of time that’s elapsed. In all honesty, it’s not enough, but it’s hard to get things accomplished wh
en something like this takes place on foreign soil.” He pushed out a short, shaky breath, then ran a weary hand over his face. “Look, we’re dealing with a number of serious problems here, and that’s besides the obvious. The Pakistanis are not on good terms with us at the moment, and—”

  “Stop right there,” Brenneman said from the head of the table. His expression was hard to read, but the anger was plain in his quietly menacing voice. “Gavin, are you suggesting that my position with regard to the dispute over Kashmir—the fact that I won’t interfere in the Israeli arms sale to India—is somehow related to Secretary Fitzgerald’s abduction? That it somehow precipitated this event?”

  “Sir, not at all,” Dowd said hurriedly, his round face going very pale. “That is not what I meant. I’m merely pointing out that we have to take the current tensions between their government and ours into account. We can’t afford not to. The Pakistanis may not move as fast as we would like them to, and chances are, they won’t be as accommodating when it comes to giving our people access.”

  “Actually, that’s a valid point, sir,” Susskind put in, her voice returning to a more reasonable level. She shifted her steely blue gaze toward the commander in chief. “I mean, look at what’s been happening over the past few weeks. They’ve completely stonewalled us with respect to our missing tourists. We’re talking about twelve lawabiding Americans, people with valid visas who just disappeared into thin air, and they still haven’t let us put a team on the ground.”

  “To make matters worse, we’ve just lost the single most important diplomat in the U.S. government, so breaking the ice is only going to get harder,” Harper weighed in. “And our ambassador is dead, so he’s no good to us, either. Those losses are only going to make it harder to establish a working relationship. At this point, we have to act fast, but we also have to tread carefully if we’re going to get anything done. That’s what diplomacy is all about, and we can’t afford to forget that. We’ll do more harm than good if we storm in there and start making demands.”

  With this contribution out of the way, the focus shifted toward the next speaker, but Harper felt the president’s lingering attention. He knew he’d been blunt, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d overstepped his bounds.

  “Sir, if I could make a suggestion . . . ?”

  Harper looked at the man who’d addressed the president. Owing to the untimely death of the former secretary and Fitzgerald’s subsequent promotion, the post of deputy secretary was currently vacant. That made Elliot Greengrass the second-ranking official at the State Department. The deputy DCI knew Greengrass to be thoughtful, competent—traits he’d demonstrated in his previous roles with the NSC and as the U.S. ambassador to Greece, a position he’d held from 1997 to 2001. Nevertheless, it was unclear how effective the fifty year-old diplomat would be in the current situation, given his lack of experience on the Asian continent.

  “Of course, Elliot,” Brenneman said. “By all means, let’s hear it.”

  “Sir, I think I should travel to Islamabad to meet with President Musharraf immediately. We’ll work to keep it low-key, but we really need a diplomatic presence on the ground. And by that, I mean we need an envoy prepared to stay in Pakistan for the duration.”

  The president considered for a moment, then nodded his consent. “I agree. Putting an envoy in place will send a few messages. First, it will show that we’re not afraid to wade back in with both feet, and second, that we intend to play a very active role in the investigation.

  “And that falls to you, Emily,” Brenneman said, shifting his gaze once more. The forty-two-year-old Susskind was, by a slim margin, the youngest person in the room. She was also a Princeton grad, a mother of two, the seventh director of the FBI, and the first woman to hold the title. Her propensity for blunt speech frequently put her at odds with the president and his senior advisors, as did her left-ofcenter politics, but everyone in the room respected her opinion, as well as her considerable influence on the Hill.

  “As I understand it,” the president continued, “the Bureau has, shall we say, a limited presence in Pakistan.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s putting it lightly, sir. We maintain small offices at the consulates in Lahore, Peshawar, and Karachi, but they’re negligible in terms of manpower. Even the main hub at the embassy in Islamabad is minimally staffed . . . We have less than fifty agents in the entire country, and that’s after we expanded our legal attaché

  program in ’99.”

  “Well, we need to change that, and sooner rather than later.”

  Brenneman set down his pen and studied the FBI director. “Obviously, I’ve already spoken to President Musharraf. He’s assured me that his government is committed to finding whoever was responsible, as well as to the safe recovery of Secretary Fitzgerald. In keeping with this promise, he’s agreed to allow a team of investigators into the country. They’ll be given everything they need as soon as they can get there.”

  Susskind was visibly surprised. “After all the walls he’s put up recently? He changed his mind that fast?”

  The president nodded. “As far as he’s concerned, the severity of this incident takes precedence over any diplomatic squabbling, and it has nothing to do with our missing tourists. That’s a separate issue entirely. According to him, that is.” Brenneman frowned, his forehead creasing thoughtfully. “Personally, I’m not so sure. Anyway, our team will be given full authority to conduct an extensive extraterritorial investigation. In other words, Emily, send your best, because they’re not coming home until the job is done.”

  “I understand, Mr. President.” Susskind was already jotting notes on a legal pad. “I’ll get you the names by midday.”

  “That’s not good enough. By that time they need to be in the air.”

  “Yes, sir . . . I’ll make it happen.”

  “Good,” Brenneman said. “Next, I want to talk about possible suspects. I realize we’re in the early stages here, but a number of agencies have been looking at one man in particular for the last couple weeks. His name came up in relation to our missing tourists, but given the similarities between those incidents and the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald, I think he’s worth mentioning. Jeremy, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Thayer nodded and got to his feet. He left the room for a moment, then returned with a stack of briefing folders. The folders were distributed quickly, and the national security advisor retook his seat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what you’re about to see—for those of you who haven’t been made privy to this information—is highly classified. It is not, I repeat, not to be circulated freely within your respective agencies. As it stands . . .”

  Tuning Thayer out, Harper flipped open the folder. What he saw was the State Department’s file on Amari Saifi. It was the same file he’d helped compile with help from people at State, Langley, and the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia. Scanning the documents inside, he saw nothing new, and he would have already been alerted if anything substantial had changed. As a result, his thoughts began to drift as Thayer droned on and on. Before long, he found himself thinking about the way he’d left things with Kealey in Oraefi.

  It still bothered him, which wasn’t entirely a bad thing. In fact, it came as something of a relief to the deputy DCI. It meant he hadn’t resigned himself to the indiscriminate use of the people who worked for him. The people who used to work for him, he reminded himself.

  Ryan Kealey’s five-year relationship with the CIA had always been hard to define, but there was one constant factor: his involvement always stemmed from some kind of national crisis, save for his first assignment in Syria. And he had always come through. He’d served as a full-time employee in the Operations Directorate for less than six months, none of them concurrently. Most of the time, he was listed as an independent contractor, but even that was rare. It was rare to see his name on paper, anyway. Plausible deniability, as always, was the key factor. Unfortunately, it was lost once a name popped up on a
ny kind of official document, even on something as insignificant as an internal memorandum.

  And that was the smallest threat to a field operative’s anonymity. What had transpired in New York City ten months earlier had garnered worldwide attention, and once Kealey’s role in that incident had been made public, he’d immediately acquired a certain degree of unwanted fame. The exposure had been mostly limited to his name and background, as there weren’t many pictures of him floating around, but needless to say, his days of undercover work had come to a screeching halt. Still, it could have been worse. Kealey had wanted out, anyway, mostly because he wanted to devote himself to Naomi Kharmai’s recovery, and Harper had let them go. Given the sacrifices they had made, it was the least he could do. Only that was all in the past, and things had changed. Once it became clear that Amari Saifi had played a key role in the recent wave of abductions in Pakistan, the president had immediately asked for Kealey’s help in tracking him down. Harper couldn’t fault the president—Kealey’s record spoke for itself, after all—but it did put Harper in the uncomfortable position of having to call his old friend out of retirement. Moreover, he had had to figure out a way to accomplish that task, which at the time had seemed just short of impossible. Nevertheless, he had managed to do it. He didn’t regret asking more of a man who’d already given so much. Nor did he regret the methods he’d used to lure Kealey back into the fold. The story he’d spun in Oraefi wasn’t entirely a lie; Naomi Kharmai had trained extensively at the Farm and was more than capable in her new role as a field operative. Her instructors had all given her top marks, though to be fair, they didn’t have the full story on their prized student. But to Harper, that was immaterial. He knew that Kealey’s participation was entirely reliant on Kharmai’s—that he was only doing it to watch out for her—but if that was what it took to get the younger man into the fold, then so be it.