In truth, he was deeply concerned about their underlying motivations, but as long as they were prepared to see it through, he was willing to set his reservations aside. He had set the wheels in motion, and that was that. If Saifi was, in fact, responsible for Secretary Fitzgerald’s disappearance, the stakes had just been raised dramatically, and while Harper despised clichés, he had to admit that one was applicable here: drastic times called for drastic measures, and that meant taking advantage of every resource, no matter how it was acquired.
CHAPTER 12
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Twenty minutes after the briefing folders were handed out, the meeting came to a gradual close. The assembled officials got to their feet, following the president’s lead, and started to file through the door. As Harper collected his materials, Brenneman caught his eye and indicated, with a quick, familiar gesture, that he wanted a word in private. The deputy DCI moved to the side to allow for traffic and watched as Brenneman murmured his way through a series of sidebars. Before long, Harper was the only one left; even Robert Andrews, his immediate superior, had been asked to leave the room. Either that or he’d been politely ushered out, which made more sense to the Agency’s second-ranking official. While Andrews held the top spot, he wasn’t a career intelligence officer, and the president had always placed a priority on experience. Brenneman came around the table and extended a hand. “Thanks for waiting, John. I appreciate your patience.” He shook his head slowly, as if the enormity of the situation was only just hitting him.
“It’s just unbelievable. The sheer audacity of these people. . . .”
“I know, sir, but we’ll find her, and we’ll bring her back.” Alive was the key last word of that sentence. Unspoken, of course, but nevertheless, it seemed to hang in the air. “You have my word on it.”
“And the people responsible?”
“We’ll find them, too.”
Brenneman nodded and glanced over his shoulder to the entrance of the conference room. A man in a dark suit was standing just inside the door, which was still open. His hands were in front of his body, one folded over the other, but his attention was clearly fixed on his principal. Harper had been alone with the president dozens of times, but Secret Service agents didn’t differentiate between friend and foe; in their eyes, everyone was a potential threat. The constant paranoia was part of what made them so good at their work. “Sean, could you give us a minute, please?”
The agent hesitated, then nodded brusquely. “Of course, Mr. President.” He murmured something into his sleeve and left the room. A moment later, the door closed with a gentle click. Brenneman extended an arm toward the table. “Please, have a seat.”
Harper picked out a chair. Once they were both seated, the commander in chief leaned forward and emitted a weary sigh. Nearly a minute passed in silence, and then he spoke without warning.
“John, how long have we known each other?”
The question caught the deputy DCI off guard, but he sensed it was serious. “About six years, I believe. You were the president-elect when we first met. It was a month or two before your inauguration.”
“That’s right.” There was a meaningful pause. “In all that time, I’ve never seen you outside of Langley or this building. Do you realize that? I’ve never once spent more than a few minutes talking with you about anything other than national security. I’ve never met your wife. I have no idea where you live.”
“Mr. President, I . . .” Harper wasn’t sure where this was going, and nothing in his career had prepared him for this kind of conversation. “Sir, what exactly are you getting at?”
The other man smiled mildly. “John, for all the good you do at Langley, you are not a politician, so you may find this hard to understand. Especially since you work in such a sensitive environment. But here’s the thing . . . You are one of the few people in government service who knows how to keep things quiet. We may not know each other very well, but I’ve told you a lot of things in confidence over the years, and I’ve yet to hear them anywhere else. In short, you’ve earned my trust, as well as my deep gratitude for your hard work in defending this country.”
Harper nodded slowly; he was deeply surprised by the president’s candor. “Sir, I don’t know what to say. I’m pleased you feel that way, but it’s my job. I would never divulge anything you tell me in confidence.”
“I know that, and that’s why I want to ask you something.” Brenneman hesitated, then propped his elbows on top of the table and interlaced his fingers. “Remember, I’m looking for your honest opinion here. I won’t accept anything less.”
“Of course. It goes without saying.”
“It has to do with Dowd’s comments early in the briefing. About my stance on the India-Israel deal and how it may have . . . precipitated this event.”
Harper was already shaking his head emphatically. “Mr. President, you are not responsible for what happened in Pakistan. Not for any of it.”
“But if there’s a chance I could get her back by opposing the deal, shouldn’t I—”
“No.” Harper waited for the other man to meet his eyes. “Sir, it’s too late for that. If you renege now, you might as well negotiate directly with the terrorists, because that’s how it’s going to look.”
“But that’s not—”
“That’s how the American people will see it,” Harper repeated forcefully, “and that’s exactly how it will be perceived around the world. You have to stay the course. At this point, it’s your best option. Your only option, really.”
“Stay the course,” Brenneman repeated slowly. He closed his eyes, lowered his chin slightly, and began massaging his temples. “I feel like I’ve backed myself into a corner on this, John. There’s no room to maneuver.”
“I can understand why you feel that way, sir, but I repeat: this wasn’t your doing, and my advice stands. Our best bet right now is to investigate as thoroughly as we can, follow up every lead, while at the same time preparing for the people who did this to make contact. Which they will do, and sooner rather than later.”
The president nodded, looked up, and straightened his tie unconsciously. “I’m confident the investigation will proceed smoothly. I have a lot of faith in the FBI. Especially in Director Susskind.”
Harper nodded. “That’s understandable. She started out working violent crimes in New Jersey, and the Bureau has more experience with kidnapping cases than any other law enforcement agency in the world.”
“Yes, they wrote the book on that particular subject, and they’ve had a lot of success with their extraterritorial work. Even in Pakistan, where it’s not exactly easy to get an investigation off the ground. As you know, the Bureau was involved with the apprehension of both Ramzi Yousef in 1995 and Khalid Mohammed in 2003, so they have a proven track record in the area. At the same time, there are . . .”
Brenneman hesitated as he searched for the right word. “There are limits as to what they can ask, as well as how they can ask it. And that’s assuming they even manage to find Saifi.”
“Sir, we can’t link him to this yet,” Harper cautioned. “He may top the list of suspects, but it’s better to wait and see what the Bureau turns up before we start jumping to conclusions.”
“I’ll be immensely surprised if it turns out he wasn’t involved. We know he took part in the incident two weeks ago.”
“You’re referring to the kidnapping on the Karakoram Highway.”
“Yes,” Brenneman confirmed. “Let’s set aside the fact that he shouldn’t even be a free man for a moment. He’s perfected his modus operandi, it seems, and nothing about what happened today strikes me as the work of amateurs. At best, they were skilled professionals dressed in army uniforms. At worst . . .”
“They were actual Pakistani soldiers,” Harper finished grimly. Eyewitness accounts had verified that Fitzgerald’s abductors had been wearing in army fatigues. “And if that’s the case, we have a very serious problem.”
Brenneman didn’t
immediately respond. Instead, he stood and moved over to the far wall, where several 32-inch monitors were positioned next to each other. The volume had been muted on all three, but the identical images were already numbingly familiar. CNN
had been running the tape on a continuous loop, and over the last half hour, the footage had been burned into the minds of millions of disbelieving Americans. Like many senior U.S. officials, the secretary of state only traveled with members of one network, known as “the pool,” which shared coverage with its competitors under a longstanding agreement. The pool was rotated on a regular basis, and for Secretary Fitzgerald’s first official trip, CNN had been next in line. The network had paid a devastating price for the privilege. Eight crew members had been killed in the attack on the secretary’s motorcade, including Susan Watkins, a senior foreign correspondent and one of CNN’s most recognizable anchors. The film taken after the incident had been shot by cameramen from the bureau office in Islamabad.
Finally, Brenneman addressed his subordinate’s last point. He was still facing the monitors when he spoke. “John, do you think it’s possible that the Pakistani government could be directly involved with this? On any level whatsoever?”
“It seems like a stretch, sir. They’re extremely upset over your position on Israel’s arms sale to India, I know, but Musharraf has too much to lose by engaging in something of this magnitude. I just don’t think it’s a possibility, despite the evidence we’ve seen so far.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” The president turned away from the monitors to face his subordinate. “You told me yourself how seriously Pakistan takes the dispute over Jammu and Kashmir. You emphasized the fact that they’ve fought a number of wars over that land. Kargil in ’99 is only the latest example, and by no means is that the worst possible scenario. We’re talking about a country with at least forty nuclear weapons here. Maybe the arms sale to India was just the tipping point. The final straw, so to speak.”
“Sir, I just can’t believe they’d risk something like this,” Harper repeated, “but I think we should withhold judgment until the Bureau’s team submits a preliminary report. Like I said, the Agency will be thoroughly involved as well.”
“Which brings me to my next point,” Brenneman said. “You just returned from overseas, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I trust you managed to find your man.”
“I did. And he’s willing to help.”
“Good.” A genuine smile crossed the president’s face, but it disappeared just as fast. The situation was much too dire for any real relief to take hold. “I’m reassured to know you have your best on this, John. I’m well aware of what Kealey has done for us, and I’m confident he’ll be able to resolve this situation as well.”
“I’m sure he will, sir, but he won’t be working alone. Naomi Kharmai has also been tasked with this. You’ll remember her from the incident in New York City last year, as well as the attempt on your life in 2007. She was instrumental in preventing both attacks.”
“Yes.” Brenneman nodded slowly. “She’s a very capable young woman. I owe her a lot, as does the country, and I’m pleased to hear she’s involved. But just so we’re clear, I want to know exactly what their instructions are. Because I’m convinced that Amari Saifi is somehow involved with the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald, and that’s where I want you to focus your efforts.”
“I understand, sir. And to answer your question, yes, finding Saifi
is their primary objective.”
Brenneman nodded his approval. “Have you talked to them since the attack?”
“No. I haven’t had the chance yet. I’ll make the call on the way to Langley.”
“Good.” The president’s shoulders seemed to relax a little, as if some minor weight had been removed. Still, the burden that remained was clearly visible in his worried gaze. “I’m sure it’s him, John. It fits his profile. He may be working alone; he may have backers in the Pakistani government. Either way, I want you to find him. Find him and you’ll find her. I’m sure of it.”
Harper got to his feet, sensing the meeting was over. “We’ll do our best, Mr. President.”
“Don’t do your best.” Brenneman met his eyes once more, and this time, his demeanor was adamant. “Just get it done. I’m counting on you, and so is she.”
CHAPTER 13
MADRID, SPAIN
Like many countries in Western Europe—indeed, like most countries around the world—Spain had seen its fair share of terrorist activity over the years. Unlike many of its neighbors, though, the danger to Spain was largely born at home. For nearly fifty years, Euskadi Ta Askatasuna had been the country’s most prominent terror organization. Better known abroad as ETA, its overriding aim was the establishment of an independent Basque state in the north, and the group presented a real and ongoing threat, having claimed more than eight hundred lives through shootings and bombings since its inception in 1959. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only threat to the Spanish government and a population of forty million. In recent years, the constantly reemerging, spreading network of al-Qaeda had claimed its stake on Spanish soil as well, just as it had in so many other places.
Tragic proof of al-Qaeda’s presence in Spain had come on March 11, 2004, when the capital was rocked by the bombings of four commuter trains. The near-simultaneous blasts claimed the lives of 191 people and left another 1,200 wounded, and while the attack was initially attributed to ETA, it soon became clear that the work was not that of the Basque separatist movement. In the three-year investigation that followed the blasts, it also became clear just how elusive the threat could be, even in a country accustomed to waging the war on terror. When the highly publicized Madrid bombing trial finally began in February of 2007, the list of defendants included 15 Moroccans, 9 Spaniards, 2 Syrians, an Egyptian, an Algerian, and a Lebanese national, none of whom had conclusive ties to the Basque separatists. And yet, while al-Qaeda as a whole had been implicated thorough a veritable mountain of circumstantial evidence, there was nothing linking the key leadership to the perpetrators of the Madrid bombings. In fact, the origin of the plot largely remained a mystery to Spanish authorities.
Since his first assignment for the Agency nearly five years earlier, the slippery nature of the links between various terrorist groups was something that Ryan Kealey had come to appreciate. For several years after 9/11, terrorist activity—at least in the form of major attacks on civilian targets—had declined precipitously around the world. In Kealey’s view, this period of inactivity had given security forces and intelligence agencies a completely false perception: the idea that they were winning the war, that the drop in attacks could be directly attributed to new and improved policies, as well as the improved dissemination of information. In truth, the worldwide clampdown on terror groups and their financial backers had been successful, at least to a degree. The senior leadership of al-Qaeda had been largely cut off from its base of support, and the network’s ability to pass on instructions had been severely hindered. Even the freezing of funds, most of which was instigated by the U.S. government, had helped to temporarily stem the tide. But what the intelligence agencies had missed—what even the Agency itself had overlooked—was, Kealey believed, the emergence of a new threat. Namely, the power of ideology. Radical Islam’s hatred of the West was an incredibly unifying factor, more so than most Americans could ever understand. It was strong enough to turn an impressionable student, and it was strong enough to bring together fledgling terrorists from six countries. Terrorism was no longer a singular effort. It was a cooperative enterprise, and in many cases, the cooperation between the terrorists was much greater than that between the security forces and intelligence outfits of supposedly friendly governments. The war in Iraq had only made things worse, creating a deep philosophical and moral divide between the United States and nations the country had once enjoyed amicable relationships with. Kealey had taken all of this into account when he’d first read the Agency’s file on Kami
l Ghafour. Since then, he’d had plenty of time to mull over what he had learned. The previous day’s bus ride to Keflavík International had been uneventful, and though the worsening weather had threatened to temporarily ground air traffic, the plane had left on time. After landing at Madrid Barajas, they’d taken a taxi directly to a hotel on the Gran Via, one of the city’s most famous streets. Instead of going in, they’d shouldered their bags and walked for twenty minutes, checking for signs of surveillance. Kealey’s primary concern was the Spanish authorities, who could have conceivably flagged the false passport he was traveling on. Kealey had been forced to travel from Keflavík to Madrid using his French passport, which bore the name of Joseph Briand. Naomi was better prepared, having acquired new false documentation through the Operations Directorate before she’d flown to Iceland.
After engaging in the standard surveillance detection run, they’d caught a second taxi to the Sofitel Madrid Plaza de España. Once they arrived, Kealey called the number Harper had given him in Oraefi. Several minutes later, one of the watchers, a man by the name of Ramirez, came down to meet them in the lobby. The room the team had appropriated was on the top floor, paid for by an Agency front, a small industrial company based in Lexington Park, Maryland. Inside the spacious, luxurious suite, he and Naomi were introduced to the lead members of all three surveillance teams. The senior operative, a woman named Marissa Pétain, had brought them up to speed on Ghafour’s movements, after which they’d taken the elevator down to the lobby, then walked a few blocks over to get a firsthand look at the ground on which they’d be operating. Shortly thereafter, he and Naomi caught another taxi back to their hotel on the south side of the Plaza Mayor. Over a strained meal in the hotel’s ground-floor restaurant, they’d made their arrangements for the following day. They agreed to meet at 7:00 AM in the lobby. From there, they would head over to the makeshift command center on the top floor of the watchers’ hotel. Once the bill was settled, they had parted ways. That was the last time he’d seen her.
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