The Invisible

by Andrew Britton

  “All I want is information,” Kealey said, watching the other man carefully for a hint of where the weapon might be. The slightest shift of eyes could give it away, and he had to know. “Money for information, Kamil . . . Believe me, it’s a fair trade. You were in prison for seven years, correct? In Algiers?”

  Ghafour smirked, his thin lips twisting into something approximating a smile. “Yes, but you already knew that, didn’t you?” The smile disappeared suddenly. “You’re not the police, so who are you? MI5?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you from? England? The States?”

  Ghafour waited for a response. When it became clear one wasn’t forthcoming, his smile grew wider. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re American. It’s so obvious, when you know how to look . . . You seem familiar. What’s your name?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Kealey heard himself say. Pétain was shifting nervously beside him. She muttered something under her breath. Kealey didn’t catch it at first, the air conditioner drowning out the words, but then she repeated it.“Behind the files.”

  Kealey’s eyes dropped to the desk. To his left—Ghafour’s right—

  a pile of files was stacked up to waist height. Kealey understood that Pétain had a view of what lay behind the folders, and a cold chill ran down his spine when he realized what she was trying to tell him. Kamil Ghafour’s gun was less than 2 feet from his right hand.

  “You don’t need to know who we are to enjoy the money, Kamil. All I want is a name. Who came to see Amari Saifi in prison? Who arranged to get him out?”

  “Yes,” Ghafour continued slowly. He spoke with a slight lisp. “You seem very familiar.” It was as if he hadn’t heard the questions. He extended his left hand and wagged a finger at the other man. “I’ve seen you somewhere before. I’m sure of it.”

  Kealey felt another chill. It could have just been the abrupt change in temperature, but either way, the man’s relaxed, carefree attitude was putting him on edge. Pétain was completely immobile next to him; he could almost feel the tension radiating from her body. Clearly, she was just as uneasy as he was.

  “You don’t know me,” he told Ghafour, adding a harder note to his voice. He doubted the Algerian had any idea who he really was. Earlier that morning he’d added some gray streaks to his hair, which made him look at least ten years older, and his eye color had been temporarily changed with a pair of green-tinted Clear View contacts. More importantly, he was still wearing the thick beard he’d grown over the past three months, which all but obscured the lower half of his face.

  “I’ll ask you once more, and then I’m taking the money and leaving,” Kealey lied. “Who came to see Saifi in Algiers?”

  Ghafour opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, someone began pounding hard on the metal door to the trailer. Kealey caught only part of what happened next: Pétain jumped at the sudden noise, her eyes darting to the left. At the same time, her right hand dropped to her hip, lifting the lower edge of her white cotton blouse. It was purely instinctive, and the FN Forty-Nine was revealed for only a split second, but that was all it took. Kealey sensed, more than saw, Ghafour’s hand dart behind the cluster of files, and without thinking, he threw himself forward, reaching out for the other man’s arm.

  The gun discharged once as Kealey reached Ghafour, his left hand moving to knock the weapon aside. He reached out with his right to get hold of Ghafour’s shirt at the neck, then used his forward momentum to propel them both into the wall of the trailer. The whole structure rocked with the impact as someone began to shout outside, calling for help in rapid-fire Spanish. Then Kealey and Ghafour were on the floor, wrestling for control of the gun. It went off again, the sound rattling off the thin metal walls of the trailer, then again before Kealey could pull it free of the other man’s grasp. It wasn’t until he got to his feet, struggling for breath, that he realized the third shot hadn’t come from Ghafour’s weapon.

  He turned to face Marissa Pétain. Her feet were placed shoulderwidth apart, and both hands were on her gun. It was extended at arm’s length, and looking down, Kealey saw exactly where her round had gone. There was a small hole in the Algerian’s upper left thigh. It didn’t look too serious, but then, as Ghafour groaned and rolled to his right, the wound started to spurt.

  “Oh, fuck, ” Kealey said. His own weapon was still at the small of his back, so nothing had to happen there. He put the safety on Ghafour’s 9mm and tossed it to Pétain. She managed to catch it as Kealey dropped to his knees and put both hands over the other man’s wound, pushing down as hard as he could. Ghafour shrieked in pain, then let loose with a series of unintelligible curses. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to catch Kealey in the face, but he didn’t have the leverage.

  Ignoring the cries of pain, Kealey spoke to Pétain without turning to face her. “Make sure that fucking door is locked!” he shouted. After a second of frozen indecision, she burst into action, reaching the door with two quick paces.

  She checked the handle quickly, then spun and said, “It’s locked. It’s already locked.”

  “Can they open it from outside?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not without breaking it down. Oh, God, I didn’t mean to . . . Ryan, what do you want me to—”

  “Find me something to stop him from bleeding out. Gauze, tape . . . anything. Look for a first aid kit. Hurry! ”

  As Pétain began her frantic search, Kealey did his best to keep pressure on the wound. It was almost impossible; Ghafour was writhing around on the dirty floor, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Shut up!” Kealey screamed. “Stop moving around! I’m trying to save your life, asshole!”

  Pétain, who’d been digging through a stand-alone closet in the corner, suddenly yelled, “I got it!” She stood up and sprinted the few feet between them, then dropped to her knees by Kealey’s side. She struggled with the lid for a few seconds, and then the kit sprung open, its contents scattering over the floor. She scrambled to collect the gauze and tape, and Kealey—pushing as hard as he could on the wound with his left hand—reached out with his right to grab the tape.

  He shot a look at Pétain and, over Ghafour’s continued screams, yelled, “I need something heavier, something thicker than this gauze. Your shirt . . .”

  She looked down at her blouse and caught his meaning immediately. She pulled it off as fast as she could, struggling to free her arms from the tight cotton sleeves. Once it was off—revealing a tank top underneath—she looked around the desk, found a utility knife, and began cutting strips of material. Each was approximately 2 feet in length and 6 inches wide. As she was working, Kealey was wrapping the gauze around Ghafour’s spurting wound. Once he had taped it into place, Pétain handed over the first length of cloth, and Kealey used it to cover the gauze, tying a nonslip knot to one side of the small wound. Then he wadded up a second strip, placed it directly over the small hole in the Algerian’s thigh, and secured it in place with a second strip of Pétain’s blouse. This time he tied a nonslip knot directly over the wound.

  Ghafour was still moaning in between ragged, shallow breaths. His screaming had stopped, which wasn’t a good sign, but his eyes were wide open, and he was alert enough to respond to questions, which was all that mattered to Kealey. Retrieving a couple of cushions from the couch in the corner, he lifted the Algerian’s feet and slid the cushions under. It worked to keep the man’s legs well above the level of his heart, which would help to slow the bleeding. It was the best he could do without applying a tourniquet, but he wasn’t willing to take that step just yet.

  The adrenaline started to dissipate, and Kealey found he was suddenly exhausted; he had yet to catch his breath, and his limbs felt incredibly heavy. He suddenly realized he might have been hit. He checked quickly, his pulse pounding hard in his ears, but nothing seemed to be out of place. Looking over, he saw that Pétain was on the phone, telling Ramirez what had taken place in short, terse sentences. Kealey was relieved to see she was relay
ing the information quickly but calmly. He knew he needed to give the operative in the van some instructions, so he immediately began thinking along those lines. But then he looked down at his hands, and he lost track of his thoughts completely. His hands and arms were dripping with bright red arterial blood. Glancing over, he realized that the Algerian had already lost about a pint of the vital fluid, and while the pressure dressing would slow the bleeding, it wouldn’t stop it completely. If Kealey was going to get the answers he needed, it would have to be soon.

  Pétain looked over and caught his attention. “Ramirez wants to know what to do,” she said urgently. “They don’t—”

  “Tell him to sit tight. There’s nothing else he can do right now.”

  Pétain looked like she wanted to argue, but she pushed down her doubts and relayed the message. Seconds later, she snapped the phone shut and stared at him anxiously. “Ryan, do you hear that?”

  Distracted by his efforts to slow the Algerian’s rate of bleeding, Kealey had allowed the noise outside the trailer to fade into the background. Now he listened intently, and he caught her point immediately. Above the confused shouts of construction workers and the distant rumble of traffic, he heard a sound that changed everything: the two-tone scream of a police car’s siren. The previous day, Kealey had seen a car flash past them using the same siren, and he realized the responding units belonged to the CNP, the National Police. Another siren joined in seconds later, completely drowning out the traffic on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. Kealey studied Ghafour for a few seconds. His face was pale and covered in sweat, and his eyelids were starting to droop. Sliding over, he quickly checked for a pulse, pressing two fingers hard against the man’s clammy skin. The pulse was weak, but still there. Finding it didn’t do much to relieve his concern, as the Algerian was clearly sliding into hypovolaemic shock. Kealey knew that unless he did something immediately, Ghafour would pass out, and there was a good chance he’d never regain consciousness.

  Lifting his gaze, Kealey scoured the medical supplies scattered over the floor. Before long, he saw what he wanted. “Hand me that syringe,” he said to Pétain. She looked uncertain for a second, but then she reached down and picked it up. She checked the markings quickly and handed it over.

  “Epinephrine. Do you think it will work?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. He pulled the protective cover off the syringe and tried to block out the sound of rapidly approaching sirens. Judging by the speed with which the first cars had responded, they’d be completely surrounded in a matter of minutes. “But we have to keep him awake, and we need him to start talking. We’re running out of time.”

  “You’re wrong,” Pétain said, her voice shaking with tension. She was standing at one of the small windows, using two fingers to separate the blinds. “We’re out of time.” She let go of the blinds, and they snapped shut with a slight metallic clatter. When she turned to face him, her face was pale and drawn. “The police are already at the gate, and it looks like they’re coming in.”

  CHAPTER 16

  SIALKOT, PAKISTAN

  The house was perched atop a small hill in the Gujrat district of Sialkot, reachable only by a rutted driveway bordered on each side by patchy grassland. A number of sheep grazed in the open fields, which were separated from the road by a tangled row of scrawny trees. It was a quiet area just south of the Kashmiri foothills, small homes dotting the landscape. There were no natural wonders, nothing of interest for miles around. For this reason alone, few people would have noticed that the house was unusual for the area—

  indeed, for the country itself. It was like something out of the English countryside: thick stone walls that stood up to the hard northern winds, a garden trellis wrapped in jasmine and white orchids on one side, the building itself with a fine slate roof and double-glazed windows. The interior space was just as extraordinary. The living room featured a large stone fireplace, with exposed timber throughout and oil-fired central heating. The second-floor rooms stayed warm even in the coldest winter months, a rare benefit in the impoverished villages of northeastern Pakistan. It had taken Said Qureshi many years to purchase the house. It was easily the most important thing in his life, other than his children, whom he hadn’t seen in years. It also represented the only thing he had salvaged from his time in England: a love of British architecture. His family had immigrated to England when he was fifteen, and though it was hard to admit now, it had been the happiest time of his life. It was what he had secretly wanted from the time he could read and write—to leave Pakistan, to escape the squalor of Saddar Town, where he had spent his youth, and find something better in another land. And he had worked to make the best of the unexpected opportunity. He had shrugged off the callous remarks made by his classmates, most of which related to his skin color, and he’d devoted himself to his studies. His efforts had earned him a place at St. George’s Medical School by the time he was twenty-one. Following graduation, he had worked for nearly a decade at Guy’s Hospital in southeast London, where he specialized in cardiothoracic surgery. He had risen through the ranks with astonishing speed, despite the intense competition. It seemed as if he could do no wrong, until a failed surgery in 2004 resulted in the death of an eleven-yearold boy. It was a small mistake, a nicked blood vessel they had caught too late, but that was all it took. Everything from that point forward had been a downhill slide. He could have argued that stress played a role, that his impending divorce, as well as the inevitable custody battle over his three children, had distracted him from his duties. He could have said that his drinking played a lesser role. There would have been penalties, but alcoholism was better than incompetence, and he might have been forgiven in time. But it wasn’t the truth, and he wasn’t one for making excuses. Instead, he quietly resigned his post—they had given him that option, at least—and moved to the Cornish coast a month later, taking up residence in a small cottage on the outskirts of St. Ives.

  It was there that he had sought to rebuild his life. He had saved well over the years, a lesson learned from his impoverished youth, and although the divorce cost him a great deal, he was left with enough to start over. But earning a place in the hearts and minds of Cornwall’s residents was nearly impossible, particularly for a foreigner. The community was close-knit and quick to lash out at unwelcome visitors, especially those seeking to make a home on the coast. Although he had hung on for nearly two years, trying to earn their trust, his practice simply wasn’t bringing in enough patients. Finally, the bitterness began to sink in. Once he realized that he no longer cared about winning them over, he knew it was time to return to the only other home he had ever known.

  That was in the winter of 2006. He could still remember the sense of personal failure that had consumed him when he first stepped off the British Airways plane in Islamabad, the realization that he had squandered the best—and perhaps only—opportunity of his life. Even now, years later, he deeply resented many of the choices and mistakes he’d made, but he had come to accept them. He had replicated his Cornish home in his native land, but otherwise, he had relegated England to the past. Admittedly, his life in Pakistan could have been worse. There was no shortage of patients in Sialkot. Many of them could not afford the state-run hospitals, so naturally, they turned to him for help. These were people who held his English medical degree in high regard. People who appreciated his lenient nature, reasonable rates, and kind manner, and he valued them in return. Sometimes he wondered if he would have been happier in Pakistan all along. At least, that was how he had felt until the day he had met Benazir Mengal. Unlike Naveed Jilani, whom he had never met, Qureshi had not made the effort to form an alliance with the famed Pakistani general. In fact, it was the other way round. He had first encountered Mengal on a warm fall afternoon the previous year. Mengal had sent one of his men to collect him at Café 24 on the Kashmir Road, where Qureshi took his afternoon tea. He had been frightened at first, reluctant to leave without knowing the final destination. It was clear he wasn’t
going to be given a choice, though, and in the end he’d agreed. He was blindfolded and driven to a flat, where he was shown a young man, a soldier, from the look of it, who had been shot twice in the right arm. The wounds were superficial—no major arteries were hit, and neither bullet was still inside the limb—but it had still been a challenge to repair the damage, given the limited tools he was provided with. Mengal had watched with interest the entire time, and when Qureshi was done, the general had quietly congratulated him before slipping an envelope into his jacket pocket. It wasn’t until he was back at the café that he opened the envelope to examine the contents. Inside he found 120,000 rupees—nearly $2000 American—

  and a handwritten note from Mengal, cordially thanking him for his services.

  Over the next several months, Mengal called on him twice more. Qureshi was able to repair the damage on both occasions, and in the strained, anticipatory lull that followed the surgeries, the general began to open up. He told Qureshi of his service in the Northwestern Frontier Province, as well as hinting at his involvement with ISI, and he expressed sympathy when the doctor explained his misfortune in England. Qureshi had no idea what happened from that point forward, but his list of patients doubled virtually overnight. He assumed the general must have spread the word to people in high places. In any case, he was grateful, and he said as much the next time he encountered Mengal. He wasn’t able to save the patient on that occasion—the bleeding was just too severe—but the general seemed to understand.

  Qureshi never asked why these men weren’t being treated by army surgeons, partly because the answer was clear. Whatever they were doing—whatever Mengal had involved them in—was not related to the military and, in all likelihood, was highly illegal. So Qureshi kept his mouth shut, and as the years passed, the relationship continued to bloom. Night had fallen an hour earlier. A harsh wind sweeping down the foothills swayed the Chinar saplings outside and rattled the sturdy windows on the ground floor. Said Qureshi stood before a deep ceramic sink, his outline barely visible in the dim light from the hall. He lifted a scalpel from the steel tray by his elbow, then held it under the hot water, turning the light handle between his fingers in order to rinse the blade clean. He watched absently as blood swirled down the drain, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Nor could he hear the elevated voices in the next room. All he could think about was the surgery he had just performed. More specifically, he was thinking about the person on whom he had worked.