The Invisible

by Andrew Britton

  Ghafour coughed again, and Pétain’s worried voice filled the room. “Ryan, they’re almost here. We’ve got to—”

  “How many?” Kealey interrupted.

  “Two. Just two.”

  “They have their guns out?”

  “Yes. One handgun each. One is behind and to the left, covering the other . . . They know what they’re doing.”

  “Okay. Shut those blinds. They’ll bang on the door, but don’t respond. They won’t come in until they have backup and a better grasp on the situation. Whatever you do, don’t say a word. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  As Pétain shut the blinds and stepped to one side of the door, her FN in two hands, down by her waist, Kealey prodded Ghafour again, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. “Come on, Kamil. You’re running out of time. Tell me what I want to know.”

  Without warning, the Algerian raised his eyes and smiled broadly, revealing two even rows of bloody teeth. “I think you have it backwards,” he gasped, a hint of fatalistic amusement coming through.

  “You’re the one that’s out of time. If those police officers don’t kill you, they’ll put you in jail for what you’ve done to me. I suggest you give yourself up.” He laughed harshly, then coughed again, a trickle of blood running down the side of his mouth. “Maybe your friends at the CIA will be able to pull some strings, but I wouldn’t count on it. From what I’ve heard, they don’t reward failure.”

  Kealey stared at him for a moment, then spoke to Pétain without shifting his gaze. “Where’s that knife?”

  “Right here.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Ghafour’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and curiosity, his gaze flicking back and forth between the two operatives. “What are you doing? What’s that for?”

  Kealey didn’t respond as he stood and accepted the proffered utility knife. Ghafour asked the question again, raising his voice this time, but Kealey simply urged the blade out of the handle with his thumb, then dropped to his knees. Without saying a word, he grasped Ghafour’s injured leg in his left hand, his grip tight around the bony part of the ankle. Then he hooked the blade under the fabric that covered the Algerian’s wound. With two quick flicks of his wrist, the bandages were cut away. The small hole instantly started to spurt again, hot arterial blood arcing into the air. Ghafour’s eyes opened wide, and he began to scream and thrash around, just as he had when he’d first been shot. A second later, a fist pounded hard on the trailer door, and a voice called out a loud command.

  “¡ Abran la puerta ahora mismo! ¡Salgan con las manos arriba!”

  Ignoring the police officer’s instructions, Kealey shifted forward and pressed both hands over the Algerian’s spurting wound.

  “Answer the fucking question!” he shouted, his face less than a foot from Ghafour’s. “Or I’ll pull my hands away, I swear to God!

  Who came to see Saifi? What was his name?”

  “Mengal! ” Ghafour screamed. “His name was Mengal! Benazir Mengal!”

  Kealey couldn’t help but feel a weight lift from his shoulders; for the first time since they’d landed in Spain, he knew they were on the right track. “Who is he?”

  “A Pakistani general,” Ghafour gasped. His eyelids were starting to droop, and he had stopped sweating. Kealey knew dehydration was kicking in, but that was the least of the man’s problems. “He’s retired now, but he has many friends. They say he used to be ISI.”

  “What did Mengal want with Saifi?” Kealey demanded. He shifted his hands slightly on top of the wound to emphasize his point, and Ghafour looked on in horror as blood pumped through the other man’s splayed fingers. “Why did he arrange to get him out of prison?”

  “I don’t know,” Ghafour moaned. Kealey leaned forward; it was hard to hear the man’s replies over the shouting outside. “I promise you, I have no idea. But Mengal was the only one who came to the jail.”

  “Okay,” Kealey said. Without warning, he pulled his right arm back and slammed a fist into the Algerian’s face. The man went instantly limp, and Kealey sat back on his haunches, trying to figure out his next move. As the adrenaline worked its way out of his system, reality began to kick in. With a sense of despair, he realized they were in an impossible situation. Ghafour would be dead in less than five minutes, perhaps as little as two. They had no way out of the trailer, and if Ramirez had any sense at all, he would have pulled the teams out the second Pétain called him with the bad news. Thinking about Pétain, Kealey stood and turned to face her. He was surprised to find her on the phone, as he hadn’t heard it ring. She had a finger in one ear to block out the shouted commands of the CNP officers, and she was nodding quickly, her eyes wide, sharp, and completely alert. A moment later she said, “I got it,” and hit the END button. When she lowered the phone to her side, Kealey looked at her inquiringly.

  “That was Kharmai.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s going to try and get us out of here.”

  CHAPTER 18

  MADRID

  After they had pulled onto San Leonardo de Dios, Ramirez had managed to find a parking spot right on the road. The gate that Kealey and Pétain had first entered was about 40 meters in front of the van, and the street farther down was partially blocked off by a pair of CNP vehicles. The light racks on both were flashing blue, but the sirens were off. A number of pedestrians had gathered around, and Naomi knew it was only a matter of time before more police units arrived on the scene. The demonstration on the Puerta del Sol would slow the response time, but not by much. They had to move immediately.

  Ramirez was saying something to her through the hole in the partition, and she shifted her attention toward him. “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I heard you talking to Pétain, and there’s no way you’re going in there, Kharmai. I’m not going to let you fuck up my career as well.” He leaned forward to start the engine. “I’m done with this shit. We’re out of here.”

  “No!” Kharmai adjusted her awkward stance, drew her Glock, and aimed it through the gap in the metal. The muzzle was level with the other operative’s astonished face.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he rasped, his dark eyes fixed on the end of the barrel.

  Naomi shifted her aim slightly to the right. She steadied herself before she spoke, determined to make him believe. For this to work, there could be no doubt in his mind that she’d pull the trigger.

  “Ramirez, there’s an alley just ahead on your right. I want you to start the van and pull it inside.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I fire through the windshield. There are still two officers in those cars up ahead. They’re both behind the wheel. If I shoot, they’ll be on us in less than a minute.”

  “You would do that? You would fuck us both?”

  “Yes. If I have to, I will. Absolutely.” She looked at him hard, hoping he couldn’t see past her rigid, unyielding façade. Hoping her hands weren’t shaking too much. Hoping he couldn’t detect the cold flash of fear and nausea that had just swept through her body.

  “Start the van.”

  Ramirez shook his head in disbelief, but he did as he was told. The vehicle rumbled to life, and he dropped it into gear. Naomi kept her gun at arm’s length until they were in the alley and parked. Then she turned and opened the sliding door. Closing it behind her, she circled the vehicle and approached the driver’s-side door carefully from the rear, hoping he wouldn’t try to back up in the confined space. There wasn’t much room between the left side of the Toyota and the redbrick walls, and if he decided to make a run for it, she would almost certainly be crushed. She realized she should have taken the keys, but it was too late for that now. Once she reached the open window, she aimed her gun in at Ramirez. She wasn’t surprised in the least to see that he was holding a weapon as well, the muzzle aimed across his body, directly toward her head.

  “What now?” he asked. His dark, unwaverin
g eyes were fixed on hers. “You shoot me, I shoot you . . . We both end up dead. Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t want to kill you,” she said. Her stomach felt as if it had been pulled out, shaken hard, then put back in. She could feel sweat on her face and beneath her T-shirt. It felt cold, despite the heat of the afternoon. In fact, it felt as if her entire body had just been submerged in a pool of freezing water. “Just get out and walk away. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Ramirez held her gaze for a moment longer, debating his options.

  Then he nodded and pushed open the door. She stepped back and tracked him with her weapon as he walked to the end of the alley. He turned and gave her one last look before disappearing into the crowds sweeping by on the sidewalk.

  Naomi instantly shoved the Glock under the waistband of her jeans, the grip flat against the right side of her stomach. Then she lifted the lower edge of her T-shirt to wipe the sweat from her face. A sudden wave of nausea caused her to bend at the waist. She kept one hand on the van’s rear bumper for support and stayed that way for twenty seconds, trying to empty her stomach, but nothing came up. She shuddered, a low, involuntary moan rising up in her throat. Then she straightened and leaned against the rear doors, considering her next move, straining to think through the haze that enveloped her mind. The sound of another siren broke her concentration. It was the last thing she wanted to hear, but she instantly factored it in. Turning her head to the right, she could tell the siren was coming from the same direction as the other cars. Thinking back to the maps they had studied the previous night, she recalled that the closest CNP station was to the north, which made sense, given what she was hearing. She lifted her cell phone and stared at it blankly. She knew that Ryan would be expecting her to call any minute with a plan for getting them out of there, but her brain wasn’t working. What she needed was a way to distract the officers, to draw their attention away from the trailer. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do; Ryan and Pétain would just have to figure it out from there. Taking a couple of steps away from the van, she quickly appraised her surroundings. The alley was empty except for a few battered dumpsters and a pile of empty boxes. Power lines ran the length of the wide corridor, the wooden poles wedged against the redbrick wall on either side. An advertisement for some type of Spanish beer was painted in bright colors on the uneven bricks to her right, just beneath the second-floor windows, most of which were open to the afternoon air. Farther down the alley, there was an open door, beyond which she could hear the sound of machinery and tinny music. There was a lot to take in, but nothing that could help her. She tried to focus on the noise coming from the open doorway. It was on the left, about 10 meters in front of her. As she moved closer, the sounds became more distinct: music playing over a portable stereo, someone laughing, the steady thunk thunk thunk of an impact wrench. She thought back to what she had seen through the windshield when Ramirez swung the van into the alley. There had been a store of some kind on the right, and something else to the left . . . an auto-body repair shop. That was what she was hearing now, she realized—the sound of a mechanic working on a vehicle. What kind of vehicle, she didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. The noise seemed to draw her forward regardless.

  She reached the doorway, edged closer, and peered into the shop. She pulled back instantly, her breath catching in her throat. There was a young man in coveralls right there, walking past the door. She was sure he had seen her, but the heavy footsteps seemed to recede, and after another twenty seconds, she looked in again. She didn’t see anyone this time, but when she took a few cautious steps into the bay, she heard voices coming from another door to her left. That was the store, she realized; the mechanic must have gone inside for some reason, maybe to answer a customer’s question, or perhaps to get a drink of water. Either way, she didn’t have a lot of time; he could return at any minute.

  Naomi moved farther into the bay and looked around quickly, her heart pumping hard, every nerve on edge. There were two partially dismantled vehicles in the garage, and both bay doors were closed, blocking out the view of the street. There were windows on the upper parts of both doors, but both were extremely dirty. No one could see in, and she couldn’t see out. Shelves to her left were stocked with oil, dusty boxes of air filters, and bottles of antifreeze. On the other side of the door was a large metal toolbox, the kind with wheels and dozens of drawers.

  She turned back toward the alley. Her eyes instantly fell on an object just inside the door. A number of objects, actually. Two metal tanks were chained together and resting on a hand trolley. She moved closer and studied both tanks, listening carefully for the sound of approaching footsteps. One tank came up to her waist. It was painted a pale shade of green, and there were two gauges sticking out from a brass valve at the top. A hose ran out from the valve, but she couldn’t see where it went, as it was wrapped into a bulky mass on the other side of the cart. The second cylinder was unpainted and about twothirds the size of the first. It also had two gauges, and a red hose ran out from the top. Looking closer, she realized the hoses were joined along their length with plastic ties, and both ran into some kind of metal fitting at the top. Most interesting of all were the markings on each tank. The larger read OXYGEN in bold letters. The smaller was marked ACETYLENE.

  This was what she was looking for. Without hesitation, she moved behind the trolley, grabbed the handles, and dropped her weight forward. The tanks rocked back on the trolley, and she wheeled them around, carefully navigating the slight bump where the door frame met the asphalt. Soon she had the trolley out in the alley and next to the van. Letting go of the handles, she thought for a moment, then peered in through the driver’s window, searching for the fuel gauge. She found it quickly and immediately realized that since the van wasn’t running, the gauge wasn’t any use to her. She debated starting it up to see how much fuel was in the tank, but then decided not to waste the time. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could go and fill it up if it was low.

  Moving back to the trolley, she carefully wheeled it next to the rear fender, then lowered it onto its handles. With a little effort, she managed to wedge the trolley behind the rear tire on the driver’s side. Both tanks were now parallel to the ground, approximately 7 inches above the asphalt. Stepping back, Naomi appraised her work. She had no idea if her plan would work. The gauges seemed to indicate that the cylinders were nearly full, but she couldn’t be sure of the end result. She had worked with all kinds of explosives at Camp Peary, but the training regimen had not included a lecture on the explosive properties of acetylene. Or oxygen, for that matter. Still, this was the only thing she had at hand, and she didn’t have time to consider another course of action. She examined the tanks once more, then hesitated, thinking about the Glock 9mm tucked into the top of her jeans. It occurred to her that the tanks would be well constructed, considering what they contained, and when she squeezed the trigger, she’d have to be as far away as possible. A 9mm round might not be powerful enough to penetrate both cylinders.

  Jogging around to the other side of the van, she pulled open the door and climbed inside. Opening the lockbox bolted to the floor, she checked the inventory. There was one weapon left inside, a ParaOrdnance P14. She could tell from the size of the gun that it was chambered for .45 ACP cartridges, but she checked one of the fully loaded magazines to be sure. Satisfied, she pushed the magazine into the well and chambered a round. Then she climbed out of the van and shut the door. As she walked back toward the street, she pulled out her phone, hit the speed dial, and lifted it to her ear. Pétain answered a second later.

  “I’m set on this end,” Naomi said.

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “You’re still inside the trailer, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait thirty seconds, then move. You might still have to deal with one or two, but that’s better than half a dozen. Whatever you do, don’t head for the
gate you entered through. It looks like all the police cars are sitting on the east side of the site, so head for the opposite gate. Okay?”

  “Got it. What will you—”

  “I’ll be in touch when I can,” Naomi said, anticipating the question. “If I can. Just try to get clear. Did you get what you needed?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then good luck.”

  Naomi hit the END button without waiting for a response. Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she did her best to conceal the P14 as she reached the street, holding it down behind her right thigh. She turned and looked back at the tanks, squinting into the afternoon sun. The van was sitting about 15 meters away, which meant it was much, much too close. Still, she had run out of room. If she kept walking, she would be out of the alley and back in plain view, where someone might catch sight of the gun and raise the alarm. There was an overflowing dumpster to her left. Moving behind it, she dropped to one knee and raised the weapon with both hands. She aimed at the first cylinder, careful to expose as little of her body as possible. It was no good; her hands were shaking, and her breath was ragged. The nausea was worse than ever. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relax. Then she opened her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger. The air inside the trailer was incredibly thick, both operatives waiting on edge for whatever Naomi was going to do. Kealey had already pulled off his T-shirt and used the damp cotton to wipe most of Ghafour’s blood from his hands and arms. Looking around, he found a couple of discarded flannel shirts on the couch near the door—too warm for this kind of weather, too conspicuous, but they would have to suffice. He pulled one on and tossed the second to Pétain, whose eyes were locked on Ghafour’s still form. She caught the shirt at the last possible second and looked over.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Put it on,” he told her. “We’ll wear the hard hats out of here. It won’t help much, but a few seconds of confusion is better than nothing at all.”