“Mr. President, I believe you’re familiar with the recent events in Madrid. I’m referring, of course, to the bombing two days ago that claimed the lives of six innocent people. Indirectly, that incident also resulted in the death of an Algerian national by the name of Kamil Ahmed Ghafour. Ghafour, as you may or may not know, was not killed in the bombing, but in a related shooting incident just minutes before. Both events occurred on the same street in downtown Madrid.”
Brenneman nodded slowly, ignoring the cup that Chavis placed before him. “I’m familiar with the situation. As you probably know, I’ve already contacted the king and Prime Minister Zapatero to express my condolences.”
“Then you probably also know,” the ambassador continued, acknowledging the president’s words with another bob of his head,
“that less than a week prior to this incident, the U.S. State Department submitted an official request to the Foreign Ministry in Madrid. In this request, they asked that Ghafour be made available for an interview regarding his association with a man named Amari Saifi, another Algerian national and a prominent member of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat, otherwise known as the GSCP.”
Once again, Hayden jumped in. “Yes, that’s correct. We had reason to believe that Saifi was responsible for the recent abductions of twelve U.S. tourists in Pakistan. As I’m sure you know, that initial theory was right on the mark. I assume you’ve seen the tape.”
Vázquez nodded slowly, though the question was clearly rhetorical. He had seen the tape that al-Jazeera had first aired two days ago, and he was now fully aware—along with everyone else in the civilized world—that Amari Saifi had been implicit not only in the earlier kidnappings, but also in the abduction of the secretary herself. He had known this would probably come up, but given the evidence he was holding in his lap, he was not about to go on the defensive.
“In retrospect,” he finally conceded, “we probably should have made a greater effort to accommodate your earlier request. But wouldn’t you agree, Secretary Hayden, that this entire episode strikes one as quite a coincidence?”
“What, exactly, are you referring to?” Stan Chavis asked tightly.
“I would have thought that was clear, Mr. Chavis.” Vázquez stared directly across the table, not backing down an inch. “I’m referring to the exquisitely short gap between the State Department’s request to meet with Ghafour and his rather untimely death in Madrid.”
Brenneman cleared his throat gently. “Miguel, I can see where you’re going with this, but you’re a career diplomat. You know how this works, and I don’t have to tell you that you’re treading on dangerous ground. If you’re insinuating what I think you are, you’re making a grave mistake. Making that kind of accusation without proof would not be in your best interest, or in the interests of your government, for that matter.”
The Spanish ambassador’s eyes widened slightly, and he raised one hand, palm out, in a conciliatory gesture. “Mr. President, I did not mean to level any kind of accusation, and please forgive me if I left that impression. I merely wish to emphasize the unusual timing. That both incidents should occur so close together seems to strain credulity.”
Hayden opened his mouth to speak, but Vázquez raised his hand once more. “Please, Mr. Hayden, bear with me a moment. I think you’ll be interested in what I’m about to say.”
Settling back in his chair, the ambassador looked at them each in turn. “As you can probably imagine,” he said, “the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios immediately prompted a large-scale investigation. Personnel and material resources from a number of our agencies, including the National Police and the Guardia Civil, were dispatched to the scene to begin searching for evidence. What they found was very surprising. You see, the explosion was not caused by a conventional explosive, such as dynamite or TNT, or by a plastic explosive, such as Semtex—a favorite of the Basque separatists—or C4. The explosion was caused by the detonation of two tanks, one of which contained acetylene. The other contained oxygen. According to the preliminary report issued by the CNP, both tanks were either full or close to it, which would account for the extensive property damage and loss of life.”
“Acetylene?” Brenneman murmured. He shook his head slowly.
“That seems . . . unlikely.”
“I can assure you, Mr. President, it’s true.” Vázquez seemed pleased that the president had spoken, Harper noticed uneasily. Personally, he wished that Brenneman would stop talking completely; every word that came out of his mouth was something that might potentially incriminate him later. Besides, that was the reason for Hayden’s presence. If anyone was going to go out on a limb, it should have been him.
“Fortunately, it didn’t take long to trace the source of the tanks,”
Vázquez continued. “Both were removed—stolen, actually—from a vehicle repair shop less than twenty meters from the site of the explosion. The owner was quickly able to verify that the tanks were missing. Apparently, he’d had trouble with theft before—unfortunately, there is considerable demand for black market tools in Madrid—
and after the last incident, which occurred two months prior to the bombing, he installed a closed-circuit TV in the repair bays. Obviously, this turned out to be a major break in the investigation.”
Vázquez opened the folder on his lap. Removing the first of several eight-by-tens, he handed the photograph to the president. Brenneman examined it briefly, his face giving nothing away. Shaking his head slightly, he passed the photo to his left. The DCI studied it briefly, then gave it to Harper. The image had obviously been cleaned up, but it hadn’t been forged. Harper knew it was real because the person he was looking at was none other than Naomi Kharmai. In the photograph, she was standing in the middle of the first bay, looking around, as if deciding what to do next. A moment later, Andrews handed him another photograph. The time stamp in the upper lefthand corner indicated that it had been taken less than five seconds after the first. This image showed Kharmai wheeling a hand truck out of the shop. Two tanks—one green, one unpainted—were strapped to the hand truck.
“As you can see,” Vázquez was saying, “these images are less than perfect. First, the tape had to be compressed, to improve the quality.
Then the still images were extracted from the tape itself. Obviously, it’s difficult to print a usable image when the source is lower than print quality, but our technicians did their best. The result isn’t ideal, but the woman’s face is clearly visible in each shot. That’s the main point I wish to impress.”
Removing a third image from his folder, the ambassador passed it to Brenneman. When it reached Harper, he studied it briefly. He could immediately see that it had been taken at the airport, from a ceilingmounted camera. The image clearly depicted the same woman in the first two photographs.
“This image,” Vázquez said, once he was sure they had all seen it,
“was captured at Madrid Barajas International Airport one day prior to the bombing. According to customs, the woman you see here was traveling on a U.S. passport issued to one Sarinder Kaur Nagra. I’m sure we can all agree that all three of the images depict the same person. If there is any doubt in your minds, however, I can show you data provided by our facial-recognition software, which conclusively matched the face in all three photographs.”
No one had spoken as the ambassador had made his presentation, but Harper could no longer remain silent. “Mr. Ambassador, it’s gratifying to see that your government has made such remarkable progress in its investigation, but why, exactly, are you bringing this to our attention?”
“I would have thought that was obvious, Mr. Harper. This woman has an American passport; therefore, she’s a U.S. citizen. We would like the FBI to locate her, take her into custody, and begin extradition proceedings.”
The room fell silent. After what seemed like an eternity, Harper asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us with respect to the investigation?”
Vázquez nodded curtly; clearly,
he’d been expecting the question. Removing a final photograph from his folder, he handed it to the president. Brenneman looked at it for what seemed like a very long time, his eyes narrowing, his jaw visibly tightening. By the time the photo was passed to Harper, he already knew what he was going to see.
“This final image,” Vázquez said quietly, “was printed in Time magazine ten months ago. The photograph was taken by a fast-thinking tourist during the failed terrorist attack in New York City last September, and as you can see, the content speaks for itself.”
Harper had seen the image a thousand times, but he forced himself to study it once more. The photograph, which had been taken outside the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square, depicted William Vanderveen, the soldier turned traitor who had once served under Ryan Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai. In the photograph, Vanderveen was using Kharmai as a human shield, his right hand holding a knife to her throat. In the foreground, a man was pointing a gun in Vanderveen’s direction. Ryan Kealey’s back was to the camera; the only part of his face that was visible was the right hinge of his jaw. Kharmai’s face, on the other hand, was only too clear. In the picture, her hands were up and pulling against the restraining arm wrapped round her throat. Her mouth was wide open, frozen in a silent scream, but it was her eyes that had made the picture famous. They were filled with sheer terror, the kind of pure, unadulterated fear that was rarely caught on film. Harper despised the picture for obvious reasons, but he had to admit that it was a powerful image. He felt sick every time he looked at it.
“The woman in this photograph,” Vázquez was saying, “is clearly the same woman who carried out the bombing in Madrid. Interestingly enough, the name Sarinder Nagra cannot be found in any U.S. periodicals dating back to September, which strikes me as extremely unusual, given the considerable fame of this photograph. It seems as if Ms. Nagra would have been interviewed by every major network, newspaper, and magazine in the country. After all, the accompanying article states that she survived the attack, after which she received medical treatment at an undisclosed location in Virginia. That last part is a direct quote, by the way.”
Vázquez paused and looked at them each in turn. “Needless to say, my government is going to keep working until this woman is brought to justice. The magnitude of this incident does not allow us to look the other way. Therefore, I feel compelled to ask the obvious question.”
There was a short, tense silence, and then Andrews said, “Forgive me, Mr. Ambassador, but perhaps it isn’t so obvious. What, exactly, are you asking?”
Vázquez leaned over the table and put a finger on one of the eightby-tens, which had made its way back to him. Then he looked up at the DCI and asked, “Is this woman employed by the CIA?”
Andrews stared directly across the table, meeting the other man’s eyes. “No, she isn’t.”
“Is she employed by any state or federal agency?” Vázquez asked.
“No,” Brenneman said, shaking his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. I can tell you right now, unequivocally, that she has no affiliation with the U.S. government whatsoever.”
Vázquez nodded and leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied.
“Then I assume my government can count on your cooperation in this matter. It shouldn’t be too hard for the FBI to track her down, and once they do, we can begin extradition proceedings.”
Hayden hesitated, then said, “That seems a bit premature.” He tapped the photograph that showed Kharmai wheeling the hand truck out of the auto-repair shop. “You can’t prove that this woman detonated the bomb.”
“At the very least, she’s an accomplice,” Vázquez pointed out, “and she must be held accountable. If she is willing to help the police piece together what actually happened, it might go easier for her. Either way, for this matter to be fully resolved, she must stand trial.”
“We don’t even know if she’s a U.S. citizen or permanent resident,” Hayden remarked cautiously. “The passport she was traveling on might have been forged. That’s a problem we’ve been dealing a lot with lately. If she’s well funded, with the right kinds of connections, she might be beyond our reach.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Hayden, I find that hard to believe. It takes great skill and a number of tools, many of which are hard to find, to forge a credible passport. Very few people can do it successfully. It would likely take the combined efforts of an experienced group of people to do it right, such as the forgery department of a major intelligence agency.”
Vázquez paused for a beat to cast a long look in Harper’s direction, driving the unsubtle hint home. “We’ve back-checked passenger lists for all commercial flights leaving Spain over the past two days, and we have yet to find the name Sarinder Nagra. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean much. She could have crossed into France or Portugal with relative ease. Personally, I suspect she’s already back in the States. If that is indeed the case, you must decide what happens next.”
Vázquez turned to Brenneman. “Mr. President, I trust that you will do what is best in this situation. My superiors value the relationship between our two countries very highly indeed, and we would like nothing more than to continue working in a positive direction. However, this woman could be perceived as a serious stumbling block. If she is not apprehended soon, I’m afraid it could cause a considerable strain on our current ties. Naturally, it would also impede any forward progress.”
A brief silence fell over the room. Before the president could respond, Lawrence Hayden stepped in to offer the usual diplomatic platitudes. “Mr. Ambassador, safeguarding the relationship between our two countries is one of this administration’s highest priorities. I can assure you that the FBI and a number of other federal agencies will be . . .”
Harper didn’t hear anything after that. In his mind, he saw a door closing on the young operative, and he felt a sense of deep, genuine regret. He would fight for her, but in the end, it wouldn’t make a difference. Naomi Kharmai’s career at the Central Intelligence Agency had just come to a very unfortunate, all-too-sudden end. The discussion ended a few minutes later, and the ambassador left without delay, which surprised no one. Everything that had to be said was out in the open, and there was little point in prolonging the awkward pleasantries. Surprisingly, given what had just transpired, the meeting did not stretch on. Brenneman kept them for as long as it took to make his wishes clear, if not his orders. He didn’t issue any specific instructions on how to handle Kharmai, for instance, but then, he didn’t really need to, and by keeping things vague, he was able to distance himself from the whole situation. Hayden left without a word, hung a right at the end of the main corridor, and disappeared from sight. Harper waited directly outside the Oval Office, along with a group of staffers who were waiting for an audience with the president. When Andrews stepped out a moment later, having been briefly detained by Brenneman, Harper tilted his head toward the Roosevelt Room, which was still vacant. Andrews, catching the hint, walked in after him.
“What do you think?” Harper asked, once the door was closed. Andrews, who was standing with his hands on his hips, shrugged and exhaled forcefully. “They definitely know that we were involved in Madrid.”
“That’s the impression I got as well. They can’t prove that she’s with the Agency, though, or Vázquez would have said as much.”
“He’s an arrogant little prick,” Andrews said, scowling.
“I agree, but that doesn’t change a thing,” Harper pointed out.
“He may be a prick, but he happens to be holding all the cards.”
“That’s an exaggeration, but I see your point. We’ve got to move fast on this. What do you suggest?”
“We need to be careful getting her out,” Harper said absently.
“Maybe Machado can help us with that. Portugal’s probably the best bet. That’s a very porous border, and it offers the best chance for success. Morocco’s another possibility. There’s a lot of border security on the southern tip of Spain, but it’s entirely focused on
keeping people out. She might be able to slip out that way.”
Andrews considered the options for a minute, then said, “I agree. Get Machado involved. See what he recommends, and then get back to me. The president is going to want an update soon, and we better have something to tell him.”
“Fine. I’ll get on it.”
CHAPTER 34
NORTHERN PAKISTAN
Kealey stared out the rear window of the fast-moving sedan. The scenery passed by in a dull, meaningless blur, the trees and buildings shrouded in gray, muted by the building storm to the east. As the Subaru clattered over a parallel set of railroad tracks, Kealey stretched his neck from side to side, trying to relieve the aching pain in his shoulders. The fifteen-hour flight had been bad enough, but there had been no time to stop and catch their breath. They had left the airport three hours earlier, and they’d been moving nonstop. After receiving the call outside the terminal, he and Pétain had followed the contact’s instructions to the letter. They had navigated the clamorous din of the Anarkali Bazaar; the throngs of impatient, unapologetic pedestrians in Bank Square; and the surprising after-lunch rush at the Bundu Khan, which, according to a whispered aside from Pétain, was the last place a prominent American journalist kidnapped the previous year had been seen alive.
That scrap of information, which she’d mentioned merely in passing, had been bothering Kealey for the past couple of hours. He had already noticed the suspicious, unfriendly glances that he and Pétain had been met with for much of their brief stay in the Islamic republic. He was reminded of a short trip he’d taken to South Korea back in ’93, shortly after he’d been commissioned in the U.S. Army. He’d been walking through Seoul, dressed in civilian clothes and minding his own business, when an elderly woman had started screeching at him and shaking her fist, her face contorted. Not knowing what else to do, he’d simply walked away. When he got back to Fort Carson, he’d mentioned the incident to his company commander, who’d spent some time in Korea, but the man had simply shrugged and changed the subject.
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