A full workup had been ordered on the secretary of state’s arrival, and it had already revealed two cracked ribs, a cracked cheekbone, a hairline fracture on the left tibia, and the beginning stages of posttraumatic stress disorder, accompanied by possible psychotic depression. Only time would reveal the true extent of the psychological damage Fitzgerald had suffered at the hands of her captors, but the psychiatrists who’d examined her on arrival had already expressed some serious concerns. The preliminary reports of what she had gone through had leaked that very morning, and they had been graphic enough to provoke a large-scale emotional response. Hundreds of thousands of citizens from across the nation had been flooding the major news outlets ever since with calls to express their outrage. Harper was one of the few who had not felt a sense of personal outrage, partly because he was able to keep it all in perspective. Overall, Brynn Fitzgerald was a very lucky woman, especially compared to some of the people who had worked so hard—and suffered so much—to bring her home. Harper collapsed onto a couch in the seating area and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. He was exhausted, but more than that, he was weighed down by what had happened in Sialkot. All things considered, he knew he should have been pleased. The director certainly was. The Agency had performed an important role in Fitzgerald’s recovery. Indeed, were it not for Ryan Kealey’s misplaced trust in Javier Machado, they would almost certainly still be tracking down false leads in Pakistan. But it hadn’t turned out that way. They had managed to find her and bring her back, and because they had succeeded, the accolades were pouring in.
So why, Harper wondered absently, do I feel like we failed? He had been weighing that question for the last eighteen hours, and he had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. At that moment, the east door leading out to the Rose Garden opened, and the president stepped into the room, followed closely by Robert Andrews, Kenneth Bale, and Stan Chavis. As Harper wearily stood, the first thing he noticed was the exultant, satisfied look on their faces. He could see right away that the press conference had been a tremendous success, but there was nothing surprising in that; the media was always kind when the news was good. He had been asked to attend by Brenneman himself, but he had been unwilling to submit himself to the adoration of the press. Praise from the media was something that senior CIA officials rarely received, but that didn’t make it any more enticing, especially when so much had been sacrificed to make it possible.
The president crossed the room and extended a hand, grinning broadly. He was dressed immaculately in a navy suit with a pale yellow tie, but he was typically groomed for the cameras. There was nothing unusual in that; naturally, the most powerful man in the free world was expected to look presentable at all times. But the others had clearly made an effort, as they were dressed with more panache than usual. Even Chavis, who usually resembled a harried accountant in his standard rumpled dress shirt and Dockers, had taken the opportunity to sharpen his image in front of the Washington press corps. This afternoon he was dressed in a charcoal single-breasted suit with a patterned navy tie, which was only slightly crooked. For once, the man looked almost presentable. Bale was wearing his customary dark suit, as was Andrews.
“Thanks for coming, John,” Brenneman said, as though the deputy DCI had a choice in the matter. They shook hands briefly, but with clear enthusiasm on the president’s part. “I’m sorry you opted out of the press conference. There are a lot of relieved people out there today, and you helped make that possible. You should have been there . . . You deserve the credit.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harper replied, not knowing what else to say. He felt the complete opposite, of course, but one did not contradict the president, especially not in the Oval Office.
“Let’s take a seat, shall we?” Brenneman said. Harper resumed his place on the couch, and the other men took their customary seats, Brenneman with his back to the fireplace. A Navy steward entered with coffee, deposited the tray, and left without a word.
“So,” the president began. Harper saw that his face had taken on a sober expression, which was fitting, since he knew what Brenneman was about to ask. “Let’s start with the obvious question. How is Ryan doing?”
So it’s Ryan now, Harper thought silently. In the past, the president had always referred to the young operative by his last name, and that was on the rare occasion he referenced Kealey at all. Harper cleared his throat. “It’s touch and go, sir.” He saw their shoulders slump with relief, and he knew what they were thinking: at least he’s alive. He couldn’t blame them; he’d felt exactly the same way when he’d received his last update forty minutes earlier.
“He might make it, and he might not . . . There’s no way to know for sure, and we probably won’t have definitive word for another few hours. The major problem was the hemorrhaging, but there was some internal damage that has proved . . . well, sort of hard to seal off. Still, it could have been much worse. If that sergeant hadn’t been thinking . . .”
The other men nodded slowly; they had already heard the story. Shortly after Kealey had lost consciousness outside the house in Sialkot, the master sergeant standing nearby—an eight-year Delta veteran by the name of Deakins—had remembered that the house belonged to a board-accredited surgeon, a scrap of information he’d picked up during the pre-mission briefing. A quick search of the house had turned up Said Qureshi, who’d been locked in his own surgical suite. It had taken only a minute to explain the situation, and a confused but compliant Qureshi had instructed them to move Kealey into his OR on the ground floor. He’d set to work immediately, his efforts helped enormously by the fact that both MH-53 Pave Lows had been preloaded with bags of plasma of every blood type, as was standard operating procedure in any CSAR mission. A quick call to Langley had verified that Kealey’s blood type was O+. From there, it was just a matter of luck and skill, and Qureshi was very skilled indeed. Harper had personally talked to the medic—
the first man who had worked on Kealey—and the young sergeant had made it abundantly clear that Qureshi had saved the CIA operative’s life. And for that, not to mention his work on Brynn Fitzgerald, the Pakistani surgeon would be handsomely rewarded, although he probably didn’t know it yet. Harper was going to enjoy making him the offer, though. He had read through Qureshi’s background, and he thought that the man deserved another shot at practicing real medicine, along with a tax-free annual sum deposited in any offshore bank of his choosing.
“And where is Kealey now?”
Harper, still thinking about Qureshi, snapped back to the conversation. He looked at Bale, who had asked the question, and said,
“He’s en route to Ramstein, sir. Said Qureshi agreed to accompany him that far; he’s keeping him stable until they arrive in Germany. That should happen sometime this afternoon.”
“He’s a good man,” Brenneman pointed out quietly. For a second, Harper wasn’t sure if he was talking about the surgeon or Kealey. “I don’t think I ever realized just how good, but if he makes it through this, he will have the gratitude of an entire nation. Hell, he already does. I, for one, would like to see Ryan Kealey receive the recognition he deserves in person.”
Harper nodded along, knowing full well that even if Kealey did survive, he would never set foot in front of a camera. Nor would he dream of attending a press conference, regardless of its purpose. It wasn’t his style to bask in his accomplishments. Part of this was due to his intensely private nature, but mostly, his dislike of the limelight could be traced back to his training, which had drilled into him the need for secrecy, deception, and operational security from day one. Harper suddenly realized that the room had gone quiet. Looking up, he saw that the president was watching him steadily, and the other three men looked suddenly awkward. It occurred to him that the mention of Kealey had reminded them all of what Javier Machado had done to Naomi Kharmai. Or presumably done, anyway. He had briefed them all on the specifics that morning, focusing on the means through which Kealey had acquired Benazir Mengal’s location to begin
with. There had been no word from Kharmai or the retired Spanish operative since Kealey had refused to heed the Spaniard’s bizarre order in Pakistan, and there was little doubt in any of their minds that Machado had carried out his threat. Privately, he wondered if they were secretly pleased that Naomi was no longer a threat to the administration. What had taken place in Madrid three days earlier was still a hot button issue. So far, the president had stuck with the story he had fed to Miguel Vázquez, and though it was only a matter of time before the Spanish government unveiled their evidence, they still didn’t have a personal admission of guilt, and now they never would. If they couldn’t produce Kharmai in person, the story would die a quick death in the media, and what had transpired in Madrid would soon fade from the collective public consciousness. Harper had no doubt that everyone in the room had already considered this, though none of them would ever admit to it. As if reading his mind, the president cleared his throat and said,
“So, still no word on Kharmai?”
“No, sir,” Harper replied neutrally. “Nothing yet.”
“But I assume you have people watching Machado’s house in Cartagena,” Brenneman said.
“Yes,” Andrews said, making his first contribution to the conversation. “We have people talking to Élise Pétain now. She’s been moved to the embassy, and she’s proved very cooperative, though understandably, she’s also very upset.”
“How much does she know?” Brenneman wondered aloud.
“Not much,” Andrews admitted. “Just the basics. That her daughter was in line for an important operation, and that her husband was willing to do pretty much anything to prevent Marissa from taking that assignment. She’s already told us everything she knows, but none of her information has really panned out. At the moment, nothing has changed. Machado is still missing. Obviously, Kharmai is also missing and, I’m sorry to say, presumed dead.” Andrews fell silent for a minute, then added, “I doubt that she ever really had a chance.”
The president absorbed this silently. “How long,” he eventually asked, “will you wait before you call off the search?”
“It depends,” Harper said. “If anything comes up to indicate she’s still alive, we’ll wait as long as we have to, and we’ll keep diverting resources. But eventually, we’ll have to call it off. It might be three months, or it might be a year, but we can’t look forever. We just don’t have the ability.”
“As far as I’m concerned, her actions in Madrid are forgotten,” the president said, a note of command authority entering his voice. “I remember what she did for us last year in New York City, and the year before that right here in Washington. Any way you cut it, she gave her life for this country, and I want it noted, right here and now, that I intend to award her the Presidential Medal of Freedom, whether it’s posthumous or not. We’ll do it in secret, given her background, but it will be done.” He looked around slowly, searching for signs of dissent. “I assume no one has any objections.”
They all murmured their approval, not that anyone would have been brave enough to object. The Medal of Freedom, first established by Harry Truman in 1945 to reward meritorious acts during World War II, was generally considered to be the nation’s highest civilian honor, the kind of thing that most people would have been thrilled to accept. Privately, though, Harper sincerely doubted that Naomi would have wanted a medal after what she had done in Madrid, even if she had acted only with the best of intentions. Besides, despite Brenneman’s forceful tone, Harper didn’t put much stock in the president’s words. If Naomi were to suddenly reappear, which she wouldn’t, she would never see a medal of any kind. He was also fully aware that he himself had played no small role in her death; by using her to bait Kealey into the search for the missing tourists in Pakistan, he had essentially set her on the path to her own demise. Worse, he had done so knowing full well about her addiction to painkillers, which only compounded his guilt. And she was dead; Harper didn’t doubt that for a second. The search was merely a formality. He could not pretend that this didn’t bother him, but the fact that Kealey might know the extent of his duplicity was something that scared the deputy DCI more than he cared to admit. Not to the point that he wanted the younger man to succumb to his wounds—
he had not fallen to that level and knew he would never allow himself to do so—but still, it was frightening to acknowledge the possibility that Kealey might someday decide his old friend and trusted employer was as guilty as the man who had actually arranged for Naomi’s death.
“What about this other woman?” Brenneman was asking. “Machado’s daughter . . .”
“Marissa Pétain,” Andrews offered.
“Yes, Pétain. How much does she know about what really happened in Pakistan?”
“That isn’t clear,” Harper said. “But she knows that her mother is being questioned, and she’s smart . . . I’m sure she’ll be able to figure it out, if she hasn’t already.”
“And where is she now?” Brenneman asked.
“On her way back to Andrews,” Harper said. He didn’t add that Pétain, on hearing about what had happened to Kealey, had demanded to see the injured man immediately. Even over the phone, Harper could detect real emotion in her voice, but he had declined her request, and she had immediately launched into an angry tirade. Harper had been too surprised to hold her accountable for the things she had said, most of which were bitter insults directed at him. Besides, the fact that she had been tied to the success in Pakistan was enough to earn her a pass, and she was a promising young operative with the necessary skill set. He couldn’t dismiss her for what amounted to a minor infraction, not that he particularly wanted to.
The rest of the meeting primarily revolved around the issue of Benazir Mengal. Currently, the former Pakistani general was being held in detention at Bagram AFB, though this information was known only to a select few. The president had already called Pervez Musharraf to inform him personally of the unsanctioned operation. Normally, this would never have happened; in matters of such delicacy, diplomats were usually used as buffers to lessen political fallout on both sides. But in this case, given what had transpired in Sialkot, there wasn’t much the Pakistani president could say. The simple fact was that a senior U.S. government official had been kidnapped in his country, and he had done almost nothing to help find her. Still, in the name of diplomacy, the president had extended an olive branch, albeit a branch heavily tilted in favor of the United States. Once Musharraf agreed to fast-track Mengal’s extradition proceedings, the press had been informed that the U.S. rescue operation was, in fact, a joint mission accomplished by U.S. and Pakistani forces. For this consideration, Musharraf had also agreed to stop making noise regarding the impending Indian-Israeli arms deal. Additionally, he had quietly agreed to start moving Pakistani forces back across the Line of Control in Kashmir. Harper thought it ironic that Fitzgerald’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue had almost certainly ended the burgeoning conflict in Kashmir sooner than if she had not been taken at all, but he wisely kept this thought to himself. When the meeting ended twenty minutes later, congratulatory handshakes went all around, and then the men began filing out of the Oval Office. As Harper moved to the door, the president stopped him with a hand on his arm, then smoothly pulled him aside.
“John, I just want to thank you again for all your hard work. You did as much as anyone to make this operation a success, and I’m deeply grateful, as are the American people. I’m sure Secretary Fitzgerald will want to thank you personally once she’s up to it.”
Harper nodded and murmured his appreciation, but the president had already expressed his gratitude. He suspected he had been held back for a different reason, and the president confirmed this a moment later. “John . . . with respect to Kealey. You’ve known the man a long time.”
“Yes, sir,” Harper said, wondering where this was going. “I have. Nearly ten years.”
“He’s survived some serious injuries before, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, he has. But he
’s not indestructible, sir, and this is probably the worst of the lot. Still, I wouldn’t bet against him.”
“And if he does survive?” Brenneman was genuinely curious.
“What do you think he’ll do? When he recovers, I mean. Have you given that any thought?”
Harper considered the question for a long moment. He knew what the president was really asking, and it had nothing to do with the possibility of Kealey resuming his work with the CIA. Harper had given it plenty of thought, and while he had yet to come up with a definitive answer, there were a few things he thought he knew for sure.
In the end, it all came down to Naomi Kharmai. After what had happened to her—or at least, after what the Agency thought had happened to her—Kealey would never resume his work with the CIA. There could be no question of that; contrary to popular belief, even the Directorate of Operations was an organization hampered by certain rules on what was and wasn’t acceptable. Operatives did not have free rein in the field, and they couldn’t just kill anyone, especially not when the operative in question was driven by nothing more than the need for revenge. Instead, Kealey would do things his own way. He would single-handedly go after the men who had betrayed him in Sialkot, and then, when he had exhausted every avenue of retribution, when he had finally decided there was no one left to kill, he would go after Javier Machado. Harper was sure of it. In fact, he had never been more certain of anything in his life. Of course, that was not the answer the president wanted to hear. Looking Brenneman square in the eye, he said, “Sir, I honestly don’t know. I just know that if he makes it through, he’s not going to let it go, and I, for one, would not want to be in his way once he’s back on his feet.”
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