PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA
Jonathan Harper sat in the corner booth of the small bar and fought the temptation to stare at the door. He had ordered food, but he had no appetite. He had ordered a drink, but it remained untouched, as he did not want the alcohol to affect his judgment, to lower his guard. He had never been more conflicted.
Part of him-a very big part-wanted the man he was waiting for to make an appearance, as that was the whole reason he had traveled 8,000 miles to the South African capital. Another part of him wanted to get up and leave before he was forced to confront his old friend, a term he used-at least these days-with more than a little uncertainty. He’d been wrestling with this inner conflict for the past seventy-two hours at the very least. Much of that time had been spent debating the pros and cons of traveling to Pretoria, but even now, with the decision made, he still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. His apprehension was only natural, he knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear, and the moment of truth was fast approaching.
It had been almost a year since he had last seen Ryan Kealey, but he could remember their last meeting with crystal clarity, if only because of what it had led to. At Harper’s request, they had met at a restaurant in downtown Washington. It was three months after an operation in Pakistan that had ended with the recovery of a senior U.S. official and the death of Amari Saifi, an Algerian terrorist who, with the help of a former Pakistani general, had struck at the heart of the U.S. government.
Brynn Fitzgerald, still acting secretary of state at the time, had been kidnapped after a bloody attack on her motorcade that left 18 people dead. One had been the head of her security detail. The other had been Lee Patterson, the U.S. ambassador to Pakistan and a college friend, who’d caught a bullet between her eyes.
It had taken Kealey and his team four days to track Fitzgerald down, and then they had moved in to extract her, assisted by a team of 24 Special Forces soldiers and some heavy support from the air.
The mission was successful, but Fitzgerald’s rescue had not been without serious cost. Kealey was gravely wounded in the rescue attempt, and a fellow operative, Naomi Kharmai, died as an indirect result of the operation. She was killed-or presumably killed, as her body was never recovered-by Javier Machado, a retired CIA case officer with extraordinary connections throughout Europe and Southeast Asia. Machado had offered to help Kealey find Fitzgerald in exchange for a favor, but when the favor had proved too costly, Kealey had improvised, and Kharmai had paid the ultimate price.
Over the past couple of months Harper had realized that was still accruing unwanted interest. For he’d become increasingly convinced it was Patterson’s death that had sent Fitzgerald down the slippery slope of illogic into the place where fools like Stralen thrived.
At any rate, once the smoke cleared, an in-depth investigation-headed by the FBI and supported behind the scenes by the CIA-was launched into Kharmai’s death, but not in time to bring any closure to the matter. The one person who might have been able to provide some meaningful answers, Machado, had already disappeared without a trace, abandoning his home in Spain, his wife, and his surviving daughter in the process. Kealey, after a lengthy convalescence, had disappeared in turn, and that was when the bodies began to pile up. An Arab fundamentalist in Paris, a money launderer in Antwerp, a smuggler in Karachi…It was the start of a series of killings that, over the course of the next several months, were to work their way across much of Machado’s former territory. Presumably, the trail ended with Machado himself, although his body-like that of Naomi Kharmai-was never recovered.
This missing link did not affect the way Harper viewed the outcome. He knew Ryan Kealey better than anyone else, and there was no doubt in his mind that he had managed to track the Spaniard down. To the deputy director’s way of thinking, the absence of a body only served as additional proof that Kealey had managed to locate-and eliminate-his primary target. Harper had never been more certain of anything.
He caught himself staring at the door again. Giving in to his jangling nerves, he lifted his scotch, drank half of it down, and thought back to the last time he had seen the younger man. It was three months after Naomi’s death, a month before the killings began.
Toward the end of October a private ceremony was held at the White House, the purpose of which was to posthumously award Naomi Kharmai the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civil award in the country. Kealey refused to attend the ceremony, though he reluctantly agreed to meet Harper in the city later that day. When he finally arrived at the agreed upon restaurant, more than an hour late, Harper was shocked by his appearance. The bullet that nearly killed him had stripped at least thirty pounds from his already lean frame, leaving him looking more like the walking dead than one of the country’s top counterterrorism agents. They ordered food, though Kealey left his meal untouched as Harper brought him up to speed on recent developments in the ongoing investigation.
Javier Machado was still missing, but one of his associates had turned up in Paris, a Hezbollah lieutenant by the name of Yassir Rabbani. As Harper described the circumstances, he waited for the inevitable volley of questions, but Kealey simply sat there listening. Later Harper would recall that the only time he had really reacted was at the mention of Rabbani’s name, which he’d filed away with a slow, steady blink of his eyes. After another twenty minutes of awkward, one-sided conversation, they parted ways at the door.
And that was it. The last time Harper had seen him. Less than a month later Rabbani was dead, soon to be followed by the smuggler, the money launderer, and eventually, Machado himself. The dominoes falling one by one by one…
A gust of cold air brought Harper back to the present now. He looked up as the door was pulled open, but a young woman’s indignant shriek of feigned offense, followed by a burst of drunken laughter, quickly dispelled his interest. He took another sip of his scotch and tried to relax. It was an impossible task; there was too much to think about. Too much to anticipate. Harper knew that the younger man wasn’t happy with the way Naomi had been pulled into the previous assignment, and as an extension, he felt sure that Kealey blamed him, at least in part, for what had happened to her. Or for what he thought had happened to her, anyway.
But not as much as he blamed himself. There could be no doubt of that. It was precisely as Harper had told Allison Dearborn. As long as Harper had known him, Ryan Kealey had made a habit of taking too much on his shoulders, including the welfare of the people he worked with. In Naomi’s case, the fact that they had been far more than coworkers served only to compound the guilt Kealey had felt in the wake of her death. At least, that had been Harper’s impression during their final hour or two in Washington. Now, more than a year later, Ryan Kealey was essentially a stranger to him, and the deputy director had to rely on Allison’s profile to guide him, if not tell him what to expect when the younger man finally showed up, assuming he even did.
What was it Allison had said in her office?
God forgive me if it borders on psychological manipulation. But you get him here to me, just get him here, and I’ll prepare you for your meeting with him. And then find a way to live with this bargain.
Harper had made his promise, and thanks to Allison, he had come prepared. Sitting next to him were several folders filled with the evidence he’d acquired to support his case. Of far more importance were the two small photographs in his jacket pocket. There was nothing especially unusual about either shot, other than the status of their subjects, both of whom had played a pivotal role in recent events. But he was banking on the fact that they would push all the right psychological buttons.
Another blast of cold air caused Harper to raise his head. This time it was the man he’d been waiting for. He watched with rising unease as Ryan Kealey entered the bar, his eyes moving over the scattered occupants, drifting from left to right. Finally, his gaze settled on Harper. When their eyes locked, the deputy director saw the one thing he had not been expecting-nothing at all. No expression of any kind. Kealey did not look surprised in the least to see him, but he didn’t seem pleased, either. His face was completely blank.
At least, that was how it would appear to most people. After an initial moment of surprise, Jonathan Harper realized he’d simply needed a moment to reorient himself to Kealey’s ways and measure him within his distinct frame of reference. He had known him for nearly eleven years, and he could see through the neutral facade. Even from across the room, he could sense the bitter anger that resided beneath his calm exterior. It had been there the last time they had seen each other, but it had been there before that, too. Naomi Kharmai wasn’t the first person Kealey had lost to his line of work. There had been Katie Donovan before her. And even before that, the little girl in Bosnia.
Kealey was still staring in his direction, clearly debating his next move. In that frozen moment Harper felt sure that he would simply turn and walk right out the door. Instead, he started across the room, and Harper breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Despite the assurances he’d given Director Andrews two months earlier, he had known it would not be easy to draw Kealey back into the fold. For this reason, he’d hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary, but recent events-not only in Sudan, but in Washington, D.C.-had forced his hand. Now that it was necessary, at least in his judgment, he knew that he couldn’t afford to fail, and everything would hinge on how he handled the next few minutes.
He watched as the younger man approached. Instead of sliding into the opposite seat, though, Kealey stopped a few feet away and fixed him with a calm, steady gaze.
“What are you doing here?”
Harper did not immediately respond, even though he knew he was pushing his luck by ignoring the question. Instead, he took a moment to look the other man over. Kealey had replaced most of the weight he’d lost the previous year, but while his upper body was reasonably filled out, his face was still gaunt, suggesting that he’d packed on the pounds in a hurry. The lingering effects of the bullet he’d taken in Pakistan showed in the hard lines that creased his deeply tanned skin, as well as the dark shadows beneath his deep-set eyes. He had not shaven in several weeks, judging from the thick, uneven growth on the lower half of his face, and his lank black hair looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed in months.
The man’s appearance did not inspire a great deal of confidence. It never had, for that matter, but Kealey seemed to have reached a new low in that department. Harper couldn’t help but feel that if he were to take away the black leather jacket, dark jeans, and Columbia hiking boots, Ryan Kealey, in his current state, would look more like a transient than the highly trained counterterrorist operative he actually was. Before flying into Pretoria, Harper’s primary concern had been whether or not he could talk the younger man into coming back. Now, faced with this less than encouraging picture, he was starting to wonder if he should even try.
Harper shook it off, reminding himself of what Kealey had done the previous week. On the flight over, he had read a detailed account of the attack on Jacob Zuma’s motorcade in Johannesburg. The details of that report, if nothing else, assured him that Kealey had not lost a step in the last year, despite the lasting effects of his wounds. More than that, Harper reminded himself that the man standing before him had never failed to achieve his given objective, and perfect track records were hard to come by in their line of work. That the current situation had nothing to do with Kealey’s specialty didn’t concern the deputy director in the least. Kealey’s skills were not only unique but highly transferable, and Harper had no doubt that he would able to bring them to bear in the forthcoming weeks, assuming he accepted the task at hand.
Still ignoring the pointed question, Harper appraised the younger man carefully, his face giving nothing away. “How have you been, Ryan? It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Kealey replied. His flat tone seemed to indicate that Harper’s visit was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, easily remedied. “Why are you here, John? What do you want?”
Harper sighed wearily and gestured at the opposite seat. “Sit down for a minute, will you? I flew eight thousand miles to see you, Ryan… It’s the least you can do.”
Kealey stared at him a long while, impassive, then slid into the booth on the opposite side. Harper was momentarily surprised by the man’s ready compliance, but he quickly realized that the gesture meant nothing at all. Although it was warm inside the bar, Kealey hadn’t removed his jacket, and he hadn’t ordered a drink. There was nothing keeping him there but the history between them, and Harper knew that would take him only so far. He would have to get to the point quickly, or risk losing the man once and for all.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.
“When my bodyguards disappeared this afternoon, I decided it could only be one of two things,” Kealey replied. “Either someone in the SAPS got the security pulled so they could get to me, or you were in town. I was hoping for the former.”
Harper ignored the unsubtle jab. The “bodyguards” Kealey was referring to had been supplied through a directive issued by President Jacob Zuma himself. The orders had been handed down less than twenty-four hours after the failed assassination in Johannesburg. Since officers in the South African Police Service had been behind the attempt on Zuma’s life, the entire organization had been deemed compromised. With few options remaining, Kealey’s protective detail had been culled from the ranks of the South African Army. His personal security team consisted of four enlisted soldiers and one officer, an infantry captain, all of whom had been pulled from their regular duties at Special Forces headquarters in Pretoria.
Despite the lengths to which Zuma had gone to protect Kealey in the wake of the incident, the American’s future in South Africa was far from assured. Harper had learned as much through a brief conversation with Zuma himself, which had been conducted by telephone earlier in the day. While the South African leader credited Kealey with saving his life, the fact remained that he had killed six police officers on a crowded street in broad daylight. That kind of bloodshed could not be covered up, and South Africa was a far cry from Iraq, where a similar incident might have been met with a slap on the wrist and a plane ticket home.
Kealey was now officially under house arrest at the Pretoria Hof Hotel, though the term arrest could only be used loosely in his situation, if at all. Instead of being confined to his room, he’d been given the freedom to move about as he pleased, which explained how Harper had come to learn about the bar. According to the Special Forces captain in charge of the detail, Kealey had visited the Elephant amp; Castle on the Selikaats Causeway five out of the last eight nights. For this reason, as well as the bar’s relatively secluded location, Harper had selected it as the place he would first make contact. His intention in showing up unannounced had been to grab the upper hand from the outset, but apparently, Kealey had been ahead of the game the whole time.
Harper wasn’t bothered by the fact that Kealey had seen him coming; in fact, he was reassured by the younger man’s instincts, which were clearly as sharp as ever. Those instincts-as well as his ability to act on them-were a large part of the reason Harper had sought him out in the first place.
The deputy director tapped a folder sitting to the left of his untouched meal. It was stacked on top of two smaller folders, but Harper wasn’t ready to get to those just yet. “Do you know what this is?”
Kealey didn’t bother to glance at the bulky manila folder. “I can guess.”
“It’s the official incident report compiled by the South African government following the attack on Zuma’s motorcade. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“But you wrote part of-”
“I haven’t read it.”
Harper let the interruption slide, mainly because he didn’t have any other choice. Moving his plate out of the way, he pulled the folder in front of his body but didn’t bother to open it up. “I don’t get it, Ryan.” He rested his hands on top of the folder and stared across the table. “I’ve read this thing from cover to cover, and I have to say, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. You pulled a gun on this guy Flores when he refused to follow your orders, and you threatened to shoot him if he didn’t turn around and drive you back to Marshalltown. Then, less than ten minutes later, you risked your life, not to mention the lives of your principal and his aide, to get him out of there safely. Can you explain that?”
Kealey returned his steady gaze. “I don’t need to explain it, John. Not to you. Besides, you already know the answer. I never liked Flores, but he was part of my team. I was responsible for him. It’s that simple.”
“So you weren’t willing to leave him behind, but you were willing to shoot him if he didn’t follow instructions. Is that right?”
The younger man shrugged. “I wouldn’t actually have done it. I just needed to get my point across.”
Harper didn’t believe that for a second, but he wasn’t about to waste time arguing. Instead, he opened the folder and flipped idly through the pages. “There’s a lot of uncomplimentary stuff in here,” he said. “Flores is just the tip of the iceberg. For instance, a man called Steve Oliphant signed a sworn statement the day after the incident in which he accused you of physically assaulting Jacob Zuma.”
Harper looked up to see if Kealey grasped the full gravity of that statement. Judging by his indifferent expression, either he didn’t understand the serious nature of the charges leveled against him or he just didn’t care. Harper knew that he was dealing with the latter scenario. Kealey understood perfectly well what he had done, and he clearly wasn’t about to apologize for it. “He accused you of assaulting the South African president, ” Harper repeated. “I assume you can see the problem that causes.”
“If it does create a problem, it’s mine, not yours,” Kealey pointed out. “Besides, why does it matter? Who cares what this guy is accusing me of?”
“It matters because the aide says that you-”
“I saved that man’s life, John. Zuma himself says as much on page eighty-four of that so-called report, so the aide can bitch and moan as loud as he wants. I thought you said you read the whole thing.”
“I thought you said you didn’t read it at all.”
Kealey didn’t respond. Harper closed the folder and pushed it out of the way.
“It also says that after the firefight in downtown Johannesburg, you returned to Kerk Street in time to pull two of your teammates, Alex Whysall and Russell Stiles, from their vehicle, which was knocked out of commission by an IED in front of the courthouse. Both men credit you with saving their lives.”
Kealey shrugged. “Whysall and Stiles were marines before they signed up with Blackwater. They would have done the same for me. That’s what Flores didn’t understand, and that’s why he’ll have a hard time finding anyone else willing to work with him.”
“He’ll have an easier time than you,” Harper pointed out. “The South Africans weren’t the only ones to compile a full report. At the prompting of the State Department, Blackwater carried out its own investigation. The team as a whole was cleared of any serious wrong-doing, but you weren’t so lucky. The head office basically laid the blame for the entire incident at your feet. They accused you, among other things, of exposing your principal to unnecessary risk by ordering your driver to stop in a hostile area.”
“This isn’t news to me. I was there, and I know what happened. What are you getting at?”
“I’m wondering why you didn’t stand your ground. Why you let them pin it all on you.”
“Why would I fight it?” Kealey asked. “I took that job only as a favor to Paul Owen in the first place. Given Zuma’s high profile and the nature of the threat, he asked me to run the detail, and I accepted with several conditions. The first was that I didn’t have to sign a contract with Blackwater. The second was that I had complete control over the way I ran my PSD. Since he was willing to meet both conditions, I took the job. Believe me, I didn’t want it that much to begin with. Getting kicked off the team is no big loss to me.”
Harper took a second to break that statement down. Paul Owen had been Ryan Kealey’s commanding officer during the younger man’s time with the 3rd Special Forces Group. Later the two men had served together in the 1st SFOD-D, otherwise known as Delta Force. While they were stationed at Bragg, Owen was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel and Kealey to major, the rank he retired with in 2001. Over the last few years Owen had been “sheep-dipped,” or “borrowed,” by the CIA to take part in covert operations abroad on several occasions. Most recently, he’d been involved with the recovery of the secretary of state in Pakistan. He and Kealey had worked on that assignment together, butting heads more than once in the process.
Harper had been as surprised as anyone when word trickled down eight months earlier that Owen, after twenty-two years in the army, had decided to retire as a lieutenant-colonel, even though he was scheduled to receive a long-overdue promotion to O-6. The reason for his abrupt departure became readily apparent when he signed up with Blackwater Worldwide less than a month after separating from the armed forces. Unlike most of the former SF operators who signed up with the company, though, Owen did not find himself back on the front lines. Instead, he took a high-level executive post at Blackwater North, the recently established training facility in Mount Carroll, Illinois, where he currently served as program director. Essentially, he was now in charge of the entire facility.
It didn’t surprise Harper that one of Owen’s first acts with the company had been to actively recruit Ryan Kealey for Zuma’s detail in Africa. It would have seemed like a smart move right from the start, and had he been in Owen’s position, Harper might well have done the same thing. Having a man with Kealey’s reputation on the payroll would only boost Blackwater’s already sterling reputation as the leading security firm in the world. Nor did it surprise him that Kealey had elected to fall on his sword rather than allow Owen to take the blame for what happened in Johannesburg. Harper was sure that Owen had tried to talk him out of it, but the retired colonel had more to lose than Kealey did, and Kealey would have been the first to remind him of that fact. Harper couldn’t help but wonder what Paul Owen regretted more-being forced to dump the blame on Kealey’s head or recruiting the man in the first place. It was a question worth considering, he knew, as there was a good chance he’d be asking himself the very same thing in the near future.
“So what are your plans now?” Harper asked carefully. “Assuming, of course, that the National Prosecuting Authority decides to overlook your role in the death of six uniformed SAPS officers, where will you go from here?”
Kealey leaned back in his seat. “That sounds more like a warning than a question.”
Harper shrugged. “Zuma is under a lot of pressure to hold someone accountable, Ryan. Remember, the South African people didn’t see the attack on the motorcade. All they saw was the aftermath, and they’re not exactly happy with the way it turned out. You’d be surprised at how many people were behind those six cops you killed. Now those people are screaming for blood. There’s no guarantee that Zuma won’t buckle under the weight of public opinion, if only to stave off the inevitable for a few more months, and if he does, there’s a good chance you’ll end up facing the sharp end of the stick. You can see why that would be a problem for us. The idea of you taking the stand in the Pretoria High Court does not make the director comfortable.”
“It won’t get that far.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Harper persisted. “Because I have to tell you, if it does get that far, the Agency will have no choice but to disavow. Do you understand that? If and when the NPA decides to file charges, you’ll be on your own. I won’t be in a position to help you.”
“So you’d prefer to help me now. Is that it?”
Harper had been doing his best to ignore the younger man’s combative attitude, but he could no longer contain his rising frustration. “Ryan, why are you making this so difficult? I am trying to help you, for Christ’s sake. I’m offering you a way out, and if you had any sense at all, you’d listen to what I’m telling-”
“I don’t need your help, John, and I didn’t ask you to come here. Besides, I know how this works. I can see through your bullshit. Maybe I couldn’t before, but I can now. You wouldn’t be offering to bail me out unless you wanted something in return, so why don’t you do us both a favor and get to the point?”
Harper exhaled sharply. Okay, Allison, here we go. God forgive us both, he thought, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the first photograph. He looked to make sure it was the right one, then placed it faceup on the table and pushed it across with two fingers. Kealey looked down at it but did not react.
“You recognize her?”
“Yes,” Kealey said. He was still looking at the photograph, which featured a dark-haired woman in her midtwenties. The aid worker was surrounded by a cluster of dark-skinned children, most of whom were badly undernourished but smiling broadly regardless, just like their benefactor. To anyone who didn’t know how the story ended, it probably would have seemed like a heartwarming image. “Lily Durant.”
“I’m guessing you know what happened to her.”
“I know.” Kealey studied the photo, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tensing slightly. It was a nearly imperceptible change in his expression, but Harper, a self-taught expert in kinesics, or nonverbal communication, caught it at once. The younger man looked up and pushed the photograph back across the table. “Is that what this is about? Did Brenneman send you?”
Harper looked at him. “I’d be out of a job if he had any inkling I was here.”
For the first time Kealey was left without a ready response. “So why are you here?”
Harper slumped back in his seat and let out another slow breath. “You were right,” he finally admitted. “About what you said before. I need your help. But that isn’t the only reason I came. Give me five minutes to explain, okay? You won’t regret it.”
Kealey shook his head and looked away, staring absently at a couple sitting a few tables away. Then he returned his attention to Harper, a wan smile on his face. “I always regret it, John. Every time you come looking for me. I don’t see why it should be any different this time.”
“You’re going to want to hear what I have to say. I know you don’t trust me. But trust me on that one point. Five minutes and you’ll know everything.”
Kealey shook his head again, but he didn’t make a move to leave. Harper knew better than to break the awkward silence, though he was sorely tempted to do just that. As he waited for the younger man’s response, he thought back to what he had seen a moment earlier. The way Kealey’s face had changed with the mention of the president’s niece confirmed what Harper had known all along-and what Allison Dearborn had reinforced in his mind. His best chance at getting Kealey back lay with Lily Durant. Or very specifically, with what had happened to her.
Allison had given him what she’d called her “psychobabble one-oh-one” on the different analytical terms for what drove men in his line of work-a rescue personality, instinctive-cooperative behavior, the Jungian hero model. There had been those, and others he couldn’t remember. But when you cut through the obtuse scholarly language, she’d explained, it came down to them being core idealists.
It isn’t so unusual. There’s a reason the Superman character has been popular with boys for almost a century. He embodies their desire to be identified as strong and helpful. And some of them actually grow up to be that way.
That was Allison, Harper thought. He respected her ability to keep things simple. Perhaps more importantly, he liked her because of it. And thank heaven he’d walked into her office, and not some other shrink’s, after he was shot. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even his wife, Harper knew he would have never followed through on their first counseling session if she’d flaunted her doctorates and rained jargon on his head.
Harper well understood that Ryan Kealey was not the type to let the rape and murder of an innocent woman go unpunished. He believed he was supposed to be saving lives and righting wrongs. But whether you were a cop, a fireman, a law enforcement agent, or a surgeon, you had to maintain an emotional firewall, a hard line of defense against the stress and disappointment that accompanied those inevitable losses.
How had Allison put it? Bad guys get away. Patients die. Loss comes with the job when you’re in the business of saving lives.
The problems often came when someone like Kealey assumed personal responsibility for events that were beyond his ability to control. When the expectations he placed on himself collided with reality, and he started measuring himself against failure and loss rather than success. Then every failure became a blow to his sense of worth, and as they compiled, they led to a massive guilt complex.
The upshot was frustration, bitterness, rage, and sometimes a blurring or complete disintegration of behavioral boundaries.
Harper supposed he should have understood what he had in Ryan Kealey when he’d first read his biographical data. Years before they’d met, before Callie Palmer and Naomi Kharmai, when Kealey was with the 1st SFOD-Delta, the death of an innocent young girl in Sarajevo had led him to actions that went far beyond-no, Harper had to be honest with himself-that shattered any acceptable standards of conduct. The punishment he’d visited upon the perpetrators, a group of Serbs in the local militia, had nearly landed him in a military prison for the rest of his life. Instead, he’d been quietly shifted out of that theater of operations.
Harper knew a little of how it felt wanting to be Superman, and admitted it was a large part of his connection to Kealey. But he’d always had a healthy pragmatic streak to keep his ideals in check. Kealey, on the other hand, had his sense of justice, his moral code, and no tempering characteristics. It was at the core of what made him special…and what made him a dangerous risk.
And, Harper thought with a lack of regret he found almost stunning, what may just allow me to push his buttons. Regardless of the anger Keeley was feeling toward Harper and the Agency as a whole, he would want a hand in tracking down the people responsible for Lily Durant’s death. Or so Harper hoped and prayed. He was banking everything on it.
Kealey had been gazing across the room for what seemed a very long time before he turned back to look at him. As if on cue, he said, “Is this about Durant?”
“Yes,” Harper replied. He felt a sense of quiet satisfaction that he’d gotten it right. He really and truly was one calculating son of a bitch. “In a way.”
“Don’t jerk me around, John. Is it about finding the man who killed her or not?”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Much more. Will you hear me out?”
Kealey shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal. Harper waited patiently. Finally, Kealey turned his attention away from the couple to look the older man right in the eyes.
“I’ll listen, but that’s all. I’ll listen for her.”
And not for you, was the unspoken sentiment.
Harper ignored it. He felt a surge of relief, though he managed to keep it from showing on his face. He still didn’t have what he’d come for, but at least he knew that he hadn’t flown 8,000 miles for nothing. He now had the chance to get Kealey back on board, and for the moment, that would have to suffice.