MADRID
After dropping Kealey and Pétain at the building site, Ramirez had continued to circle around the block, just as Kealey had instructed. He had kept his eyes forward the entire time, and he had not tried to talk to Naomi, which—as far as she was concerned—was the only good thing about the whole situation. She still couldn’t believe that Ryan had pulled her off in favor of Pétain, but at the same time, part of her wasn’t surprised at all. Worse still, part of her said she deserved it.
She had tried to hold off from thinking about it, but now, alone with her thoughts in the back of the moving van, she couldn’t help but wonder what he saw when he looked at her. Only one thing was certain. Whatever he saw, it wasn’t good. There had been a time when she had enjoyed his genuine admiration and respect, but those days were obviously over. Now when she caught him looking at her, all she saw was concern or anger. Sometimes both. She involuntarily touched the scar on her face, which even a heavy application of make-up couldn’t completely hide. She had grown accustomed to seeing the pity in other people’s eyes, but she had yet to see it in Ryan’s. The thought that his concern and anger might give way to something like that was almost unbearable, but she knew it was only a matter of time.
She slumped against the inner wall of the van and looked down at her hands. They were shaking slightly—not so much that anyone else would notice—but Naomi could feel the tremors shooting up through her forearms. Her legs were trembling, too. She’d taken her pills only five hours earlier, and her body was already demanding more. She closed her eyes as tight as she could and pushed down a wave of nausea, thinking about the little white tablets in her right pocket. The temptation was great, especially since she had more hidden in her bag at the hotel, but she didn’t want to be stuck if they couldn’t get back and she needed them later. She thought about asking Ramirez to slow down, but she didn’t want to get him started. Besides, she could hear him talking urgently over his cell phone, and she didn’t want to interrupt.
Suddenly, the van wrenched hard to the right, throwing her from the bench. She tumbled across the metal floor, flailing for something to hold on to, and then the vehicle squealed to a halt, propelling her into the metal partition. The air was knocked out of her lungs, so she lay still for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Dazed, she climbed to her feet and looked through the rectangular hole in the partition. The harsh words on the tip of her tongue dissipated when she saw the look on Ramirez’s face.
“That was your man,” he told her. “They’re in a trailer toward the rear of the site, and they’ve got a serious problem. Ghafour is down. Pétain shot him.”
Naomi pushed down the shock and thought as fast as she could, quickly considering, then discarding, any irrelevant questions. “Did they get anything out of him?”
“No. But he’s still conscious . . . They’re working on it.”
“What did he tell you to do?”
“Stay here and wait for another call.”
“What?” Naomi couldn’t contain her surprise. “That’s all he said?”
“That’s it,” Ramirez confirmed.
“That’s bullshit! We’ve got to get them out of there. They don’t have time to question him.”
Ramirez’s face turned hard, deep fissures creasing his forehead, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I agree, but that isn’t our call. You heard the man . . . We stay where we are.”
Naomi put her face up to the opening in the partition, cursing the metal divider, which partially obscured her view. She gazed through the windshield, trying to determine their exact location. It looked as if they were close to the gate, but it was the wrong one: they were on the west side of the construction site. “Look, let’s just pull around the block once more. Then you can call and let them know. They’ll be better off if they have our exact position.”
Ramirez remained silent, thinking it through. He was clearly uneasy, but it was hard to argue with her logic. “Fine.” He dropped the Toyota into drive and pulled back into traffic. Seconds later they had turned onto Calle de San Bernardino. Naomi was looking intently at an aerial view of the construction site and the surrounding roads when she heard Ramirez utter a low, hard curse. Then she heard the sirens. Ignoring the cold wave that swept through her body, she pressed her face back to the partition and looked through the windshield. Two CNP cruisers heading west were swinging a hard left onto San Leonardo de Dios.
“Oh, shit,” Naomi breathed. “They’ve beaten us to it.”
“Then that’s it,” Ramirez announced, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. He seemed resolute, but also strangely relieved.
“They’re on their own. There’s nothing more we can do.”
“No, keep going,” Naomi commanded, thinking back to the aerial map. “Go to the next street, and take a right. We’ll approach from the south.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Ramirez turned to stare at her, despite the speed at which they were moving down the busy road. “This op is blown. We have to pull out right—”
“Everything at the hotel is packed up, okay? We’re not risking a thing. Make the call. Tell the team leaders to pull out, but we’re circling around.” Ramirez turned forward again and opened his mouth to argue, but Naomi spoke first, her voice low and cutting. “Ramirez, just do it. Do it now, or I’ll personally tell Harper how fast you wanted to cut and run. Got it?”
“Fuck!” The operative slammed his hand against the wheel. Then he picked his phone up off the passenger seat and hit a button, muttering something under his breath. Naomi held her breath as the van passed the spot where the cruisers had turned. It all came down to the next intersection, but as they approached, Ramirez slowed for the turn. She let out her breath in a quiet sigh of relief. If they could get into position in time, Ryan might still have a chance of making it out in one piece.
Inside the trailer, Pétain was back at the window, peering anxiously through the gap in the blinds. Kamil Ghafour was seated on the floor, propped against the cheap wooden desk. Standing before him, Kealey searched his face. The man was pale and sweating profusely, but his eyes were open and clear. Kealey could tell the epinephrine had worked, but despite the pressure bandage he had applied to the Algerian’s leg, the wound was still bleeding at a steady rate. Worse yet, the police were closing in. Kealey knew he could hold them off for a while, but if Ghafour died in the meantime, the whole situation would change dramatically, and not for the better. Kealey knelt before the other man and stared directly into his eyes. “Kamil, can you hear me?”
The Algerian stared back blankly for a moment. Then his lips twitched, and he nodded his head weakly.
“Tell me you can hear me. I want to hear you say the words.”
“Yes,” Ghafour rasped. “I can hear you.”
“Good. Now listen,” Kealey said. He was striving to keep his voice low and deliberate, the better to get his point across. “You are dying, Kamil.”
The words, which were delivered in a calm, rational tone, had little effect. Ghafour’s eyes opened slightly wider, but otherwise he didn’t react.
“I’ve applied a pressure bandage,” Kealey continued, “but your femoral artery is partially severed. You are bleeding out. Unless you receive medical attention, you’ll be dead in twenty minutes.” Actually, it would be much sooner than that, but Kealey knew he had to give the other man hope.
“I need . . .” Ghafour lowered his head and coughed sharply, spittle and blood flying into his lap. “I need a doctor. Get me a doctor.”
“Not until you answer my question. It’s a simple question, Kamil. In fact, it couldn’t be easier. You had the chance to come out of this a healthy, richer man, but you fucked that up. If you tell me what I need to know right now, you get to live, which is better than nothing. Now tell me . . . Who came to see Saifi in Algiers?”
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.”