WASHINGTON, D.C.
Jonathan Harper sat uneasily in the Oval Office, an untouched cup of coffee resting on the end table near his elbow. He’d been waiting for ten long minutes and wasn’t expecting the president anytime soon. Director Andrews had been called out of the room a few minutes earlier, leaving Harper to dwell on what was coming next. Apart from a solemn Secret Service agent standing post at the door, he was alone. As he waited, he let his mind wander over what had transpired in Madrid less than three hours earlier. The president had been caught up in a press conference; otherwise, Harper knew he would have been expected at the White House earlier. He had used the unexpected delay to the best of his ability, working the information Kealey had given him through the system. The younger man had called him shortly after the disastrous encounter with Kamil Ghafour, and while the report as a whole was less than welcome, the name of Benazir Mengal seemed promising, at least based on what the Operations Directorate had dug up so far. Reaching over for his coffee, Harper winced as a sharp pain shot through the left side of his chest. Knowing all too well what was about to happen, he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and worked on controlling his breathing. He’d found that to be the hardest part; once he let it get away from him, it only compounded the other symptoms. The pain started to build, like his heart was being squeezed inside his chest. Then, after nearly a minute of pure agony, the edge wore off, and the pain began to subside.
“Sir?” Harper opened his eyes and looked up at the agent’s worried face. The man had crossed the room to check on him. “Sir, are you all right? Should I get a doctor?”
“No.” Harper managed a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. It comes and goes . . . Trust me, I’m getting used to it.”
The man looked uneasy. “Can I get you some water, at least?”
“Yes, that would be great. Thanks.”
“No problem, sir.” The agent crossed to another table to fill a glass from a chilled pitcher of water. He returned a moment later, still looking extremely concerned. Thanking him again, Harper drained half the glass, then dug out a clean handkerchief. He used it to wipe the cold sweat from his face, then leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. Over the next few minutes, his breathing returned to normal. As he’d just said, the pain came and went, but the other part wasn’t true. He wasn’t getting used to it. The attacks were a constant reminder of the bullet he’d taken eight months earlier. To be precise, he’d taken four, but one had done significantly more damage than the other three, and he’d been advised by his doctors that the effects of that particular wound would be long term. So far, he’d found that assessment to be entirely accurate.
He’d been prescribed medication for the pain, of course, but he did his best to use it as little as possible. He drank very little alcohol for exactly the same reason: he preferred to be in complete control at all times. Given the secrets he was charged with protecting, he thought it a prudent course of action. It was a decision he’d made more than twenty years earlier, when he’d first joined the Agency, and he’d never regretted it.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t harbor regrets. Twenty years in the intelligence business afforded one the time and opportunity to generate plenty of self-recrimination. One incident above all others haunted him day in and day out. As he considered this fact, he involuntarily touched his suit jacket, feeling for the scar tissue beneath the layers of clothing. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew it was there. He could hardly forget. Eight months of relentless searching, Harper thought to himself, the anger welling up as it always did, and the Agency was still no closer to finding the identity of his would-be assassin. The woman who’d risked her freedom—indeed, her very life—to kill him.
The act itself was only part of the puzzle. The underlying question was how she had found him in the first place. Harper had his suspicions, but knew he’d never be able to prove his theory. The woman he suspected of leaking the information was his predecessor, a former congresswoman by the name of Rachel Ford. She had resigned under pressure from the White House shortly after the failed assassination attempt and, in doing so, had largely protected herself against prosecution. Simply put, she was an embarrassment to the Agency, as well as to the president, who’d nominated her to begin with. No one was in a hurry to give her an audience. For this reason, Harper suspected he’d never know the whole truth. It was something he had yet to come to terms with, and if he was entirely honest with himself, he doubted that he ever would.
The DDO, or deputy director of operations, was the individual charged with running the Agency’s covert operations around the world. In its entirety, the Directorate of Operations, or DO, comprised less than 10 percent of the Agency’s total workforce. Nevertheless, it was the CIA’s most recognizable element. In short, the DO
was the Agency, at least as far as the general public was concerned. It was the same directorate that all the movies and books were based on. Despite its notoriety, the DO was quite adept at concealing its ongoing operations from the public eye, and the identity of the department head was one of its most prized secrets. At least, it should have been. The knowledge that this information had slipped out on his watch was deeply unsettling to Jonathan Harper; indeed, he had nearly resigned over the incident. As it turned out, he’d been nominated for the second-ranking position at the Agency instead. The promotion—which had been confirmed by the Senate in record time—was largely based on Harper’s adept handling of the attempted attack in New York City, as well as his role in limiting the fallout. With this thought, Harper couldn’t help but shake his head, a small, wry smile creeping over his face. It was the way things worked in the District, and despite his years of experience, the audacity of the players involved never ceased to amaze him. When it came right down to it, politics was nothing more than a game, albeit a game played on the world stage. That wasn’t to say that the players in Washington were immoral, uncaring people, just that many of them frequently prized things other than the nation’s welfare. It was human nature to covet, Harper knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Or to witness, especially given what was at stake. At that moment, the door leading in from the main corridor of the West Wing swung open, and the president stepped in. He was immediately followed by Robert Andrews, the director of Central Intelligence. Exchanging a brief nod with his immediate superior, Harper got to his feet and accepted Brenneman’s proffered hand. Despite the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised by the president’s gracious behavior. He had never found Brenneman to be anything less than courteous and composed, regardless of the circumstances. Still, he knew it was forced, at least on this occasion. When he spoke, the man’s voice confirmed as much. It was curt and carried a slight edge that hinted at his true level of anger and frustration.
“Take a seat, John,” he said, without preamble. “Sorry to be so blunt, but if you don’t mind, we’ll get started right away. I’d like you to tell me what happened in Madrid. What went wrong? I thought we had this well in hand.”
Harper couldn’t help but hesitate, his eyes darting up to the ceiling, where the presidential seal was prominently displayed. He knew the Secret Service monitored the Oval Office with hidden cameras, a fact that never failed to bother him. “Excuse me, sir, but—”
“They’ve been turned off,” Brenneman interrupted impatiently.
“Back to my question, John. What went wrong in Spain?”
Satisfied, Harper leaned back. “It’s hard to say, sir. Based on their initial surveillance, the teams we had in place decided that Ghafour was . . . better protected, more isolated than we first expected. There were very few ways to get to him, and it was determined that a straightforward approach—that is, a cash-for-information exchange—
would offer the best chance for success. Especially given the time constraints.”
“And whose decision was that?” Brenneman demanded. “Kealey’s?”
“Yes, sir. He made the call.”
The president leaned back, an impenetrable mask sliding over his face. “We’ll get back to that later,” he finally said. “For now, walk me through it. Explain what happened, from beginning to end. I need to know the specifics.”
Realizing that Andrews had only offered up a preliminary briefing, Harper nodded and started in on a detailed explanation. He ran all the way through, starting from the time Pétain and her team had initiated surveillance on Ghafour, and ending with the aftermath of the improvised diversion on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. To Harper’s surprise, Brenneman didn’t interrupt once, although his face tightened in anger or disapproval on several occasions. When Harper was done, the president nodded slowly, thinking it through. “So in other words,” he summed up, “all we took out of this was a single name. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Harper conceded, “but in truth, that was all we really expected. Remember, we were operating on the possibility that Kamil Ghafour might have no knowledge at all regarding these events. As far as I’m concerned, sir, we were fortunate to get anything useful out of him.”
Andrews shot a warning look across the table, but Brenneman seemed to have missed the deputy director’s uninvited candor. “I take it you’ve followed up on this man Mengal,” he continued slowly.
“What have you learned in that direction?”
“Well, Ghafour gave us the basics. Mengal retired as a general in the Pakistani army, and for a number of years, he served with InterServices Intelligence. That was a rumor we were able to quickly confirm. Obviously, we make an effort to keep tabs on people like that, and in Mengal’s case, we’ve actually managed to amass quite a bit of information over the past twenty years. In particular, the contacts he developed over that time are worth noting.”
“What do you mean by that?” Brenneman inquired. “Is there anything there to indicate why Mengal wanted to get Saifi out of prison? Or why he’s working with him now, if that’s the case?”
“There is no clear link between the two men,” Harper conceded.
“Mengal has ties to al-Qaeda, as does Saifi. That’s one angle we’re working, but that doesn’t necessarily relate to this situation. The general has also forged links with the Afghan mujahideen, the North Koreans, the Iranians, and a number of Kashmiri rebels, many of whom once served under him in an official capacity. He may well have turned to the latter group if, in fact, he was involved in Secretary Fitzgerald’s abduction.”
“And that is starting to look more and more likely,” Andrews put in. “The rebels could have easily provided the experience and firepower he needed to mount a successful attack on the bridge.”
“That doesn’t mean we can rule out the Pakistani Army’s involvement,” Brenneman reminded them, his voice taking on a cautionary tone. “As you said, Mengal spent more than twenty years in the service. His primary connection is to the army and the men he served with.”
“That’s a fair point, sir,” Andrews said. “Again, we’re pursuing all angles.”
“What about Mengal’s current location?” Brenneman asked. “Did Ghafour—”
“No, he didn’t.” The words were out before Harper could catch them. “Excuse me, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s fine,” Brenneman said, waving away the apology. “But do we have any indication of where Mengal might be? I mean, if he’s disappeared into thin air, the name by itself won’t do us much good.”
“We’re still pushing for a possible location,” Harper admitted. He reached for his coffee. “The Agency is working hand in hand with the NSA and the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. A total of six KH-12 reconnaissance satellites have been retasked to pass over locations Mengal has been known to frequent over the past several years, including his personal residence outside of Islamabad. Unfortunately, the KH-12 does not have dwell capability, meaning it can’t stay stationary over a given point on earth, and it moves in a low, fast orbit, so its value is limited in this situation.”
“What about the 8X?”
Harper had expected the question. Before being elected to the highest office in the land, Brenneman had served five terms in the Senate, where he’d represented his home state of Massachusetts. In his fourth term, he’d served as the vice chair on the Select Committee on Intelligence, during which time he’d been instrumental in pushing for the development of the KH-12’s successor. The 8X, a recon satellite developed by Lockheed Martin and first deployed in the spring of ’99, possessed advanced optics that allowed it to travel at much higher altitudes while maintaining superior image resolution. It had infrared sensors, plus an adjustable dwell capability, which in this case wasn’t strictly necessary, as it could be tasked to travel in geosynchronous orbit, or GEO. This meant that the orbital period of the satellite was exactly the same as the rotation period of the earth, allowing the 8X to essentially “hover” over one point on the planet.
The president knew all of this, just as he knew what dwell capability was. Everything Harper had said before was for the benefit of Robert Andrews, whose expertise in the field of image intelligence, or IMINT, was decidedly limited.
“As you know, sir,” Harper began, “the National Reconnaissance Office has only four 8X satellites in operation. Two more are undergoing repairs and won’t be operational for another six to eight months. Given our limited resources, plus the low probability of finding Mengal through the use of image intelligence, the decision was made to keep them in GEO over areas of interest in Kashmir. It would be different if we had a firm location to lock onto, but since we don’t . . .”
Harper didn’t have to finish; he’d made his point clear, and Brenneman nodded his reluctant agreement. “Do we have assets on the ground?”
“Nothing worth bragging about,” Andrews said. “Operating successfully in that area requires some very specific language skills, as well as a certain physical appearance. You need the whole package to pull it off, and people like that are hard to come by.”
There was a slight pause; then Brenneman pushed forward. “But you do have some people who fit the requirements. Naomi Kharmai, for example. I assume she was brought into this, in part, at least, because she fits the criteria.”
“Yes, sir,” Harper said, shooting a quick look at Andrews. The DCI’s face was remarkably composed; Harper couldn’t tell if he’d mentioned anything about Kharmai’s immediate past to the president. Brenneman leaned back in his seat and ran a weary hand over his face. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this . . . situation presents us with a unique problem. I’ve already met with Ambassador Vázquez. According to the Spanish government’s initial figures, six people died as a direct result of this event, along with Kamil Ghafour. He was the sole enemy casualty; the rest were innocents. One was an officer with the CNP, the National Police. Another was a pregnant woman. She was killed in the blast on San Leonardo de Dios, along with a twelve-year-old child on his way home from a soccer game. Four more are critically injured.”
The president paused for a moment to let that sink in. “It’s a messy situation, and the problem is compounded by the fact that we—and by that, I mean the State Department—made an inquiry through official channels regarding Ghafour less than a week ago. The Spanish are curious about our possible involvement in this, and rightfully so. They’re just testing the waters for now, but it’s only going to get harder to deflect their interest as time goes by, especially if the body count continues to rise. Obviously, we cannot allow them to learn the truth.”
Both Agency officials nodded, and Andrews voiced his agreement. Brenneman paused again, looking down at his hands.
“I understand the need for the actions your people took,” he said.
“The prospect of American intelligence officers being apprehended on foreign soil, especially while taking part in an operation of this magnitude, is simply unthinkable. It would undermine our ties to governments around the world, not to mention impugning my entire administration.” He paused for a very long time, weighing his next words. “At the same time, what happened in Madrid today is completely unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. I don’t know how to make that any more clear.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Harper spoke up.
“Sir, I agree with everything you’ve said,” he remarked, “and needless to say, disciplinary action will be taken against the people involved. Nevertheless, I feel that our people, Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai in particular, remain vital to the successful outcome of this mission. The mission being, of course, the safe recovery of Secretary Fitzgerald.”
Brenneman nodded slowly. “So you want them to stay on.”
“Yes, sir,” Harper responded, without delay. “I do.”
“What do you think, Bob?” Brenneman asked, shifting his gaze.
“Are you of the same opinion?”
Andrews debated for a long time, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes, sir, I am. Their combined track record speaks for itself. We can’t afford to ignore their past success.”
“Well, what about the ransom demands?” Brenneman asked after a moment, switching gears without warning. “Does that tell us anything more about the people who pulled this off?”
Both men considered that for a moment. A claim of responsibility for the abduction of Brynn Fitzgerald, as well as the abduction of 27 other hostages over the past several months, had arrived two hours earlier in the form of a VHS tape, which had been hand-delivered to the U.S. embassy in Islamabad. After an extensive interrogation—or at least as extensive as could be realistically expected in so short a time—it had been determined that the messenger was a blind cutout; essentially, he knew nothing of value. He couldn’t even give an accurate description of the man who had paid him to deliver the tape. Still, he was being detained while the Pakistani authorities delved into his background.
The tape had been converted to streaming media, then sent to Langley via an encrypted file, where it was written onto a blank DVD. Brenneman had watched the recording in the Oval Office, along with Andrews, Harper, DNI Bale, and Stan Chavis. If nothing else, it was proof that Saifi had had a hand in everything that had taken place. It featured the Algerian terrorist standing before a white flag that bore the oval-shaped symbol of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. Saifi’s first demand had been quick and to the point: he wanted the release of 48 prisoners currently being held at Guantanamo Bay, all of whom were either Algerian-born or of Algerian extraction. This hadn’t come as a surprise to anyone. Neither had his second demand: a sum of fifty million U.S. dollars to be divided among forty accounts in banks known for their willingness and ability to block government inquiries. All of it was to be delivered within the next forty-eight hours, or Saifi would begin killing hostages. He had threatened to start with Fitzgerald, but Harper had immediately dismissed that part of the recording. The acting secretary was by far the Algerian’s biggest bargaining chip, and there was no way Saifi would kill her until he had gotten what he wanted. On this point, they were all in complete agreement.
“Sir, there’s nothing unexpected or unusual about Saifi’s first two demands,” Harper began. “Assuming Mengal isn’t involved, Saifi
could, theoretically, use the money to reestablish the GSPC, which hasn’t been on anyone’s radar for years. If Mengal is involved, then Saifi might still receive a portion of those funds. I doubt he really cares much about the prisoners . . . You’ll recall that he hardly gave any instructions on where they were to be transferred, or how they were supposed to get there. He did, however, give extensive instructions on how the money was to be delivered. Saifi doesn’t have a financial background, so obviously, he has someone advising him in that direction. More likely, Mengal—again, assuming he’s involved—
is the one calling the shots with respect to the second demand. He was a senior figure in ISI, so presumably, he would know how hard it is to wipe funds clean of electronic surveillance.”
Brenneman considered that for a moment. “And what about the third demand?”
Harper hesitated. The third demand was the one that had thrown them all for a loop, mainly because it didn’t fit in with what they knew about the Algerian terrorist. Before the tape ended, Saifi had demanded an immediate cessation to the forthcoming Indian-Israeli arms deal, pointing out that the sale of superior military technology to India would “infect the Indian people with the same grandiose, imperalistic dreams that have consumed the U.S. government for years.” As with the money, Saifi had given specific instructions on how the cancelled deal was to be reported in the media. He’d picked out three major networks—DD National in India, PTV1 in Pakistan, and CNN in the United States—and insisted that the cancellation be reported on all three channels prior to July 18, the date the transaction was scheduled to go through.
“The third demand, sir, is not concurrent with what we know about Saifi’s background. Nor does it make sense when one considers the aims of his group. In other words, it’s completely out of character for him. But if Benazir Mengal is actually behind the whole thing, then it might make perfect sense. If that deal falls through, Pakistan will maintain the status quo, militarily speaking, and the Pakistani forces fighting in Kashmir will suddenly have a huge psychological advantage. We don’t know much about Mengal just yet—I have people working on that right now—but we do know that he spent a decade with ISI in a senior role. If he still has some strange allegiance to his former service, I wouldn’t put it past him to engineer something like this.”
“Fair enough,” the president said. He frowned for a moment, thinking it through. Then he looked up and appraised them both.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to take a hard look at that tape. We need to try to learn from it, and we also need to try and figure out why Saifi
didn’t use the secretary of state on the recording. That still doesn’t make sense to me. But for now, let me return to the issue at hand, namely, what took place today in Madrid. The Spanish government is already asking some dangerous questions, and they’ve only just started looking. I have to know that there is nothing out there that could link us to this. If I’m going to deny it outright, I need to be sure it won’t come back to us. That it won’t come back to me.”
“It won’t, sir,” Harper assured him. “That is the one thing you can be certain of. In the meantime, no one is standing still. The Bureau’s team landed at Chaklala this morning, and they’re already examining the vehicles destroyed in the ambush, as well as the site itself on Airport Road. With any luck, they’ll have some preliminary observations by the end of the day. We can factor in whatever they come up with and go from there.”
“Good,” Brenneman said. He got to his feet, and the other men followed suit. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Interagency cooperation on this matter is absolutely vital.”
“Of course,” Andrews said as he approached the door, Harper a few steps behind. “We’re doing everything we can, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Brenneman paused just inside the door, which seemed to open of its own accord. He appraised them both in turn. “Gentlemen, I want hourly updates. Obviously, I want to see anything relating to the situation in Kashmir, but finding Secretary Fitzgerald remains our top priority. In order to do that, we need to find Mengal as soon as possible. As far as I’m concerned, nothing is more important than tracking him down. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Andrews answered for both of them. “Perfectly clear.”