LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
It was just after 8:00 in the morning as Harper walked into the DCI’s office on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building. The OHB was part of the sprawling campus that made up the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, home to the Memorial Wall and to an impressive library with 26,000 volumes, which, unfortunately for the general public, was open only to Agency employees. There was a day-care center on the ground floor, along with a cafeteria and a small gymnasium. In short, the OHB had all the amenities of most modern U.S. corporations. Like the employees of those corporations, however, the people who worked for the Agency rarely had time to enjoy such luxuries. This was especially true in times of crisis, and the Agency—along with the rest of the U.S. intelligence apparatus—had been running on crisis mode for four days, ever since the abduction of the secretary of state in Rawalpindi. This being the case, it was fitting that the director looked as tired as the people who worked for him, Harper thought. Robert Andrews was seated behind his heavy, hand-carved desk, his sleeves rolled up, a telephone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder. He was looking over a sheaf of documents as he talked, and, glancing up for an instant, waved Harper into a seat. A few minutes later, he ended the call with a series of terse instructions, then slammed the receiver down and glared at his deputy.
“So,” he began, his fingers drumming out an uneven rhythm on his desk, “what’s the situation? What’s going on in Pakistan?”
Harper sighed inwardly as he considered where to begin. He’d received Kharmai’s call at home nearly six hours earlier, at 2:15 in the morning. Once he was awake enough to hear what she was saying, he’d jumped out of bed and moved into his study, where he proceeded to get all the facts from her. The general situation appeared pretty clear; Kealey had disobeyed a direct order by taking Pétain to Islamabad instead of Kharmai. And that was assuming he’d even flown into Islamabad, as instructed; at this point, he could be anywhere. To make matters worse, he had yet to make contact with Owen and the rest of his team.
Harper relayed all of this to Andrews. The full explanation took about five minutes, during which time the director didn’t utter a word. When Harper was done, Andrews ran a hand over his face, then cast a long glance out the west-facing windows.
“Why hasn’t Kealey made contact?” he finally asked, shifting his gaze back to Harper.
Harper shrugged. “There’s no way to know. Maybe he picked up some surveillance when he arrived. Maybe he shook it, and he’s waiting to make sure he’s clean. It could be anything.”
“And why did he leave Kharmai behind? Why take Pétain? From what I’ve read, it seems that Kharmai would be far more valuable in that situation.”
“That’s a fair assessment. As far as I can tell, Pétain is more of a liability to operational security than an asset, at least in this situation. I don’t know why he brought her.”
Andrews mulled over that for a moment, then nodded his agreement. It was one of the things that Harper had noticed about the DCI. Since taking the reins of the Agency two and a half years prior, Andrews had mellowed substantially. There had been a time when he’d been quick to express his dissatisfaction with the pace of the Agency and the endless dissemination of information that intelligence work required, but he had since learned to control his temper. In the end, the man’s change in demeanor didn’t really affect day-today operations, thought it certainly made for a more relaxed work environment, at least in normal circumstances. Of course, the current situation was anything but, and the public dissemination of Amari Saifi’s demands had only made things worse.
“I know the basics about her father, but Pétain is a mystery to me. There has to be some reason Kealey would want her along, though . . . What’s her background?”
Harper had anticipated this question, and he’d taken the time to read up on the young operative. “Marissa Pétain was born in 1981 in Paris, the second child of Javier Machado and Élise Pétain. Her father was stationed at our embassy at the time, but Élise and her daughters stayed in France when Machado was transferred to Rabat in ’84. Pétain attended the American School of Paris from ’85 to ’99, during which time she became fluent in German, Italian, and Russian. She also has English, Spanish, and French, thanks to her parents. After graduation, she was accepted to Marquette. She immigrated to the States in ’99, by which time her father had already retired from the Agency. Pétain did a BS in information systems at Marquette, then went on to earn master’s degrees in mathematics and psychology . . . She picked up both of those at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.”
Andrews frowned. “You mentioned the second daughter. She was with the Agency as well, wasn’t she?”
Harper sighed again, aloud this time. Then he went on to explain the rest, telling the director the same thing that Pétain had told Kealey less than two days earlier. When Harper was done, Andrews appeared to be slightly stunned.
“How did she get through the front doors, John?” he asked, spreading his hands in a questioning gesture. “Given that her sister was killed on assignment in Colombia, not to mention the incident with the pictures and the videotape, she should have been screened out during the psych exams, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Harper admitted, “but she had the qualities we were looking for, and you can’t deny her credentials. She seemed to be a perfect fit for us, especially for the DO, and besides, her family history with the Agency wasn’t all negative.”
“You’re referring to Machado.”
“Yes. I’m sure you know about him and Noriega . . . I mean, the man was a legend. Javier Machado is one of our most decorated operatives, past or present.”
Andrews nodded slowly. “Yes, I know about Machado. I’m just saying we should have taken a harder look at Pétain before taking her on. You have to admit, John, it sounds like the woman has a ton of baggage.”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t, but she’s extremely motivated. In fact, she’s in line for something big later in the year.” Harper paused, realizing it would be doubly hard to get that particular op approved, given Pétain’s leading role in it, the area in which it would be conducted, and Andrew’s obvious skepticism with respect to the young operative’s state of mind. But that could all be figured out at a later date.
“Anyway,” Harper continued, “here’s the point. She’s a capable operative, but she doesn’t belong in Pakistan, and we’re still not sure why Kealey brought her along. I’m afraid we only have one recourse for the time being, and that’s to sit and wait. Eventually, he’ll have to make contact.”
“And what about the rest of the team?” Andrews demanded. He thumped a hand on his desk, a flash of the old temper coming through. “Are they just supposed to sit around and wait for him?”
“Of course not. Owen has been in constant contact for the past thirty hours. They’ve already managed to rule out two of the names on the list, and they’re moving on to the third, a veterinarian living in Faisalabad.”
“A vet?” An incredulous look crossed the DCI’s face. “You must be joking. Mengal would never entrust Fitzgerald’s life to a veterinarian. She’s too valuable to him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have a choice. Maybe we’ve overestimated his reach . . . Perhaps his contacts aren’t as extensive as we initially thought. In any case, the vet came up as a possible candidate, so he has to be checked.”
Andrews let out a long breath through pursed lips, then leaned back in his black leather chair. “What about Kharmai?”
Harper shifted his weight in his seat, but he wasn’t stalling; he’d already thought this through. “I want her in Pakistan. At the very least, she’s an extra pair of eyes. Owen could use her in Faisalabad, at least until Kealey checks in. Then we can go from there.”
“Actually, I’d like her to stay where she is,” Andrews said, throwing Harper off track. “Something’s come up, and we can’t risk moving her until we know where it’s going.”
The deputy director straightened in his seat, suddenly alert.
“What do you mean? What’s going on?”
“I received a call from Stan Chavis late last night,” Andrews explained, referencing the president’s chief of staff. “He told me that the Spanish ambassador has requested a meeting with the president. Apparently, the investigation of the bombing in Madrid has already turned up some evidence. The CNP has recovered a handgun that was dropped at the scene, and they’ve managed to get some usable prints.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Harper said dismissively. “Naomi was the only one who handled that weapon without gloves, and they don’t have her prints on file.”
“Maybe not, but that’s not all. They’ve also managed to get their hands on a video recording, which was taken at the scene of the bombing.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Harper muttered, rubbing a hand across his face. “What kind of tape? What does it show?”
“The ambassador didn’t say. Anyway, I’d order Kealey and Pétain to stay put as well, but since they can’t be found, just get word to Kharmai. Hopefully, it’s nothing, but we have to take the proper precautions.”
“I’ll let her know,” Harper said grimly. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Chavis wants us there for the meeting, which means that the president wants us there. It’s set for three this afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
“We’ll ride together,” Andrews said. “We need to prepare for the worst.”
“Which is?” Harper asked. He had a good idea of what “the worst”
entailed, but he wanted to hear the other man’s thoughts on the matter.
“The worst,” Andrews remarked glumly, “is that they’re holding something back to catch Brenneman on his heels. The worst is that Kealey and Pétain never made it to the airport. The worst is that the Spanish have them in custody, even as we speak.”
“Christ,” Harper murmured. He hadn’t thought of that; in his mind, the worst possible scenario was that the Spanish had made a positive ID on one of the operatives who’d taken part in Madrid.
“You think that’s possible?”
Andrews shrugged. “I doubt it. I don’t think they would sit on that kind of development for twelve minutes, let alone twelve hours. At the same time, we have to be ready. They know something . . . That’s the main thing. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone to these lengths to get an audience with the president.”
“Okay,” Harper said, drawing up a list in his mind of steps that had to be taken. He was already thinking about deniability. “I’ll start putting together a list of plausible scenarios and our possible response to each. We already have protocols in place, but with something of this magnitude . . .”
“I know,” Andrews said, his tone despondent. “We’ve got six dead civilians in Madrid, John, along with Kamil Ghafour, whom we just happened to inquire about a week before his death. We can’t afford to be tied to this. We’ll let the ambassador say his piece, but we need to be ready for anything.”
“It all depends on what they have. If the footage is less than conclusive, we might be able to wiggle out of it.”
“But if it is conclusive . . .”
Harper nodded his understanding. Andrews didn’t have to finish his sentence, because his meaning was clear. Whatever else happened, the incident would not touch the president. Stan Chavis would make sure of that. But that was long term, and Harper pushed the thought away, choosing instead to focus on the immediate situation. The upcoming meeting would not be pretty. All hell was about to break loose regardless, but if the Spanish had incontrovertible evidence that the CIA had played a role in the Madrid bombing and the death of Kamil Ghafour, then the fallout would stain the Agency for years to come. They simply couldn’t allow the truth to come to light.
“See what you can do, John,” Andrews said. Harper took his cue and stood, just as the DCI’s phone began to ring. “Find us a way out. If one of your people was caught on video, you know what has to happen. As for the meeting with Vázquez, Diane will call you when it’s time to leave.”
Harper nodded and left the room. On his way through the anteroom, Diane Neal, the DCI’s long-standing secretary, said good-bye and lifted a hand in a little wave, but Harper was oblivious. As he walked the short distance back to his own office, his legs felt heavy, a weight settling onto his shoulders. His head was spinning with the possible consequences of what he had just heard. Although the Spanish ambassador’s precise agenda remained a mystery, Harper knew that he wouldn’t have sought the meeting with Brenneman without the express approval of his government. In other words, the Spanish government clearly had some kind of damaging evidence on its hands, and that could only mean one thing: at least one of the people involved in Madrid was facing a very long vacation in a nonextradition country, immediately preceded by complete separation from the Central Intelligence Agency.
The truth was staring him right in the face, and as much as he wanted to, Harper couldn’t ignore it. Somebody’s career was about to come to a very decisive end, and if the Agency couldn’t sidestep the Spanish government’s allegations, then Harper—along with most, if not all, of the senior staff—would be following that unfortunate person right out the door.