The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  “That’s not good enough. By that time they need to be in the air.”

  “Yes, sir…I’ll make it happen.”

  “Good,” Brenneman said. “Next, I want to talk about possible suspects. I realize we’re in the early stages here, but a number of agencies have been looking at one man in particular for the last couple weeks. His name came up in relation to our missing tourists, but given the similarities between those incidents and the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald, I think he’s worth mentioning. Jeremy, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Thayer nodded and got to his feet. He left the room for a moment, then returned with a stack of briefing folders. The folders were distributed quickly, and the national security advisor retook his seat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what you’re about to see—for those of you who haven’t been made privy to this information—is highly classified. It is not, I repeat, not to be circulated freely within your respective agencies. As it stands…”

  Tuning Thayer out, Harper flipped open the folder. What he saw was the State Department’s file on Amari Saifi. It was the same file he’d helped compile with help from people at State, Langley, and the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia. Scanning the documents inside, he saw nothing new, and he would have already been alerted if anything substantial had changed. As a result, his thoughts began to drift as Thayer droned on and on. Before long, he found himself thinking about the way he’d left things with Kealey in Oraefi.

  It still bothered him, which wasn’t entirely a bad thing. In fact, it came as something of a relief to the deputy DCI. It meant he hadn’t resigned himself to the indiscriminate use of the people who worked for him. The people who used to work for him, he reminded himself. Ryan Kealey’s five-year relationship with the CIA had always been hard to define, but there was one constant factor: his involvement always stemmed from some kind of national crisis, save for his first assignment in Syria. And he had always come through. He’d served as a full-time employee in the Operations Directorate for less than six months, none of them concurrently. Most of the time, he was listed as an independent contractor, but even that was rare. It was rare to see his name on paper, anyway. Plausible deniability, as always, was the key factor. Unfortunately, it was lost once a name popped up on any kind of official document, even on something as insignificant as an internal memorandum.

  And that was the smallest threat to a field operative’s anonymity. What had transpired in New York City ten months earlier had garnered worldwide attention, and once Kealey’s role in that incident had been made public, he’d immediately acquired a certain degree of unwanted fame. The exposure had been mostly limited to his name and background, as there weren’t many pictures of him floating around, but needless to say, his days of undercover work had come to a screeching halt. Still, it could have been worse. Kealey had wanted out, anyway, mostly because he wanted to devote himself to Naomi Kharmai’s recovery, and Harper had let them go. Given the sacrifices they had made, it was the least he could do.

  Only that was all in the past, and things had changed. Once it became clear that Amari Saifi had played a key role in the recent wave of abductions in Pakistan, the president had immediately asked for Kealey’s help in tracking him down. Harper couldn’t fault the president—Kealey’s record spoke for itself, after all—but it did put Harper in the uncomfortable position of having to call his old friend out of retirement. Moreover, he had had to figure out a way to accomplish that task, which at the time had seemed just short of impossible.

  Nevertheless, he had managed to do it. He didn’t regret asking more of a man who’d already given so much. Nor did he regret the methods he’d used to lure Kealey back into the fold. The story he’d spun in Oraefi wasn’t entirely a lie; Naomi Kharmai had trained extensively at the Farm and was more than capable in her new role as a field operative. Her instructors had all given her top marks, though to be fair, they didn’t have the full story on their prized student. But to Harper, that was immaterial. He knew that Kealey’s participation was entirely reliant on Kharmai’s—that he was only doing it to watch out for her—but if that was what it took to get the younger man into the fold, then so be it.

  In truth, he was deeply concerned about their underlying motivations, but as long as they were prepared to see it through, he was willing to set his reservations aside. He had set the wheels in motion, and that was that. If Saifi was, in fact, responsible for Secretary Fitzgerald’s disappearance, the stakes had just been raised dramatically, and while Harper despised clichés, he had to admit that one was applicable here: drastic times called for drastic measures, and that meant taking advantage of every resource, no matter how it was acquired.

  CHAPTER 12

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Twenty minutes after the briefing folders were handed out, the meeting came to a gradual close. The assembled officials got to their feet, following the president’s lead, and started to file through the door. As Harper collected his materials, Brenneman caught his eye and indicated, with a quick, familiar gesture, that he wanted a word in private. The deputy DCI moved to the side to allow for traffic and watched as Brenneman murmured his way through a series of sidebars. Before long, Harper was the only one left; even Robert Andrews, his immediate superior, had been asked to leave the room. Either that or he’d been politely ushered out, which made more sense to the Agency’s second-ranking official. While Andrews held the top spot, he wasn’t a career intelligence officer, and the president had always placed a priority on experience.

  Brenneman came around the table and extended a hand. “Thanks for waiting, John. I appreciate your patience.” He shook his head slowly, as if the enormity of the situation was only just hitting him. “It’s just unbelievable. The sheer audacity of these people….”

  “I know, sir, but we’ll find her, and we’ll bring her back.” Alive was the key last word of that sentence. Unspoken, of course, but nevertheless, it seemed to hang in the air. “You have my word on it.”

  “And the people responsible?”

  “We’ll find them, too.”

  Brenneman nodded and glanced over his shoulder to the entrance of the conference room. A man in a dark suit was standing just inside the door, which was still open. His hands were in front of his body, one folded over the other, but his attention was clearly fixed on his principal. Harper had been alone with the president dozens of times, but Secret Service agents didn’t differentiate between friend and foe; in their eyes, everyone was a potential threat. The constant paranoia was part of what made them so good at their work. “Sean, could you give us a minute, please?”

  The agent hesitated, then nodded brusquely. “Of course, Mr. President.” He murmured something into his sleeve and left the room. A moment later, the door closed with a gentle click.

  Brenneman extended an arm toward the table. “Please, have a seat.”

  Harper picked out a chair. Once they were both seated, the commander in chief leaned forward and emitted a weary sigh. Nearly a minute passed in silence, and then he spoke without warning.

  “John, how long have we known each other?”

  The question caught the deputy DCI off guard, but he sensed it was serious. “About six years, I believe. You were the president-elect when we first met. It was a month or two before your inauguration.”

  “That’s right.” There was a meaningful pause. “In all that time, I’ve never seen you outside of Langley or this building. Do you realize that? I’ve never once spent more than a few minutes talking with you about anything other than national security. I’ve never met your wife. I have no idea where you live.”

  “Mr. President, I…” Harper wasn’t sure where this was going, and nothing in his career had prepared him for this kind of conversation. “Sir, what exactly are you getting at?”

  The other man smiled mildly. “John, for all the good you do at Langley, you are not a politician, so you may find this hard to understand. Especially since you work in such a sensit
ive environment. But here’s the thing…You are one of the few people in government service who knows how to keep things quiet. We may not know each other very well, but I’ve told you a lot of things in confidence over the years, and I’ve yet to hear them anywhere else. In short, you’ve earned my trust, as well as my deep gratitude for your hard work in defending this country.”

  Harper nodded slowly; he was deeply surprised by the president’s candor. “Sir, I don’t know what to say. I’m pleased you feel that way, but it’s my job. I would never divulge anything you tell me in confidence.”

  “I know that, and that’s why I want to ask you something.” Brenneman hesitated, then propped his elbows on top of the table and interlaced his fingers. “Remember, I’m looking for your honest opinion here. I won’t accept anything less.”

  “Of course. It goes without saying.”

  “It has to do with Dowd’s comments early in the briefing. About my stance on the India-Israel deal and how it may have…precipitated this event.”

  Harper was already shaking his head emphatically. “Mr. President, you are not responsible for what happened in Pakistan. Not for any of it.”

  “But if there’s a chance I could get her back by opposing the deal, shouldn’t I—”

  “No.” Harper waited for the other man to meet his eyes. “Sir, it’s too late for that. If you renege now, you might as well negotiate directly with the terrorists, because that’s how it’s going to look.”

  “But that’s not—”

  “That’s how the American people will see it,” Harper repeated forcefully, “and that’s exactly how it will be perceived around the world. You have to stay the course. At this point, it’s your best option. Your only option, really.”

  “Stay the course,” Brenneman repeated slowly. He closed his eyes, lowered his chin slightly, and began massaging his temples. “I feel like I’ve backed myself into a corner on this, John. There’s no room to maneuver.”

  “I can understand why you feel that way, sir, but I repeat: this wasn’t your doing, and my advice stands. Our best bet right now is to investigate as thoroughly as we can, follow up every lead, while at the same time preparing for the people who did this to make contact. Which they will do, and sooner rather than later.”

  The president nodded, looked up, and straightened his tie unconsciously. “I’m confident the investigation will proceed smoothly. I have a lot of faith in the FBI. Especially in Director Susskind.”

  Harper nodded. “That’s understandable. She started out working violent crimes in New Jersey, and the Bureau has more experience with kidnapping cases than any other law enforcement agency in the world.”

  “Yes, they wrote the book on that particular subject, and they’ve had a lot of success with their extraterritorial work. Even in Pakistan, where it’s not exactly easy to get an investigation off the ground. As you know, the Bureau was involved with the apprehension of both Ramzi Yousef in 1995 and Khalid Mohammed in 2003, so they have a proven track record in the area. At the same time, there are…” Brenneman hesitated as he searched for the right word. “There are limits as to what they can ask, as well as how they can ask it. And that’s assuming they even manage to find Saifi.”

  “Sir, we can’t link him to this yet,” Harper cautioned. “He may top the list of suspects, but it’s better to wait and see what the Bureau turns up before we start jumping to conclusions.”

  “I’ll be immensely surprised if it turns out he wasn’t involved. We know he took part in the incident two weeks ago.”

  “You’re referring to the kidnapping on the Karakoram Highway.”

  “Yes,” Brenneman confirmed. “Let’s set aside the fact that he shouldn’t even be a free man for a moment. He’s perfected his modus operandi, it seems, and nothing about what happened today strikes me as the work of amateurs. At best, they were skilled professionals dressed in army uniforms. At worst…”

  “They were actual Pakistani soldiers,” Harper finished grimly. Eyewitness accounts had verified that Fitzgerald’s abductors had been wearing in army fatigues. “And if that’s the case, we have a very serious problem.”

  Brenneman didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he stood and moved over to the far wall, where several 32-inch monitors were positioned next to each other. The volume had been muted on all three, but the identical images were already numbingly familiar. CNN had been running the tape on a continuous loop, and over the last half hour, the footage had been burned into the minds of millions of disbelieving Americans. Like many senior U.S. officials, the secretary of state only traveled with members of one network, known as “the pool,” which shared coverage with its competitors under a long-standing agreement. The pool was rotated on a regular basis, and for Secretary Fitzgerald’s first official trip, CNN had been next in line. The network had paid a devastating price for the privilege. Eight crew members had been killed in the attack on the secretary’s motorcade, including Susan Watkins, a senior foreign correspondent and one of CNN’s most recognizable anchors. The film taken after the incident had been shot by cameramen from the bureau office in Islamabad.

  Finally, Brenneman addressed his subordinate’s last point. He was still facing the monitors when he spoke. “John, do you think it’s possible that the Pakistani government could be directly involved with this? On any level whatsoever?”

  “It seems like a stretch, sir. They’re extremely upset over your position on Israel’s arms sale to India, I know, but Musharraf has too much to lose by engaging in something of this magnitude. I just don’t think it’s a possibility, despite the evidence we’ve seen so far.”

  “And what if you’re wrong?” The president turned away from the monitors to face his subordinate. “You told me yourself how seriously Pakistan takes the dispute over Jammu and Kashmir. You emphasized the fact that they’ve fought a number of wars over that land. Kargil in ’99 is only the latest example, and by no means is that the worst possible scenario. We’re talking about a country with at least forty nuclear weapons here. Maybe the arms sale to India was just the tipping point. The final straw, so to speak.”

  “Sir, I just can’t believe they’d risk something like this,” Harper repeated, “but I think we should withhold judgment until the Bureau’s team submits a preliminary report. Like I said, the Agency will be thoroughly involved as well.”

  “Which brings me to my next point,” Brenneman said. “You just returned from overseas, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I trust you managed to find your man.”

  “I did. And he’s willing to help.”

  “Good.” A genuine smile crossed the president’s face, but it disappeared just as fast. The situation was much too dire for any real relief to take hold. “I’m reassured to know you have your best on this, John. I’m well aware of what Kealey has done for us, and I’m confident he’ll be able to resolve this situation as well.”

  “I’m sure he will, sir, but he won’t be working alone. Naomi Kharmai has also been tasked with this. You’ll remember her from the incident in New York City last year, as well as the attempt on your life in 2007. She was instrumental in preventing both attacks.”

  “Yes.” Brenneman nodded slowly. “She’s a very capable young woman. I owe her a lot, as does the country, and I’m pleased to hear she’s involved. But just so we’re clear, I want to know exactly what their instructions are. Because I’m convinced that Amari Saifi is somehow involved with the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald, and that’s where I want you to focus your efforts.”

  “I understand, sir. And to answer your question, yes, finding Saifi is their primary objective.”

  Brenneman nodded his approval. “Have you talked to them since the attack?”

  “No. I haven’t had the chance yet. I’ll make the call on the way to Langley.”

  “Good.” The president’s shoulders seemed to relax a little, as if some minor weight had been removed. Still, the burden that remained was clearly visible in his w
orried gaze. “I’m sure it’s him, John. It fits his profile. He may be working alone; he may have backers in the Pakistani government. Either way, I want you to find him. Find him and you’ll find her. I’m sure of it.”

  Harper got to his feet, sensing the meeting was over. “We’ll do our best, Mr. President.”

  “Don’t do your best.” Brenneman met his eyes once more, and this time, his demeanor was adamant. “Just get it done. I’m counting on you, and so is she.”

  CHAPTER 13

  MADRID, SPAIN

  Like many countries in Western Europe—indeed, like most countries around the world—Spain had seen its fair share of terrorist activity over the years. Unlike many of its neighbors, though, the danger to Spain was largely born at home. For nearly fifty years, Euskadi Ta Askatasuna had been the country’s most prominent terror organization. Better known abroad as ETA, its overriding aim was the establishment of an independent Basque state in the north, and the group presented a real and ongoing threat, having claimed more than eight hundred lives through shootings and bombings since its inception in 1959. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only threat to the Spanish government and a population of forty million. In recent years, the constantly reemerging, spreading network of al-Qaeda had claimed its stake on Spanish soil as well, just as it had in so many other places.

  Tragic proof of al-Qaeda’s presence in Spain had come on March 11, 2004, when the capital was rocked by the bombings of four commuter trains. The near-simultaneous blasts claimed the lives of 191 people and left another 1,200 wounded, and while the attack was initially attributed to ETA, it soon became clear that the work was not that of the Basque separatist movement. In the three-year investigation that followed the blasts, it also became clear just how elusive the threat could be, even in a country accustomed to waging the war on terror. When the highly publicized Madrid bombing trial finally began in February of 2007, the list of defendants included 15 Moroccans, 9 Spaniards, 2 Syrians, an Egyptian, an Algerian, and a Lebanese national, none of whom had conclusive ties to the Basque separatists. And yet, while al-Qaeda as a whole had been implicated thorough a veritable mountain of circumstantial evidence, there was nothing linking the key leadership to the perpetrators of the Madrid bombings. In fact, the origin of the plot largely remained a mystery to Spanish authorities.