To make matters worse, Kealey knew something that Pétain did not. Ten months earlier, Naomi Kharmai had taken two lives in an act of self-defense; at least, she had thought it was self-defense at the time. One of those people had turned out to be innocent. It was just one of the events that had contributed to her current state, but Kealey knew all too well how much it had changed her: he could see it every time he looked into her eyes. Now she had done something ten times worse. Kealey was trying not to think about it, but given her fragility prior to the day’s events, he suspected that what had taken place in Madrid might prove to be her final undoing. The thought was hard to take, impossibly hard, in fact, since she had only been trying to help them escape, but he simply couldn’t dislodge it from his mind.
Machado had said something, and Kealey snapped out of it, turning his attention back to the other man. “Sorry?”
“I asked if you would like a drink,” the Spaniard repeated patiently, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. “You look as though you could use it.”
Kealey nodded. “Yeah, I think I could. Mind if I take a shower first?” They’d arrived in Cartagena four hours earlier, and he’d fallen asleep without taking the time to get cleaned up. Now he realized that he probably looked as bad as he smelled.
“Not at all. Join me downstairs when you’re finished.”
“I’ll be there.”
Machado went out, and Kealey followed after gathering a few things from his bag. He had picked up new clothes and toiletries en route to Cabo de Palos. Pétain had done the same for her and Naomi. One of the operatives responsible for packing up the gear at the hotel had hung on to their bags and false identification, and was set to deliver it all the following morning.
On the way to the bathroom, Kealey slowed outside Naomi’s door. He paused but, thinking better of it, didn’t knock. He didn’t want to intrude. As Machado had said, it would be better to let her broach the subject if and when she was ready. Of course, there were other things to consider, such as what he had seen in her eyes before they’d left the Sofitel Madrid to meet with Ghafour. He still didn’t know how he was going to handle the whole situation, but obviously, he was going to have to make some hard decisions before moving forward with the op. He wasn’t looking forward to that, but didn’t see that he had a choice.
He took a long, hot shower, then dried off and returned to his room. After pulling on a navy T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he made his way downstairs, feeling considerably better. Javier Machado was sitting alone in the living room, the French doors open to the cool night air. A television tuned to CNN was flickering softly, the volume muted. The incident outside the construction site in Madrid was clearly the lead story, but Kealey had seen enough of the gruesome images flashing across the screen. Turning away, he moved to the doors and looked outside. Mother and daughter were visible at the garden table. They were still talking quietly, though they were too far away for Kealey to make sense of the words.
Machado gestured to a backlit alcove, where tumblers and various bottles of liquor were on display. “Help yourself, my friend. The cognac, sangria, and anisette are on the top shelf. Below you’ll find sherry from Jerez, pacharán from Navarre…the very best that Spain has to offer.”
“I don’t suppose you have any beer.”
Machado smiled wanly. “Americans…You’re all the same. You have no taste for the finer things, but who am I to judge? You’ll find it in the fridge. Kitchen is that way.”
Kealey went into the kitchen and returned with an icy bottle of San Miguel, a local favorite. Taking a seat across from his host, he took a long pull, savoring the cool taste of the beer.
“Nothing like a cold drink after a long day,” Machado remarked sagely. “Makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
“All the difference,” Kealey agreed. He drank some more of the beer and looked around with genuine interest. The living room, much like the rest of the house, was lived in and comfortable. There was nothing sterile about it, which appealed to Kealey on a personal level; it reminded him of his old house in Cape Elizabeth. Rustic furnishings were scattered about, and warm light from a corner lamp illuminated a number of contemporary oils, including a large landscape that hung above the stone mantel. Of more interest to Kealey were the framed photographs standing directly beneath the painting. He’d glanced at them briefly before, but now he stood and walked over, beer in hand, to get a closer look.
“Ah yes,” Machado said, standing to join him at the mantel. “The fruits of my misspent youth.”
Kealey gestured at the first photograph, which was housed in a solid silver frame. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Kealey picked up the photograph and looked at it closely, a jolt of surprise passing through his body. The photograph depicted a beaming Machado standing beside a short, slender man in an army uniform. A very recognizable man. Kealey thought he must be mistaken, but when he glanced at his host, the modest smile on Machado’s face seemed to confirm his first impression.
“This is you and Noriega?”
“That’s right. Me and the general on the Panamanian coast, near Nata.”
Kealey shook his head in disbelief, still staring at the photograph. “When was it taken?”
“The early months of 1984. March, perhaps, or maybe April. It’s all a blur to me now.”
“That would have been shortly before he fell out of favor with Reagan, right?”
“Right again,” Machado replied, a note of approval in his voice. “He held presidential elections in Panama that October, the first in sixteen years. Of course, once he found out he wasn’t going to win, he started manufacturing votes. You know what happened then, I’m sure…It was all downhill from there. The U.S. government actually backed him on paper until ’88, but we—‘we’ being the Agency, of course—were making preparations to remove him well in advance.”
Kealey nodded. Although he never actually claimed the title of president, Manuel Noriega had effectively ruled the Republic of Panama from 1983 to January 3, 1990, the date of his surrender to U.S. forces outside the embassy of the Holy See in Panama City. Although his reign over the country was relatively brief, many historians cited Noriega as one of the more remarkable leaders of the past half century. He’d gained favor and numerous promotions during the seventies by brutally crushing a number of peasant uprisings in western Panama. Having won his superiors’ trust and respect, including that of his mentor, General Omar Torrijos, Noriega slowly began to engineer his rise to the top.
Throughout the late seventies and early eighties, Noriega worked to undermine his political opponents by any means necessary, and as the de facto leader of Panama, Omar Torrijos was a natural target. Although Noriega was never officially linked to the 1981 plane crash that killed Torrijos, few who knew the history of Panama’s politics were in doubt of the general’s culpability. A darker hint of Noriega’s true nature was to come a few years later. In 1985, Dr. Hugo Spadafora—a resident of Costa Rica and one of Noriega’s chief opponents outside the country—announced his intention to return to Panama. His goal was to actively oppose Noriega’s regime by recruiting former brigadistas to his cause, the men and women he’d fought with in his earlier efforts to rid Nicaragua of the tyrannical dictator Anastasio Somoza. Spadafora held true to his word; he did, in fact, return to Panama, though he never had the chance to act on his ideals. He went missing on the day he returned, and later that evening, his decapitated body was found stuffed inside a U.S. post office bag. This gruesome discovery effectively silenced public outcries against Noriega from that point forward.
“Were you there when he was captured?” Kealey asked Machado.
“Yes. In fact, I flew back with him when he was extradited. I was there for all of it, even when two men from the State Department, Walker and Kozak, I think they were called, offered him two million dollars to go into exile. They had a luxury villa set up for him right here in Spain.” Machado laughed quietly. “They showed him the pictures and
everything. He refused the bribe, of course, because he knew he still had plenty of leverage. Remember, Noriega was an Agency asset from the early seventies right up until the time of his surrender. If he had wanted to, he could have made things very embarrassing for us. Later on, he did just that.”
“Which only makes it more ironic that we turned against him,” Kealey pointed out, “given our initial support for his regime, I mean.”
“Yes,” Machado said mildly. “The Agency does have a bad habit of backing the wrong horse. The same could be said of the U.S. government as a whole, I think. Saddam is the perfect example. He and Reagan were true compañeros during the Iraq-Iran war, the very best of friends, and look how that ended.”
“Bin Laden could also be included in that group,” Kealey murmured. “It’s like we’re doomed to repeat our mistakes.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean we should give up entirely. Back then, I believed that the Agency does its best to protect the interests of the American people. I still believe that.”
“But you were born in Spain,” Kealey protested, unable to suppress his curiosity. “You spent the first half of your life in this country. Why would you go to such lengths to protect U.S. interests? Why did you join the Agency in the first place?”
Machado shrugged. “Who knows? I was looking for adventure, I suppose. I was young at the time, much younger than you are now, in fact. It seemed like the thing to do, and besides, I was bored silly at Princeton. As to why I stayed on…Well, I can’t honestly say. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, though. A great deal of time to wonder what I could have done differently.” A look of intense sadness crossed his face. “Believe me, young man, old age offers one plenty of time for regret.”
Machado fell silent. Kealey felt like asking him what he meant by that, but then thought better of it. He handed back the framed photograph, and Machado replaced it carefully on the mantel. Then he walked over and retook his seat, Kealey following suit.
“And what about you, my friend?” the Spaniard asked quietly. He crossed his legs at the ankles, carefully swirling the contents of his glass. “I had a long talk with Marissa while you were sleeping. It seems that you’ve amassed quite a record at Langley yourself. And in a relatively short period of time, no less.”
Kealey shrugged uneasily, unsure of how to respond to the gentle push for information. He had done his best to avoid the accolades his work had earned him. There were obvious reasons for his silence—he wasn’t cleared to discuss 90 percent of what he did for the Agency—but there was more to it than that. Simply put, he was a private person by nature, and he preferred to remain in the shadows.
“You’re reticent to speak of it,” Machado said suddenly. He looked past Kealey, his gaze falling on the women outside. “Which makes sense, of course, but where Marissa is concerned, I have a personal interest. She is my only living child, and I love her dearly. I would do anything to ensure her safety. Anything,” he repeated, his eyes flaring briefly. “Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Kealey said quietly, thinking about Naomi and how much she meant to him. “I understand that completely.”
“Then you know how I would feel if anything happened to her. Much the same as you would feel if anything happened to the young woman upstairs, I imagine.”
Kealey couldn’t conceal his surprise and instantly went on edge. “What makes you say that?”
A small, knowing smile appeared on Machado’s face, his black eyes glittering with the kind of insight that comes only with age and experience. “Forgive me, young man. Please excuse my direct manner, but it couldn’t be more obvious. It’s clear to anyone with half a brain that you love this woman.” A small frown crossed his face, and he seemed to hesitate. “I wonder, though, if you are fully aware of just how badly she is damaged. That scar she bears is the least of it.”
Kealey remained silent for a long time, unsure of how to respond. Part of him deeply resented this unexpected intrusion. He wanted to lash out, but that was an instinctive reaction, and he forced himself to set it aside. Thinking objectively, he slowly realized that no one was more qualified to dispense advice than the man sitting before him. No one had earned it more. He had read as much in Jonathan Harper’s voice when they’d spoken earlier; the deputy director seemed to admire Machado enormously.
“I have a fair idea of what she’s going through,” he finally admitted, “but she won’t open up. I don’t know what to do. It’s like you said earlier…If I push her, I’ll probably just end up making things worse.”
“That’s a fair point,” Machado said, nodding slowly, “but on the other hand, you need to know if she can go on, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And I assume you achieved what you set out to do in Madrid.”
“Yes.”
“Then naturally, the Agency will want to put that information to some good use. If they call on you, and I assume they will, you’ll need her help. But only if she can help. If she is focused on other things, she’ll only slow you down, making it harder for you to accomplish your task.”
“That makes sense, but—”
“You’re going after the secretary of state, aren’t you? You’re going after Fitzgerald.”
Kealey fell silent. He stared hard at the older man, trying to see past the wizened façade. “Did Marissa tell you that?”
“Yes, but she didn’t have to.” Machado drained his glass, stood, and moved to the open doors, gazing absently out at the women in the garden. His hands were clasped behind his back. “The Agency wouldn’t have authorized your actions in Madrid unless the stakes were extremely high. In the present climate, the only thing that would warrant such drastic action is Secretary Fitzgerald’s abduction. Do you have something to go on?”
“We have a name. Our people are running it now…We’re waiting to hear back.”
Machado sighed heavily; it was as if he was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. When he spoke, he did so without turning around. “If they send you in pursuit of this man, will Marissa be involved?”
The question caught Kealey off guard. “I don’t know. That isn’t up to me.”
“But given your record, I’m sure you have a say in the matter,” Machado persisted. He turned around, and Kealey saw that any trace of wry humor was gone; his face had assumed a business-like expression. Kealey couldn’t help but feel that he was being sized up. “Kealey, I would greatly prefer to keep my daughter out of harm’s way, but she is very good at her job. If you can’t use Kharmai, you should consider taking Marissa in her place. She will not disappoint you.”
Kealey hesitated, unsure of which part to respond to first. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. There’s a specific reason Naomi was brought into this. A few reasons, in fact, but one in particular.”
“I can guess,” Machado said. “The secretary was abducted in Pakistan, and setting aside the British accent, Kharmai is clearly of Asian descent. East Indian, if I were to hazard a guess.”
“Exactly.”
“And I assume she has some useful language skills.”
“She speaks fluent Punjabi and some Urdu.”
“Well, she seems to be the ideal choice, then. So you’re on your way to Pakistan.”
Kealey couldn’t help but wonder how Machado was arriving at these assumptions, or if they were even assumptions at all. “It’s a definite possibility,” he conceded.
“I can help you.” Javier Machado seemed suddenly eager, almost desperate, to offer his assistance. Even his posture was different. He was hunched forward in a strange way, and his stance seemed to emphasize the energy housed within his massive frame. It was a startling transformation, Kealey thought, given his calm, reassuring demeanor of a moment ago.
“I know a man in Lahore, a fixer of sorts,” Machado continued. “He has many connections, and he can get you around without attracting attention. Anything you need, he can provide. And when it’s time to leave, he can handle that as well
. Should you find yourself backed into a corner, his services will be invaluable to you.” The Spaniard let his voice drop a fraction of a decibel. “Perhaps more importantly, he knows everything there is to know about Benazir Mengal.”
Kealey froze, unsure if he had heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, young man. I can give you direct access to Benazir Mengal.”
Kealey looked for his voice and managed to find it. “Have you shared this information with the Agency?”
“No,” Machado said, his face turning suddenly hard, “and if you take this to them, I’ll deny every word. I will work with you and you alone to find Mengal, provided you do one thing for me in return.”
“And what would that be?”
“I want you to take my daughter with you.” Machado leaned forward, his eyes flickering with a strange, unsettling light. “I want you to use her, but more importantly, I want you to bring her back alive. Let me be blunt, Kealey. I value her well-being more than you could possibly understand.”
Kealey shook his head. “Even if I agree to this, there’s no way I could—”
“Stop playing games. I know all there is to know about you and the things you’ve done. Remember, I worked at the Agency for thirty years. I may be out of the loop, but I still have a small degree of influence. Marissa didn’t have to say a word, though she was good enough to fill in some blanks. I happen to know that if you want something, Jonathan Harper will make it happen, so there’s no point in trying to play down your status.” He paused to let his words hit their mark. “So…Do we have an agreement?”
Kealey stalled for a moment, pretending to think it through. Then he addressed the obvious point. “If your daughter’s safety is really that important to you, then asking me to take her along seems pretty counterproductive. Whatever happens, there’s going to be plenty of risk involved.”
Machado smiled gently. “That’s where you’re wrong…Having her by your side is very much in my best interest. I have my reasons for asking this favor, of course, but I’m not going to share them with you. No offense, but you don’t need to know more than what I’ve already said. At least not yet.” He walked over to refill his drink. “As I mentioned earlier, I am well versed on your background, Kealey. I know that you were reluctant to take on your current task, and that Jonathan Harper effectively forced you into participating by dangling Naomi Kharmai in front of you.”
The Invisible (Ryan Kealey) Page 20
