“What is your point, Kealey? Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear when we last spoke. I’m seventy-two years old, and the doctors are not optimistic when it comes to my health. I have very little to look forward to. Marissa is my youngest daughter and my only living child. She is everything to me, and I would do anything to keep her out of harm’s way.”
“Machado, if you—”
“Anything,” the Spaniard repeated, “even if that means sacrificing your girlfriend. For eight years, Kealey, I’ve had to choke on the memory of what the Agency did to my daughter. Eight years!” His voice was trembling with rage and something else that Kealey couldn’t identify.
“I understand that, but—”
“No, it is something you can never understand. I will not let it happen again,” the Spaniard continued. His voice had dropped into a frightening monotone, a fact that had not escaped the younger man’s attention. “And I don’t care what I have to do to stop it. Not anymore.”
“Listen, Naomi has nothing to do with this. You have to let her go.”
“I wouldn’t have to kill her, mind you.” The older man was already working it out, Kealey realized, figuring out the best way to pull it off. “She’d simply…disappear.”
“People would know what you did, Machado,” Kealey said. He tried to sound sure of what he was saying, but he couldn’t entirely disguise his rising panic. The man sounded completely sincere; clearly, he was not moved by the fact that Naomi was as innocent as his daughter. “I would know.”
“Maybe, but you’d never be able to prove it. You know the record I have at Langley, and the investigation alone would keep Marissa tied up in congressional hearings for the next eighteen months. That would serve my purposes just as well.”
“You sick fuck,” Kealey said. It was all he could manage; he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he couldn’t pretend any longer. “You sick fucking bastard. Why me? Why not your man Fahim, or whatever the hell his name really is? Why can’t he do it? Why didn’t you turn to him in the first place?”
“I thought you might ask that, but the answer is simple, Kealey. Fahim is a good man, but his loyalty has its boundaries. You were in the right place at the right time. Marissa is an active operative with the CIA, a covert employee of the U.S. government. Were he to pull the trigger, the Agency would track him to the end of the earth. They would never stop looking.”
There was a brief pause, and then Machado continued.
“You, on the other hand, are known for your somewhat…unorthodox methods. You’ve survived some very controversial incidents over the course of your career, and you’ll survive this. Given your admirable record, the worst they’ll do is kick you out. Besides, you need something from me, and I need something from you. Believe me, I will keep my end of the bargain.”
“It’s no fucking bargain,” Kealey snapped. “Not from my point of view.”
“Yes, it is,” Machado insisted. “Think of Fitzgerald. If you do this, you’ll be saving her life. You’ll be a hero to every American man and woman, and to many others around the world. And in the long run, you’ll be doing the right thing for Marissa as well.”
“That isn’t for you to decide. She’s a grown woman. You don’t have the right to decide her future, and neither do I. If I go through with this, I’ll be taking away the one thing she wants most in the world. Have you thought of that? Have you even considered what she wants? What’s best for her?”
“Enough,” Machado snapped. Kealey knew he’d hit a nerve, but it was too little, too late. “It’s time for you to make a decision. Now, what will it be? And just remember, at this particular moment, I’m less than twenty feet from your little friend. Her life is in my hands.”
Kealey restrained his instinctive reply, but only just. “How do I know you’ll let her go when it’s done?”
“You don’t. But I have no desire to hurt her. The only way that will happen is if you want it to.”
“Fuck you,” Kealey spat. He shut off the phone and tossed it back to Fahim without warning. The Afghan caught it awkwardly. Ten seconds later it started to ring, and Fahim lifted it to his ear. He spoke a few words, listened, then spoke again and ended the connection. Walking over, he reversed his grip on the gun and held it out to Kealey at arm’s length.
Kealey wrapped his hand around the warm plastic grip. He could tell from the weight that the Makarov 9mm pistol was fully loaded, but he pushed the slide back a couple of centimeters, anyway. When he saw the brassy glint of the chambered round, he released the slide. Then he took a few steps back and raised the weapon. When the muzzle was level with the other man’s face, he said, “What’s to stop me from shooting you right now?”
The Afghan appeared unconcerned, his swarthy face fixed in a neutral expression. “I expect you already know the answer to that,” he said calmly.
Kealey shook his head in frustration, but the man had called his bluff. He flashed on Naomi, the way he’d seen her the previous day: leaning against the door frame of her borrowed bedroom, clear droplets of water on her shoulders and tears in her eyes, her skinny arms wrapped round her lean, undernourished body.
He was torn by the image in his mind, just as he was torn when he was in her presence. It was clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, but he couldn’t abandon her. He’d heard everything he needed to hear in Javier Machado’s voice. In Kealey’s mind, there was no doubt that the Spaniard would carry out his threat, but either way, he wasn’t prepared to risk double-crossing the former case officer. There was just too much to lose if he was wrong.
And that left just one alternative.
His legs felt like concrete blocks as he crossed the gravel, his feet sinking into the loose, rain-soaked pebbles. He couldn’t believe it had come to this; in a thousand years, he never would have made the connection. He just didn’t see how he could have known what Machado was up to. Pétain’s participation in the upcoming op was highly classified information, and there was no way he could have known about it, mainly because he didn’t have to. Even with that piece of information, though, he didn’t think he would have been able to spot Machado’s true intentions in Cartagena. There were just too many links to follow, and his attention had been focused on other things, all of which took precedence over Marissa Pétain’s family history.
In the end, though, Kealey knew that these thoughts were meaningless. There was no point in deluding himself. He could try to rationalize it for as long as he wanted to, but nothing would change the fact that he had missed some crucial developments, and now Pétain was going to pay for his mistakes.
As he crossed the last few feet through the driving rain, Pétain started to speak, clearly anxious to learn what had happened. Then she saw the gun in his hand. She met his eyes, and she must have seen the truth behind them, because her face went completely white, and her knees seemed to buckle. She wrapped her hand around the handle of the access door for support, but she managed to stay on her feet.
“What are you doing, Ryan?” Her voice carried a slight tinge of hope, but only a tinge; on some level, she already knew what was going to happen. “Why did he give you the gun?”
“Marissa,” he began woodenly, “I have to do something. You won’t understand now, but in time, I—”
“Why did he give you the gun?” she said, cutting him off. Her voice was rising with each word, climbing into hysteria. She was stalling, that much was clear, but she was also desperate for answers, even at this late stage of the game. “Who was that on the phone?”
There was a bright flash of lightning overhead. The thunder followed a split second later, the sound like that of a tire shredding at high speed on the interstate. As the noise ripped over the gray black sky, parts of Kealey’s words were drowned out, but he didn’t notice. They were all platitudes, anyway, and they wouldn’t change a thing. He felt sick for even saying them, but he had to say something, and nothing worthwhile was coming to mind.
“I have to, Marissa. I know
you don’t understand, but I can’t get around it. Believe me, I tried….”
“What do you mean, ‘you tried’?” she screamed. “This is my life you’re talking about! Who was on the phone? Who told you to do this?”
“Marissa, I can’t—”
“Who was on the goddamn phone, Ryan?” She was struggling now and crying freely as she tried to pull away from the handle. It wasn’t going to happen; she was secured too well, but she kept trying regardless, fighting for all she was worth. “Who was it, you bastard? Why do they want me dead? What did I do to them?”
“They don’t—” Kealey stopped himself before he could say the rest. Clearly, she hadn’t heard him before. He wasn’t going to kill her, but if she thought he was going to, it might make the next part easier. “Close your eyes, Marissa. Turn around, close your eyes, and face the door. It won’t hurt, I promise.”
“You can’t do this,” she moaned, tears mingling with the rainwater on her face. The fight had drained out of her without warning, leaving behind the empty hope for some kind of last-minute salvation. “You can’t do this.”
“I have to,” he said, the words catching in his throat. Christ, he thought bitterly, how did it come to this? Goddamn you for making me do this, Machado. Goddamn you. “Now do as I say. Face the door, and close your eyes.”
Her legs gave out, and she dropped to her knees, her face clearing of all expression. Her eyes were wide and vacant as she stared ahead, shaking her head slowly from side to side. Kealey couldn’t help but wonder what she was seeing in that strange moment. Was it her whole life flashing before her eyes? Or was she simply wondering how it had come to this, as he was?
“Marissa,” he said gently, prompting her.
After what seemed like an endless pause, she slowly turned, her knees making a curved groove in the wet gravel that bordered the transformer. Resting her forehead against the steel access door, she began mumbling something under her breath. Moving closer, his footsteps masked by the sound of the storm, Kealey leaned in. As he braced himself to do what Machado had ordered, the gun like a lead weight in his hand, he couldn’t help but overhear what she was saying, and the words caused him to freeze in his tracks.
She was praying. Not for redemption, not for absolution, but for her parents’ forgiveness. She was praying that they might understand—that in time, they might forgive her for causing them so much pain.
Hearing this, Kealey stepped back and took a deep, shaky breath. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill Javier Machado: to put a gun to his head, pull the trigger, and send him to a hell more real than the one he had created for himself. For a split second, he considered abandoning the whole thing and telling Pétain the truth: that her own father was entirely responsible for what she was going through now. That he would rather see her crippled and safe behind a desk than living her own life, risks and all.
But then Naomi’s face reappeared in his mind, and he remembered the Spaniard’s grim, resolute tone when he had issued his threat. Kealey knew that the man had deluded himself into thinking that this was the only way to protect his daughter, and that meant he’d do anything to accomplish his goal. As long as Pétain was walking, Naomi wasn’t safe, and that was all it took to convince him he had to act. That was what it came down to accomplish his goal. Kealey could see the irony; both he and Machado were intent on doing the wrong thing to keep the people they cared about “safe,” which was a relative term for both of them. At the same time, he just couldn’t see an alternative.
Pétain was still mumbling to herself, her prayers interspersed with deep, gut-wrenching sobs. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kealey moved forward quickly. He couldn’t think about it anymore; he just wanted it over with. In one fast movement, he pinned her to the door with his left forearm, his right hand moving between her legs. Before she could realize what was happening, he glanced down to get his bearings, jammed the muzzle of the Makarov into the back of her left knee, and prepared himself to pull the trigger….
And nothing happened. All he had to do was squeeze, but…
He was hesitating. Why? he wondered. Why am I waiting? In his peripheral vision, he saw Fahim moving across the gravel, following the footpath to the right. With the dark, shapeless raincoat and the hood pulled over his head, he looked almost unreal, like a ghost drifting through an unmarked graveyard. But he was real, Kealey reminded himself, and he was waiting. Presumably, he was moving to get a better look at what was happening. Pétain was still frozen with fear, but that wouldn’t last; Kealey knew he was running out of time. He had to act. Steadying himself, he wedged the gun harder against the back of her knee, willing himself to pull the trigger.
CHAPTER 36
FAISALABAD
Paul Owen and the rest of the 4-man team had been in place for most of the day, having arrived in Faisalabad early that morning. The Bukhari woman in Sharakpur Sharif had failed to pan out. In the twenty-four hours they had spent watching her, she’d left her apartment twice. On both occasions, she’d done nothing more than walk to a local café for coffee and baklava. She hadn’t spoken to anyone other than the clerk, and they had been unable to spot any watchers around her building. What clinched it for Owen, though, was not the woman’s movements, but her general demeanor. She was casual, unhurried, and entirely too relaxed to be involved on any level whatsoever. He had dismissed her two minutes after he’d seen her on the street, but they had stayed on her just to be sure. Finally, at ten the previous evening, he’d decided to strike her from the list, and they’d moved on to the vet.
They had been in the city for less than twenty-four hours, but Owen felt sure that their current target was just as innocent as the previous one. The veterinarian had left his home at six that morning, walking the half mile to his office on Circular Road, just south of the river. He had not left the building since, and the two men watching his house—Husain Manik and Mark Walland—had reported nothing unusual. When the storm had hit an hour earlier, his wife had emerged briefly to pull down some clothes from a line in the back garden, but otherwise, nothing was happening.
Owen sighed wearily as he leaned back in his chair. He was sitting in a crowded café, next to one of the large windows looking out to the street. Through the rain-streaked glass, he had a clear line of sight to the front of the vet’s office. The office was housed in an unremarkable two-story building constructed of granite and limestone. There was plenty of foot traffic going in and coming out of the building, but there was nothing suspicious in that, and Owen had seen nothing to indicate that the man had countersurveillance in place. He felt reasonably sure that it was business as usual inside the building, which meant they were wasting crucial time pursuing yet another useless lead.
He shook his head angrily as he snatched his bottle of Orangina off the table. He’d been in place too long already; it was time to move. Making his way through the clamorous seating area, he stepped outside and hung a right. As he made his way east, weaving his way through the heavy pedestrian traffic, he thought back to the list of Mengal’s possible associates. They had crossed two names off the list, which left two more to go. Owen wasn’t holding out much hope for any of them.
All of the targets had verifiable links to Benazir Mengal, but despite that fact, Owen couldn’t help but feel that they were on the wrong track. The next few days would prove as much, he was sure, but this was one situation in which he’d be glad to be proven wrong. It had been four days since Fitzgerald’s abduction, and he could feel the time sliding away. With each passing day, she became more of a risk to her captors. Eventually, they would figure that out and decide to cut their losses, if they hadn’t done so already. Owen wanted nothing more than to stop that from happening, but he needed somewhere to start—something to work with. Otherwise, he was just as helpless as everyone else.
The unproductive time they’d spent in Pakistan was only part of the reason for his bad mood. Kealey was supposed to have checked in the previous day, and he had yet to mak
e contact. Through Jonathan Harper, Owen had learned about Kealey’s actions in Spain—that he had ignored his instructions by leaving Kharmai behind and taking Pétain instead. He had then proceeded to ignore his orders on landing in Pakistan, and that was assuming he’d even arrived to begin with. None of it surprised Owen; he had worked with Kealey long enough to know that the man had an irritating habit of going his own way, but in the present situation, that kind of behavior was simply untenable. Too much was on the line for Kealey to make up the rules as he went, as was his usual mode of operation.
Owen was still thinking about it and getting angrier as he entered the Qaisery Gate, the main entrance to the eight markets. A number of people were huddled beneath the weathered concrete arch, obviously seeking refuge from the relentless rain. The humid air was redolent with cheap cologne and cigarette smoke, conversations echoing off the frescoed walls. Beyond the arch, steam drifted up from the warm, wet road. Owen was debating whether to take up another position on Circular Road or switch positions with Massi, who was watching the back of the vet’s office, when his cell phone vibrated in his right pocket. Pulling it out, he hit the TALK button and pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Owen?”
The Delta colonel gripped the phone tighter when he heard who it was. “Kealey, is that you? Where the fuck have you been? I needed you here yesterday. I’m trying to get this done with three—”
“Where are you?”
Owen took a deep, calming breath and tried to restrain his temper, knowing it wouldn’t help matters to let it out now. “Faisalabad,” he said tightly. “Where are you?”
The Invisible (Ryan Kealey) Page 33
