The Invisible (Ryan Kealey)

by Andrew Britton

  They all murmured their approval, not that anyone would have been brave enough to object. The Medal of Freedom, first established by Harry Truman in 1945 to reward meritorious acts during World War II, was generally considered to be the nation’s highest civilian honor, the kind of thing that most people would have been thrilled to accept. Privately, though, Harper sincerely doubted that Naomi would have wanted a medal after what she had done in Madrid, even if she had acted only with the best of intentions. Besides, despite Brenneman’s forceful tone, Harper didn’t put much stock in the president’s words. If Naomi were to suddenly reappear, which she wouldn’t, she would never see a medal of any kind.

  He was also fully aware that he himself had played no small role in her death; by using her to bait Kealey into the search for the missing tourists in Pakistan, he had essentially set her on the path to her own demise. Worse, he had done so knowing full well about her addiction to painkillers, which only compounded his guilt. And she was dead; Harper didn’t doubt that for a second. The search was merely a formality. He could not pretend that this didn’t bother him, but the fact that Kealey might know the extent of his duplicity was something that scared the deputy DCI more than he cared to admit. Not to the point that he wanted the younger man to succumb to his wounds—he had not fallen to that level and knew he would never allow himself to do so—but still, it was frightening to acknowledge the possibility that Kealey might someday decide his old friend and trusted employer was as guilty as the man who had actually arranged for Naomi’s death.

  “What about this other woman?” Brenneman was asking. “Machado’s daughter…”

  “Marissa Pétain,” Andrews offered.

  “Yes, Pétain. How much does she know about what really happened in Pakistan?”

  “That isn’t clear,” Harper said. “But she knows that her mother is being questioned, and she’s smart…I’m sure she’ll be able to figure it out, if she hasn’t already.”

  “And where is she now?” Brenneman asked.

  “On her way back to Andrews,” Harper said. He didn’t add that Pétain, on hearing about what had happened to Kealey, had demanded to see the injured man immediately. Even over the phone, Harper could detect real emotion in her voice, but he had declined her request, and she had immediately launched into an angry tirade. Harper had been too surprised to hold her accountable for the things she had said, most of which were bitter insults directed at him. Besides, the fact that she had been tied to the success in Pakistan was enough to earn her a pass, and she was a promising young operative with the necessary skill set. He couldn’t dismiss her for what amounted to a minor infraction, not that he particularly wanted to.

  The rest of the meeting primarily revolved around the issue of Benazir Mengal. Currently, the former Pakistani general was being held in detention at Bagram AFB, though this information was known only to a select few. The president had already called Pervez Musharraf to inform him personally of the unsanctioned operation. Normally, this would never have happened; in matters of such delicacy, diplomats were usually used as buffers to lessen political fallout on both sides. But in this case, given what had transpired in Sialkot, there wasn’t much the Pakistani president could say. The simple fact was that a senior U.S. government official had been kidnapped in his country, and he had done almost nothing to help find her.

  Still, in the name of diplomacy, the president had extended an olive branch, albeit a branch heavily tilted in favor of the United States. Once Musharraf agreed to fast-track Mengal’s extradition proceedings, the press had been informed that the U.S. rescue operation was, in fact, a joint mission accomplished by U.S. and Pakistani forces. For this consideration, Musharraf had also agreed to stop making noise regarding the impending Indian-Israeli arms deal. Additionally, he had quietly agreed to start moving Pakistani forces back across the Line of Control in Kashmir. Harper thought it ironic that Fitzgerald’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue had almost certainly ended the burgeoning conflict in Kashmir sooner than if she had not been taken at all, but he wisely kept this thought to himself.

  When the meeting ended twenty minutes later, congratulatory handshakes went all around, and then the men began filing out of the Oval Office. As Harper moved to the door, the president stopped him with a hand on his arm, then smoothly pulled him aside.

  “John, I just want to thank you again for all your hard work. You did as much as anyone to make this operation a success, and I’m deeply grateful, as are the American people. I’m sure Secretary Fitzgerald will want to thank you personally once she’s up to it.”

  Harper nodded and murmured his appreciation, but the president had already expressed his gratitude. He suspected he had been held back for a different reason, and the president confirmed this a moment later. “John…with respect to Kealey. You’ve known the man a long time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harper said, wondering where this was going. “I have. Nearly ten years.”

  “He’s survived some serious injuries before, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he has. But he’s not indestructible, sir, and this is probably the worst of the lot. Still, I wouldn’t bet against him.”

  “And if he does survive?” Brenneman was genuinely curious. “What do you think he’ll do? When he recovers, I mean. Have you given that any thought?”

  Harper considered the question for a long moment. He knew what the president was really asking, and it had nothing to do with the possibility of Kealey resuming his work with the CIA. Harper had given it plenty of thought, and while he had yet to come up with a definitive answer, there were a few things he thought he knew for sure.

  In the end, it all came down to Naomi Kharmai. After what had happened to her—or at least, after what the Agency thought had happened to her—Kealey would never resume his work with the CIA. There could be no question of that; contrary to popular belief, even the Directorate of Operations was an organization hampered by certain rules on what was and wasn’t acceptable. Operatives did not have free rein in the field, and they couldn’t just kill anyone, especially not when the operative in question was driven by nothing more than the need for revenge. Instead, Kealey would do things his own way. He would single-handedly go after the men who had betrayed him in Sialkot, and then, when he had exhausted every avenue of retribution, when he had finally decided there was no one left to kill, he would go after Javier Machado. Harper was sure of it. In fact, he had never been more certain of anything in his life.

  Of course, that was not the answer the president wanted to hear. Looking Brenneman square in the eye, he said, “Sir, I honestly don’t know. I just know that if he makes it through, he’s not going to let it go, and I, for one, would not want to be in his way once he’s back on his feet.”

  And, Harper thought grimly, I would not want to be Javier Machado, wherever he is.

  CHAPTER 46

  PUERTO SAN JULIÁN, ARGENTINA, FIVE MONTHS LATER

  The old café was a modest establishment at best, but thanks to its location, the center terrace in a row of dirty brick buildings overlooking the port of San Julián, it catered to a steady stream of customers. Nearly all of them were men, because it was that kind of place. For the most part, they were large, grizzled individuals who earned a hard, dangerous living on the unpredictable waters off the southern coast of Argentina. The young waitress who moved through the tightly grouped tables was tired of the work, tired of trying to repel their interest, which usually presented itself in the form of lewd comments, lascivious stares, and even the occasional grope as she dispensed their food, drink, and more hard liquor than even they could handle. For the most part, she thought they were scum, and for the most part, she was right. However, even in this grubby place—and she knew what it was, because she had once lived in Buenos Aires and often wondered why she had left in the first place—there was the occasional person worth serving with a genuine smile.

  She offered one now, though it temporarily froze on her face as she skirted a table surrounded by
four burly, drunken fishermen, doing her best to give them a wide berth. Ignoring a slew of crude sexual advances, she made her way to the lone table by the large plate-glass window overlooking the pier. As she approached, her smile resumed its natural warmth, and her dark eyes shone with genuine pleasure. The man who sat there was about seventy, she surmised, with an iron gray beard and bushy, overgrown eyebrows. He had been coming in for about a month now, and she had never found him to be anything other than quietly respectful. She always looked forward to his visits, just as she was always sorry to see him go.

  In appearance alone, he did not differ much from the men who occupied the other tables. He dressed in a similar fashion: thick woolen sweaters, tarpaulin rain pants, and black rubber boots. Despite his rugged appearance, something told her he had never worked on the ocean. It was his demeanor, though, that really made him stand out, the way he carried himself with quiet dignity. She often found herself watching him when business was slow, wondering about the sad look on his face and the defeated slump of his broad shoulders. He looked at her, too, but not in the way the fishermen did. Rather, he looked at her the way her grandfather once had, and for this reminder of happier times, as much as his polite manner and generous tips, she found herself visiting his table as often as she could get away with.

  As she approached now, she was more than disappointed to see him place his money on the table. It was too much, as always; she didn’t have to look to know that. She asked him, almost with a sense of quiet urgency, if he wouldn’t consider staying for one more drink, but he shook his head and politely declined. As he stood, she stepped back to let him pass. She told him it was on the house, but still he refused. He returned her smile, bid her good night, and walked through a haze of blue smoke to the door. As she watched him leave, the waitress felt a sense of deep, unaccountable sorrow. She stood there for a moment, deaf to the cruel snickers of the men sitting behind her, and wondered if she would ever see him again. Somehow, she doubted it, but she didn’t know why. It wasn’t until later that evening, as she gratefully locked the door behind the last drunken customer, that she realized what had triggered the thought.

  It was the smile. Before he’d walked out, he’d given her a strange, sad parting smile, and she didn’t have to think about where she had seen it before, because she already knew. Her grandfather had given her that very same smile two years earlier, on the night he had died.

  After the old man left the café, he wandered along the pier for an hour, looking out at the lights bobbing up and down on the gentle swells of the South Atlantic. It had rained heavily that afternoon, and the pier shone with large puddles, the still water reflecting the lights from the buildings across the road. There was almost no activity at this late hour; the pier was largely deserted, which was when he liked it best. It gave him the time and solitude he needed to think things through, to weigh the life he had led, as well as the many thousands of decisions he’d made along the way.

  With increasing frequency, he found himself regretting the things he’d done, and one thing above all. At the same time, he did not regret the reasons behind his actions, and he knew that he never would. After all, how did one apologize for loving his children? How could he regret wanting to protect them by any means necessary? The answer, of course, was that he could not, and in the end, that was what it all came down to. That was the simple truth that allowed him to sleep at night, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else, he had at least acted with the right intentions all along.

  He stopped at the end of the pier and stared into the black water, listening to the sound of slow waves swarming around the sturdy cement pillars that held up the pier. He had been standing there for about ten minutes when he heard a sudden noise behind him. A very deliberate noise. He froze for a moment; then he slowly turned, arms away from his body, to face his killer.

  The American was hardly recognizable, and it wasn’t the fact that the pier was draped in shadow. Even with the low light, Javier Machado could see that the young man had lost a great deal of weight, perhaps as much as thirty pounds, and there were lines in his gaunt face that should not have existed for another ten years. Machado was so focused on the incredible changes in his physical appearance that he nearly missed the gun in his right hand, which was extended at arm’s length, the muzzle centered on his chest. Without even looking, he knew that the weapon was a .22-caliber Beretta, a competition-style handgun fitted with a 6-inch suppressor. He had used the same weapon himself on countless occasions, and while he was aware of the irony, it didn’t mean a thing to him. After seventy-two years, there wasn’t much that still surprised him.

  Machado waited for the American to speak, and when he did not, he said, “You’ve been a busy man.” He was surprised by how steady his own voice was; he had always thought that when the time came, he would be afraid. “You killed my colleague in Karachi.”

  “I assume you mean Fahim. Isn’t that what you called him the last time we spoke?”

  “And Rabbani in Paris. I assume you’re responsible for that as well.” The knowing look on the young man’s face told Machado that he was, and he didn’t feel the need to list the half dozen other business associates of the Afghan smuggler who had died over the past eight weeks. Machado had seen the pattern after the third man, a money launderer in Antwerp, had disappeared without a trace three weeks earlier. He had seen it then, but he had not tried to run, and when Fahim had died in Karachi the week before, he had known it was just a matter of time.

  And now his time was up.

  “Where is she?” the young man asked. He might have been asking for directions, for all the emotion in his voice. “Where is Naomi? What did you do with her?”

  Machado cupped his hands in front of his body, palms up, and opened them slowly. “I told you she would disappear if you disobeyed me, and you did. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

  “Her body—”

  “There is no body.” Machado shook his head in a barely noticeable manner, as if the younger man should already know what he was being told. “Don’t you see? She never existed to begin with. That’s all there is to it…I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

  There was no reply. Machado knew he had just seconds to live, and there was one thing he had to know. “Does my daughter know what I did? Does Marissa have any idea?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in months.” There was a long, unsettling pause. “Why, Machado? Why did you do it? You had already lost, so what was the point in killing her? I don’t understand it.”

  At last, Machado caught a hint of emotion, a slight catch in the younger man’s voice. He thought for a moment, then lifted his arms out by his sides.

  “What can I tell you?” he finally said. “Would you really be satisfied with any explanation I have to offer?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then why ask?” Machado said. “Just do what you came here to do. Just finish it.”

  He closed his eyes, but nothing happened. He waited, but still, there was nothing but the sound of wind sweeping in from the ocean. He opened his eyes in time to see a pair of brief flashes, followed by a sharp pain in the center of his chest. He staggered back, then tumbled into space. He was falling, plunging toward his final resting place, and the last thing he saw before he hit the water was a face in his mind. It was Caroline’s face, the unmistakable image of his long-dead daughter, and as he took his last breath, pulling the black water into his lungs, he saw her open her arms and smile.

  She was bringing him home.

  Kealey stood at the edge of the pier, holding the Beretta against his right thigh, staring down at the churning surface of the ocean. He stood there for several minutes, waiting for the weight on his chest to lift, waiting for the sense of relief that Machado’s death should have brought, but nothing changed. And then he realized that it never would. Naomi was still gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

  There was no point in hurling the gun in
to the ocean; there was no one around to witness so dramatic a gesture. Instead, he simply dropped it over the side.

  Then he turned to walk away.

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  Copyright © 2008 Andrew Britton

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