Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “You look well, my friend. College life seems to agree with you,” Harper remarked as the two men strolled slowly along in the direction of the Mall. The sky was a pale gray, and the bite of the air seemed to promise an early snowfall. Ryan glanced to his left and guessed that the words were meant sincerely. Sometimes it was difficult to tell as Harper’s face never seemed to give anything away. With his hair carefully parted on the right, his conservative but expensive style of dress, and a solemn expression that seemed to be permanently etched into his features, Jonathan Harper, as Kealey had always thought, looked more like an aging minister or banker than an intelligence officer.

  “I can’t say I’m unhappy.”

  Harper took a moment to digest those words. It was the same way with Ryan every time.

  “Got a lot of time on your hands, though, I’ll bet.”

  Kealey hesitated. “I try to keep busy. I’m teaching now, and I met someone. It’s not a bad life, John.” He turned his penetrating gray eyes onto Harper’s. “What I have now is worth having…it’s good, secure.”

  They strolled along silently for a while. Jonathan didn’t find the words convincing. He knew about the twenty-four-year-old student Ryan was seeing, and he knew about the tenuous teaching position at the university. Slinking by in some backwater, feigning interest in the mundane. Waiting for time to erode away the memories of what he had seen, and maybe what he had done…If asked, Harper would have said that Ryan was worth more than that. He did not imagine that the younger man wouldn’t know he was being checked up on. Kealey wanted to be convinced; otherwise, he wouldn’t even have bothered making the trip.

  “You’ve seen it all over the news, I imagine. It’s just fucking unbelievable. A hit on three cars in broad daylight, and we have nothing. Except, of course, for six dead civilians, one a pregnant woman, and seventeen injured. The media’s all over this, and so the president is all over us. Evidently he was pretty close to the senator.” Harper shivered as a brisk wind swept through the bright orange leaves of the trees overhead. “This guy took out Levy’s entire detail, Ryan. I’m not talking about people who barely managed to squeak by on the Civil Service Exam. They weren’t riding out desk duty for the pension, either. They were professional protection officers rotating off the presidential detail, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I heard on the news that one survived. A woman.”

  “Yeah, her name is Megan Lawrence. Seven-year veteran. That’s a sad story—she’s got a six-year-old kid, and she’s not expected to pull through. Fuck it.” Harper whipped his empty Starbucks container toward an overflowing trash receptacle. It bounced off the top and hit the ground, where the wind promptly pushed it back onto the sidewalk. A female jogger dressed in colorful attire approached, her blond ponytail bouncing in accordance with her footfalls. She shot Harper a dirty look as she passed them by.

  “Levy was on his way back to Alexandria; he and his wife had a place on Gentry Row. The route was checked out by the detail and given approval, but it was one of five possible choices, and selected at random less than a half hour before they left the Russell Building. So we have a list of people that had access to that information, and it’s short. The Bureau is taking a hard look at each and every one of them. From what I gather, they already went to McLaughlin on the D.C. Circuit for the wiretaps. We should know more in a day or two, if they’re willing to participate in the new spirit of cooperation.”

  “Why was a senator receiving Secret Service protection anyway? I thought that came down to the Capitol Hill Police.”

  Harper hesitated meaningfully before answering. “I can show you why. We have a tape—more than one. I think, actually, that you might know the person who did this.”

  With this revelation, it was as though time suddenly stopped for the younger man. Cold fingers inched their way up from the base of his spine, threatening to seize his throat in a terrible grip. He was lost for a moment, until just as quickly the feeling passed and he felt Harper’s reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “Watch the tapes, Ryan. Watch the tapes and tell me what you think. That’s all.”

  The two men walked slowly back in the direction of the café, Harper awarding himself silent accolades. Kealey was lost in another, more terrifying world altogether.

  CHAPTER 3

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Although the nation’s capital is home to many prestigious medical facilities, including University Hospital in Georgetown, the only adult burn unit in the metropolitan area is located in the Washington Hospital Center on Irving Street. Within forty-five minutes of the rocket attack all but three of the victims had been routed either directly or indirectly to this center, including Megan Lawrence, the only Secret Service agent to survive the initial devastation.

  Naomi Kharmai wearily climbed the worn stone steps that were in constant contradiction to the modern building they adorned. She had spent the morning at Washington General speaking with bystanders who hadn’t seen or heard anything that could be of real use to her, or more importantly, to her immediate supervisor. The clouds had made an appearance earlier in the day, and the sky was a white sheet overhead. The warmth of the pale sun on her back lifted her spirits slightly as she walked through the main entrance past the intense scrutiny of a security guard.

  Her interest extended to what she could learn, but no further. She was not burdened by the sight or knowledge of the terrible injuries that so many of the witnesses had suffered; rather, it was the lack of progress finding information that was such a crushing disappointment to her.

  Taking the elevator up to the fifth floor, Naomi asked to see Megan Lawrence. After bluffing or outright lying through a series of questions and filling out the appropriate paperwork, she was finally escorted to Lawrence’s room by an exhausted young resident.

  “Her injuries are very severe,” he confided in a low voice, although there was no one within sight to overhear. “She sustained multiple fractures to the skull when her head hit the pavement, but somehow she was only slightly concussed. That’s the least of it. She suffered extensive third-degree burns over thirty percent of her body, penetrating down to the hypodermis. Most of the burns are on her chest and arms, upper legs. There wasn’t much pain at first…Her nerve endings were seared, but she started to feel it on Monday. We’ve had her on a morphine drip for two days.”

  “Will she live?”

  The resident shook his head slowly and looked away. “The chemicals inside that rocket produce effects almost identical to those of white phosphorus,” he said. Kharmai was familiar with the statistics relating to that particular substance, but did not volunteer this information. “She’s demonstrating the initial symptoms of osteomyelitis of the jaw, a very rare condition associated primarily with exposure to highly toxic chemicals. The triethylaluminum that was released on the street oxidizes when exposed to air, and the particles continue to burn even after they are embedded in epithelial tissue, so you can imagine how painful these injuries are. The chemicals have also caused irreparable damage to her liver and kidneys, and frankly, she’s just too far down on the donor list for it to make a difference.”

  Naomi thought that if she had truly been related to Lawrence as she had claimed on the forms, the resident’s blunt analysis of the woman’s condition would have sent her into hysterics. Her fears were confirmed when she pointedly flashed her credentials to the Secret Service agent seated in front of Megan’s door, and the doctor did not seem surprised. How did he know who I was? she asked herself angrily. She fervently hoped that news of this visit would not be leaked to the press, but knew that it would probably be a matter of public record within the hour. The interview with Lawrence was the most important of the day, though, and she could not rush through it just to avoid reporters. Before she entered the room, the young resident pulled her back gently.

  “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know if you’ve had experience with this kind of thing or not, but what you do when you walk in there means a lot. She’ll
look to your expression to gauge her own appearance, her own condition. She’s aware of the prognosis—but she doesn’t need to be reminded of it every time someone walks in.”

  Naomi gave a terse nod and pulled away from the doctor abruptly.

  As the agent followed her through the door to keep an eye on the proceedings, she could not keep the sickened expression from her face. The woman on the bed was hardly recognizable as a human being, her body and face scorched by burns so deep that they appeared quite dry and dark red. The lingering smell of garlic pervaded the air, which Naomi knew was the result of the necrosis eating away at the subcutaneous layers of skin. Although the most heavily burned parts of the woman’s body were covered by white sterile dressings drenched in saline, Naomi could see that this was easily the worst of all the injuries she had encountered so far.

  “Agent Lawrence? My name is Naomi Kharmai. I’m with Central Intelligence, and I need to talk to you about the assassination of Senator Levy.”

  “I’ve already given my supervisors a full account, as well as the FBI. Capitol Hill PD sat in on that one. Aren’t you supposed to be sharing information with them?” Megan asked resignedly.

  Although the deterioration of her jaw had slurred her speech, Naomi could still detect the lyrical, lilting quality of Megan Lawrence’s voice. She thought that a few days ago it would have been a pleasure to listen to this woman speak. “I’m sorry, Agent Lawrence, but you know how it goes. We’re going to need a firsthand account, and I have some pictures I’d like you to take a look at.” Naomi hoped that by addressing this woman as “Agent,” she might foster a little professional courtesy. To Megan, it just sounded patronizing.

  “Look,” Megan tried one last time, “if we could maybe talk later, I just don’t feel—”

  “You know, I don’t really have time later, so if you don’t mind—”

  “Time?” Megan interrupted, a look of disbelief spreading across her misshapen features. The man leaning by the door stood a little straighter at the tone in her voice. “You want to talk to me about time?” Lawrence was shouting now, the garbled sound of her speech gone, crystal-clear words echoing off the clean white walls. “You have all the time in the world! I’m never going to leave this room alive, and my daughter is about to lose her mother. She doesn’t have anyone else!” She collapsed back onto her bed, the anger dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. Her own words brought it all rushing back, though, and the reality of her situation was suddenly sharp, stinging deeper than any physical pain as tears began to stream down her ravaged face.

  In three quick strides the heavy agent in the corner reached Naomi’s side, grabbed her arm roughly, and dragged her out of the room. As he pulled her down the hallway, the sound of Megan Lawrence’s sobs followed them, blending with Naomi’s furious protestations. The agent did not let go of her arm until he watched her leave the building.

  Outside the hospital, a light snow had begun to fall, early winter in October. She stood motionless for a long moment, finally stepping off the curb to stalk angrily to her car. Behind her, the doors were pushed open and a voice called out in her direction. She turned to face the young resident from the fifth floor.

  “I thought you should know.” Naomi waited impatiently until the doctor continued. “She has less than a week left. Her husband passed away three years ago, and she won’t see her daughter again because she doesn’t want that image to be the girl’s last memory of her mother.”

  The resident watched Kharmai’s face long enough to realize that the words meant nothing to her. Then he turned and retreated from the cold, heading back to finish his shift.

  CHAPTER 4

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Kealey was standing before a bank of monitors and audio equipment in a darkened room occupied by the Directorate of Science and Technology. He wore a visitor’s pass around his neck that identified him by number, although the laminated surface also bore a photograph of himself taken three years earlier. The crowded space was filled with young analysts looking at data, monitoring rows of numbers, and occasionally speaking quietly to each other over Styrofoam cups of cold coffee. Ryan Kealey, standing next to the chief analyst, Roger Davidson, was lost in the sense of anonymity that seemed to blanket the room.

  “Okay, this copy arrived in June of 2003 via the Saudis—God knows how they got it. Originally broadcast on Al-Jazeera, it’s the usual fare, so it didn’t get a lot of attention at first. Declaration of fatwa—a religious proclamation—issued on a standard feed, decent resolution. Remember, we’re looking at the background…This isn’t surveillance tape, so we didn’t really need to run any compression. We got what we were looking for when we adjusted this spot here—you see?”

  As the analyst manipulated strings of data on a laptop computer, the corner of the screen on the second monitor darkened, revealing a small group of people. Some were reading from what Kealey thought were handmade military field manuals, while others were stripping and cleaning weapons.

  “Got it?” asked Davidson. “Okay, this tape was shot at midday, at least according to the time-and-date stamp. My tech officers swear up and down that it hasn’t been altered, so we’ll call that fact for now. Now, you can see the glare was initially blocking out this group of people, so we’ve…”

  Ryan tuned the analyst out as he leaned in to stare at the tape. The group of men were seated on the sand beneath a worn canvas tarp lashed to wooden supporting poles. For the most part, they appeared to be of Arab descent, dressed in loose, dark clothing or flowing robes covered in dirt and dust. All were wearing the traditional kaffiyeh, including one man half-turned away from the camera, the sun giving light to blond hair that strayed from beneath the head covering. The angle did not reveal the man’s face, only the clean, straight line of his jaw, obvious even beneath the heavy beard.

  Ryan Kealey stared at the frame for a long time.

  He turned and caught Davidson watching him with a satisfied smile on his face. “Harper said you would pick up on that right away.” He tapped emphatically on the screen where the image was located. “I don’t think it’s an accident that this guy is facing away from the camera. He’s far more disciplined than the others, probably because someone has a file on him somewhere. He’s a player, but he wasn’t always so careful. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  The analyst kept the image on the screen and started a different segment of tape on another of the room’s many flat-screen monitors. “This is a copy of a tape found in the Khyber Pass four months ago. The original was badly damaged by fire, probably in an attempt to destroy it. Mostly they were successful, but we recovered about two minutes of intermittent footage.

  “In this one, we have what appears to be a high-level meeting of lesser Al-Qaeda operatives and members of the majlis al shura, the governing council. Although the time and date are not displayed, we believe that it was recorded well after 9/11, as our intelligence indicates that this man, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, was still busy recruiting for Ansar al-Islam in northern Iraq until early 2002. In fact, the most recent sighting came in May of that same year, when a Pakistani army captain supposedly spotted him in Peshawar…”

  Kealey might as well have been alone in the room, his attention completely focused on the monitor. At that moment, the man with whom al-Zarqawi was speaking briefly glanced up in the direction of the camera. The face was without expression, but the flashing green eyes seemed to stare right through the glass, as though catching sight of an old friend from across a crowded room.

  “Son of a bitch,” Kealey whispered under his breath. He turned to Davidson, abruptly interrupting the man’s impassioned commentary. “I’ve seen enough. Take me to Harper.”

  Seated in the deputy director’s seventh-floor office, Ryan could catch distant views of the Potomac River across treetops lightly dusted with snow. The sight of the water reminded him of his old house on Cape Elizabeth, and he suddenly felt the urge to call Katie. Would she even pick up the phone? She could definitely hold
a grudge, as he had discovered much to his chagrin on several other occasions…

  “Ryan, I take it you feel sure enough to move on this?” Harper asked.

  Kealey snapped back from his thoughts, turning his full attention to the other man.

  “It’s March on that tape, John, I’m positive. If we can place him here during the attack, well, that’s another question. It would help if we had some witnesses to talk to. If their stories match up, then we might have a foundation to build on.”

  Harper nodded his agreement and turned to the only other person in the room, a small young woman seated on the other side of the coffee table. “What did you turn up in the interviews, Naomi?”

  “Nothing new from the civilians, sir, but the Secret Service has already consulted with their person on the scene. They’ve faxed me a copy of her account. She only got a brief look, but it’s enough to confirm the other descriptions: Caucasian male, late twenties to early thirties, medium height, lean build. More importantly, she was the only witness confident enough to pick someone out of the photographs. Iran doesn’t have an embassy here in Washington, of course, but they do have a special-interest group located in the Pakistani embassy. Our people were watching the building five minutes after the attack, and there was no real fluctuation in traffic in or out.