From all outward appearances, the eighteenth-century, three-story manor house at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains was just another site of modest historical merit, no different from the many similar properties scattered throughout the Virginia countryside. No Monticello, this, but a pleasant environment nonetheless, the kind of place that, in other circumstances, might play host to fourth graders on field trips or families in search of a cheap, educational day in the country. Such visits, however, had never transpired, nor would they, for despite its unspectacular history, Windrush Manor was much more than it seemed.
First constructed in 1770 by William Fitzhugh, an American planter and delegate to the Continental Congress in 1779, the house was willed to Fitzhugh’s cousin by letter in 1825, along with 100 acres comprising the grounds. The property was then handed down through a succession of sons and daughters until 1976, when it was quietly purchased by an outside party: Richard Helms, the former director of Central Intelligence. Over the next few years, extensive modifications were made to the building’s interior. Then, in 1979, the government signed a fifty-year lease on the property. Although tax records indicated otherwise, Helms never received—nor requested—financial compensation of any kind. When Helms passed away in 2002, the property was willed to a like-minded, closemouthed supporter of the intelligence community, and everything continued as normal.
Since 1979, Windrush Manor had been a place for U.S. intelligence officers injured in the line of duty to convalesce, a place so secret that listing it with the Virginia Historical Society or a similar institution was no longer possible, for the property was no longer known to anyone who might conceive of doing so. Nestled deep within the Virginia Piedmont, Windrush was accessible only by a single service road. Wayward motorists occasionally found their way to the main gate, but when they did, they saw nothing that might give them cause for alarm, just a pair of watchful security guards, the kind of minimal protection often employed by wealthy, reclusive private citizens. The security was designed to be effective, but not obtrusive. The various electronic countermeasures scattered throughout the surrounding forest were just as efficient, and just as invisible. In short, Windrush was the kind of place that the U.S. government would never admit to knowing about, simply because it would never be forced to.
It was just after 1:00 PM when a black GMC Yukon rolled up to the service entrance just off US 421. The window came down with a whisper, and the driver produced his Agency credentials. The guards were not alarmed in the least, as this particular visitor was himself a recently discharged patient. He had left the manor two weeks earlier, but had visited every day since. Used to seeing his face, the guards would have preferred to let him pass without delay, but rules were rules. They called up to the small command post in the house, where another officer turned away from his microwaved lasagna and checked the list. Approval was given, and the driver was waved through.
The Yukon rose and fell over a series of gentle hills, the engine’s low rumble breaking the afternoon quiet, tires hissing on the damp, black ribbon road. The oak and hickory trees passing by were skeletal and absent of color, their bark stripped bare by foraging deer. After several miles the trees broke and the house appeared. The Yukon turned off the main road, the tires crunching on gravel as it rolled to a stop, the engine shutting off. Then the door swung open and Ryan Kealey stepped out, dressed in jeans, a black roll-neck sweater, and a corduroy barn jacket.
He took a moment to look around, breathing in the cold air, appraising the low gray clouds that scudded along the wintry sky. It was the first week of November, and a heavy snow had fallen two days earlier, freezing the millpond and blanketing the ground with a layer of clean white powder. The manor house, with its whitewashed fieldstone walls, almost looked like an extension of the ground, save for the wood shingle roof. Smoke curled out of the twin stone chimneys, the gray haze drifting east on a cold, steady breeze.
Kealey walked up the path to the banded oak door, aware of a black Suburban sitting off to his right. The engine was running, along with the heater, he guessed. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but as he moved forward, he shot a quick glance through the windshield. He was surprised to see a man he recognized. It was Harper’s longtime driver, apparently recovered from his bout with the flu. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the vehicle, and looking around, he saw no sign of the other man. Kealey decided he was probably inside.
He knocked on the door and was admitted by Jean Everett, the head nurse. Everett was in her early forties, with blond hair going to gray and a kind, careworn face. She smiled at him and held out her arms for the flowers he was carrying. It had become a kind of daily ritual; she would accept the flowers he brought, find a vase and some water, then send him away with a gentle apology and a plea for a little more time. Kealey knew she did not bring the flowers upstairs until he was gone, as she didn’t want to give him the chance to explore the house. It was not a subtle gesture, but he couldn’t despise her for it; he knew she was just looking out for her patient.
“How is she?” he asked. It was another part of their ritual, and he received the expected response.
“Getting better. Healing.” She smiled again, but there was a trace of sadness there. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought this woman had lobbied on his behalf. “She’s eating a little bit more, which is a good thing. She went outside yesterday after you left, and I think that helped.”
“I’m glad,” Kealey said. There was the habitual awkward pause. “Will she see me?”
Everett shook her head sadly, just as she’d done every day for the past month. “She can’t, Ryan. She’s just not ready.”
Kealey looked away, struggling to hide his disappointment, but the nurse stepped close and put a comforting hand on his arm.
“It’ll happen. Just give her time.”
Kealey nodded. When he turned back, his face was set. “As much as she needs.”
A noise to his right caught his attention. He looked over, hope springing up, but it was just Jonathan Harper. He’d come out through the kitchen and was holding two steaming Styrofoam cups. He held one out and said, “I heard the gatehouse on the radio, so don’t start thinking I’m telepathic. I thought we might go for a walk.”
Kealey looked out the window. It was about to snow again, but that was fine; he needed the air. “Sure. Let’s go.”
They went out and turned right, crossing the grounds toward the pond, moving at a slow, deliberate pace. The grist-mill was off to the right, the wooden walls covered in lichen, sagging with time and lack of maintenance. The waterwheel was half frozen in the surface of the pond. They crossed the narrow trestle bridge, heading for the gravel footpath on the other side.
“When did you get here?” Kealey finally asked.
“Just a few minutes before you did,” Harper replied. He hesitated, wondering what Kealey was thinking. It was the first time he had come to Windrush since the start of October, and he knew how that must look to the younger man. He hurried to change the subject.
“How’s the arm?”
Kealey looked down at his left arm, which was still in a white sling. “Not bad. They fixed it up pretty quick.”
“That’s bullshit, Ryan. I talked to the paramedics, as well as the doctors. I know you almost bled out on the way to the hospital, so don’t try to play it down.”
“Yeah, well…” Kealey looked away. “What happened to me was nothing, really. Not when you think about it.”
The unspoken thought seemed to cloud the air between them, but neither felt up to discussing it. They walked for a time, drinking their coffee, talking around the subject of Naomi. Most of what they went over had already cropped up over the past month, but so much had happened, it was helpful to go back and check the facts.
When the white Isuzu truck outside the Renaissance Hotel in Midtown Manhattan was finally opened by the NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit two hours after it tipped over, the contents generated an enormous amount of press
coverage. Predictably, the news was followed by public outrage, and Will Vanderveen—even in death—quickly became the focus of an intense media storm. The former U.S. soldier was depicted as a psychopath and a terrorist-for-hire, but those were just two of the less-than-inventive titles bestowed upon him by Western media, none of which were complimentary.
Following the events of September 16th, it seemed as if his face was everywhere. Official U.S. Army photographs acquired through dubious means had appeared on the cover of Newsweek and Time. Indirectly, the latter image stirred up a storm of controversy, as it depicted Vanderveen standing outside a hangar in Somalia in 1993, deep in discussion with Major General William F. Garrison.
The networks immediately jumped on the opportunity to boost ratings and began speculating that Vanderveen might have deliberately warned the Somali militia of the impending raid in which 18 U.S. soldiers were killed, later known as the Battle of Mogadishu. Before long, the theory evolved into something approaching fact, despite the absence of any supporting evidence beyond the grainy photograph, which wasn’t really evidence at all, except in the world of sensationalist journalism.
There was no limit to the coverage, or to America’s rabid fascination with the man who had turned against his own. Vanderveen was the subject of an MSNBC investigative report as well as a CNN in-depth special, which aired during prime time. A hastily composed biography had hit the bookstores a week ago and was already topping the best-seller lists. Everyone wanted to know about the Special Forces soldier who’d betrayed his country, lending his skills to some of America’s worst enemies, with the goal of destroying thousands of innocent lives. His infamy was only enhanced when it became clear that the bomb he had brought into the country would have wreaked devastation on a scale rivaling 9/11, had Nazeri been allowed to reach his target. Strangely enough, Amir Nazeri was hardly mentioned in the ensuing media storm; Vanderveen alone seemed to have captured the nation’s attention.
Harper had done his best to keep Kealey’s name out of the whole thing, but it had proved impossible; the two former soldiers had too much shared history, and there was no avoiding it. Even so, the situation would have been tenable were it not for a lengthy article that appeared in the New York Times less than a week after the failed attack. The article contained information that could only have been leaked through an Agency source, and while the Times reporter had refused to divulge his source—resulting in another Valerie Plame–like incident—it had been clear to everyone who mattered—Kealey included—that the leak could only have come from one person.
It had been clear to the president as well. Rachel Ford had ample motive. It was well known that she’d despised the entire operations directorate to begin with. Beyond that, however, she’d made it clear that she didn’t buy the official record of what had transpired in the warehouse on West Thirty-seventh Street. The Bureau’s internal investigation had determined that Special Agent Matt Foster had killed his partner, Samantha Crane, before being shot to death himself by Naomi Kharmai. The Bureau would have preferred to avoid the tarnishing link to Vanderveen, but there were just too many fingers pointing toward Foster. Kealey, for one, had demanded that the Bureau come clean, and in the end, he’d gotten his wish.
Ford had instantly started screaming about a cover-up, accusing Kealey of involvement in her niece’s death. A few people listened at first, but she lost any support she had when she leaked Kealey’s personnel file to the press. Even before that, Hakim Rudaki had been making noises about where Foster was getting his information—namely, from Samantha Crane—and that could only mean one thing: that Ford was involved, at least on the periphery. The president had quietly offered her a choice. She could either endure some painful and very public inquiries, or she could quietly resign her post. In the end, the choice had been easy to make.
Less than a week after the president accepted her resignation, he’d submitted Jonathan Harper’s name for the vacant post. The Senate had yet to confirm the nomination, but word had trickled down that Harper was a lock for the job. His skillful handling of the crisis had ensured he would sail through the confirmation process, but there was something infinitely more important at work, and that was the fact that no one else had seen it coming. Had it not been for the work of Harper, Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai, the attack would have easily succeeded, with disastrous consequences. In essence, giving Harper a promotion—with the implied promise of an eventual nomination to the top job—had been the best way for the president to defuse a more thorough investigation into his own personal handling of the entire situation, which was sorely lacking.
Ironically, David Brenneman had gotten the most mileage out of the incident, even though he’d done nothing but stand in their way since the embassy break-in. The plot had failed, and that automatically worked in his favor, but when it became clear that the bomb was meant primarily for the thirty-five members of the United Iraqi Alliance staying at the Renaissance Hotel, Brenneman received some of the credit for preventing—at least indirectly—what might have been a disastrous setback in Iraq. His political advisors milked the story for all it was worth, pointing out that the loss of the UIA’s core leadership would likely have led to civil war, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of U.S. soldiers before a suitable plan for withdrawal could be put into effect.
The political spin made Kealey sick; the troops wouldn’t even be there without the president’s approval, and suddenly he was being portrayed as their guardian, the man watching out for them. But he knew voicing this opinion wouldn’t get him anywhere, so he kept his mouth shut. He doubted whether the president would care what he thought, anyway, as Brenneman had won reelection the previous day, with a staggering 58 percent of the popular vote, defeating Democratic governor Richard Fiske in a landslide.
In the meantime, the insurgent activity in Iraq had returned to normal levels, aided in part by public appeals for peace by leading Shiite and Sunni clerics, including Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, easily the most revered religious leader in the region. The U.S. commanders had done their part to restore the status quo, which was about the best they could hope for.
As they walked, Harper brought Kealey up to speed on the most recent news. First, he mentioned the ongoing hunt for Vanderveen’s traveling companion, the woman inadvertently photographed by MI5 in London. Since that single sighting, she had disappeared without a trace. The Agency still had no idea who she was, and although the surveillance shots had been distributed to a number of friendly security services, no one was holding out much hope for her capture. Kealey didn’t speak as Harper relayed this information, but privately, he sided with the majority: the woman would probably never be found. The Agency just didn’t have enough background information to conduct an efficient search, and a few distant photographs were not enough to build on. Out of all the collaborators, it looked as if one had walked away clean. While this wasn’t really acceptable, Kealey knew there wasn’t much they could do to resolve the situation; the woman had simply covered her tracks too well.
Moving on, Harper laid out the specifics of Operation Clean Sweep, a massive endeavor involving 1,400 U.S. soldiers, including units from 10th Mountain, the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the 82nd Airborne. Clean Sweep was primarily geared toward cross-border raids into Syria in search of arms caches, and the operation had proved wildly successful. More than thirty tons of small arms had been seized, then transported back to Iraq, where they were either stored or destroyed. The joint U.S.-Iraqi forces seemed to have regained dominance on the ground, but there was still the question of Hakim Rudaki and his cousin, Reza Bagheri.
“So the Bureau’s done with him?” Kealey asked.
Harper nodded. “As far as they’re concerned, everything that came out of Rudaki’s mouth was a lie. They’ve washed their hands of it…or at least, they’ve tried to. This has really hurt their reputation, especially since it wasn’t that long ago that they had to deal with Hanssen and all the damage he did.”
“What do you think?”
/>
“I think Rudaki might have given us some truth, if only by accident.”
“Because of his cousin,” Kealey said.
“Exactly. The defense minister was supposedly passing us info because he was unhappy with the regime’s attempts to disrupt U.S. policy in Iraq by killing Tabrizi and the prime minister. Of course, it wasn’t true; Iran was never involved. But if Bagheri had nothing to do with it, why would Rudaki bring him up to begin with?”
“He needed a cover for the lies he was selling us,” Kealey pointed out. “Maybe the cousin was just the most convenient excuse.”
“Maybe,” Harper muttered. “We’re still talking to him. I think Bagheri might know a lot more than he’s letting on, so we’re looking for leverage. If anything comes of it, I’ll let you know. The question is, would you want to be involved?”
Kealey looked over. “Is that what you came here to ask me?”
“No, because that would imply a temporary role.” The other man paused. “Look, I want you back in the fold. What’s it going to take to get you back to Langley?”
Kealey brushed some snow off the wooden railing, watching absently as it drifted down to the frozen surface of the pond. “John, it’s a possibility. I want to come back, I think, but for now, my place is here.”
“She won’t see you, Ryan. She probably won’t want to see you for a very long time.”
“Then I’ll wait,” Kealey said simply. “As long as it takes.”
Harper thought about saying something but decided against it. He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting over to the manor house and the black government SUVs parked nearby. “Okay. I understand. When you’re ready, give me a call.”
Kealey nodded. Their eyes met, and they shook hands firmly. “Have a safe trip. Say hi to Julie for me.”
“Will do.”
Kealey watched him go, but before long, his gaze drifted back to the house. For a brief instant, he thought he saw a face swathed in bandages at one of the third-story windows, but then it was gone.
Andrew Britton Bundle Page 93
