The president knew all of this, just as he knew what dwell capability was. Everything Harper had said before was for the benefit of Robert Andrews, whose expertise in the field of image intelligence, or IMINT, was decidedly limited.
“As you know, sir,” Harper began, “the National Reconnaissance Office has only four 8X satellites in operation. Two more are undergoing repairs and won’t be operational for another six to eight months. Given our limited resources, plus the low probability of finding Mengal through the use of image intelligence, the decision was made to keep them in GEO over areas of interest in Kashmir. It would be different if we had a firm location to lock onto, but since we don’t…”
Harper didn’t have to finish; he’d made his point clear, and Brenneman nodded his reluctant agreement. “Do we have assets on the ground?”
“Nothing worth bragging about,” Andrews said. “Operating successfully in that area requires some very specific language skills, as well as a certain physical appearance. You need the whole package to pull it off, and people like that are hard to come by.”
There was a slight pause; then Brenneman pushed forward. “But you do have some people who fit the requirements. Naomi Kharmai, for example. I assume she was brought into this, in part, at least, because she fits the criteria.”
“Yes, sir,” Harper said, shooting a quick look at Andrews. The DCI’s face was remarkably composed; Harper couldn’t tell if he’d mentioned anything about Kharmai’s immediate past to the president.
Brenneman leaned back in his seat and ran a weary hand over his face. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this…situation presents us with a unique problem. I’ve already met with Ambassador Vázquez. According to the Spanish government’s initial figures, six people died as a direct result of this event, along with Kamil Ghafour. He was the sole enemy casualty; the rest were innocents. One was an officer with the CNP, the National Police. Another was a pregnant woman. She was killed in the blast on San Leonardo de Dios, along with a twelve-year-old child on his way home from a soccer game. Four more are critically injured.”
The president paused for a moment to let that sink in. “It’s a messy situation, and the problem is compounded by the fact that we—and by that, I mean the State Department—made an inquiry through official channels regarding Ghafour less than a week ago. The Spanish are curious about our possible involvement in this, and rightfully so. They’re just testing the waters for now, but it’s only going to get harder to deflect their interest as time goes by, especially if the body count continues to rise. Obviously, we cannot allow them to learn the truth.”
Both Agency officials nodded, and Andrews voiced his agreement. Brenneman paused again, looking down at his hands.
“I understand the need for the actions your people took,” he said. “The prospect of American intelligence officers being apprehended on foreign soil, especially while taking part in an operation of this magnitude, is simply unthinkable. It would undermine our ties to governments around the world, not to mention impugning my entire administration.” He paused for a very long time, weighing his next words. “At the same time, what happened in Madrid today is completely unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. I don’t know how to make that any more clear.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Harper spoke up.
“Sir, I agree with everything you’ve said,” he remarked, “and needless to say, disciplinary action will be taken against the people involved. Nevertheless, I feel that our people, Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai in particular, remain vital to the successful outcome of this mission. The mission being, of course, the safe recovery of Secretary Fitzgerald.”
Brenneman nodded slowly. “So you want them to stay on.”
“Yes, sir,” Harper responded, without delay. “I do.”
“What do you think, Bob?” Brenneman asked, shifting his gaze. “Are you of the same opinion?”
Andrews debated for a long time, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes, sir, I am. Their combined track record speaks for itself. We can’t afford to ignore their past success.”
“Well, what about the ransom demands?” Brenneman asked after a moment, switching gears without warning. “Does that tell us anything more about the people who pulled this off?”
Both men considered that for a moment. A claim of responsibility for the abduction of Brynn Fitzgerald, as well as the abduction of 27 other hostages over the past several months, had arrived two hours earlier in the form of a VHS tape, which had been hand-delivered to the U.S. embassy in Islamabad. After an extensive interrogation—or at least as extensive as could be realistically expected in so short a time—it had been determined that the messenger was a blind cutout; essentially, he knew nothing of value. He couldn’t even give an accurate description of the man who had paid him to deliver the tape. Still, he was being detained while the Pakistani authorities delved into his background.
The tape had been converted to streaming media, then sent to Langley via an encrypted file, where it was written onto a blank DVD. Brenneman had watched the recording in the Oval Office, along with Andrews, Harper, DNI Bale, and Stan Chavis. If nothing else, it was proof that Saifi had had a hand in everything that had taken place. It featured the Algerian terrorist standing before a white flag that bore the oval-shaped symbol of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. Saifi’s first demand had been quick and to the point: he wanted the release of 48 prisoners currently being held at Guantanamo Bay, all of whom were either Algerian-born or of Algerian extraction.
This hadn’t come as a surprise to anyone. Neither had his second demand: a sum of fifty million U.S. dollars to be divided among forty accounts in banks known for their willingness and ability to block government inquiries. All of it was to be delivered within the next forty-eight hours, or Saifi would begin killing hostages. He had threatened to start with Fitzgerald, but Harper had immediately dismissed that part of the recording. The acting secretary was by far the Algerian’s biggest bargaining chip, and there was no way Saifi would kill her until he had gotten what he wanted. On this point, they were all in complete agreement.
“Sir, there’s nothing unexpected or unusual about Saifi’s first two demands,” Harper began. “Assuming Mengal isn’t involved, Saifi could, theoretically, use the money to reestablish the GSPC, which hasn’t been on anyone’s radar for years. If Mengal is involved, then Saifi might still receive a portion of those funds. I doubt he really cares much about the prisoners…You’ll recall that he hardly gave any instructions on where they were to be transferred, or how they were supposed to get there. He did, however, give extensive instructions on how the money was to be delivered. Saifi doesn’t have a financial background, so obviously, he has someone advising him in that direction. More likely, Mengal—again, assuming he’s involved—is the one calling the shots with respect to the second demand. He was a senior figure in ISI, so presumably, he would know how hard it is to wipe funds clean of electronic surveillance.”
Brenneman considered that for a moment. “And what about the third demand?”
Harper hesitated. The third demand was the one that had thrown them all for a loop, mainly because it didn’t fit in with what they knew about the Algerian terrorist. Before the tape ended, Saifi had demanded an immediate cessation to the forthcoming Indian-Israeli arms deal, pointing out that the sale of superior military technology to India would “infect the Indian people with the same grandiose, imperalistic dreams that have consumed the U.S. government for years.” As with the money, Saifi had given specific instructions on how the cancelled deal was to be reported in the media. He’d picked out three major networks—DD National in India, PTV1 in Pakistan, and CNN in the United States—and insisted that the cancellation be reported on all three channels prior to July 18, the date the transaction was scheduled to go through.
“The third demand, sir, is not concurrent with what we know about Saifi’s background. Nor does it make sense when one considers the aims of his group. In other words, it’s completely out
of character for him. But if Benazir Mengal is actually behind the whole thing, then it might make perfect sense. If that deal falls through, Pakistan will maintain the status quo, militarily speaking, and the Pakistani forces fighting in Kashmir will suddenly have a huge psychological advantage. We don’t know much about Mengal just yet—I have people working on that right now—but we do know that he spent a decade with ISI in a senior role. If he still has some strange allegiance to his former service, I wouldn’t put it past him to engineer something like this.”
“Fair enough,” the president said. He frowned for a moment, thinking it through. Then he looked up and appraised them both. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to take a hard look at that tape. We need to try to learn from it, and we also need to try and figure out why Saifi didn’t use the secretary of state on the recording. That still doesn’t make sense to me. But for now, let me return to the issue at hand, namely, what took place today in Madrid. The Spanish government is already asking some dangerous questions, and they’ve only just started looking. I have to know that there is nothing out there that could link us to this. If I’m going to deny it outright, I need to be sure it won’t come back to us. That it won’t come back to me.”
“It won’t, sir,” Harper assured him. “That is the one thing you can be certain of. In the meantime, no one is standing still. The Bureau’s team landed at Chaklala this morning, and they’re already examining the vehicles destroyed in the ambush, as well as the site itself on Airport Road. With any luck, they’ll have some preliminary observations by the end of the day. We can factor in whatever they come up with and go from there.”
“Good,” Brenneman said. He got to his feet, and the other men followed suit. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Interagency cooperation on this matter is absolutely vital.”
“Of course,” Andrews said as he approached the door, Harper a few steps behind. “We’re doing everything we can, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Brenneman paused just inside the door, which seemed to open of its own accord. He appraised them both in turn. “Gentlemen, I want hourly updates. Obviously, I want to see anything relating to the situation in Kashmir, but finding Secretary Fitzgerald remains our top priority. In order to do that, we need to find Mengal as soon as possible. As far as I’m concerned, nothing is more important than tracking him down. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Andrews answered for both of them. “Perfectly clear.”
CHAPTER 21
WASHINGTON, D.C. • LAHORE, PAKISTAN
Five minutes after the meeting was over, the two CIA officials left the building from a door on the south side of the West Wing. The air was oppressive: heavy, warm, and still. Mountainous black clouds positioned directly overhead seemed to promise rain, although the sun still broke through occasionally, spilling yellow light over the dark pavement. The surrounding trees seemed completely immobile, frozen in anticipation of the building storm. The two men began crossing the pavement toward the waiting Town Car, which was tucked in between a pair of black Chevy Suburbans. All three vehicles were running, and as Harper and Andrews approached, a number of security officers broke away from their idle discussions and climbed into the armored SUVs, preparing for the short drive back to Langley.
Andrews walked up to the Lincoln, and the driver’s-side window slid down immediately. He spoke a few words to the driver, unbuttoned his suit coat, and handed it in through the window. Loosening his tie slightly, he turned and walked back to Harper.
“Hot as hell out here,” he remarked, rolling his sleeves up over his thick forearms.
“Yeah, but it looks like rain, and we could use it.”
“I hate this town in the summer,” Andrews growled, looking up at the darkening sky. “The air is so damn thick…It’s like trying to breathe underwater.”
“August is just around the corner,” Harper pointed out. “The worst is yet to come.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Andrews said. He seemed to brood for a moment before nodding curtly toward the east colonnade. “Come on. Let’s take a walk. I need some air.”
Having no real say in the matter, Harper ignored the verbal hypocrisy and fell in beside the DCI. They walked along the curved road until they reached the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, which lay just south of the east colonnade. They entered the garden on the west side, following the redbrick walkway between strips of bright grass and beds of colorful flowers. Although the East Wing was visible through the vegetation, they were largely blocked from view by boxwood hedges and small trees. Harper knew that a number of marines and Secret Service agents were posted outside the building, but they remained out of sight. In short, they had complete privacy. They had walked for nearly five minutes before Andrews finally spoke.
“Did you know that Andrew Jackson planted some of these personally?” He gestured toward a cluster of small, well-kept magnolia trees. “A different time,” he mused, more to himself than anything else. Still, Harper felt compelled to respond and muttered his agreement.
They continued in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Andrews paused beside a neatly trimmed hedge of American holly. He loosened his tie a little more, then wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
“John, nothing about this situation makes sense,” he began, fixing his subordinate with a steady gaze. “The president made a good point in there. If they have her, why didn’t they show her on the tape? That would have made a much greater impact than words alone, and let’s face it: Brenneman might just pay them if it means keeping a tape like that out of the media. It’s one thing to know she was kidnapped by terrorists, but it’s another thing entirely to see it. It would be nothing short of a crippling psychological blow to the country.”
“Maybe she’s dead,” Harper said quietly, gazing absently at a bed of pink tulips. “Maybe she was hurt in the accident and died once they got her away from the scene. Maybe that’s why they can’t show her.”
Andrews winced. “Jesus, don’t say that. I don’t even want to consider the possibility.”
“But it is possible, Bob. You saw the digital images, and you read the transcripts of the witness statements. The rocket that hit her vehicle did an enormous amount of damage. I mean, her driver was killed by the impact alone, as was her detail leader. The damage was mainly limited to the front of the vehicle, of course, and she was riding in back, but that doesn’t mean much…There’s still a good chance she was exposed to the shrapnel.”
The deputy director paused thoughtfully. “On the other hand, if she was killed, they have no reason to keep that from us. They might as well take credit for it while the press coverage is still at its peak. That would at least pander to some of Saifi’s supporters, which could help bring in some additional funding and arms, maybe even the backing of a rogue state. Besides, even without Fitzgerald, they still have plenty of hostages to ransom.”
“I don’t know about that.” Andrews was skeptical. “We might pay him for Fitzgerald, but let’s face it: we’re not going to break with two decades of policy over twenty-seven civilians, especially since only twelve of them are ours to begin with.”
“The Germans paid him,” Harper pointed out. “When he took those hostages in Chad back in 2003, the government coughed up six million to get them back. You have to remember, Bob, Saifi has seen this work before. There’s no reason for him to think it won’t work again. At least, that’s where I fall on the issue, and for the most part, my people agree.”
“By ‘people,’ are you referring to Kealey and Kharmai?”
Harper caught note of the DCI’s tone, which had suddenly hardened. “Yes,” he conceded reluctantly. “Among others.”
“Where are they now?”
“You know the woman initially tasked with heading up the teams over there?”
The DCI furrowed his brow, thinking back to his earlier briefings. “Something Pétain, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Marissa Pétain. Apparently, she has family in the area. Her parents have a
house on the coast. Cabo de Palos, near Cartagena.”
Suddenly, the director’s face lit up with recognition. “Her father is Javier Machado.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He was before my time, but I know his history. An accomplished case officer with an impeccable record, as I recall.” He frowned slightly. “He had two daughters, I thought, both with the Agency.”
“That’s correct,” Harper replied reluctantly, not wanting to get into that particular story at the moment. “Anyway, he’s proving very cooperative, and that’s where they are at the moment. Safest place for them, really. Until we can give them something useful on Mengal, there’s no point in moving them around.”
“And the rest of the watchers?”
“Most have already left the country. Their documentation and cover stories were good enough to get them out on commercial flights out of Madrid Barajas, even with the heightened security. We’ll be moving the rest soon.”
A long silence ensued, after which Andrews brought up the president’s reaction to the events in Madrid. “He wasn’t happy, John, but it could have been worse. I don’t think he’s had time to really consider what it will mean for us—and him—if the Spanish government learns what actually took place on the ground.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to worry. They’re not going to find out.”
“Are you sure about that?” Andrews pressed. “Can you guarantee they won’t discover the truth?”
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