The secretary of state produced a long sigh, her face worn despite a careful application of makeup, her mouth and eyes surrounded by radial lines, which seemed to have stamped the skin around them in an almost inconceivably short time. “Mr. President, with all due respect, we now have two choices. We can beat ourselves up about this, or we can do what you and Bob have explicitly and implicitly suggested today. Which is to act quickly and use the small window of opportunity that remains to take charge of the situation . . . rehabilitate it, if you will . . . before it deteriorates beyond repair.”
“Brynn’s absolutely right,” Andrews said. “The capture of Ishmael Mirghani was more than an intelligence score. It could be an achievement that has lasting positive ramifications. And I don’t mean in terms of politics, but real benefits for the Sudanese people.”
Harper was nodding. “When I met with Ryan Kealey in South Africa, I recall that we spent a few minutes pondering Mirghani’s reasons for splintering off from a couple of known rebel factions . . . particularly the Sudanese Liberation Army,” he said. “But here’s where the Agency takes some of the blame for what’s developed—it turns out it’s something that should have been assessed with organized, targeted intelligence analysis.” He paused. “Based on his questioning at the embassy in Khartoum, Mirghani is a far more politically and socially moderate alternative to Bashir than any other opposition leader in the country. That is why he parted ways with the SLA. When he first joined the organization, it was supposed to be a nonreligious coalition of Darfurian peoples who were under oppression from Bashir. But it’s turned out to be highly polarized along tribal lines . . . and over time its reprisals against civilians who aren’t members of the cause have grown as barbaric as Bashir’s. Mirghani, on the other hand, split with them over those coercive tactics and has a record of vocal opposition to human rights abuses—”
“Unless it happened to be the bloodbath at Camp Hadith,” Brenneman said. “He knew Nusairi was responsible. How am I supposed to see him as anything but a run-of-the-mill opportunist when he’s allied himself with that murderer?”
“It’s a good point,” Harper said. “I’m not trying to paint a portrait of Mirghani with a halo and wings . . . or tell you he’ll become a champion of democratic rule in Sudan. He closed his eyes to an unpardonable atrocity. But he did not participate in its planning or commit any of his guerrilla forces to it. And his cousin Hassan Saduq has independently, and without knowledge of Mirghani’s capture, told Interpol that his linkage with Nusairi was formed out of desperation. Rightly or wrongly, he’d become convinced there was no other way to unseat the Bashir regime and end the civil war.”
“And I came to the same conclusion,” Fitzgerald said. “Let’s be honest. We are sitting here right now because of our willingness to enter into a moral compromise. We knew Nusairi had an unstable personality. We were well aware he’d provoked antigovernment riots that left hundreds dead or imprisoned, and then egged on more protests based on those deaths—a cynical, manipulative way to keep stoking hostilities against Bashir. And that was fine with us . . . . So why hold Mirghani to a higher standard?”
Brenneman was shaking his head. “There’s a difference. We had no evidence Nusairi was guilty of butchery. In some cases with his own hands . . . as we now know all too well.”
“Mr. President, that’s the trap General Stralen and I fell into,” Fitzgerald said. “You can close one eye or the other to ugliness, or just squint so what you’re seeing is enough of a blur that you can stomach it. It’s still deliberately choosing not to see what’s right there in front of you.” She sighed. “But let’s take a step back. I shouldn’t have brought up the possibility of Mirghani as a future ally in Sudan. We can evaluate that, or not, at a later date—it’s a digression we don’t need at this stage. I want to get back to what Bob said at the start of this meeting. If we move fast, we can prevent what is about to happen on the ground there now. That, and that alone, is of the essence.”
Brenneman looked thoughtful, just vaguely aware his hands had begun to unclench on the desktop. “What’s our present objective?” he asked simply.
Fitzgerald glanced at Andrews, deferring to him.
“It’s twofold,” he said. “Nusairi played us. He claimed he intended to use the tanks and choppers against Bashir’s troops in Darfur, at the southern end of the country, and instead moved them into the north right under our noses.”
“That’s if Mirghani is to be believed,” Brenneman said. “How is it the spy sats can’t tell us anything?”
“They can,” Andrews said. “But it takes time to deflect them from orbit, and Nusairi’s known it all along. He also knows it takes time to deploy our surveillance drones. That’s why he moved the tanks and choppers to the staging grounds so quickly. But thanks to Mirghani—and I do believe he can be trusted—we now know his goal is to invade the petroleum refineries and pipelines outside Khartoum and seize control of their production. From a tactical standpoint there are only several possible staging grounds for a takeover of the area.”
Brenneman shook his head in disgust. He’d been played, all right. Not only had the Chinese and Russians poured trillions into those refineries, but their current fuel demands required the uninterrupted production and shipment of oil out of Port Sudan. If Nusairi took control of the facilities, he would control the flow of oil to their shores—and gain a stranglehold on their economies. Whether they bowed to his demands or tried to retake the facilities, the destabilizing effect on global politics would be incalculable . . . and any military action against him would surely result in the refineries’ destruction at his hands. In one swoop, that butcher would become one of the world’s most powerful men, and it would be only a matter of time before it was revealed that the United States had given him that power.
He expelled a deep breath, pulling his thoughts together. “Okay, Bob,” he said. “By a twofold goal, I assume you mean our first is to find out where Nusairi intends to launch his attack, and our second is to prevent him from getting away with it.”
Andrews nodded. “Plainly stated, that’s the position in which we’ve put ourselves. Though there are no assurances we can accomplish it.”
“And where do you propose we start trying?” asked Brenneman.
Andrews looked at his assistant director, nodded for him to pick up the ball.
“With Omar al-Bashir, distasteful as that may be,” Harper said. “And on the ground with Ryan Kealey.”
“Simon,” Mirghani said into his satellite phone. “I have some hard news to deliver.”
“It has already reached me on Talfazat,” Nusairi said. Mirghani had expected it would. The Arabic Internet news service carried feeds from the Sudanese Radio and Television Corporation as well as Al-Jazeera.
“I have watched the images of your home burning,” Nusairi said. “They say those who conducted the raid have not yet been identified, and that you somehow managed to elude them.”
“Only by the grace of Allah,” Mirghani said. “But ‘elude’ is not quite the word. I was fortunate enough to have been warned of the attack shortly before it occurred. A number of my loyal guards were killed. Had you heard?”
“Yes. The information being given is incomplete. There are reports of gunfire and several deaths, but the police have allowed no witnesses to speak.” A pause. “How are you?”
“Well enough,” Mirghani said. “I am in a safe place.”
“And do you have any idea who was responsible?”
“It was Mukhabarat.”
“Bashir’s secret service?”
“Yes,” Mirghani said. “I have expected such a move for weeks. Al-Bashir blames me for the unrest in the city. The protests and civil disobedience. The strike was in retaliation. . . . He seeks to intimidate me.”
“So it had nothing to do with our immediate plans?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“It was unrelated,” Mirghani replied. “As I said, I was adv
ised it might happen by informants within the service.”
A pause. “Ishmael, I do not doubt you. But perhaps it would be best if you avoid the staging area.”
“I would greatly regret that. Our day has been long awaited.”
“I know. But under the circumstances, it is best to be cautious.”
Mirghani was silent.
“My brother, listen to me,” Nusairi said. “Let us not put in jeopardy everything toward which we have worked together.”
Mirghani did not say anything for another several seconds. Then he produced a relenting sigh. “I cannot argue against prudence,” he said at last. “The American, White, left the city well ahead of me. I expect he will be at the prearranged meeting place to taste the sweetness of our nation’s fruit.”
Nusairi laughed a little. “I am sure,” he said. “And your fighters?”
“They are in position to join your forces. . . . There will be four hundred and more.”
“Good,” Nusairi said. “They will carry your spirit with them, Ishmael. And do not fear. We shall have adequate time to celebrate our victory.”
“Yes,” Mirghani said. “Insha’Allah, God willing, I have faith we will.”
He thumbed the disconnect button on his phone, wiped a hand across his brow, and glanced up from his chair at Seth Holland and Ryan Kealey, who were standing to either side of him in the CIA station chief’s fourth-floor embassy office.
“There,” he said. “It is done.”
Kealey looked at him stonily. “For you, anyway,” he said.
In a traditional mud brick home near the defunct rail station at Kassala, a short distance from the city’s famed outdoor markets and some 250 miles from Khartoum, Simon Nusairi sat looking across a simple wooden table at Cullen White. There was no electrical power in the dwelling, and an oil lamp burned between them to illuminate the room.
“It is as you suspected,” Nusairi said. His features showed a kind of simmering anger. “The CIA has taken Mirghani into custody, and he has likely told them everything.”
White mulled that a second. “How soon can you roll?”
“The second convoy of tanks and helicopters will not reach the outskirts of the city until tomorrow,” Nusairi said. “I can have my men stand by for action, but it would be the next day before we are properly organized.”
“Then the next day is when it has to be,” White said.
Another silence. Nusairi watched the shadows hurled off by the lamp’s burning wick cavort across the rough brown walls of the brick house.
“Mirghani went out of his way to mention our rendezvous,” he said. “I think we should go through with it. As if we haven’t yet met.”
“A setup?”
“Yes,” Nusairi said. “Clearly a net has been cast.”
White sat for a moment, nodded.
“We’ll have to see who gets snagged,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
SUDAN
Enriched by the fertile soil of the Gash River delta, Kassala was known for the fruit groves and grape fields spread out for miles around the city proper, where its low, flat-roofed homes were laid out in a rectangle around a spacious open-air souq. There the crops were brought by donkey, truck, and camel train and sold from dawn to dusk, the citrus fruits, mangoes, pomegranates, and melons arranged around the market’s ruler-straight borders, where they overflowed their baskets among the woven goods of Beja artisans and the silver bracelets, necklaces, and charms crafted by women of Rashaida origin.
The prevailing religion in Kassala was Islam; the ethnic mix varied. Brown jute waistcoats over their long white robes, turbans wrapped around their taqiyahs, steel longswords at their waists, and wooden boomerangs across their backs, the Beja clansmen, who composed the majority of the village’s population, would often mill about the souq to trade for the superior livestock of the more colorfully dressed Rashaida nomads, whose sheep and goats were herded on seasonal migrations between the village and the Eritrean lowlands.
Kealey, Abby, and Mackenzie had driven from Khartoum in the crepuscular gloom before sunrise, Mackenzie at the wheel of the Jeep, their route following the main road out of the city southeast along the Blue Nile to Wad Medani, then turning due east across 150 miles of irrigated grain fields and parched sandy expanses to Gedaref, where the terrain gradually transitioned to rolling green hills.
Mackenzie drove mostly in dour silence. Just the day before he had helped lift the bloody remains of Jacoby Phillips from the rear section of the very Cherokee that he was now navigating toward Kassala. He and Phillips had been pretty good friends. They had often exchanged war stories—Mackenzie sharing some of his exploits in Afghanistan, Phillips speaking of his time disrupting Saddam’s communications infrastructure in the Persian Gulf. They had talked, on occasion, of getting together when they finished with their hitches in Sudan. Mackenzie, who’d inherited a family home on the Tennessee River at the Kentucky border, had told Phillips of the catfish traps they would lay in the morning from his outboard, and had explained how they would go out on the boat that same evening and bring in a haul for the community fish fry. Phillips had laughed about it. Community fry? We can catch that many fish in a single day? Mackenzie had explained you didn’t need to, not if you brought along plenty of bourbon to keep everyone happy.
The trio inside the Cherokee rolled on through the sunrise and early morning. By full daylight the uneven macadam beneath their tires had swung back north into flat plains and desert, clinging to the old British railway tracks near the Ethiopian and Eritrean borders as it took them first to the little village of Shobak, then under the loom of the twisted, humped Taka Mountains.
They had not been concerned with military checkpoints. Nor would they have to be as they neared their destination. The U.S. secretary of state and the foreign minister of Sudan had had a back-channel chat during the night and had arranged for a subsequent top secret conversation between their respective presidents. And when Omar al-Bashir and David Brenneman had spoken, Brenneman had advised Bashir of intelligence he’d received that vindicated him as far as having staged the assault on Camp Hadith and the murder of Lily Durant. While vague on many details, he had made it unequivocally clear that the United States, and indeed the world, had been deceived by subversive elements within Sudan who had planned to undermine the Bashir government, seeing that it was held responsible for the blatant atrocities committed against Camp Hadith’s starved, sick refugees and the U.S. president’s beloved niece. Finally, Brenneman had suggested that their mutual cooperation in bringing the conspirators to justice could lead to more than just a temporary thaw in relations between the two nations, but perhaps to a relaxing of trade embargoes and other long-term improvements in their relationship—including a U.S. reevaluation of its stance on Bashir’s international criminal status. And naturally Bashir had jumped at the deal.
Kealey hated that his government was now accommodating one bloody monster in order to stop another that it had given fangs and claws. He hated the facile blurring of moral lines and, most of all, hated feeling that he was being used as a pawn in a dirty political game.
But he had gotten involved with the Agency again for one and only one reason. For him it began and ended with the photograph that John Harper had shown him in that Pretoria bar, the snapshot of a plain, dark-haired woman in her midtwenties, an aid worker surrounded by starved-looking African children, her infectious smile somehow managing to catch hold on their gaunt, hollow-eyed faces.
He wanted the man who killed Lily Durant. He wanted him more now than ever. Call it justice; call it revenge; it didn’t matter. He could taste his desire for it at the back of his tongue, as he had tasted it every moment since he’d seen that picture. . . .
And it was bitter. Unbearably bitter.
“That’s Jebel Atweila, about a mile east of us,” Mackenzie said. He pointed out the right side of his windshield. After passing through the main checkpoint into Kassala, he had crossed the Gash River over the b
ridge spanning its narrows and looped around the eastern edge of town, leaving the rutted blacktop behind for dirt and gravel tracks, then swinging completely off road toward the heaving escarpments. “The other two mountains are Taka and Totil.”
Kealey looked at his chronograph. “Almost noon,” he said. “Mirghani’s people should be there about now.”
Mackenzie steered toward Atweila and was soon bumping over the pebbly deposits spread out around the slope, glancing repeatedly at his GPS unit to check his coordinates against those that had been preset for their meet. Sticking close to the base of Atweila, he continued around it until he spotted a rock-strewn switchback in the shadow of a large, anvil-shaped spur. When he got there, he swung onto it, twisted up the mountain for about 50 yards, jounced to a halt, and cut the ignition.
Kealey glanced around at their surroundings, reached for his door handle, and got out, Mackenzie and Abby exiting with him. Seth Holland’s Glock 35 was in a sidearm holster under his Windbreaker, which also concealed the Muela combat blade he’d bought back in Yaoundé and carried in a sheath at his waist.
They had hiked 30 or 40 feet up along the switchback, taking several winding turns, when a group of fighters appeared from behind a knobby granite outcrop . . . almost all of them in khakis, head scarves, and combat boots, standing openly in the baking sun. All had rifles on their shoulders—M14s, AK-47s, Steyr and FAMAS bullpups.
Kealey and his companions stopped, waited as a wiry man with a short, dark beard on his tanned face approached.
“A s’amaa zarqaa,” Mackenzie said.
The bearded man gave his response to the code phrase. “Wa quul id-diir.”
They shook hands, had a brief exchange in Arabic. Then Mackenzie turned to Kealey. “This is Tariq . . . Ishmael Mirghani’s second in command,” he said, making their introductions. “Tariq, Ryan Kealey. And Abby Liu.”
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