The Invisible

and there was little doubt in any of their minds that Machado had carried out his threat. Privately, he wondered if they were secretly pleased that Naomi was no longer a threat to the administration. What had taken place in Madrid three days earlier was still a hot button issue. So far, the president had stuck with the story he had fed to Miguel Vazquez, and though it was only a matter of time before the Spanish government unveiled their evidence, they still didn’t have a personal admission of guilt, and now they never would. If they couldn’t produce Kharmai in person, the story would die a quick death in the media, and what had transpired in Madrid would soon fade from the collective public consciousness. Harper had no doubt that everyone in the room had already considered this, though none of them would ever admit to it. As if reading his mind, the president cleared his throat and said,

“So, still no word on Kharmai?”

“No, sir,” Harper replied neutrally. “Nothing yet.”

“But I assume you have people watching Machado’s house in Cartagena,” Brenneman said.

“Yes,” Andrews said, making his first contribution to the conversation. “We have people talking to Elise Petain now. She’s been moved to the embassy, and she’s proved very cooperative, though understandably, she’s also very upset.”

“How much does she know?” Brenneman wondered aloud.

“Not much,” Andrews admitted. “Just the basics. That her daughter was in line for an important operation, and that her husband was willing to do pretty much anything to prevent Marissa from taking that assignment. She’s already told us everything she knows, but none of her information has really panned out. At the moment, nothing has changed. Machado is still missing. Obviously, Kharmai is also missing and, I’m sorry to say, presumed dead.” Andrews fell silent for a minute, then added, “I doubt that she ever really had a chance.”

The president absorbed this silently. “How long,” he eventually asked, “will you wait before you call off the search?”

“It depends,” Harper said. “If anything comes up to indicate she’s still alive, we’ll wait as long as we have to, and we’ll keep diverting resources. But eventually, we’ll have to call it off. It might be three months, or it might be a year, but we can’t look forever. We just don’t have the ability.”

“As far as I’m concerned, her actions in Madrid are forgotten,” the president said, a note of command authority entering his voice. “I remember what she did for us last year in New York City, and the year before that right here in Washington. Any way you cut it, she gave her life for this country, and I want it noted, right here and now, that I intend to award her the Presidential Medal of Freedom, whether it’s posthumous or not. We’ll do it in secret, given her background, but it will be done.” He looked around slowly, searching for signs of dissent. “I assume no one has any objections.”

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 Petain,” Andrews offered.

“Yes, Petain. 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 Petain, 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