only to motion Abby toward the Jeep before he plunged inside, this time hooking sharply right through the two downstairs parlors into the kitchen. He looked around for matches, pulled open a drawer, still didn’t see any, decided to quit searching, and grabbed a dishrag from a countertop near the sink.
He wound the rag tightly into a makeshift torch, uncapped the jerrican, poured gasoline over one end. Next he went to the range, turned on a burner, and held the saturated end of the dishrag in the flame. It immediately caught fire.
Kealey went bounding to the second floor with the fiery rag in one hand and the open jerrican in the other. He’d need water in a minute, but the rag was really ablaze now, and he again jogged on past the bathroom to the walk-in closet.
“Mirghani!” He held the rag and jerrican up to the safe room’s peephole now. “See this? I’m setting fire to the closet-and if you think the police are coming, you’re wrong. I’ve got them fooled. Same if you think the firemen can get here before the smoke kills you. You watch, Mirghani. Watch! ”
And with that Kealey began dousing the closet with gasoline, splashing it over the clothes draped over the hangers, the walls, even the body of the guard he’d shot. When he’d emptied the container, he stepped back from the door panel and tossed the burning rag into the closet.
The gas-soaked clothes and body burst into flame with a whuuuump of displaced air, orange-yellow tongues of fire fiercely leaping upward over everything, climbing the walls to lick at the ceiling.
Kealey had time to hear an alarm go off before he ran back down the hall to the bathroom, snatching a large bath towel from a rack, then going to the tub and opening the cold water tap. He soaked the towel under the faucet, threw it over his head like a shawl, and returned to the walk-in closet.
It was already filled with churning, acrid smoke, gray blobs of it spewing into the hall, making his eyes water and his throat involuntarily clench. He hadn’t lied to Mirghani; while the door and walls of the safe room were bound to be fire resistant, possibly saving every material possession he might have stashed in there, it would not keep the carbon monoxide smoke from seeping through. He would die of asphyxiation if he stayed put.
The cold, dripping towel still covering his head and shoulders, Kealey thrust himself inside through the searing flames.
“Come out of there, you stupid bastard,” he said, almost overcome by smoke. The towel was sizzling around his head, steam coiling off it; it would not keep him from the fire’s clutches for very long. He could already feel the hair on his arms singeing from the heat. “Come on out! I told you I just want to talk-”
The door suddenly burst open, a man Kealey identified from photos as Ishmael Mirghani pushing into the closet, wheezing and gagging. “You’re a lunatic,” he gasped and hacked out a series of sputtering coughs. “Whoever you are, you will kill us both…”
“ Shut up! ” Kealey hollered and yanked him from the closet. The smoke had gotten so thick around him, it was hard to see, but he had no problem hearing the jangle of household fire alarms and, underneath it, the more troublesome howl of oncoming sirens. He had to get out of the place, toot sweet, and could only hope Swanson and Abby would provide a diversion if he needed it.
Grabbing Mirghani by his arm, he towed him downstairs into the main parlor, then outside through the door into the back garden. Outside its low hedge, Mackenzie sat parked against the curb in his Subaru.
“Let’s move,” Kealey said, hustling Mirghani along toward the car. The sirens were close now-too close for anything that remotely passed for comfort.
“Where are you taking me?” The opposition leader was sweating profusely, and Kealey didn’t think it was from exertion.
“You’ll find out when we get there,” he said and then wrenched open the Subaru’s back door, shoved Mirghani through it, and followed him inside.
A split second later Mackenzie went screeching off into the gathering dusk.
CHAPTER 20
WASHINGTON, D.C.,SUDAN
David Brenneman had always felt something special sitting behind the Resolute desk in the Executive Office. Inspiration was probably the best word for it, but there was also a certain assurance imparted by its impressive size and solidity, its sturdy design fashioned from the timbers of a nineteenth-century British expeditionary vessel that had braved and survived the Arctic wastes to return intact. FDR and Truman had sat behind it in times of peril and momentous decision. John F. Kennedy, whose solitary ponderings had often run deep into the night, must have gathered his will and inner fortitude at that very desk when the Russians and Cubans threatened nuclear war in the summer of 1962. Brenneman, who as a young man was an enthusiastic member of Kennedy’s Peace Corps and was originally moved toward public service by his early admiration of the murdered president, liked to think the desk was infused by that which was best about the men who had preceded him as occupants of the Oval Office-their strength of purpose and higher ideals, regardless of political affiliation.
This morning, however, he felt like an exposed impostor, unworthy of the place he occupied behind the Resolute. A pressed-wood desk might better suit him…some less than authentic material, wood shavings and flimsy veneers held together with glue.
How had he allowed himself to be so badly led by the nose? When had he become such a fool? He thought of his pigheadedness, his unwillingness to listen to trusted advisors, his dismissal of men who had his best interests- and the best interests of the nation-at heart. He thought of his faulty judgment, colored by some amok inner wrath rather than anything that approached wisdom, intelligence, and a calm examination of information. He thought of his refusal to probe and question, his eagerness to lash out in vengeance…and he looked across a desk that now seemed a reminder of his unworthiness at John Harper and Bob Andrews, two of the men he’d ignored, and then at the troubled face of the woman he’d dragged along with him, Brynn Fitzgerald, who had been as susceptible to manipulation as he himself.
“I’ve blown this terribly,” he said. “I want you all to know that I will own up to my mistakes, whatever the consequences from this point forward. That I will do what I can to rectify them. And I also want to apologize to each of you for actions that damned well might be inexcusable…”
He fell silent, his hands balling into fists on the desk. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palm.
“Sir, thanks to the capture of Ishmael Mirghani, we’re in a position to do what you say-prevent this whole thing from exploding on us and the rest of the world,” Andrews said from across the room. “We are still in a position to stop Simon Nusairi. He’s acquired the necessary weapons and equipment, and I won’t diminish the imminent threat of an attack in northern Sudan. But let’s remember he hasn’t yet launched it-”
“No,” Brenneman interrupted. “He did with great success in Darfur, though, most relevantly for us against the refugees at Camp Hadith.” His voice sounded almost self-pitying to his own ears, and that had been far from his intent. “He and his people, disguised as regular Sudanese army, raped and killed my niece, and I took the bait. I bit like a fish going for the hook.”
“It isn’t as if Omar al-Bashir is an innocent,” Harper said. “In fairness, the man’s earned his reputation for genocidal brutality and then some…”
Brenneman shook his head vehemently. “Don’t massage me here. For all the ass kissing he gets from the Russians, Chinese, and his neighborhood friends in the Arab world, Bashir is a wanted criminal. An international outcast. We’d gone a long way toward isolating him without a shooting war that could result in more people dying…potentially tens of thousands of people. But I botched it. I authorized the misappropriation of millions of dollars of taxpayer funds at a time when our national economy is stretched to the limit. And before you stop me again, John, we can split hairs about what constitutes a legitimate CINC discretionary project, but the head of the Senate Armed Services Committee won’t when it comes time for midterm elections, and he’ll be completely justified in lining us up like targets in a firing range. We…no, I…could have listened to you and Bob. I could have paid attention back at Camp David. Instead, I dismissed you from my presence. I sanctioned Stralen’s plan to deal with Somali pirates and get stolen tanks and helicopters into the hands of Sudanese rebels. I armed, equipped, and financed a small army lead by Simon Nusairi, who may be a worse devil than the one we hoped to unseat, and is certainly shrewder and more calculating in his ability to manipulate us.”
The secretary of state produced a long sigh, her face worn despite a careful application of makeup, her
