The Invisible

clampdown on terror groups and their financial backers had been successful, at least to a degree. The senior leadership of al-Qaeda had been largely cut off from its base of support, and the network’s ability to pass on instructions had been severely hindered. Even the freezing of funds, most of which was instigated by the U.S. government, had helped to temporarily stem the tide. But what the intelligence agencies had missed— what even the Agency itself had overlooked—was, Kealey believed, the emergence of a new threat. Namely, the power of ideology. Radical Islam’s hatred of the West was an incredibly unifying factor, more so than most Americans could ever understand. It was strong enough to turn an impressionable student, and it was strong enough to bring together fledgling terrorists from six countries. Terrorism was no longer a singular effort. It was a cooperative enterprise, and in many cases, the cooperation between the terrorists was much greater than that between the security forces and intelligence outfits of supposedly friendly governments. The war in Iraq had only made things worse, creating a deep philosophical and moral divide between the United States and nations the country had once enjoyed amicable relationships with. Kealey had taken all of this into account when he’d first read the Agency’s file on Kamil Ghafour. Since then, he’d had plenty of time to mull over what he had learned. The previous day’s bus ride to Keflavik International had been uneventful, and though the worsening weather had threatened to temporarily ground air traffic, the plane had left on time. After landing at Madrid Barajas, they’d taken a taxi directly to a hotel on the Gran Via, one of the city’s most famous streets. Instead of going in, they’d shouldered their bags and walked for twenty minutes, checking for signs of surveillance. Kealey’s primary concern was the Spanish authorities, who could have conceivably flagged the false passport he was traveling on. Kealey had been forced to travel from Keflavik to Madrid using his French passport, which bore the name of Joseph Briand. Naomi was better prepared, having acquired new false documentation through the Operations Directorate before she’d flown to Iceland.

After engaging in the standard surveillance detection run, they’d caught a second taxi to the Sofitel Madrid Plaza de Espana. Once they arrived, Kealey called the number Harper had given him in Oraefi. Several minutes later, one of the watchers, a man by the name of Ramirez, came down to meet them in the lobby. The room the team had appropriated was on the top floor, paid for by an Agency front, a small industrial company based in Lexington Park, Maryland. Inside the spacious, luxurious suite, he and Naomi were introduced to the lead members of all three surveillance teams. The senior operative, a woman named Marissa Petain, had brought them up to speed on Ghafour’s movements, after which they’d taken the elevator down to the lobby, then walked a few blocks over to get a firsthand look at the ground on which they’d be operating. Shortly thereafter, he and Naomi caught another taxi back to their hotel on the south side of the Plaza Mayor. Over a strained meal in the hotel’s ground-floor restaurant, they’d made their arrangements for the following day. They agreed to meet at 7:00 AM in the lobby. From there, they would head over to the makeshift command center on the top floor of the watchers’ hotel. Once the bill was settled, they had parted ways. That was the last time he’d seen her.

His fears about her mental state had been confirmed that very morning. He had gone down to the lobby at seven, the time they’d agreed upon, but she was nowhere in sight. After waiting for ten minutes, he’d gone up to her room to check on her, but she didn’t answer the door. After a brief bout of indecision, Kealey took the elevator back down to the lobby, where he inquired at the front desk. All they could tell him was that she hadn’t checked out, which wasn’t much help.

Petain had provided them each with a pay-and-go phone the previous day, but Naomi didn’t pick up when he tried to call her. Once it became clear she wasn’t going to show, he’d left for the second hotel without her. That had been seven hours earlier, and she had yet to make an appearance. As the hours crept past, her unexplained absence had hung in the air like a cloud, and Kealey knew that—despite his best efforts to conceal his tension—his concern with respect to her strange disappearance had been picked up by the other operatives. Now they were all on edge; the concern in their faces was impossible to miss. Kealey knew it wasn’t a good sign. They had yet to make contact with Kamil Ghafour, and the operation was already off to a bad start.

Now, as he stood on the balcony overlooking the Plaza de Espana, Kealey tried once more to set Naomi’s absence aside. There was too much riding on the next hour, and he couldn’t afford the distraction. It was just after 3:20 in the afternoon, and the city below was starting to churn to life again. The lunch hour—or hours, as was more commonly the case in Spain—was drawing to a close. Kealey was wearing nothing more than a white T-shirt, lightweight khakis, and Nike cross-trainers, but the heat was still stifling. The fact that he’d flown directly to Madrid from Keflavik wasn’t exactly helping matters, but it would have been hard to bear regardless. It had reached 95 degrees Fahrenheit by midmorning, and the mercury had topped 100 degrees by early afternoon. Worst of all, the air-conditioning in the hotel on Calle de los Jardines was subpar, at best, and the heat didn’t seem to diminish at night. After a long day of travel, followed by a sleepless, sweaty night, Kealey had yet to see the appeal of the Spanish capital. Removing his sunglasses, he rubbed his eyes, lifted a pair of binoculars, and used them to look out across the square. The Plaza de Espana didn’t come close to topping the list of Madrid’s tourist attractions, but it was still fairly impressive. Beyond a generous strip of bright green grass and a small pond stood an imposing stone statue of Miguel de Cervantes, the famed Spanish novelist, poet, and playwright. The sculpture, first started in 1925, took more than twenty seven years to complete, and the results reflected the patience and skill of the various artists. Cervantes was portrayed in a seated position, gazing serenely down at the figments of his own imagination, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and Dulcinea, the beautiful peasant of Quixote’s dreams. The smaller figures were immortalized in bronze, except for Dulcinea, who was rendered in stone. All of them were apparently unaware of the lavish attention their creator was bestowing upon them.

Kealey switched his view to the buildings north of the plaza. Nestled between the Torre de Madrid and the Edificio Espana, two of the tallest buildings in the city, were a number of less imposing structures. Most were packed tightly together, as one would expect, but there was a noticeable gap in the city skyline. The building that had formerly occupied the lot—a decrepit, four-story warehouse of red brick—had been brought down by controlled demolition two months earlier to make way for yet another skyscraper. Even from across the square and a number of narrow streets, Kealey could make out the chain-link fence surrounding the lot. A few trailers were positioned toward the north end of the building site, barely visible through a maze of iron columns and girders, all of which sat atop an enormous concrete pad. A number of cranes were located inside the fence, which seemed to have only two points of access. Both gates were large enough to allow vehicle access, though nothing much seemed to be happening at the moment. Several workers were scattered around the pad, but they weren’t active. Most were sitting down with paper or plastic bags at hand, leading Kealey to assume they were still finishing up the lunch hour. He wondered which of the distant figures represented the man he wanted to talk to.

As Kealey surveyed the scene, he was startled by a sudden movement in his peripheral vision. He placed his left hand on the railing and turned to face the approaching figure. At the same time, he hooked a foot through the long strap of the bag at his feet. The bag, which bore the insignia of the Real Madrid football club, contained the money intended for Kamil Ghafour. Kealey had used Naomi’s sat phone to make the request from Keflavik, and Harper had come through for him. One of the watchers had picked up the money from a locker at the Atocha train station the day before.

“Sorry.” The woman who’d stepped up behind him started to laugh helplessly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No problem,” Kealey said. He’d dismissed the incident, but she kept laughing. He stared at her for a long moment, clearly annoyed, and finally the laughter started to slow. “It’s not that funny. And by the way, I don’t like people sneaking up on me.”

“Then I guess it is kind of funny,” Marissa Petain said, trying unsuccessfully to hold back another burst of laughter. She looked at his hand on the railing, then moved her gaze to the bag at his feet. She looked up and smirked. “My God, you’re supposed to be some kind of superspy, and you didn’t even hear me coming. I could have pushed you right over the balcony.”

Kealey looked her over as he tried to decipher her thick accent. According to Harper, Petain was a four-year veteran of the Clandestine Service. Before Kealey had taken over the previous day, she had been in overall command of the teams watching Kamil Ghafour in Madrid. She hadn’t said anything to pique his concern, but Kealey couldn’t help but wonder if she resented him for taking over her role in the operation. Apparently, the young operative had been based in the city for quite some time. He didn’t really know anything about her, but what he knew so far, he could live without. She was opinionated, loud, and she didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. He didn’t think it was intentional, but that didn’t make her personality any easier to bear.

At the same time, there was something vaguely intriguing about her. Or at least about her name. It was clearly French, as was her accent, but an incident earlier in the day had caught Kealey’s attention. She had called