The Invisible

had been called out of the room a few minutes earlier, leaving Harper to dwell on what was coming next. Apart from a solemn Secret Service agent standing post at the door, he was alone. As he waited, he let his mind wander over what had transpired in Madrid less than three hours earlier. The president had been caught up in a press conference; otherwise, Harper knew he would have been expected at the White House earlier. He had used the unexpected delay to the best of his ability, working the information Kealey had given him through the system. The younger man had called him shortly after the disastrous encounter with Kamil Ghafour, and while the report as a whole was less than welcome, the name of Benazir Mengal seemed promising, at least based on what the Operations Directorate had dug up so far. Reaching over for his coffee, Harper winced as a sharp pain shot through the left side of his chest. Knowing all too well what was about to happen, he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and worked on controlling his breathing. He’d found that to be the hardest part; once he let it get away from him, it only compounded the other symptoms. The pain started to build, like his heart was being squeezed inside his chest. Then, after nearly a minute of pure agony, the edge wore off, and the pain began to subside.

“Sir?” Harper opened his eyes and looked up at the agent’s worried face. The man had crossed the room to check on him. “Sir, are you all right? Should I get a doctor?”

“No.” Harper managed a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. It comes and goes . . . Trust me, I’m getting used to it.”

The man looked uneasy. “Can I get you some water, at least?”

“Yes, that would be great. Thanks.”

“No problem, sir.” The agent crossed to another table to fill a glass from a chilled pitcher of water. He returned a moment later, still looking extremely concerned. Thanking him again, Harper drained half the glass, then dug out a clean handkerchief. He used it to wipe the cold sweat from his face, then leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. Over the next few minutes, his breathing returned to normal. As he’d just said, the pain came and went, but the other part wasn’t true. He wasn’t getting used to it. The attacks were a constant reminder of the bullet he’d taken eight months earlier. To be precise, he’d taken four, but one had done significantly more damage than the other three, and he’d been advised by his doctors that the effects of that particular wound would be long term. So far, he’d found that assessment to be entirely accurate.

He’d been prescribed medication for the pain, of course, but he did his best to use it as little as possible. He drank very little alcohol for exactly the same reason: he preferred to be in complete control at all times. Given the secrets he was charged with protecting, he thought it a prudent course of action. It was a decision he’d made more than twenty years earlier, when he’d first joined the Agency, and he’d never regretted it.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t harbor regrets. Twenty years in the intelligence business afforded one the time and opportunity to generate plenty of self-recrimination. One incident above all others haunted him day in and day out. As he considered this fact, he involuntarily touched his suit jacket, feeling for the scar tissue beneath the layers of clothing. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew it was there. He could hardly forget. Eight months of relentless searching, Harper thought to himself, the anger welling up as it always did, and the Agency was still no closer to finding the identity of his would-be assassin. The woman who’d risked her freedom—indeed, her very life—to kill him.

The act itself was only part of the puzzle. The underlying question was how she had found him in the first place. Harper had his suspicions, but knew he’d never be able to prove his theory. The woman he suspected of leaking the information was his predecessor, a former congresswoman by the name of Rachel Ford. She had resigned under pressure from the White House shortly after the failed assassination attempt and, in doing so, had largely protected herself against prosecution. Simply put, she was an embarrassment to the Agency, as well as to the president, who’d nominated her to begin with. No one was in a hurry to give her an audience. For this reason, Harper suspected he’d never know the whole truth. It was something he had yet to come to terms with, and if he was entirely honest with himself, he doubted that he ever would.

The DDO, or deputy director of operations, was the individual charged with running the Agency’s covert operations around the world. In its entirety, the Directorate of Operations, or DO, comprised less than 10 percent of the Agency’s total workforce. Nevertheless, it was the CIA’s most recognizable element. In short, the DO

was the Agency, at least as far as the general public was concerned. It was the same directorate that all the movies and books were based on. Despite its notoriety, the DO was quite adept at concealing its ongoing operations from the public eye, and the identity of the department head was one of its most prized secrets. At least, it should have been. The knowledge that this information had slipped out on his watch was deeply unsettling to Jonathan Harper; indeed, he had nearly resigned over the incident. As it turned out, he’d been nominated for the second-ranking position at the Agency instead. The promotion—which had been confirmed by the Senate in record time—was largely based on Harper’s adept handling of the attempted attack in New York City, as well as his role in limiting the fallout. With this thought, Harper couldn’t help but shake his head, a small, wry smile creeping over his face. It was the way things worked in the District, and despite his years of experience, the audacity of the players involved never ceased to amaze him. When it came right down to it, politics was nothing more than a game, albeit a game played on the world stage. That wasn’t to say that the players in Washington were immoral, uncaring people, just that many of them frequently prized things other than the nation’s welfare. It was human nature to covet, Harper knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Or to witness, especially given what was at stake. At that moment, the door leading in from the main corridor of the West Wing swung open, and the president stepped in. He was immediately followed by Robert Andrews, the director of Central Intelligence. Exchanging a brief nod with his immediate superior, Harper got to his feet and accepted Brenneman’s proffered hand. Despite the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised by the president’s gracious behavior. He had never found Brenneman to be anything less than courteous and composed, regardless of the circumstances. Still, he knew it was forced, at least on this occasion. When he spoke, the man’s voice confirmed as much. It was curt and carried a slight edge that hinted at his true level of anger and frustration.

“Take a seat, John,” he said, without preamble. “Sorry to be so blunt, but if you don’t mind, we’ll get started right away. I’d like you to tell me what happened in Madrid. What went wrong? I thought we had this well in hand.”

Harper couldn’t help but hesitate, his eyes darting up to the ceiling, where the presidential seal was prominently displayed. He knew the Secret Service monitored the Oval Office with hidden cameras, a fact that never failed to bother him. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

“They’ve been turned off,” Brenneman interrupted impatiently.

“Back to my question, John. What went wrong in Spain?”

Satisfied, Harper leaned back. “It’s hard to say, sir. Based on their initial surveillance, the teams we had in place decided that Ghafour was . . . better protected, more isolated than we first expected. There were very few ways to get to him, and it was determined that a straightforward approach—that is, a cash-for-information exchange—

would offer the best chance for success. Especially given the time constraints.”

“And whose decision was that?” Brenneman demanded. “Kealey’s?”

“Yes, sir. He made the call.”

The president leaned back, an impenetrable mask sliding over his face. “We’ll get back to that later,” he finally said. “For now, walk me through it. Explain what happened, from beginning to end. I need to know the specifics.”

Realizing that Andrews had only offered up a preliminary briefing, Harper nodded and started in on a detailed explanation. He ran all the way through, starting from the time Petain and her team had initiated surveillance on Ghafour, and ending with the aftermath of the improvised diversion on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios. To Harper’s surprise, Brenneman didn’t interrupt once, although his face tightened in anger or disapproval on several occasions. When Harper was done, the president nodded slowly, thinking it through. “So in other words,” he summed up, “all we took out of this was a single name. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Harper conceded, “but in truth, that was all we really expected. Remember, we were operating on the possibility that Kamil Ghafour might have no knowledge at all regarding these events. As far as I’m concerned, sir, we were fortunate to get anything useful out of him.”

Andrews shot a warning look across the table, but Brenneman seemed to have missed the deputy director’s uninvited candor. “I take it you’ve followed up on this man Mengal,” he continued slowly.

“What have you learned in that direction?”

“Well, Ghafour gave us the basics. Mengal retired as a general in the Pakistani army, and for a number of