The Invisible

kidnapped by terrorists, but it’s another thing entirely to see it. It would be nothing short of a crippling psychological blow to the country.”

“Maybe she’s dead,” Harper said quietly, gazing absently at a bed of pink tulips. “Maybe she was hurt in the accident and died once they got her away from the scene. Maybe that’s why they can’t show her.”

Andrews winced. “Jesus, don’t say that. I don’t even want to consider the possibility.”

“But it is possible, Bob. You saw the digital images, and you read the transcripts of the witness statements. The rocket that hit her vehicle did an enormous amount of damage. I mean, her driver was killed by the impact alone, as was her detail leader. The damage was mainly limited to the front of the vehicle, of course, and she was riding in back, but that doesn’t mean much . . . There’s still a good chance she was exposed to the shrapnel.”

The deputy director paused thoughtfully. “On the other hand, if she was killed, they have no reason to keep that from us. They might as well take credit for it while the press coverage is still at its peak. That would at least pander to some of Saifi’s supporters, which could help bring in some additional funding and arms, maybe even the backing of a rogue state. Besides, even without Fitzgerald, they still have plenty of hostages to ransom.”

“I don’t know about that.” Andrews was skeptical. “We might pay him for Fitzgerald, but let’s face it: we’re not going to break with two decades of policy over twenty-seven civilians, especially since only twelve of them are ours to begin with.”

“The Germans paid him,” Harper pointed out. “When he took those hostages in Chad back in 2003, the government coughed up six million to get them back. You have to remember, Bob, Saifi has seen this work before. There’s no reason for him to think it won’t work again. At least, that’s where I fall on the issue, and for the most part, my people agree.”

“By ‘people,’ are you referring to Kealey and Kharmai?”

Harper caught note of the DCI’s tone, which had suddenly hardened. “Yes,” he conceded reluctantly. “Among others.”

“Where are they now?”

“You know the woman initially tasked with heading up the teams over there?”

The DCI furrowed his brow, thinking back to his earlier briefings.

“Something Petain, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Marissa Petain. Apparently, she has family in the area. Her parents have a house on the coast. Cabo de Palos, near Cartagena.”

Suddenly, the director’s face lit up with recognition. “Her father is Javier Machado.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was before my time, but I know his history. An accomplished case officer with an impeccable record, as I recall.” He frowned slightly. “He had two daughters, I thought, both with the Agency.”

“That’s correct,” Harper replied reluctantly, not wanting to get into that particular story at the moment. “Anyway, he’s proving very cooperative, and that’s where they are at the moment. Safest place for them, really. Until we can give them something useful on Mengal, there’s no point in moving them around.”

“And the rest of the watchers?”

“Most have already left the country. Their documentation and cover stories were good enough to get them out on commercial flights out of Madrid Barajas, even with the heightened security. We’ll be moving the rest soon.”

A long silence ensued, after which Andrews brought up the president’s reaction to the events in Madrid. “He wasn’t happy, John, but it could have been worse. I don’t think he’s had time to really consider what it will mean for us—and him—if the Spanish government learns what actually took place on the ground.”

“Well, he doesn’t have to worry. They’re not going to find out.”

“Are you sure about that?” Andrews pressed. “Can you guarantee they won’t discover the truth?”

“You know I can’t,” Harper responded quietly. Another long silence. “The president wants Kealey and Kharmai to stay on, John, so that’s the way it will be,” Andrews said. “For now, anyway. But they will answer for what happened today, and you’d better make sure they understand that they’re walking a fine line. From what you’ve told me, as well as what I’ve read in their files, both have troubling incidents in their past. Frankly, their backgrounds don’t inspire a great deal of confidence. The only reason they’re involved at all is because you wanted it that way.”

“I understand that. But as you told the president, you can’t argue with what they’ve accomplished over the past couple of years.”

“Yes,” the DCI conceded reluctantly, “I did say that, and I meant it. But again, my patience is running short, along with my gratitude. Reel them in, John, or hand this assignment off to someone else. Even if it puts us further behind than we already are. We can’t afford another mistake. Certainly nothing like what happened today.”

Harper nodded and voiced his agreement, doing his best to appear reluctant. He didn’t want Andrews to know that he was harboring similar concerns. In fact, his concerns were far worse, since he knew much more about both operatives than the director did. Still, he wasn’t about to reveal the truth. The second he did, Kealey and Kharmai would be pulled out immediately, and they would lose their forward momentum. Like it or not, his best option was to let them see it through and hope for the best.

Andrews turned to begin making his way back to the cars, and Harper fell into step beside him. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, and the air seemed almost electric. As they walked, sprinkles started to spatter the path ahead, the first tangible sign of the forthcoming storm.

“One more thing,” the DCI said. “I’d like to devote some additional resources to Kashmir. I’m talking about personnel, hardware . . . whatever we can spare. Before long, the president is going to shift his focus back to that situation, and when that happens, he’s going to want some hard intel. You said six satellites were pulled from the NSA and the NGA to watch Mengal’s known places of residence?”

“That’s right. Six at last count. Obviously, they’re being run out of the NRO.” The National Reconnaissance Office was the primary government agency tasked with developing, building, and operating U.S. reconnaissance satellites. In the spring of ’99, Harper had been seconded to the office, where he had served as a liaison officer for nearly a year. It had been a relatively boring, albeit enlightening, experience.

“How many of those satellites were diverted from the areas of troop movement in Kashmir? I realize we still have the four 8Xs over the area, but what about the KH-12s? How many were taken off?”

Harper hesitated, then said, “All of them.”

Andrews shook his head in disbelief, but he was clearly resigned to the situation. “I don’t like it. Retasking those satellites does nothing but limit our flow of information. I shouldn’t have to rely on CNN for the latest developments. We’re supposed to be ahead of the game, and right now we’re playing catch-up.

“Still,” he added, after a brief moment of internal debate, “that is a secondary result of the president’s orders, so it’s out of our hands. The way I see it, the only way we can get back on track is to find the general.”

“That’s how it looks,” Harper agreed reluctantly.

“Then make it happen, John.” Andrews paused to wipe his brow once more, then turned to face his deputy. “Make Kealey understand. Kharmai, too. They need to find Benazir Mengal, and they need to do it soon.”

The Sheikh Zayed Postgraduate Medical Institute, so named for the famed sultan of Abu Dhabi, was one of several major hospitals in Lahore. It was a fairly well-administered facility, at least judging by the standards of the Islamic republic. When he’d first arrived in-country, Randall Craig had been surprised by the friendly, professional demeanor of the doctors and nurses who staffed the 286-bed hospital, though it had never occurred to him why this should be. He considered himself to be a reasonable person, a man open to cultures other than his own, but at the same time, he subconsciously harbored the same prejudices shared by so many of his fellow Americans. It wasn’t a conscious bias; rather, it was something that lingered just below his active thoughts, a vague awareness of his own place in the world. A sense of entitlement, based on his nationality. There was a natural order to things, he had always suspected, and while he’d never stopped to really consider this point of view, it seemed to him that, for better or worse, the rank of nations was much like a food chain and that, as an American citizen, he was parked right at the top. Regardless of whether this was actually the case, it was a comforting thought. Empowering, even. It was also a notion he found easy to reinforce in Pakistan, a country where the average citizen earned less than eight hundred American dollars every year. Of course, that sum went much further in the Islamic republic than it did in the States, but it was still a hard statistic to ignore. It was something that Craig had witnessed firsthand from