she’d said in the car, Javier Machado had largely succeeded in this endeavor, having accrued a long list of intelligence coups during what could only be described as a stellar career. He had retired fifteen years earlier, after finishing up a stint as the CIA station chief in Lisbon.
Petain had explained it all on the nerve-wracking six-hour trip from Madrid to Cabo de Palos. Although she seemed reluctant to speak of her father, Kealey had caught the reverence in her voice when she spoke his name. When they’d arrived earlier in the evening, Machado’s eyes had lit up with complete adoration when he first caught sight of Petain. He had embraced her fondly, as had his wife, Elise. On witnessing this warm reunion, Kealey felt vastly reassured. It was clear they had made the right move. He and Naomi were there with Petain, which made all the difference. Machado had welcomed them into his home, apparently unswayed by what had taken place in Madrid, as well as by his visitors’ role in that disastrous incident.
“Did you manage any sleep?” Machado asked. Kealey had noticed that the older man preferred to speak Spanish whenever possible, and he had made a conscious point to do the same.
“Yes, I did, thanks. Has Langley been in touch?” He had given Petain the Globalstar sat phone once they’d arrived in Cartagena, and Kealey assumed she would have informed her father if Harper had called.
“No,” the older man replied, shaking his head grimly. “Nothing yet. I think you are in some trouble, my friend.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kealey muttered. He crossed to the door and, keeping his voice low, asked, “What about Naomi?”
Machado shrugged uneasily, his frown deepening. “She has not come out of her room since you arrived. Elise tried to talk to her, but . . .” The Spaniard shrugged again and looked away. “It’s your decision, but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you should leave it alone. She needs to work it out in her own time. Of course, it will not happen overnight. These things never do.”
Kealey nodded slowly, a number of emotions racing through his mind, all of them bad. After procuring a second vehicle off the Prado Road in Madrid, they had begun making their way south to Cartagena, following Petain’s directions. The first reports had come over the radio quickly enough, but they had been sparse at best. For the most part, it was all guesswork, the kind of wild speculation employed by reporters around the world. As they turned off the E901 near Albacete, the reports began to firm up. It was then that Radio One had confirmed the worst: at least 4 people had been killed as a direct result of the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios, along with a two-year veteran of the CNP. Another 6 civilians were in critical condition at a local hospital, and two were not expected to live. Kealey had been driving when the report came in, Petain in the passenger seat, Naomi in back. When the announcer moved on to other news, Kealey could have sworn he heard a noise behind him—
something between a groan and a choked sob—but he didn’t look back. He simply couldn’t bring himself to do it, because the truth was inescapable, and Naomi would know that better than anyone. She had set off the improvised device with the best of intentions, her goal being to help them escape the construction site. She had succeeded in this endeavor, but in doing so, she had committed an act that would haunt her forever.
To make matters worse, Kealey knew something that Petain did not. Ten months earlier, Naomi Kharmai had taken two lives in an act of self-defense; at least, she had thought it was self-defense at the time. One of those people had turned out to be innocent. It was just one of the events that had contributed to her current state, but Kealey knew all too well how much it had changed her: he could see it every time he looked into her eyes. Now she had done something ten times worse. Kealey was trying not to think about it, but given her fragility prior to the day’s events, he suspected that what had taken place in Madrid might prove to be her final undoing. The thought was hard to take, impossibly hard, in fact, since she had only been trying to help them escape, but he simply couldn’t dislodge it from his mind.
Machado had said something, and Kealey snapped out of it, turning his attention back to the other man. “Sorry?”
“I asked if you would like a drink,” the Spaniard repeated patiently, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. “You look as though you could use it.”
Kealey nodded. “Yeah, I think I could. Mind if I take a shower first?” They’d arrived in Cartagena four hours earlier, and he’d fallen asleep without taking the time to get cleaned up. Now he realized that he probably looked as bad as he smelled.
“Not at all. Join me downstairs when you’re finished.”
“I’ll be there.”
Machado went out, and Kealey followed after gathering a few things from his bag. He had picked up new clothes and toiletries en route to Cabo de Palos. Petain had done the same for her and Naomi. One of the operatives responsible for packing up the gear at the hotel had hung on to their bags and false identification, and was set to deliver it all the following morning.
On the way to the bathroom, Kealey slowed outside Naomi’s door. He paused but, thinking better of it, didn’t knock. He didn’t want to intrude. As Machado had said, it would be better to let her broach the subject if and when she was ready. Of course, there were other things to consider, such as what he had seen in her eyes before they’d left the Sofitel Madrid to meet with Ghafour. He still didn’t know how he was going to handle the whole situation, but obviously, he was going to have to make some hard decisions before moving forward with the op. He wasn’t looking forward to that, but didn’t see that he had a choice.
He took a long, hot shower, then dried off and returned to his room. After pulling on a navy T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he made his way downstairs, feeling considerably better. Javier Machado was sitting alone in the living room, the French doors open to the cool night air. A television tuned to CNN was flickering softly, the volume muted. The incident outside the construction site in Madrid was clearly the lead story, but Kealey had seen enough of the gruesome images flashing across the screen. Turning away, he moved to the doors and looked outside. Mother and daughter were visible at the garden table. They were still talking quietly, though they were too far away for Kealey to make sense of the words. Machado gestured to a backlit alcove, where tumblers and various bottles of liquor were on display. “Help yourself, my friend. The cognac, sangria, and anisette are on the top shelf. Below you’ll find sherry from Jerez,
“I don’t suppose you have any beer.”
Machado smiled wanly. “Americans . . . You’re all the same. You have no taste for the finer things, but who am I to judge? You’ll find it in the fridge. Kitchen is that way.”
Kealey went into the kitchen and returned with an icy bottle of San Miguel, a local favorite. Taking a seat across from his host, he took a long pull, savoring the cool taste of the beer.
“Nothing like a cold drink after a long day,” Machado remarked sagely. “Makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
“All the difference,” Kealey agreed. He drank some more of the beer and looked around with genuine interest. The living room, much like the rest of the house, was lived in and comfortable. There was nothing sterile about it, which appealed to Kealey on a personal level; it reminded him of his old house in Cape Elizabeth. Rustic furnishings were scattered about, and warm light from a corner lamp illuminated a number of contemporary oils, including a large landscape that hung above the stone mantel. Of more interest to Kealey were the framed photographs standing directly beneath the painting. He’d glanced at them briefly before, but now he stood and walked over, beer in hand, to get a closer look.
“Ah yes,” Machado said, standing to join him at the mantel. “The fruits of my misspent youth.”
Kealey gestured at the first photograph, which was housed in a solid silver frame. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Kealey picked up the photograph and looked at it closely, a jolt of surprise passing through his body. The photograph depicted a beaming Machado standing beside a short, slender man in an army uniform. A very recognizable man. Kealey thought he must be mistaken, but when he glanced at his host, the modest smile on Machado’s face seemed to confirm his first impression.
“This is you and Noriega?”
“That’s right. Me and the general on the Panamanian coast, near Nata.”
Kealey shook his head in disbelief, still staring at the photograph.
“When was it taken?”
“The early months of 1984. March, perhaps, or maybe April. It’s all a blur to me now.”
“That would have been shortly before he fell out of favor with Reagan, right?”
“Right again,” Machado replied, a note of approval in his voice.
