But at the same time, he was in too deep to back out now, and something had changed. Before, all he’d wanted was to keep her out of harm’s way. Now, having failed miserably in that task, he was set on finding Mengal and Saifi. He wanted them to pay for what they had done in Rawalpindi. He wanted them to suffer for what Naomi had been forced to do, and for what she was going through now. Most of all, he wanted to find Fitzgerald and bring her back. He wanted to find the other hostages as well. If he could do all that, then maybe it would lessen Naomi’s guilt. Maybe, in time, she would feel that some had died so that others might live. It wasn’t much to hope for, but better than nothing. Besides, at the moment, it was all he had to offer her.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll do it your way, John. I hope to God we find something.”
“So do I,” Harper said. His tone was more congenial now that he thought he’d won. There was a slight, uncomfortable pause. “What about Naomi? How is she holding up?”
“Fine,” Kealey lied. His knuckles were white around the plastic housing of the phone; it was taking every ounce of his self-control not to unload his inner rage on the other man. “I think she’s still trying to sort it out in her mind.”
“Is she good to go?”
“Yeah. Just leave it to me.”
Harper gave a few more instructions, asked a couple of questions, then ended the call. Kealey lowered the phone and tapped it lightly against his leg, staring into the dark green mass of the trees. He stood there in the sunshine for a moment, sipping his watery tea, thinking about what he had just heard. It was clear that the whole situation was descending into a political nightmare. Brenneman was trying to balance two conflicting goals. He was trying to find Fitzgerald and appease Pervez Musharraf at the same time, and Kealey had seen enough political wrangling to know that it wouldn’t work. The problem was that Brenneman had burned his bridges by refusing to help Musharraf prevent the Israel-India arms deal, and now he was seeing the consequences of that decision.
Kealey still wasn’t sure why Musharraf had agreed to let the Bureau ERT into the country, especially given his earlier opposition to the idea. Perhaps he’d still been trying to curry favor with Brenneman at the time, hoping for a last-minute intervention. Or perhaps he was trying to be the bigger man, at least in terms of world opinion. Either way, Kealey knew he would be quick to take advantage if CIA operatives were discovered operating illegally in his country. Kealey and the others would be paraded in front of the cameras, and any hope of finding Fitzgerald—or the other hostages—would go down the drain. Under such circumstances, Musharraf would be insured against just about any outcome, even the discovery of Fitzgerald’s body.
Kealey didn’t care about politics, but he’d served as an army officer long enough to understand them. He agreed with Harper’s assessment of the situation, but that didn’t change the way he was going to approach the operation. He was going to find a weapon once he was on the ground, and if he could manage it, he’d arm the others as well. If Machado had been telling the truth about his man’s link to Benazir Mengal, they’d be able to avoid pulling surveillance on multiple targets, anyway. Instead, they’d have a direct line to the man they were looking for, which would help eliminate some of the risk.
A noise behind him caused him to turn. Marissa Petain was standing on the patio, one hand on the door handle. She was wearing a pair of sleek cotton pants that ended at midcalf, wedge heels, and a lavender blouse, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She had an incredibly feminine figure, Kealey couldn’t help but notice: generous hips, a narrow waist, and toned, slender arms. Despite the hot sun beating down, her face was noticeably pale, but not in a bad way. Her pallor was clearly natural, and it suited her, as it seemed to lend extra color and a strange vitality to her dark brown eyes and pale pink lips. Her shimmering chestnut hair, which fell to the middle of her back, was probably her best feature. It framed her face perfectly, and for a moment, Kealey couldn’t help but stare. It was the first time he’d noticed how beautiful she really was. Beautiful in an elegant, effortless kind of way. Beautiful like Katie had been.
Petain’s mouth was turned up at the corners, and Kealey realized he still hadn’t spoken. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing was coming. Clearing his throat, he looked away, feeling incredibly awkward. Sensing his embarrassment, she jumped in to save him. “I just wanted to let you know that the car is here.”
Kealey nodded. Javier Machado had arranged for a vehicle they could use to drive to the airport. Machado had told him to leave it in the long-term parking lot, and someone—the owner, Kealey guessed—
would collect it in a couple of days. Petain thought the embassy had arranged for the car. “Are you ready to go?” he asked her.
“Absolutely.” She hesitated. “What about Kharmai? Did you—”
“I don’t want to bother her. I think she’s sleeping, anyway.”
She looked doubtful. “Ryan, I think you should—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said sharply. “When she wakes up, we’ll be gone, and she can do what she wants. If she wants to fly back to Washington, she can. If she wants to stay here, so be it. It’s up to her. All I know is that she isn’t coming with us.”
Petain hesitated, then closed the door behind her. She walked over until they were just a few feet apart. Then she folded her arms across her chest and looked at him, her gaze curious, slightly reticent, but also intent. “Ryan, what happened to her?” she asked quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. I’m not talking about Madrid. I’m talking about New York. I know she was there when the attack took place. I know what Vanderveen did to her, but . . . It just seems like there’s something else. Something everyone’s missed, except for you, maybe.”
“She didn’t go through enough as it is?” Kealey asked tightly. She was probing, and he didn’t have the patience to deal with it. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No.” Petain wasn’t retreating. “It just seems that—”
“Well, that’s what it sounds like you’re saying,” he snapped. “Let me tell you something, Marissa. What happened to her is none of your business. I’m sure you’ve read the file, and you probably remember the media coverage. The networks never managed to identify her, but there were plenty of witnesses, and they all had something to say. So you know what she went through, and you know what Vanderveen did to her. If you know all of that, why are you bringing it up? What are you asking me?”
“It just seems like there’s something more,” she said in a low voice.
“There isn’t. Believe me, you know everything there is to know.”
“Okay,” she said, though it was clear she didn’t buy a word of it.
“I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Yeah, okay,” Kealey said distractedly. He pushed a hand through his hair and tried to relax. He reminded himself that she’d only been asking an innocent question, and he still had to work with her, perhaps for a long time. Besides, the strained conversation with Harper was the root cause of his bad mood; Petain didn’t have anything to do with it.
“Look, I’m sorry I bit your head off,” he said by way of apology.
“It’s just a touchy subject.”
“I can see that.” She gave him a tentative, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I said anything, really. I don’t mean to be nosy. I just wanted to know.” She paused. “Look, I’m going to stick the bags in the car. I’ll see you out there.”
He looked her up and down and shook his head. “You’d better change first. You can’t be wearing that when we land in Lahore.”
She looked down at her outfit, frowning; Kealey could see that she didn’t understand. “You need to cover up,” he told her. “Pick a plain cotton top, something dark, and keep the sleeves down. Lose the jewelry, too. Flat heels
