could still go back, she knew. She could leave now if she wanted. She could catch a taxi to the airport, fly back to Washington, and go back to hating herself and her life, just as she’d been doing for the past ten months. Or she could put a halt to the slide right now.
Only if she did, if she made the decision to stop things now, she had to be sure. Because by doing the right thing, she’d be entering her own personal hell for at least the next four to five days, and maybe much longer.
Clutching the Baggie in her right fist, she took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. Then she went into the bathroom and tipped the Baggie upside down over the bowl. Her breathing quickened as each pill plopped into the water, but she forced herself to keep going, her limbs trembling with the mental effort it took to destroy her synthetic relief, her only real retreat from reality. When the Baggie was completely empty, she flushed the toilet, her stomach clenching as the swirling water carried them all away.
Lowering the lid, she sat down, propped her elbows on her knees, and lowered her face into her waiting hands. She had a vague idea of what was coming over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The next two days would mark the worst of it, but she had made her decision. Besides, she no longer had a choice; the pills were gone, so she had to see it through.
Shifting gears, she started to think about her next move. The first thing was to get in touch with Harper, and she had to do it before the withdrawal symptoms came on. Harper wasn’t an idiot, and it was just as Ryan had suspected; the deputy DCI knew damn well what she was into, and he would be able to tell—even over the phone —if she was off the morphine.
Naomi wasn’t an idiot, either. She knew that Harper had placed her in Ryan’s path to draw him back, to get him involved in the op. She had been unwilling to admit this earlier, even to herself, but now she was done pretending. At the same time, she knew that she could contribute, that she was much, much more than a simple pawn. She didn’t know where Kealey had gone, but her gut was telling her he was en route to Pakistan, if he wasn’t already there. In that place, her help would prove invaluable. She spoke fluent Punjabi and passable Urdu, she knew the culture and customs, and she could blend into the local population. Ryan may not know it now, but he needed her, and despite the anger she was currently feeling, she would forgive him for the shit he had pulled the previous day if it meant she could be involved. She had to do it; she knew that now. Not for him, and not for the people who’d died at her hand, but for herself. A sound from the next room startled her from her reverie. She lifted her head, listening hard, then jumped up and ran into the bedroom. Dashing out to the balcony, she looked down and saw Javier Machado’s E-type Jaguar rolling up the driveway, to the right of the garden.
Moving back to the bed, she threw off her robe and began to dress quickly. Despite what the immediate future held for her, she felt suddenly energized. Machado would know where her encrypted sat phone was, and once she had it, she could call Harper and get things moving. For the first time in nearly a year, she felt sure about what she was doing, and that felt better than she would have ever believed.
CHAPTER 32
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
It was just after 8:00 in the morning as Harper walked into the DCI’s office on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building. The OHB was part of the sprawling campus that made up the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, home to the Memorial Wall and to an impressive library with 26,000 volumes, which, unfortunately for the general public, was open only to Agency employees. There was a day-care center on the ground floor, along with a cafeteria and a small gymnasium. In short, the OHB had all the amenities of most modern U.S. corporations. Like the employees of those corporations, however, the people who worked for the Agency rarely had time to enjoy such luxuries. This was especially true in times of crisis, and the Agency—along with the rest of the U.S. intelligence apparatus—had been running on crisis mode for four days, ever since the abduction of the secretary of state in Rawalpindi. This being the case, it was fitting that the director looked as tired as the people who worked for him, Harper thought. Robert Andrews was seated behind his heavy, hand-carved desk, his sleeves rolled up, a telephone receiver wedged between his ear and shoulder. He was looking over a sheaf of documents as he talked, and, glancing up for an instant, waved Harper into a seat. A few minutes later, he ended the call with a series of terse instructions, then slammed the receiver down and glared at his deputy.
“So,” he began, his fingers drumming out an uneven rhythm on his desk, “what’s the situation? What’s going on in Pakistan?”
Harper sighed inwardly as he considered where to begin. He’d received Kharmai’s call at home nearly six hours earlier, at 2:15 in the morning. Once he was awake enough to hear what she was saying, he’d jumped out of bed and moved into his study, where he proceeded to get all the facts from her. The general situation appeared pretty clear; Kealey had disobeyed a direct order by taking Petain to Islamabad instead of Kharmai. And that was assuming he’d even flown into Islamabad, as instructed; at this point, he could be anywhere. To make matters worse, he had yet to make contact with Owen and the rest of his team.
Harper relayed all of this to Andrews. The full explanation took about five minutes, during which time the director didn’t utter a word. When Harper was done, Andrews ran a hand over his face, then cast a long glance out the west-facing windows.
“Why hasn’t Kealey made contact?” he finally asked, shifting his gaze back to Harper.
Harper shrugged. “There’s no way to know. Maybe he picked up some surveillance when he arrived. Maybe he shook it, and he’s waiting to make sure he’s clean. It could be anything.”
“And why did he leave Kharmai behind? Why take Petain? From what I’ve read, it seems that Kharmai would be far more valuable in that situation.”
“That’s a fair assessment. As far as I can tell, Petain is more of a liability to operational security than an asset, at least in this situation. I don’t know why he brought her.”
Andrews mulled over that for a moment, then nodded his agreement. It was one of the things that Harper had noticed about the DCI. Since taking the reins of the Agency two and a half years prior, Andrews had mellowed substantially. There had been a time when he’d been quick to express his dissatisfaction with the pace of the Agency and the endless dissemination of information that intelligence work required, but he had since learned to control his temper. In the end, the man’s change in demeanor didn’t really affect day-today operations, thought it certainly made for a more relaxed work environment, at least in normal circumstances. Of course, the current situation was anything but, and the public dissemination of Amari Saifi’s demands had only made things worse.
“I know the basics about her father, but Petain is a mystery to me. There has to be some reason Kealey would want her along, though . . . What’s her background?”
Harper had anticipated this question, and he’d taken the time to read up on the young operative. “Marissa Petain was born in 1981 in Paris, the second child of Javier Machado and Elise Petain. Her father was stationed at our embassy at the time, but Elise and her daughters stayed in France when Machado was transferred to Rabat in ’84. Petain attended the American School of Paris from ’85 to ’99, during which time she became fluent in German, Italian, and Russian. She also has English, Spanish, and French, thanks to her parents. After graduation, she was accepted to Marquette. She immigrated to the States in ’99, by which time her father had already retired from the Agency. Petain did a BS in information systems at Marquette, then went on to earn master’s degrees in mathematics and psychology . . . She picked up both of those at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.”
Andrews frowned. “You mentioned the second daughter. She was with the Agency as well, wasn’t she?”
Harper sighed again, aloud this time. Then he went on to explain the rest, telling the director the same thing that Petain had told Kealey less than two days earlier. When Harper was done, Andrews appeared to be slightly stunned.
“How did she get through the front doors, John?” he asked, spreading his hands in a questioning gesture. “Given that her sister was killed on assignment in Colombia, not to mention the incident with the pictures and the videotape, she should have been screened out during the psych exams, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Harper admitted, “but she had the qualities we were looking for, and you can’t deny her credentials. She seemed to be a perfect fit for us, especially for the DO, and besides, her family history with the Agency wasn’t all negative.”
