would not be easily intimidated. If he had the evidence to support his government’s claims, he would not hesitate to deliver a very forthright message to the president, regardless of his surroundings.
This fact was weighing heavily on Harper’s mind as Claire Bouchard, the president’s secretary, showed Vazquez into the room. Everyone was standing as the ambassador crossed the presidential rug and accepted Brenneman’s proffered hand.
“Miguel, it’s good to see you again,” Brenneman said, with a warm, apparently genuine smile. Harper had always been impressed by the man’s courteous nature, which rarely seemed to slip. He had always wondered if it was real or just a facade, but now, recalling the president’s words of just a few minutes earlier, he could see just how skilled an actor David Brenneman actually was. He was greeting the Spanish official like an old friend, even as he was preparing to lie right to his face.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Vazquez replied, bobbing his head politely, “and thank you for taking the time to see me. I realize this is a difficult time for you and your country. I understand that the leaders of my country have already contacted you to express their concern and outrage over the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald in Pakistan, but please allow me to convey my personal condolences. My family and I are praying for her safe recovery, as are the people of Spain.”
The president accepted the expected words with a slight inclination of his head, then grasped the other man’s hand in both of his own. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I appreciate that, and I’m grateful for your support and that of your government. It means a great deal, not only to me, but to everyone here.”
Releasing the other man’s hand, Brenneman began making the introductions. Vazquez cordially shook each man’s hand, his face revealing nothing at all. When Harper’s turn came, the deputy director thought he saw something flash across the ambassador’s face, an expression that fell somewhere between distaste and contempt, but given the situation and their surroundings, Harper had no choice but to let it slide.
Gesturing to the numerous chairs in front of his desk, Brenneman invited them all to sit. The president took the seat closest to his desk, on the south side of the room. Vazquez sat to his immediate right, and Lawrence Hayden took the next seat down. Andrews, Harper, and Chavis picked out chairs on the other side of the coffee table, the chief of staff selecting the seat closest to the president. As they were settling in, a Navy steward entered the room with coffee, cream, and sugar on a silver tray. He left the tray on the table, along with cups for everyone present. Then he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke as Stan Chavis began pouring the coffee. Then the ambassador turned to Brenneman. As he did so, he placed both hands on top of the file he was holding in his lap.
“Mr. President,” he began cordially, “I believe you know why my government requested this meeting.”
“Actually,” Hayden said quickly, trying to shift Vazquez’s attention away from the president, “the reason for this meeting has not been made entirely clear, Mr. Ambassador. As you can probably guess, we tried to contact certain people through the usual diplomatic channels in an effort to learn more, but we’ve had a difficult time accessing certain members of your government over the past eight hours. Perhaps you could tell us why this is the case.”
“I’m afraid I can’t speak to that,” Vazquez replied mildly, one hand lightly tapping the top of the file. “Unfortunately, I’m somewhat out of the loop myself. I’m sure you understand that things have been very hectic over the past couple of days.”
No one believed that for a second, but the unwritten rules of diplomacy did not allow them to question the statement. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and then Vazquez continued, aiming his words once more at the president.
“Mr. President, I believe you’re familiar with the recent events in Madrid. I’m referring, of course, to the bombing two days ago that claimed the lives of six innocent people. Indirectly, that incident also resulted in the death of an Algerian national by the name of Kamil Ahmed Ghafour. Ghafour, as you may or may not know, was not killed in the bombing, but in a related shooting incident just minutes before. Both events occurred on the same street in downtown Madrid.”
Brenneman nodded slowly, ignoring the cup that Chavis placed before him. “I’m familiar with the situation. As you probably know, I’ve already contacted the king and Prime Minister Zapatero to express my condolences.”
“Then you probably also know,” the ambassador continued, acknowledging the president’s words with another bob of his head,
“that less than a week prior to this incident, the U.S. State Department submitted an official request to the Foreign Ministry in Madrid. In this request, they asked that Ghafour be made available for an interview regarding his association with a man named Amari Saifi, another Algerian national and a prominent member of the Salafist Group for Call and Combat, otherwise known as the GSCP.”
Once again, Hayden jumped in. “Yes, that’s correct. We had reason to believe that Saifi was responsible for the recent abductions of twelve U.S. tourists in Pakistan. As I’m sure you know, that initial theory was right on the mark. I assume you’ve seen the tape.”
Vazquez nodded slowly, though the question was clearly rhetorical. He
“In retrospect,” he finally conceded, “we probably should have made a greater effort to accommodate your earlier request. But wouldn’t you agree, Secretary Hayden, that this entire episode strikes one as quite a coincidence?”
“What, exactly, are you referring to?” Stan Chavis asked tightly.
“I would have thought that was clear, Mr. Chavis.” Vazquez stared directly across the table, not backing down an inch. “I’m referring to the exquisitely short gap between the State Department’s request to meet with Ghafour and his rather untimely death in Madrid.”
Brenneman cleared his throat gently. “Miguel, I can see where you’re going with this, but you’re a career diplomat. You know how this works, and I don’t have to tell you that you’re treading on dangerous ground. If you’re insinuating what I think you are, you’re making a grave mistake. Making that kind of accusation without proof would not be in your best interest, or in the interests of your government, for that matter.”
The Spanish ambassador’s eyes widened slightly, and he raised one hand, palm out, in a conciliatory gesture. “Mr. President, I did not mean to level any kind of accusation, and please forgive me if I left that impression. I merely wish to emphasize the unusual timing. That both incidents should occur so close together seems to strain credulity.”
Hayden opened his mouth to speak, but Vazquez raised his hand once more. “Please, Mr. Hayden, bear with me a moment. I think you’ll be interested in what I’m about to say.”
Settling back in his chair, the ambassador looked at them each in turn. “As you can probably imagine,” he said, “the bombing on Calle de San Leonardo de Dios immediately prompted a large-scale investigation. Personnel and material resources from a number of our agencies, including the National Police and the Guardia Civil, were dispatched to the scene to begin searching for evidence. What they found was very surprising. You see, the explosion was not caused by a conventional explosive, such as dynamite or TNT, or by a plastic explosive, such as Semtex—a favorite of the Basque separatists—or C4. The explosion was caused by the detonation of two tanks, one of which contained acetylene. The other contained oxygen. According to the preliminary report issued by the CNP, both tanks were either full or close to it, which would account for the extensive property damage and loss of life.”
“Acetylene?” Brenneman murmured. He shook his head slowly.
“That seems . . . unlikely.”
“I can assure you, Mr. President, it’s true.” Vazquez seemed pleased that the president had spoken, Harper noticed uneasily. Personally, he wished that Brenneman would stop talking completely; every word that came out of his mouth was something that might potentially incriminate him later. Besides, that was the reason for Hayden’s presence. If anyone was going to go out on a limb, it should have been him.
“Fortunately, it didn’t take long to trace the source of the tanks,”
Vazquez continued. “Both were removed—stolen, actually—from a vehicle repair shop less than twenty meters from the site of the explosion. The owner was quickly able to verify that the tanks were missing. Apparently, he’d had trouble with theft before—unfortunately, there is considerable demand for black market tools in Madrid—
