and after the last incident, which occurred two months prior to the bombing, he installed a closed-circuit TV in the repair bays. Obviously, this turned out to be a major break in the investigation.”
Vazquez opened the folder on his lap. Removing the first of several eight-by-tens, he handed the photograph to the president. Brenneman examined it briefly, his face giving nothing away. Shaking his head slightly, he passed the photo to his left. The DCI studied it briefly, then gave it to Harper. The image had obviously been cleaned up, but it hadn’t been forged. Harper knew it was real because the person he was looking at was none other than Naomi Kharmai. In the photograph, she was standing in the middle of the first bay, looking around, as if deciding what to do next. A moment later, Andrews handed him another photograph. The time stamp in the upper lefthand corner indicated that it had been taken less than five seconds after the first. This image showed Kharmai wheeling a hand truck out of the shop. Two tanks—one green, one unpainted—were strapped to the hand truck.
“As you can see,” Vazquez was saying, “these images are less than perfect. First, the tape had to be compressed, to improve the quality.
Then the still images were extracted from the tape itself. Obviously, it’s difficult to print a usable image when the source is lower than print quality, but our technicians did their best. The result isn’t ideal, but the woman’s face is clearly visible in each shot. That’s the main point I wish to impress.”
Removing a third image from his folder, the ambassador passed it to Brenneman. When it reached Harper, he studied it briefly. He could immediately see that it had been taken at the airport, from a ceilingmounted camera. The image clearly depicted the same woman in the first two photographs.
“This image,” Vazquez said, once he was sure they had all seen it,
“was captured at Madrid Barajas International Airport one day prior to the bombing. According to customs, the woman you see here was traveling on a U.S. passport issued to one Sarinder Kaur Nagra. I’m sure we can all agree that all three of the images depict the same person. If there is any doubt in your minds, however, I can show you data provided by our facial-recognition software, which conclusively matched the face in all three photographs.”
No one had spoken as the ambassador had made his presentation, but Harper could no longer remain silent. “Mr. Ambassador, it’s gratifying to see that your government has made such remarkable progress in its investigation, but why, exactly, are you bringing this to our attention?”
“I would have thought that was obvious, Mr. Harper. This woman has an American passport; therefore, she’s a U.S. citizen. We would like the FBI to locate her, take her into custody, and begin extradition proceedings.”
The room fell silent. After what seemed like an eternity, Harper asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us with respect to the investigation?”
Vazquez nodded curtly; clearly, he’d been expecting the question. Removing a final photograph from his folder, he handed it to the president. Brenneman looked at it for what seemed like a very long time, his eyes narrowing, his jaw visibly tightening. By the time the photo was passed to Harper, he already knew what he was going to see.
“This final image,” Vazquez said quietly, “was printed in
Harper had seen the image a thousand times, but he forced himself to study it once more. The photograph, which had been taken outside the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square, depicted William Vanderveen, the soldier turned traitor who had once served under Ryan Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai. In the photograph, Vanderveen was using Kharmai as a human shield, his right hand holding a knife to her throat. In the foreground, a man was pointing a gun in Vanderveen’s direction. Ryan Kealey’s back was to the camera; the only part of his face that was visible was the right hinge of his jaw. Kharmai’s face, on the other hand, was only too clear. In the picture, her hands were up and pulling against the restraining arm wrapped round her throat. Her mouth was wide open, frozen in a silent scream, but it was her eyes that had made the picture famous. They were filled with sheer terror, the kind of pure, unadulterated fear that was rarely caught on film. Harper despised the picture for obvious reasons, but he had to admit that it was a powerful image. He felt sick every time he looked at it.
“The woman in this photograph,” Vazquez was saying, “is clearly the same woman who carried out the bombing in Madrid. Interestingly enough, the name Sarinder Nagra cannot be found in any U.S. periodicals dating back to September, which strikes me as extremely unusual, given the considerable fame of this photograph. It seems as if Ms. Nagra would have been interviewed by every major network, newspaper, and magazine in the country. After all, the accompanying article states that she survived the attack, after which she received medical treatment at an undisclosed location in Virginia. That last part is a direct quote, by the way.”
Vazquez paused and looked at them each in turn. “Needless to say, my government is going to keep working until this woman is brought to justice. The magnitude of this incident does not allow us to look the other way. Therefore, I feel compelled to ask the obvious question.”
There was a short, tense silence, and then Andrews said, “Forgive me, Mr. Ambassador, but perhaps it isn’t so obvious. What, exactly, are you asking?”
Vazquez leaned over the table and put a finger on one of the eightby-tens, which had made its way back to him. Then he looked up at the DCI and asked, “Is this woman employed by the CIA?”
Andrews stared directly across the table, meeting the other man’s eyes. “No, she isn’t.”
“Is she employed by any state or federal agency?” Vazquez asked.
“No,” Brenneman said, shaking his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. I can tell you right now, unequivocally, that she has no affiliation with the U.S. government whatsoever.”
Vazquez nodded and leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied.
“Then I assume my government can count on your cooperation in this matter. It shouldn’t be too hard for the FBI to track her down, and once they do, we can begin extradition proceedings.”
Hayden hesitated, then said, “That seems a bit premature.” He tapped the photograph that showed Kharmai wheeling the hand truck out of the auto-repair shop. “You can’t prove that this woman detonated the bomb.”
“At the very least, she’s an accomplice,” Vazquez pointed out, “and she must be held accountable. If she is willing to help the police piece together what actually happened, it might go easier for her. Either way, for this matter to be fully resolved, she must stand trial.”
“We don’t even know if she’s a U.S. citizen or permanent resident,” Hayden remarked cautiously. “The passport she was traveling on might have been forged. That’s a problem we’ve been dealing a lot with lately. If she’s well funded, with the right kinds of connections, she might be beyond our reach.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Hayden, I find that hard to believe. It takes great skill and a number of tools, many of which are hard to find, to forge a credible passport. Very few people can do it successfully. It would likely take the combined efforts of an experienced group of people to do it right, such as the forgery department of a major intelligence agency.”
Vazquez paused for a beat to cast a long look in Harper’s direction, driving the unsubtle hint home. “We’ve back-checked passenger lists for all commercial flights leaving Spain over the past two days, and we have yet to find the name Sarinder Nagra. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean much. She could have crossed into France or Portugal with relative ease. Personally, I suspect she’s already back in the States. If that is indeed the case, you must decide what happens next.”
Vazquez turned to Brenneman. “Mr. President, I trust that you will do what is best in this situation. My superiors value the relationship between our two countries very highly indeed, and we would like nothing more than to continue working in a positive direction. However, this woman could be perceived as a serious stumbling block. If she is not apprehended soon, I’m afraid it could cause a considerable strain on our current ties. Naturally, it would also impede any forward progress.”
A brief silence fell over the room. Before the president could respond, Lawrence Hayden stepped in to offer the usual diplomatic platitudes. “Mr. Ambassador, safeguarding the relationship between our two countries is one of this administration’s highest priorities. I can assure you that the FBI and a number of other federal agencies will be . . .”
Harper didn’t hear anything after that. In his mind, he saw a door closing on the young operative, and he felt a sense of deep, genuine regret. He would fight for her, but in the end, it wouldn’t make a difference. Naomi Kharmai’s career at the Central Intelligence Agency had just come to a very unfortunate, all-too-sudden end. The discussion ended a few minutes later, and the ambassador left without delay, which surprised no one. Everything
