that had to be said was out in the open, and there was little point in prolonging the awkward pleasantries. Surprisingly, given what had just transpired, the meeting did not stretch on. Brenneman kept them for as long as it took to make his wishes clear, if not his orders. He didn’t issue any specific instructions on how to handle Kharmai, for instance, but then, he didn’t really need to, and by keeping things vague, he was able to distance himself from the whole situation. Hayden left without a word, hung a right at the end of the main corridor, and disappeared from sight. Harper waited directly outside the Oval Office, along with a group of staffers who were waiting for an audience with the president. When Andrews stepped out a moment later, having been briefly detained by Brenneman, Harper tilted his head toward the Roosevelt Room, which was still vacant. Andrews, catching the hint, walked in after him.
“What do you think?” Harper asked, once the door was closed. Andrews, who was standing with his hands on his hips, shrugged and exhaled forcefully. “They definitely know that we were involved in Madrid.”
“That’s the impression I got as well. They can’t prove that she’s with the Agency, though, or Vazquez would have said as much.”
“He’s an arrogant little prick,” Andrews said, scowling.
“I agree, but that doesn’t change a thing,” Harper pointed out.
“He may be a prick, but he happens to be holding all the cards.”
“That’s an exaggeration, but I see your point. We’ve got to move fast on this. What do you suggest?”
“We need to be careful getting her out,” Harper said absently.
“Maybe Machado can help us with that. Portugal’s probably the best bet. That’s a very porous border, and it offers the best chance for success. Morocco’s another possibility. There’s a lot of border security on the southern tip of Spain, but it’s entirely focused on keeping people out. She might be able to slip out that way.”
Andrews considered the options for a minute, then said, “I agree. Get Machado involved. See what he recommends, and then get back to me. The president is going to want an update soon, and we better have something to tell him.”
“Fine. I’ll get on it.”
CHAPTER 34
NORTHERN PAKISTAN
Kealey stared out the rear window of the fast-moving sedan. The scenery passed by in a dull, meaningless blur, the trees and buildings shrouded in gray, muted by the building storm to the east. As the Subaru clattered over a parallel set of railroad tracks, Kealey stretched his neck from side to side, trying to relieve the aching pain in his shoulders. The fifteen-hour flight had been bad enough, but there had been no time to stop and catch their breath. They had left the airport three hours earlier, and they’d been moving nonstop. After receiving the call outside the terminal, he and Petain had followed the contact’s instructions to the letter. They had navigated the clamorous din of the Anarkali Bazaar; the throngs of impatient, unapologetic pedestrians in Bank Square; and the surprising after- lunch rush at the Bundu Khan, which, according to a whispered aside from Petain, was the last place a prominent American journalist kidnapped the previous year had been seen alive.
That scrap of information, which she’d mentioned merely in passing, had been bothering Kealey for the past couple of hours. He had already noticed the suspicious, unfriendly glances that he and Petain had been met with for much of their brief stay in the Islamic republic. He was reminded of a short trip he’d taken to South Korea back in ’93, shortly after he’d been commissioned in the U.S. Army. He’d been walking through Seoul, dressed in civilian clothes and minding his own business, when an elderly woman had started screeching at him and shaking her fist, her face contorted. Not knowing what else to do, he’d simply walked away. When he got back to Fort Carson, he’d mentioned the incident to his company commander, who’d spent some time in Korea, but the man had simply shrugged and changed the subject.
It was just part of the region’s torn history, Kealey had decided. There was still some widespread antagonism toward the United States in South Korea, much of it based on the fact that the United States had never completely withdrawn its troops following the end of the Korean War, the “end,” in this case, being the uneasy cease-fire that was settled upon in ’53. To date, the United States still had over 30,000 troops on the Korean peninsula.
But that situation, at least in Kealey’s mind, was very different. The Koreans had a legitimate gripe, he thought, and the incident with the old woman was the only time he’d encountered any tangible anti-American feelings in the Far East. In Pakistan, he could feel the hostility everywhere. He didn’t know how much of it was related to the political tensions between Brenneman, Musharraf, and their respective governments, but he couldn’t deny its presence. Feeling a movement on the warm leather seat beside him, he turned to look at Marissa Petain. He couldn’t see her face, as she was staring out the opposite window, but he could see the tension in her shoulders and could tell that she was having the same troubling thoughts he was. In fact, Kealey realized, it was probably worse for her, as she had even less information than he did. At least he knew who had prompted this little excursion, though knowing wasn’t doing much to relieve his anxiety. He wondered how Petain would react if he were to tell her they were only here because of her father’s connections. Kealey shifted his gaze to the front. The man driving was the same man who’d picked them up at the restaurant. The server, Nawaz, had taken them through the kitchen and out the back door. No one in the kitchen had given them a second look. The driver had been waiting in the narrow alley, an unregistered taxi parked nearby. He’d introduced himself as Abdul, which Kealey had dismissed immediately.
“Abdul” was the equivalent of “John Smith” in the States, a completely meaningless name, and likely false.
Abdul’s face was visible in the rearview mirror, and Kealey studied it for a fraction of a second. For the most part, it was completely forgettable: greasy black hair; a large, hooked nose; complacent brown eyes; and thin lips. There was, however, one thing that caught Kealey’s attention. The man’s face was not that of an inner-city taxi driver, but that of a man who’d spent a great deal of time in a hostile, unforgiving climate. His skin was etched with hard lines and appeared as coarse as sandpaper. At that moment, his eyes darted up to the rearview mirror, but Kealey didn’t bother to look away. They locked eyes for a few seconds, neither of them giving anything away, and then Abdul returned his gaze to the road ahead. The storm was approaching fast from the east, and the driver slowed as they headed into the worsening weather. After they’d first set out from the Bundu Khan, he’d followed a fast, erratic route through the city center, obviously searching for signs of surveillance. After an hour, he’d left the city via Allama Iqbal Road, which happened to bear the same name as the airport. They flashed through rural, rolling green countryside, passing farms and a number of sparsely populated towns. Twenty minutes later, he braked sharply and swung the car onto a narrow road. Trees crowded in on either side as they rolled slowly down the road, wet leaves brushing against the windows. They emerged on the other side, and Abdul brought the car to a gradual halt, the ancient brakes squealing in protest.
“Where are we?” Petain asked, shifting to the left so she could look out the windshield. “What are we doing here?”
“I have to look around before I call the next man in,” the Pakistani said, ignoring her question. “Wait with the car until I call you forward.”
Removing the keys from the ignition, Abdul got out, shut the door behind him, and started walking across a gravel parking lot. On the far side of the lot was an electrical substation, the giant transformers ringed by a 10-foot chain-link fence. Kealey followed suit, and once he was out of the car, he looked after Abdul, taking in the surroundings carefully. There were no other cars in the parking area, and no other sign of life. That gave him reason for pause, but he kept looking, taking it all in. There was a broad green field on the other side of the substation, and past that he could see the roofs of several houses and a short brick smokestack, all of it blurred by the driving rain.
Petain had exited the vehicle. Coming around the side, she moved close, shivered inexplicably, and stared after Abdul. “What do you think?” she asked quietly, her words almost lost in the sound of the storm.
Kealey shook his head, trying to see all the angles. Suddenly, he wished he’d gotten in touch with Owen before linking up with Machado’s man. The Spaniard had seemed straightforward and genuine enough when he’d offered to help, but now, on hostile ground with no real means to defend himself, Kealey was starting to wish he’d
