The Invisible

supposed to have checked in the previous day, and he had yet to make contact. Through Jonathan Harper, Owen had learned about Kealey’s actions in Spain—that he had ignored his instructions by leaving Kharmai behind and taking Petain instead. He had then proceeded to ignore his orders on landing in Pakistan, and that was assuming he’d even arrived to begin with. None of it surprised Owen; he had worked with Kealey long enough to know that the man had an irritating habit of going his own way, but in the present situation, that kind of behavior was simply untenable. Too much was on the line for Kealey to make up the rules as he went, as was his usual mode of operation.

Owen was still thinking about it and getting angrier as he entered the Qaisery Gate, the main entrance to the eight markets. A number of people were huddled beneath the weathered concrete arch, obviously seeking refuge from the relentless rain. The humid air was redolent with cheap cologne and cigarette smoke, conversations echoing off the frescoed walls. Beyond the arch, steam drifted up from the warm, wet road. Owen was debating whether to take up another position on Circular Road or switch positions with Massi, who was watching the back of the vet’s office, when his cell phone vibrated in his right pocket. Pulling it out, he hit the TALK button and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Owen?”

The Delta colonel gripped the phone tighter when he heard who it was. “Kealey, is that you? Where the fuck have you been? I needed you here yesterday. I’m trying to get this done with three—”

“Where are you?”

Owen took a deep, calming breath and tried to restrain his temper, knowing it wouldn’t help matters to let it out now. “Faisalabad,”

he said tightly. “Where are you?”

Kealey didn’t bother to answer the question. “Can you talk?”

Owen didn’t even need to look around. There were people everywhere. He couldn’t take a step in any direction without bumping into somebody. As he started edging his way through the crowd, preparing to leave the gate on the south side, he said, “No, not really.”

“Then just listen,” Kealey said. His voice was low and edgy, and filled with something that Owen couldn’t quite place. Frustration, maybe? Or was it guilt? But neither possibility really made sense . . . It had to be something else.

“I’m somewhere east of Lahore,” Kealey was saying, “and I need you to get there ASAP. How soon can you move?”

Owen thought about it as he paused next to a vendor selling halal beef, chicken, and fried potatoes, his stand covered by a broad blue umbrella. “Forty minutes, give or take. What do you have?”

“Nothing yet, but it’s just a matter of time.”

Owen stopped walking and looked at the phone, trying to figure out the younger man’s angle. “I don’t understand. Why do you want me to move if you don’t have—”

“Look, I’ll explain later. Just get your people to Lahore as fast as you can.”

“Fine. Where do we link up?”

“I don’t know yet . . . I’ll call you back when I figure it out. Have you talked to Harper?”

Owen barely managed to catch the question, as something in the background was overlapping the younger man’s speech. To Owen’s ear, the nearly constant, high-pitched noise sounded a lot like someone screaming, but he quickly dismissed the thought, knowing it had to be something else. “Yeah, I talked to him earlier. He’s not happy.”

“Fuck him,” Kealey snapped. “I don’t give a shit how he feels. He’s got a lot to answer for when we get back. In the meantime, I need you to get your people moving. I’ll meet you on the other end shortly.”

“What about Petain?”

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry about her,” Kealey finally said. “Just get moving. I’ll call you back.”

Owen started to ask another question, but the line was already dead. He swore viciously under his breath, prompting a sharp look from the halal vendor, but as he turned to head back through the gate, his anger started to dissipate. Instead, he found himself consumed by a deep-seated concern. As he began punching Walland’s number in on his phone, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d heard in the background on Kealey’s end of the conversation. He had decided the sound couldn’t possibly be that of someone screaming, but given Kealey’s strange tone and his curt, strained reference to Marissa Petain, Owen was no longer sure.

Either way, he was certain that the information Kealey had learned—

or was about to learn—had come at a steep price. The only question was how steep, but that, along with his many other questions, would be answered soon enough. For now, he had other things to focus on, not the least of which was getting to Lahore as soon as possible. After ending the call with Owen, Kealey lowered the phone and looked down at the man he knew as Fahim. The Afghan was pale. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and despite the rain, Kealey could tell he was sweating. It wasn’t a serious injury, but from the placement alone, the CIA operative could tell that he was in a great deal of pain. After he had pulled the gun away from Petain’s knee, Kealey had fired a single shot into the Afghan’s leg, more to disable him than anything else. The round had gouged a considerable chunk of flesh from the outer part of his thigh. For the moment, that was all Kealey wanted. For this man, the real pain had yet to begin. He had not been able to pull the trigger on Marissa Petain. He didn’t understand it, because it should have been easy. In fact, it should have been beyond easy. After all, she meant nothing to him, whereas Naomi meant . . . well, everything. He didn’t know why he had turned the gun on Fahim instead. He didn’t understand how he could have betrayed his own emotions—his own gut instincts—to that degree. It had not been a conscious decision, and to make matters worse, he believed everything Machado had said. On some level, Kealey knew what he had done, and he knew what it meant. By sparing Petain, he had probably just condemned Naomi to death, but that was something outside his current realm of acceptance. He didn’t even need to push the thought away, because he could not fully appreciate its true meaning, just as he could not appreciate the consequences of his actions. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could bear to deal with. Not now. Not in this place, and maybe not ever.

As if reading his thoughts, the Afghan looked up at him. He was clutching his wounded leg, and his face was tight with pain. “You fool,” he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. “Do you know what’s going to happen now? Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Nothing compared to what I’m about to do,” Kealey assured him coldly. He could ask himself those questions, but he wasn’t about to take them from someone else, especially the man he had just put down. His fear for Naomi was already hitting him hard, and he knew it was just a matter of time before it completely crippled him. For the moment, though, he knew he had to maintain his composure—to set it aside. Otherwise, everything he had done so far would have been for nothing.

Petain was still handcuffed to the transformer; Kealey could see her from the corner of his eye. Her legs—still intact—were curled up under her body, and her right hand was clutching her left arm, which was still pulled over her head. Kealey could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t shift his gaze from the man lying at his feet. He crouched down so their faces were almost level.

“Listen to me, Fahim,” he began, straining to keep his voice even. Straining to force Naomi’s face out of his mind. Straining to believe she might still make it through, despite the fact that he had just betrayed her in the worst way possible. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. Nothing has changed; helping me is still in your best interest. You’re going to supply me with everything you have. In Cartagena, Machado told me you have an exact location for Benazir Mengal. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“What else do you have?”

“Everything. Weapons, ammunition, surveillance shots . . . We’ve been watching him for days.”

“And are your people still watching him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to make another call, and then I’m going to give you the phone. You’re going to start pulling them out. I want them gone by the time my people get there, and I mean gone. I don’t want them within five miles of that house. Then you’re going to call your driver. Is he still out there?” Kealey gestured toward the other side of the substation, which was blocked by a number of large transformers. The Afghan nodded tightly. “Good,” Kealey said.