The Invisible

traffic. His eyes were scanning every hidden path in the trees, every open field, and every ditch in sight, searching for the smallest sign of a forthcoming ambush. Even as he did so, he knew full well that if it was coming, he would never see it. Turning to Petain, he saw that she had the gun trained on the back of the Afghan’s seat.

“Drop down,” he told her. “Get as low in the seat as you can, and keep your head below the window. Don’t move that muzzle an inch. When I get out, if you see or hear anything that doesn’t sound right—I mean anything at all—you pull the trigger, okay?”

She nodded and slunk back down in the seat. Looking over at Fahim, Kealey said, “There’s fourteen rounds left in that gun, and if anything goes wrong, you’re going to catch all of them in the back. Bearing that in mind, are you sure you don’t want me to call your friends and make sure they understand the situation? Because if there’s any confusion, we should clear it up right now.”

The Afghan shook his head. He was dripping sweat, and his face was twisted with pain. It was really starting to hit him now. “No,” he gasped. “You don’t need to call them. They won’t try anything. I promise you.”

The Subaru crested a small hill, and there was the car, parked off on the shoulder. Kealey pulled in behind it, then got out. He approached the rear of the waiting car at a fast walk, fully aware that he was completely exposed. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating hard as he felt behind the left rear tire for the keys. He found them as expected, and he quickly opened the trunk. Despite what he’d just said to Owen, he half expected some kind of explosion, though if there was a bomb in the trunk, he knew he would never see or hear a thing. It would be over before he even registered the flash.

But there was nothing. The trunk was filled with nothing but a half dozen canvas holdalls. He started unzipping them quickly, checking the contents. He found the surveillance photographs first. He looked through them quickly and saw what appeared to be armed men standing outside an English country home. He didn’t know why the house struck him as British in design, but it certainly didn’t resemble any of the predominant architecture in Pakistan, despite the country’s history of British colonialism. He kept flipping through the photographs, but nothing really jumped out at him. The most useful item he found was a hand-drawn map of the surgeon’s house and the surrounding grounds. The map was marked with a series of insertion points, indicating the best angle of approach. Fahim’s men had maintained surveillance for a number of days without showing out, which could have meant a number of things. Perhaps the vast majority—or at least the primary figures—had fought with the mujahideen in Afghanistan, or perhaps Machado had trained some of them personally all those years ago. Kealey suspected it was a little of both. He set the photographs back in the holdall, then began checking the weapons. There were four rifles with accompanying scopes, preloaded magazines, night-vision equipment, and a number of pistols. The weapons, he saw, were high grade: a SIG 550; two HK G36 assault rifles; and a Bofors AK5B, a 7.62mm rifle adapted for use by military snipers. He also found a couple of sturdy combat knives. Moving as fast as he could, Kealey field-stripped one of the G36s. He was intensely aware of how close the road was: the asphalt was just a few feet to his right. A car had yet to pass, but it was just a matter of time. Once he had the weapon apart, he saw that all the necessary components were there. Putting it together, he dry-fired it once and heard a satisfying click.

Good enough. Kealey shouldered two of the holdalls and brought them back to the Subaru. Opening the trunk, he tossed them in, then went back for the rest. Once all the gear was transferred, he closed the trunk on both cars, then climbed behind the wheel of the Subaru, which was still running.

“Everything okay?” Petain asked. Looking back, Kealey saw that she was still slumped down in the backseat. She looked edgy but composed. He shot a quick look at her right hand and saw that the gun was steady. That told him everything he needed to know.

“Everything’s fine. It’s all there.” He pulled onto the road and kept driving, watching his rearview mirror carefully. He half expected to see people running out of the trees for the Toyota, but he couldn’t spot any movement.

Ten minutes later, he called Owen. “What’s happening?”

“A car just pulled up,” the Delta colonel reported. “One guy is getting out . . . He’s walking to the car. Hang on a second.” Kealey waited for five, and then Owen came back on. “Okay, the car is pulling away. He’s too far behind to catch up to you, and Massi didn’t spot any additional vehicles on the road ahead. Looks like we’re clear.”

“Good.” Kealey couldn’t help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief. A million things could have gone wrong with the plan he’d hastily devised, but it looked like they had managed to pull it off. The opposition had acted in good faith, which was a rare enough thing. Kealey decided that Fahim was as important to the organization as he’d initially suspected, and that was probably why they hadn’t been ambushed. “I’ll meet you in Sialkot in forty-five minutes.”

“Got it. What about the equipment?”

“I’ve got all of it. Looks okay.”

“Then I guess we’re in business.”

“Yeah, it looks that way. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Thirty minutes later, Kealey eased off the gas, then turned the Subaru onto a rutted dirt path. They passed between two immense stone pillars, rolled down a steep incline, and after a couple of minutes, the trees gave way. There was a large, murky pond off to the left, dragonflies drifting lazily over the dappled surface; to the right, there was nothing but a green, open field. Once they were past the pond, he pulled off to the side of the road. Kealey had marked the route carefully; now he called Owen to relay his exact location. After consulting his map, Owen said he could be there in fifteen minutes. Everything was running right on schedule.

There was nothing to do but wait, so Kealey got out to stretch his legs. Fahim had passed out a short while earlier and was no threat to anyone, even without the handcuffs, which he was still wearing. The hole in his thigh was still leaking, but an improvised pressure bandage—which Petain had fashioned using strips torn from the Afghan’s raincoat—had done its part to limit the blood loss. Besides, Kealey wasn’t interested in the man’s comfort. All that mattered was keeping him alive long enough to find Fitzgerald and get her out of the country. Kealey was checking the contents of the canvas holdalls more thoroughly when he sensed Petain by his side. He looked up and saw that she was watching him steadily.

He waited for her to speak. “What happens now?” she finally asked.

“I need you to watch him,” Kealey said, gesturing to the unconscious man in the front of the car. “He might have held something back, so we can’t let him go until we can verify that the targets are at this surgeon’s house in Sialkot. You might not be able to let him go until morning. You’ll have to fly out separately regardless.”

She absorbed this silently. “And if they’re not? In Sialkot, I mean?”

“Then you’re going to need to convince him to come clean.” He looked into her eyes. On this point, he had to be sure. “It might take a lot of convincing. Can you do that? If you have to, I mean?”

“Yes, I can.” She said it without hesitation, Kealey noticed. In fact, she didn’t even blink. He felt sure that she would do whatever it took, and that was enough. On that point, at least, he felt he could still trust his instincts. “Will he live that long?” Petain asked.

“I hope so. We might need him.”

Petain seemed to consider this for a few seconds. “Ryan . . .”

Here it comes, he thought. He still didn’t know how he was going to handle this part, though it had certainly crossed his mind over the last couple of hours.

“I don’t know what happened back there,” Petain began slowly.

“At the substation, I mean, but I want to . . . well, thank you for what you did.”

“What?” It took a second for that to sink in, as it was the last thing he expected to hear. He shook his head and looked at her in disbelief. “Marissa, what are you talking about? I almost shot you.”

“Yes, but you had to, right?” It wasn’t really a question, but she hesitated before going on. “I mean, I don’t know why you had to, but you wouldn’t have even considered it unless you had no other choice. I know that, Ryan. I know about you . . . Everyone in Operations knows about you.” She blushed a little with this admission, but somehow, it took nothing away from her demeanor, which was completely controlled. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but whoever you were talking to . . . Well, they clearly wanted you to do it, and you didn’t. So thank you.”

So she still didn’t know, Kealey thought. She looked awkward, but her face was completely open, and that confirmed his initial observation. She didn’t know that her father was responsible for all of it. He could have told her, of course, but now wasn’t the time. Was there ever a time to hear something like that?

Probably not, he decided after a long moment. Machado’s actions might have