The Exile (18 page)

It isn't so unusual. There's a reason the Superman character has been popular with boys for almost a century. He embodies their desire to be identified as strong and helpful. And some of them actually grow up to be that way.

That was Allison, Harper thought. He respected her ability to keep things simple. Perhaps more importantly, he
liked
her because of it. And thank heaven he'd walked into her office, and not some other shrink's, after he was shot. Though he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, not even his wife, Harper knew he would have never followed through on their first counseling session if she'd flaunted her doctorates and rained jargon on his head.

Harper well understood that Ryan Kealey was not the type to let the rape and murder of an innocent woman go unpunished. He believed he was supposed to be saving lives and righting wrongs. But whether you were a cop, a fireman, a law enforcement agent, or a surgeon, you had to maintain an emotional firewall, a hard line of defense against the stress and disappointment that accompanied those inevitable losses.

How had Allison put it?
Bad guys get away. Patients die. Loss comes with the job when you're in the business of saving lives.

The problems often came when someone like Kealey assumed personal responsibility for events that were beyond his ability to control. When the expectations he placed on himself collided with reality, and he started measuring himself against failure and loss rather than success. Then
every
failure became a blow to his sense of worth, and as they compiled, they led to a massive guilt complex.

The upshot was frustration, bitterness, rage, and sometimes a blurring or complete disintegration of behavioral boundaries.

Harper supposed he should have understood what he had in Ryan Kealey when he'd first read his biographical data. Years before they'd met, before Callie Palmer and Naomi Kharmai, when Kealey was with the 1st SFOD-Delta, the death of an innocent young girl in Sarajevo had led him to actions that went far beyond—no, Harper had to be honest with himself—that
shattered
any acceptable standards of conduct. The punishment he'd visited upon the perpetrators, a group of Serbs in the local militia, had nearly landed him in a military prison for the rest of his life. Instead, he'd been quietly shifted out of that theater of operations.

Harper knew a little of how it felt wanting to be Superman, and admitted it was a large part of his connection to Kealey. But he'd always had a healthy pragmatic streak to keep his ideals in check. Kealey, on the other hand, had his sense of justice, his moral code, and no tempering characteristics. It was at the core of what made him special…and what made him a dangerous risk.

And,
Harper thought with a lack of regret he found almost stunning,
what may just allow me to push his buttons.
Regardless of the anger Keeley was feeling toward Harper and the Agency as a whole, he would want a hand in tracking down the people responsible for Lily Durant's death. Or so Harper hoped and prayed. He was banking everything on it.

Kealey had been gazing across the room for what seemed a very long time before he turned back to look at him. As if on cue, he said, “Is this about Durant?”

“Yes,” Harper replied. He felt a sense of quiet satisfaction that he'd gotten it right. He really and truly was one calculating son of a bitch. “In a way.”

“Don't jerk me around, John. Is it about finding the man who killed her or not?”

“Yes, but there's more to it than that. Much more. Will you hear me out?”

Kealey shook his head again, but it wasn't a refusal. Harper waited patiently. Finally, Kealey turned his attention away from the couple to look the older man right in the eyes.

“I'll listen, but that's all. I'll listen for her.”

And not for you,
was the unspoken sentiment.

Harper ignored it. He felt a surge of relief, though he managed to keep it from showing on his face. He still didn't have what he'd come for, but at least he knew that he hadn't flown 8,000 miles for nothing. He now had the chance to get Kealey back on board, and for the moment, that would have to suffice.

“S
o how much do you already know?” Harper asked, taking a second to glance at his watch.

It was now past eight in the evening, but the bar was still remarkably quiet. Aside from the couple at a nearby table and a few men hunched over their beers on the far side of the room, the place was empty. If it hadn't been for Springsteen's “Born to Run” coming over the speakers at a moderate volume, the room would have been just as quiet as it was deserted. Harper was grateful for the solitude and the music, which served to cover their conversation, though he found himself wondering what had drawn the younger man to the bar in the first place. There didn't seem to be much to recommend it…but then it occurred to Harper that right there might have been the basis of its appeal for Kealey. A place like this was indistinguishable from countless other places like it, and that very possibly suited his desires—to simply be somewhere, unnoticed, out of sight.

Harper suppressed a frown. Or maybe he was overthinking and Kealey just liked the goddamned beer on tap.

Kealey, meanwhile, had shrugged in response to his question. “What I know is basically just what the networks reported. The Janjaweed raided the camp and Durant was killed, along with forty or so refugees. A doctor called it in, some guy from UNICEF, and the embassy sent some people out to identify her body. The ambassador flew out there himself, if I remember correctly. Al-Bashir denied involvement and promised to find the people responsible, but nothing came of it. No surprise there.”

Harper nodded again, sat back in his seat, and lifted his scotch. He'd just walked up to the bar for a second round, but even though he'd offered to pick up the tab, Kealey had refused a drink. Harper knew that the younger man's newfound abstinence didn't mean a thing and was probably based entirely on his presence. Earlier in the day he'd asked the SF captain in charge of Kealey's security about the American's drinking habits. The question was spurred by the captain's revelation that Kealey had visited the Elephant & Castle on five of the last eight nights. It had immediately set off Harper's internal alarm.

Unfortunately, the South African's answer had done nothing to alleviate his concerns. Kealey had run up quite a tab on the nights in question, and even though he seemed to handle it well, at least according to the captain, Harper was less worried about the drinking than he was about what was causing it, and wouldn't have needed Allison's input to know it was a manifestation of Kealey's overbearing guilt. He had not been able to forgive himself for the choice he'd made in Pakistan the previous year, the one that indirectly led to Naomi's death. And he'd been punishing himself ever since. The heavy drinking was only a signpost, a symptom of much deeper issues.

Harper couldn't help but wonder how this internal conflict would affect his ability to carry out the task at hand, assuming he was willing to take it on to begin with. But it was just a passing thought. In for a dollar, in for a pound. Of flesh.

The deputy director let none of this show on his face. Setting down his glass, he said, “So you think Bashir ordered the attack. You think he wanted her dead.”

“Actually, no. I don't think that at all.”

Harper supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd come to send Kealey into the fire. But he'd also missed him—and the chance to test his thoughts against Kealey's razor-sharp perceptiveness. “Why not?”

“It doesn't make sense, for one thing,” Kealey said. “He would know it could only give the ICC and the United States a common agenda…and a sound justification to act on it. Russia would kick and scream at anyone taking any unilateral action against Bashir. So would the Chinese. But with the World Court already declaring him a criminal, and American blood on his hands, that's about all they could do.”

Harper willed his face to remain neutral. “Arrogance and power have led smarter men than Bashir to overextend their reach before.”

“Except Bashir's got something more valuable to a dictator than brains, and that's a well-developed survival instinct,” Kealey said. “For him to do anything this drastic, he would need to have something to gain. And there's nothing. In that respect, he's like any other dictator. He's interested in two things—one of them being power, which you already mentioned. And he's got all he's ever likely to have.”

“Which leaves money,” Harper said.

“Right,” Kealey said. “But killing Durant does nothing to boost his bank account. There's no upside to ordering her death, so why would he do it?”

“Pride? Anger? Separately or in combination, take your pick,” Harper suggested. He was, of course, still playing devil's advocate here. But he wanted to see how far the other man had thought it through—and was admittedly enjoying it. “The sanctions Brenneman approved back in February are nothing to sneeze at, Ryan. The Sudanese defense minister had his personal accounts in the U.S. frozen and eventually seized. We're talking about several million dollars, and the minister is a first cousin to Omar al-Bashir, not to mention one of his closest advisors. You don't think that would be enough to provoke some kind of retaliation?”

Kealey shook his head. “His only concern for his family is that they stick close to protect him. And if he really wanted to, he could throw him that much money as a bone. It's chump change compared to what he stands to lose…enough to prompt a lot of talk, but that's it.” Kealey shrugged. “Anything Bashir does to us is going to come back to him tenfold. He knows that. More to the point, he's seen it happen in Iraq. After he pulled out of Kuwait back in ninety-one, Saddam did nothing but talk and wave his sword in the air, and that in itself was enough to bring him down. Bashir knows what he's up against. And I don't think he's behind the attack.”

Harper managed to look skeptical. “You realize that opinion puts you in the minority.”

“Yeah, I know. But it's what I think,” Kealey said. “Tell you something else. If he'd known what was coming ahead of time, my guess is he would have done everything in his ability to stop it.”

“If that's so…if he didn't give the order…wouldn't you say it's a little surprising he hasn't come up with whoever
is
responsible?”

Kealey shook his head. “Sudan is neighbored by something like eight or nine countries,” he explained. “Two or three share a border directly with West Darfur. The militiamen could've slipped into Chad or Libya long before the fires burned themselves out at the camp. Or they could have headed into the mountains. Either way, they wouldn't be easy to find, even with aerial coverage.”

“But it's open terrain. There's hardly any vegetation. If they had planes—”

“We're using Blackbirds and Predator drones in Pakistan,” Kealey pointed out. “The most technologically sophisticated spy planes on the planet…and we still can't find Osama bin Laden and his top cronies. I've never been that far north in Africa, but as far as I know, it's the same kind of landscape. Plenty of caves and small villages to lose yourself in.”

Harper nodded. Yes, indeed, he'd missed the hell out of this. The thoughts were jumping back and forth between him and Kealey like those brightly colored bouncy balls kids got from gum machines. “And what do you think about what came after? About our response?”

“
Lack
of a response, you mean.” Kealey shrugged. “What can I tell you? If I'm right—if Bashir wasn't directly responsible—it's probably a good thing that we didn't hit them. God knows the man doesn't deserve to live, but you can't kill him for something he didn't do. I'd need a lot more than ten fingers to list the problems it would create for us in the region. Just look at what's happening in Kenya.” Another quick shrug. “On the other hand, someone ordered the attack, and someone pulled the trigger. Those are the people you have to find.”

And kill,
Harper thought but didn't say…although Kealey's expression told him he knew that was a critical part of it.
Thing is, Kealey, the word is “we.”
We
need to find them. I still need you to realize that. Because as much as we're alike, the very thing that separates us is the thing that makes you the perfect man for this job.

Not for the first time, Harper found himself wondering about Kealey's quick and utter readiness to take another person's life. It was a question that had always bothered him. Did he feel anything at all for the six police officers he'd killed the previous week? Did his recent spate of heavy drinking stem in part from those deaths, or was it rooted entirely in what had come before? Somehow, Harper doubted that he had lost even a minute of sleep over the dead SAPS officers, which left only the not-so-distant past. In that respect, the drinking could almost be seen as a good thing. At the very least, it meant that the man had managed to retain some semblance of human empathy despite the things he had seen and done over the last twelve years.

The waitress, a slim, attractive blonde in her midtwenties, approached to collect Harper's plate. She lingered long enough to shoot a meaningful smile in Kealey's direction, but he didn't seem to notice.

A few years earlier Harper would have waited until she walked off. Then he would have made some kind of comment about that long look, and Kealey would have said something back, and they would have shared a laugh. But those days were clearly gone. With this realization, Harper felt a twinge he attributed to some bittersweet mixture of nostalgia and regret swirling around inside him. He could see how far he and the Agency had fallen in Kealey's eyes, and he could see how willing he was to use Kealey at all costs, and both troubled him deeply—especially when he stopped to consider how much the younger man had given his country.

He waited until the disappointed waitress had wandered off, then said, “You were here when the attack took place, weren't you?”

“Yes. But you already knew that.”

“What was the mood like?” Harper asked, noting the tension in the other man's voice.

“The mood?”

“Here on the ground. How did people react when they heard she was dead?”

Kealey shook his head slightly, a look of anger and confusion coming over his face. “I don't know, John. What does that have to do with anything?”

Harper, seeing he had pushed it too far, tried to backtrack. “I'm only asking because—”

“I don't care why you're asking,” Kealey snapped, raising his voice a couple of notches. A few tables over, the couple stopped talking and turned to look at them. “You said you wanted five minutes, and I gave it to you against my better judgment. I've answered all the fucking questions I'm going to, okay? You said you wanted to explain why you're here, so start explaining. Either that or go home and leave me in peace.”

He made a move to slide out of the booth, and Harper immediately raised a hand in a gesture of contrition. “You're right,” he said quickly, his voice little more than a murmur. “You're absolutely right.” Kealey stopped before he could get to his feet and turned to look at him. “I'm not trying to waste your time, Ryan. I just wanted to get a feel for how it all played out on your end. I'm sorry…. It won't happen again.”

For a few seconds Kealey didn't respond or react in any way. Then, to Harper's relief, he eased himself back into the booth. The couple was still looking at them, shooting little concerned glances in their direction, and for a second Harper thought they might have to move. But then the couple put their heads together in whispered conversation, reached a decision, and stood to leave. Harper waited until they were completely out of earshot. Then, realizing he could no longer delay the inevitable, he launched into the story.

He began by describing the meeting that took place at Camp David the night Lily Durant was killed. He recounted as much of the actual conversation as he could remember, emphasizing Stralen's hawkish rhetoric and the president's grief-stricken state. From there he went on to describe the next two meetings he'd had with the president.

The first occurred the day after that midnight assembly at Aspen Lodge. Harper had requested an audience through Stan Chavis, the White House chief of staff, and was received by Brenneman in the Oval Office. By that time Walter Reynolds had identified Durant's remains in the charred wreckage of Camp Hadith, and her body was already en route to Andrews Air Force Base. It was the worst possible time to try and talk the president down, but it had to be done. Once again, he implored Brenneman not to make a rash decision with respect to a retaliatory strike but was rebuffed for a second time. If anything, the president was even more distracted and desolate than he'd been the night before.

The second and last meeting took place two weeks later. By this time the CIA had been effectively cut out of the decision-making process, at least with respect to Sudan, and Harper had been trying in vain to get another audience with Brenneman when the summons finally arrived. He and Robert Andrews had walked into the Cabinet Room two hours later to find the president waiting, along with Jeremy Thayer, the national security advisor, Brynn Fitzgerald, the secretary of state, and General Stralen and a couple his aides from the Defense Intelligence agency. The discussion that followed was both highly unusual and very uncomfortable, at least for the two senior CIA officials. It began with Thayer recounting the incident at Camp Hadith down to the last detail, including the brutal rape and murder of Lily Durant. To Harper's surprise, the president absorbed Thayer's carefully chosen words with remarkable poise. When Thayer was done, Fitzgerald laid out the evidence linking Omar al-Bashir to the Janjaweed raid on the camp.

As it turned out, the case was entirely circumstantial—and that wasn't good from the standpoint of validating an open U.S. response. Other than the thoroughly documented links between the Janjaweed and the Government of Sudan (GOS) forces, the State Department had been unable to turn up ironclad evidence that Bashir had directly ordered the attack. Since Bashir had refused to allow an FBI team into the country, the Bureau had not been a factor in the investigation, which had seriously hampered their progress.