The Exile (33 page)

The gas-soaked clothes and body burst into flame with a
whuuuump
of displaced air, orange-yellow tongues of fire fiercely leaping upward over everything, climbing the walls to lick at the ceiling.

Kealey had time to hear an alarm go off before he ran back down the hall to the bathroom, snatching a large bath towel from a rack, then going to the tub and opening the cold water tap. He soaked the towel under the faucet, threw it over his head like a shawl, and returned to the walk-in closet.

It was already filled with churning, acrid smoke, gray blobs of it spewing into the hall, making his eyes water and his throat involuntarily clench. He hadn't lied to Mirghani; while the door and walls of the safe room were bound to be fire resistant, possibly saving every material possession he might have stashed in there, it would not keep the carbon monoxide smoke from seeping through. He would die of asphyxiation if he stayed put.

The cold, dripping towel still covering his head and shoulders, Kealey thrust himself inside through the searing flames.

“Come out of there, you stupid bastard,” he said, almost overcome by smoke. The towel was sizzling around his head, steam coiling off it; it would not keep him from the fire's clutches for very long. He could already feel the hair on his arms singeing from the heat. “Come on out! I told you I just want to talk—”

The door suddenly burst open, a man Kealey identified from photos as Ishmael Mirghani pushing into the closet, wheezing and gagging. “You're a lunatic,” he gasped and hacked out a series of sputtering coughs. “Whoever you are, you will kill us both….”

“
Shut up!
” Kealey hollered and yanked him from the closet. The smoke had gotten so thick around him, it was hard to see, but he had no problem hearing the jangle of household fire alarms and, underneath it, the more troublesome howl of oncoming sirens. He had to get out of the place, toot sweet, and could only hope Swanson and Abby would provide a diversion if he needed it.

Grabbing Mirghani by his arm, he towed him downstairs into the main parlor, then outside through the door into the back garden. Outside its low hedge, Mackenzie sat parked against the curb in his Subaru.

“Let's move,” Kealey said, hustling Mirghani along toward the car. The sirens were close now—too close for anything that remotely passed for comfort.

“Where are you taking me?” The opposition leader was sweating profusely, and Kealey didn't think it was from exertion.

“You'll find out when we get there,” he said and then wrenched open the Subaru's back door, shoved Mirghani through it, and followed him inside.

A split second later Mackenzie went screeching off into the gathering dusk.

D
avid Brenneman had always felt something special sitting behind the
Resolute
desk in the Executive Office. Inspiration was probably the best word for it, but there was also a certain assurance imparted by its impressive size and solidity, its sturdy design fashioned from the timbers of a nineteenth-century British expeditionary vessel that had braved and survived the Arctic wastes to return intact. FDR and Truman had sat behind it in times of peril and momentous decision. John F. Kennedy, whose solitary ponderings had often run deep into the night, must have gathered his will and inner fortitude at that very desk when the Russians and Cubans threatened nuclear war in the summer of 1962. Brenneman, who as a young man was an enthusiastic member of Kennedy's Peace Corps and was originally moved toward public service by his early admiration of the murdered president, liked to think the desk was infused by that which was best about the men who had preceded him as occupants of the Oval Office—their strength of purpose and higher ideals, regardless of political affiliation.

This morning, however, he felt like an exposed impostor, unworthy of the place he occupied behind the
Resolute.
A pressed-wood desk might better suit him…some less than authentic material, wood shavings and flimsy veneers held together with glue.

How had he allowed himself to be so badly led by the nose? When had he become such a
fool?
He thought of his pigheadedness, his unwillingness to listen to trusted advisors, his dismissal of men who had his best interests—and the best interests of the nation—at heart. He thought of his faulty judgment, colored by some amok inner wrath rather than anything that approached wisdom, intelligence, and a calm examination of information. He thought of his refusal to probe and question, his eagerness to lash out in vengeance…and he looked across a desk that now seemed a reminder of his unworthiness at John Harper and Bob Andrews, two of the men he'd ignored, and then at the troubled face of the woman he'd dragged along with him, Brynn Fitzgerald, who had been as susceptible to manipulation as he himself.

“I've blown this terribly,” he said. “I want you all to know that I will own up to my mistakes, whatever the consequences from this point forward. That I will do what I can to rectify them. And I also want to apologize to each of you for actions that damned well might be inexcusable….”

He fell silent, his hands balling into fists on the desk. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palm.

“Sir, thanks to the capture of Ishmael Mirghani, we're in a position to do what you say—prevent this whole thing from exploding on us and the rest of the world,” Andrews said from across the room. “We are still in a position to stop Simon Nusairi. He's acquired the necessary weapons and equipment, and I won't diminish the imminent threat of an attack in northern Sudan. But let's remember he hasn't yet launched it—”

“No,” Brenneman interrupted. “He did with great success in Darfur, though, most relevantly for us against the refugees at Camp Hadith.” His voice sounded almost self-pitying to his own ears, and that had been far from his intent. “He and his people, disguised as regular Sudanese army, raped and killed my niece, and I took the bait. I
bit
like a fish going for the hook.”

“It isn't as if Omar al-Bashir is an innocent,” Harper said. “In fairness, the man's earned his reputation for genocidal brutality and then some….”

Brenneman shook his head vehemently. “Don't massage me here. For all the ass kissing he gets from the Russians, Chinese, and his neighborhood friends in the Arab world, Bashir is a wanted criminal. An international outcast. We'd gone a long way toward isolating him without a shooting war that could result in more people dying…potentially tens of thousands of people. But I botched it. I authorized the misappropriation of millions of dollars of taxpayer funds at a time when our national economy is stretched to the limit. And before you stop me again, John, we can split hairs about what constitutes a legitimate CINC discretionary project, but the head of the Senate Armed Services Committee won't when it comes time for midterm elections, and he'll be completely justified in lining us up like targets in a firing range. We…no,
I
…could have listened to you and Bob. I could have paid attention back at Camp David. Instead, I dismissed you from my presence. I sanctioned Stralen's plan to deal with Somali pirates and get stolen tanks and helicopters into the hands of Sudanese rebels. I armed, equipped, and financed a small army lead by Simon Nusairi, who may be a worse devil than the one we hoped to unseat, and is certainly shrewder and more calculating in his ability to manipulate us.”

The secretary of state produced a long sigh, her face worn despite a careful application of makeup, her mouth and eyes surrounded by radial lines, which seemed to have stamped the skin around them in an almost inconceivably short time. “Mr. President, with all due respect, we now have two choices. We can beat ourselves up about this, or we can do what you and Bob have explicitly and implicitly suggested today. Which is to act quickly and use the small window of opportunity that remains to take charge of the situation…
rehabilitate
it, if you will…before it deteriorates beyond repair.”

“Brynn's absolutely right,” Andrews said. “The capture of Ishmael Mirghani was more than an intelligence score. It could be an achievement that has lasting positive ramifications. And I don't mean in terms of politics, but real benefits for the Sudanese people.”

Harper was nodding. “When I met with Ryan Kealey in South Africa, I recall that we spent a few minutes pondering Mirghani's reasons for splintering off from a couple of known rebel factions…particularly the Sudanese Liberation Army,” he said. “But here's where the Agency takes some of the blame for what's developed—it turns out it's something that should have been assessed with organized, targeted intelligence analysis.” He paused. “Based on his questioning at the embassy in Khartoum, Mirghani is a far more politically and socially moderate alternative to Bashir than any other opposition leader in the country. That is why he parted ways with the SLA. When he first joined the organization, it was supposed to be a non-religious coalition of Darfurian peoples who were under oppression from Bashir. But it's turned out to be highly polarized along tribal lines…and over time its reprisals against civilians who aren't members of the cause have grown as barbaric as Bashir's. Mirghani, on the other hand, split with them over those coercive tactics and has a record of vocal opposition to human rights abuses—”

“Unless it happened to be the bloodbath at Camp Hadith,” Brenneman said. “He
knew
Nusairi was responsible. How am I supposed to see him as anything but a run-of-the-mill opportunist when he's allied himself with that murderer?”

“It's a good point,” Harper said. “I'm not trying to paint a portrait of Mirghani with a halo and wings…or tell you he'll become a champion of democratic rule in Sudan. He closed his eyes to an un-pardonable atrocity. But he did not participate in its planning or commit any of his guerrilla forces to it. And his cousin Hassan Saduq has independently, and without knowledge of Mirghani's capture, told Interpol that his linkage with Nusairi was formed out of desperation. Rightly or wrongly, he'd become convinced there was no other way to unseat the Bashir regime and end the civil war.”

“And I came to the same conclusion,” Fitzgerald said. “Let's be honest. We are sitting here right now because of our willingness to enter into a moral compromise. We knew Nusairi had an unstable personality. We were well aware he'd provoked antigovernment riots that left hundreds dead or imprisoned, and then egged on more protests based on those deaths—a cynical, manipulative way to keep stoking hostilities against Bashir. And that was fine with us…. So why hold Mirghani to a higher standard?”

Brenneman was shaking his head. “There's a difference. We had no evidence Nusairi was guilty of butchery. In some cases with his own hands…as we now know all too well.”

“Mr. President, that's the trap General Stralen and I fell into,” Fitzgerald said. “You can close one eye or the other to ugliness, or just squint so what you're seeing is enough of a blur that you can stomach it. It's still deliberately choosing not to see what's right there in front of you.” She sighed. “But let's take a step back. I shouldn't have brought up the possibility of Mirghani as a future ally in Sudan. We can evaluate that, or not, at a later date—it's a digression we don't need at this stage. I want to get back to what Bob said at the start of this meeting. If we move fast, we can prevent what is about to happen on the ground there
now.
That, and that alone, is of the essence.”

Brenneman looked thoughtful, just vaguely aware his hands had begun to unclench on the desktop. “What's our present objective?” he asked simply.

Fitzgerald glanced at Andrews, deferring to him.

“It's twofold,” he said. “Nusairi played us. He claimed he intended to use the tanks and choppers against Bashir's troops in Darfur, at the southern end of the country, and instead moved them into the
north
right under our noses.”

“That's if Mirghani is to be believed,” Brenneman said. “How is it the spy sats can't tell us anything?”

“They can,” Andrews said. “But it takes time to deflect them from orbit, and Nusairi's known it all along. He also knows it takes time to deploy our surveillance drones. That's why he moved the tanks and choppers to the staging grounds so quickly. But thanks to Mirghani—and I do believe he can be trusted—
we
now know his goal is to invade the petroleum refineries and pipelines outside Khartoum and seize control of their production. From a tactical standpoint there are only several possible staging grounds for a takeover of the area.”

Brenneman shook his head in disgust. He'd been played, all right. Not only had the Chinese and Russians poured trillions into those refineries, but their current fuel demands required the uninterrupted production and shipment of oil out of Port Sudan. If Nusairi took control of the facilities, he would control the flow of oil to their shores—and gain a stranglehold on their economies. Whether they bowed to his demands or tried to retake the facilities, the destabilizing effect on global politics would be incalculable…and any military action against him would surely result in the refineries' destruction at his hands. In one swoop, that butcher would become one of the world's most powerful men, and it would be only a matter of time before it was revealed that the United States had given him that power.

He expelled a deep breath, pulling his thoughts together. “Okay, Bob,” he said. “By a twofold goal, I assume you mean our first is to find out where Nusairi intends to launch his attack, and our second is to prevent him from getting away with it.”

Andrews nodded. “Plainly stated, that's the position in which we've put ourselves. Though there are no assurances we can accomplish it.”

“And where do you propose we start trying?” asked Brenneman.

Andrews looked at his assistant director, nodded for him to pick up the ball.

“With Omar al-Bashir, distasteful as that may be,” Harper said. “And on the ground with Ryan Kealey.”

 

“Simon,” Mirghani said into his satellite phone. “I have some hard news to deliver.”

“It has already reached me on
Talfazat,
” Nusairi said.

Mirghani had expected it would. The Arabic Internet news service carried feeds from the Sudanese Radio and Television Corporation as well as Al-Jazeera.

“I have watched the images of your home burning,” Nusairi said. “They say those who conducted the raid have not yet been identified, and that you somehow managed to elude them.”

“Only by the grace of Allah,” Mirghani said. “But ‘elude' is not quite the word. I was fortunate enough to have been warned of the attack shortly before it occurred. A number of my loyal guards were killed. Had you heard?”

“Yes. The information being given is incomplete. There are reports of gunfire and several deaths, but the police have allowed no witnesses to speak.” A pause. “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Mirghani said. “I am in a safe place.”

“And do you have any idea who was responsible?”

“It was
Mukhabarat.
”

“Bashir's secret service?”

“Yes,” Mirghani said. “I have expected such a move for weeks. Al-Bashir blames me for the unrest in the city. The protests and civil disobedience. The strike was in retaliation…. He seeks to intimidate me.”

“So it had nothing to do with our immediate plans?”

“No.”

“You're certain?”

“It was unrelated,” Mirghani replied. “As I said, I was advised it might happen by informants within the service.”

A pause. “Ishmael, I do not doubt you. But perhaps it would be best if you avoid the staging area.”

“I would greatly regret that. Our day has been long awaited.”

“I know. But under the circumstances, it is best to be cautious.”

Mirghani was silent.

“My brother, listen to me,” Nusairi said. “Let us not put in jeopardy everything toward which we have worked together.”

Mirghani did not say anything for another several seconds. Then he produced a relenting sigh. “I cannot argue against prudence,” he said at last. “The American, White, left the city well ahead of me. I expect he will be at the prearranged meeting place to taste the sweetness of our nation's fruit.”

Nusairi laughed a little. “I am sure,” he said. “And your fighters?”

“They are in position to join your forces…. There will be four hundred and more.”

“Good,” Nusairi said. “They will carry your spirit with them, Ishmael. And do not fear. We shall have adequate time to celebrate our victory.”