The Exile (4 page)

Harper nodded slowly. “Where are they?”

McCabe shook his head grimly as they started to climb the steps. Clearly, he wasn't anxious to go back in there. “I'll show you,” he said.

Harper followed the assistant director through the front door, ignoring the two agents sheltering beneath the eaves. The entrance hall was dark, as though the building itself were in mourning, but Harper still managed to catch sight of his reflection in a circular, gilt-framed mirror hanging over a mahogany side table. Fortunately, McCabe took that moment to confer with an agent standing nearby, and Harper turned to the mirror to check his appearance more thoroughly. His navy Brooks Brothers suit was slightly rumpled and damp at the shoulders; his tie poorly knotted. His graying brown hair was plastered to his head, and there was a slight nick on his throat where he had cut himself shaving. Minor imperfections, he decided. For the most part, he looked as respectable as anyone could at half past one in the morning.

McCabe waved him forward, and they continued down a long, dimly lit hall leading to a single door at the end. An uncomfortable-looking agent stood outside the living room, and as they approached, Harper could hear elevated voices beyond the plain wooden door.

They stopped just short of the door, and once again McCabe murmured something to the man standing post. Turning back to Harper, the assistant director grimaced and lifted his eyebrows in a silent question. Harper straightened his tie and nodded once, indicating that he was ready.

McCabe leaned forward and tapped on the door. There was a brief silence, and then a voice called out for Harper to enter.

L
ike the rest of the building, the living room was draped in shadow. Harper thought that during the day, the picture windows on the east wall would have provided a spectacular view of the Monocacy Valley. Now, at this early hour, they offered nothing more than a hazy reflection of the room itself. A large fieldstone fireplace dominated the southwest corner of the room, the chimney towering up to the open second floor, and framed photographs of former presidents occupied every inch of the beige walls. The carpet was government issue, gray and sturdy, and the mismatched furniture looked as if it might have been purchased at a yard sale.

Harper was dimly aware of all of this, but for the most part, his attention was fixed on the three other men in the room—and on one man in particular.

Robert Andrews, the director of Central Intelligence and Harper's immediate boss, was seated on a red leather love seat facing the fireplace. He was a heavyset man with dark, curly hair, dressed in his standard Ralph Lauren suit. He nodded curtly as his deputy crossed the room toward the seating area. The man seated to his left, Harper saw, was General Joel Stralen. In his early fifties, the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency was wiry and tan, with a sparse fringe of iron gray hair, thin lips, and deep-set eyes. He was wearing his customary blue USAF service dress uniform, though his jacket was slung over the back of his chair. Harper returned Andrews's strained, silent greeting but ignored Stralen, who was staring at him with undisguised contempt. Instead, he began moving toward the man standing in front of the large windows.

On any given day David Brenneman looked at least a decade younger than his fifty-five years. However, the news he had just received had aged him in a way the rigors of the office had never managed to do. His silver-brown hair was disheveled, his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, and his mouth had set in a tight, angry line.

As Harper approached, he was acutely aware of the president's stance. Dressed in a navy tracksuit bearing the insignia of his alma mater, Georgetown University, he stood with his feet apart and his hands curled into useless fists by his sides, like a fighter who'd been sucker punched bracing for a second blow.

Harper could only imagine what he was feeling at that moment. David Brenneman was arguably the single most powerful person in the world, and yet, for all that, he had just taken a hit to the gut from which he would probably never recover. Worse still, there was nothing he could do to make it right, despite the enormous resources at his disposal. Harper couldn't have articulated why, but the tracksuit made him look all the more exposed. Brenneman was the president, yes. But this morning he was first and foremost a man reeling from grief.

Harper stopped a few feet away and forced himself to meet Brenneman's eyes.

“Sir,” he began awkwardly, “I'm truly sorry for your loss. Believe me, we will do everything in our power to find the people who are responsible, and when we do, there is nothing to stop us from—”

“What the
hell
are you talking about?”

At first Harper didn't know where the words had come from. Then he turned to face the man who had snapped out the question. Stralen had jumped out of his chair and was staring at him with a mixed expression of irritation and disbelief.

“Excuse me?” Harper said.

“You heard. What are you talking about?” said Stralen. “We already know who did the deed. It was one man, and we know exactly where to find him. The only question is what we're going to do about it.”

Harper let his gaze drift from Stralen to his immediate superior. Andrews was shaking his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, his gaze fixed on some distant corner of the room. Clearly, he wasn't about to stand up to his counterpart at the DIA. Harper wondered how long he had been able to withstand the blunt force of the general's rhetoric, or if he had even tried.

“Sir, with all due respect, it's too early to draw any conclusions about—”

“That's bullshit,” Stralen said. “You know damn well that Bashir was behind this. It's payback for the sanctions we slapped on them last month. What else could it be?”

Harper frowned. “I don't think that's likely. Bashir may be dangerous, but he isn't certifiably insane. Why would he do this? What could he possibly hope to gain?”

Stralen was already shaking his head. “Who knows?” he snapped. “A world court's issued a warrant for him—and backed him into a corner. When he tried to attend Zuma's swearing-in conference as president of South Africa, Bashir was warned to stay home. Even those corrupt bastards in Uganda reluctantly washed their hands of him through diplomatic channels. As signatories to the ICC they'd have had to arrest him if he showed at their regional conference.”

“How's any of that lead him to an act of retribution against us?” Harper asked.

“I don't know how his mind connects the dots. Or even what dots they connect. But it's a moot point, anyway. There are
witnesses.
” Stralen pounded his right hand into his left to emphasize the point. “The camp's doctor, Beckett, the man who reported the attack in the first place. He ran when the bombs started to fall, but he didn't run far. He saw the whole thing from a distance, and he swears that he saw a man in army uniform getting out of a white Mercedes. Besides, there was a plane. If there was no government authorization, where did the plane come from?”

“I don't know,” Harper said carefully.

Stralen narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me you don't think the Sudanese government has a hand in this?”

“I think it might bear some level of culpability.”

Stralen narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean, ‘some level'?”

“I mean Bashir provides funds and training for the Janjaweed through the army,” Harper explained. “But he does not direct ongoing operations in Darfur. He leaves that to his generals. There is a good chance he wasn't even aware of this particular attack, much less who was stationed at the camp.”

“You can't be serious.” Stralen looked at Andrews, then back to Harper, as though searching for an explanation. “Do you really expect us to believe that this was a mistake? Some kind of coincidence?”

“No, of course not. That is not what I'm implying. I'm simply saying that Bashir might not have authorized it,” Harper asserted.

“And what about the plane? Let's not forget that bombs were dropped,” said Stralen.

“I haven't.” Harper sighed. “But a lot of ordnance and combat equipment is floating around out there on the black market. And across the region. Tanks, attack boats—”

“I repeat, Harper. This was a
bomber.
An F-7N, according to our real-time infrared satellite data. What does that tell you?”

Harper didn't answer. Acquired from Iran back in the late nineties, the Chinese-built warplanes were known to have been used in Sudan's bombing campaigns against rebel ground troops during its last civil war. Which in his mind still proved nothing.

He turned toward the president; the last thing he wanted here was a spitting contest. “Sir, I know it must seem pretty clear-cut from where you're standing. But I don't think there's sufficient evidence Omar al-Bashir ordered the attack, and I don't think we've established motive. He knows the consequences for himself and his government. To go after you personally, and in this way, would be an incredibly stupid thing to do at a time when he's already under siege. Bashir is a lot of things, but he isn't stupid. It would be an act of sheer lunacy for him to authorize your niece's murder.”

Harper paused, painfully aware that it was the first time those words had been spoken aloud. For a long moment the president didn't respond, his red eyes fixed on some random point on the far wall. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously low.

“There's that plane, John. Let's not dance around it. And those men were wearing army uniforms,” he said. “Bashir
controls
the army. It's one thing for them to raid a local village with impunity. But they're still undeniably on a leash…a long one, maybe, but a leash nonetheless. Say what you will, they don't lift a finger against us unless he tells them to.”

Harper was momentarily shaken by the quiet rage he heard in the president's voice—as well as the utter conviction. But he did his best to set it aside, knowing that he couldn't stop now. Someone had to bring the man back from the brink, and it was clear that he was the only person still willing to try.

“Yes, but that just supports my point, sir. Even if they destroyed the whole camp, some of the refugees were bound to escape. There were going to be witnesses either way, so why would Bashir make the government's role in the attack so blatantly evident? Why would he allow the trail to lead right back to his doorstep?”

“To send a message,” Stralen said. “Isn't that obvious? He claimed he was going to do as much when the State Department issued the sanctions last month.”

“It wouldn't be the first time he spouted inflammatory rhetoric,” Harper pointed out, “and not once in twenty years has he lifted a finger to do even half of what he threatens. What would make things different this time?” The deputy director shook his head and looked back at the president. “Sir, again, I'm not saying Bashir didn't have a hand in this. Plain and simple, I'm trying to point out that we need to have all the facts, look into every possibility, before you decide on a course of action.”

“And what happens in the meantime?” Stralen asked quietly.

Harper reluctantly turned his attention back to the air force general.

“You want us to sit on our hands while Bashir sits in Khartoum, laughing about what he's done?” Stralen said, not giving an inch. “About what he's gotten away with? Is that what you're suggesting?”

“What are
you
suggesting?” Harper asked, meeting the other man's cold blue eyes. He knew he had crossed a line, but he couldn't back down. Andrews had already done that, and someone had to stop this conversation before it escalated to a far more dangerous level. “What do you propose we do instead, General?”

“What I propose,” Stralen growled, “is that we send in a two- or three-man Delta team to verify his position, and then we drop a JDAM right on top of the bastard's head. What I
suggest
is that we take him out, once and for all.”

There was complete silence in the room. Harper stared at the newly appointed head of the DIA for a long moment and couldn't help but wonder if the man understood the full gravity of what he was saying. Then he turned to look at the president. “Sir, please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”

Brenneman had turned to face the window, but his shoulders were tense, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. He did not respond, giving Harper no idea what he was thinking. “Sir,” Harper said, trying again, “I implore you to look at the larger picture. Omar al-Bashir may be a ruthless dictator, but he is still a head of state, the president of the largest country in Africa.”

“He's also a wanted man according to the ICC,” Brenneman said.

“And we've consistently opposed the court's authority on the basis of its determinations shackling our political and military policies…and creating a global standard of justice that may conflict with our own. It would be hypocritical to use the indictment as an excuse to go after Bashir.” Harper gave that a moment to sink in. “We all need to remember that while Bashir stays within his own sovereign borders, he has practical immunity from any indictment. We can't legally send forces across those borders to arrest him. And we can't just assassinate him.”

“So he gets away with it,” Brenneman murmured. He was still facing the window. “Is that right? Is that what
you're
proposing?”

For a few seconds Harper wasn't sure how to respond. It was suddenly apparent that the president hadn't really heard a word he'd said, and for one simple reason—he didn't want to. He was lost in his own private world of pain and grief, and for the time being, he was looking for one thing alone…a way to lash out. In that respect, Stralen was giving him exactly what he wanted, someone to blame and punish for his niece's death.

Harper could see the appeal. Any human being with a beating heart would be tempted by the lure of immediate vengeance. But that didn't make it sane or right.

“Mr. President.” It was Andrews who had spoken now, and Harper turned toward him in mild surprise. This was the first time the director had made his presence known since his deputy had entered the room. “With all due respect, Jonathan is right. We can decide Bashir is accountable, but we can't take him out. The international community would never stand for it.”

“Who cares what they're willing to stand for?” Stralen said. He fixed his counterpart at the CIA with an angry, accusing stare. “That isn't the issue here, and for a change our primary concern shouldn't be world opinion.” He shifted his attention to Harper. “As for your remarks about the ICC…I don't give a damn about that organization. The indictment is fine with me but should have no bearing on our actions one way or another.”

“Okay, forget the ICC,” Harper said. “With all due respect, General Stralen…are you aware Sudan has an estimated oil reserve of two hundred billion barrels in its very large chunk of the Muglad Basin? And that Russia has made monumental financial and material investments in the Sudanese oil industry? The deals Putin has cut with Khartoum…specifically exercising his political clout through Slavneft—”

Stralen speared him with his gaze. “Don't lecture me. I know all about Slavneft.”

Harper looked back at Stralen without blinking and went on with slow deliberation. “Then I assume you're aware it is not only Russia's seventh or eighth largest oil firm but is wholly state owned,” he said. “I'm sure you also realize the Russians, via Slavneft, have spent something in excess of two hundred million dollars to develop the Abyei petroleum fields in south-central Sudan as part of an umbrella trade agreement—I think it's fair to use the term
alliance
—that requires Sudan to subsidize a large chunk of that investment with the purchase of Russian military hardware. Given what you know, I probably don't have to add that Sudan set an earlier precedent for this relationship with China, which now drills as much of a sixth to a quarter of its total oil supply from fields in the western part of the country. That's about two hundred thousand barrels every day of the week. The exchange there has involved weapons, too. Primarily small arms, though there were separate arrangements for the sale of Chinese attack aircraft and pilot training to Sudan. And assurances that Beijing would massage the United Nations Security Council in all matters relating to Bashir's regime, including his genocidal slaughter of the Dinka tribe—”