The Exile (5 page)

“Enough.” Brenneman had turned away from the window without warning. “That's enough. I don't want to hear any more.”

Everyone in the room fell silent. His anguish was plain for all to see. If Harper had to guess, he would have said that the president's grief was surpassed only by his barely suppressed rage.

“Sir, I understand that you're upset,” Harper continued quickly. All he could think about was cutting off Stralen before he could do any more damage. “My apologies if this is repetitious…but going after Bashir directly would be a huge mistake. There's no stressing that enough. It is not a viable or responsible course of—”

“Upset?” The president stared at him with a blank, uncomprehending gaze. The deputy director instantly realized that he had missed something in Brenneman's tone of voice moments ago and, in doing so, had made a monumental error in judgment. Before he could take it back, though, Brenneman continued in a voice tinged with the wrong kind of amusement. “My niece has just been murdered by a pack of savages in a third-world country, and you think I'm
upset?
That's very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation.”

“Sir, I…”

The president held up a hand to stop him, then shifted his gaze to a far corner of the room, his face fixed in a tight expression of barely suppressed fury. “That will be all for now, John. Would you step outside, please? Josh will come and find you if we need anything else.”

Harper opened his mouth to respond, hoping to repair the damage, but nothing came out, and he could see that Brenneman would not tolerate any further argument. He shot a quick glance at his boss and saw that Andrews was studying him with a mixed expression of frustration, sympathy…and, perhaps worst of all, futility. He didn't have to look at Stralen to know he would see something very contrary to that in the general's eyes.

Harper knew when he was beaten. With a sinking feeling, he acknowledged the president's order in silence. Then he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

 

It was still raining when Jonathan Harper stepped outside a few moments later—a warm, soft rain that seemed to drift out of nowhere. He walked past the agents standing post, down the steps, and continued on the drive, unconsciously trying to put some distance between himself and the president's cabin. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the empty black sky and closed his eyes. His head was buzzing, and he was completely unaware of the inclement weather, even though the rain was dripping down his face and his suit coat was already soaked through.

Harper was stunned to the core by what had just taken place. He had been advising David Brenneman for nearly six years, and in all that time he had never seen the man behave in such an irrational way.
That's very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation.
Harper regretted his verbal miscue, but it probably hadn't worsened matters so much as exposed their already dire nature. Brenneman was allowing his grief and anger to cloud his judgment, and Stralen's provocative statements—none of which were based on confirmed facts—were only making things worse.

Harper had lost track of how long he had been standing there when he heard voices behind him. He turned to see Director Andrews walking down the steps, followed closely by Joshua McCabe. The two men paused at the top of the drive to shake hands, and even from a distance, Harper could see that they were both subdued, their shoulders slumped beneath a shared, invisible burden. As he looked on, McCabe turned to go back into the cabin. Then the director lifted a hand in his deputy's direction and pointed toward the Tahoe parked nearby. A minute later they were both seated inside the large truck.

Harper was tempted to apologize for the damage he had caused, but decided it would be better to let the other man breach the awkward silence.

The director pulled a linen handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and used it to methodically wipe the rain from his face. When he finally spoke, he did so quietly and without turning to face his subordinate.

“You didn't help us in there, John,” he said. “You didn't help us at all. You did your homework, and I thought it might have been enough to get through to Brenneman. But it would've been better if you'd quit while you were ahead and given him some time to mull things over. By pushing it, you went and played right into Stralen's hands. Made him seem almost reasonable. Now, thanks to you, we're on the defensive.”

Harper bit his tongue, though he was sorely tempted to remind the other man of his own meager contribution to the heated argument inside the building. Instead, he simply agreed quietly.

Andrews acknowledged the words with a short nod, though judging by the testy look on his face, he could tell that his deputy's apology was less than sincere. “Look, I think I managed to talk him down a bit,” he continued. “At least for the time being. Of course, Stralen is a problem for us, and he's not going away. He's probably still in there trying to undo everything I just said.”

“He doesn't have any idea what he's talking about,” Harper snapped, his demeanor of feigned calm slipping away with the mere mention of the other man. “I can't believe he doesn't understand the consequences that come with killing a head of state, especially when you don't have ironclad proof to justify direct action. In this day and age, it just isn't done.”

Andrews shook his head wearily. “Don't sell Stralen short, John. He's a very smart man who understands more than you might think. And he has a great deal of power at his fingertips. You would be wise to remember that. More to the point, he has the president's ear. He can't be discounted simply because you don't like or agree with him.”

“That isn't the issue, Bob. The man is beyond dangerous. You heard what he was saying in there. I send out a warning flare about getting into a pissing contest with Russian and China, and he does his best to shoot it right down.” Harper shook his head. “Normally, the president would never consider something so crazy. He just doesn't want to listen to reason right now…. He's too wrapped up in what happened to his niece. Too emotionally invested.”

The director didn't seem to hear. His mouth was pursed into a sullen frown; his dark eyes locked on the seat in front of him.

“What is it?” Harper said. “Jesus Christ, you weren't even paying attention.”

Andrews shook his head. “Wrong,” he said. “I've registered every word out of your mouth.”

“Then you're keeping something from me, Bob, because you normally don't go blank like you did a minute ago.”

Andrews sat in silence for a long moment, that expression of brooding dismay again dropping over his features like a curtain. Finally he let out a deep, heavy sigh.

“The secretary of state is
this
close to jumping on board with Stralen,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

Harper stared at him, incredulous. “Brynn Fitzgerald?” he said. “Do you know this for a fact?”

“It's my informed read,” Andrews said. “I spoke with her before heading over here. Actually, she called me after speaking to the president.”

“You've got to be mistaken. She's one of the most reasonable people in Washington. How could she suddenly be that knee-jerk?”

“I don't know,” Andrews said. “Loyalty to the president? Or maybe the residual effect of having been taken hostage in Pakistan…and watching one of her good friends cold-bloodedly shot to death in the process. Whatever explains it, we're seeing a lot of clouded judgment around us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let's take this thing a step at a time, John. It isn't as if we have a choice, anyway. You have to remember that the president's had only an hour or so to soak it all in. Besides, I think I managed to talk some sense into him. At least for now. Needless to say, we're going to have to watch this closely. If he decides to do something drastic, it's going to come back on us, whether we were involved or not. That is just the way it goes, and I have no intention of letting the Agency take the fall for something Stralen talked him into doing.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Harper replied, relieved to see that Andrews had recovered some of his mettle. He was going to need it if the general wasn't content to let things lie, and Harper had a bad feeling that the director was right. Stralen was probably still in there pleading his case to the president. “So how do you want to handle this?”

The director thought for a moment. “In my opinion, the best way to defuse the situation is to give Brenneman the man who carried out the actual attack. An eye for an eye, so to speak.”

“I agree. And given his current pickle with the World Court, I feel pretty confident that Bashir will hand him over without too much of a fight. After all, that would be the best way to prove that he had nothing to do with the raid…and a chance for a little diplomatic quid pro quo.”

“You think he'd push for us to make overtures to the ICC?”

“Bashir would want something in return for his cooperation.” Harper shrugged. “I'm sure he'd have no shortage of bargaining chips.”

Andrews looked skeptical. “Do you really believe that he's innocent of this? Because I have to say, John, it doesn't seem likely, and you didn't exactly convince the president, either.”

“I just don't see how doing something this brutal and direct would benefit the regime in Khartoum,” Harper reasoned. “Bashir wouldn't see it, either. He knows how to work the international community. Remember his pilgrimage to Mecca? This is with the ICC warrant pinned to his back. And if that wasn't defiant enough, he attends the Arab Union summit in Qatar after saying his devout prayers. Complains that the ICC's decisions are biased against Africans. I mean, can you picture it? He's a fugitive from justice, and there you have Kaddafi holding his hand in a gesture of brotherhood, calling the ICC a terrorist body. Meanwhile, the UN secretary-general's squirming with embarrassment at the dais.”

Andrews sighed. “I remember that junket. He can be like Saddam in his heyday.”

“That's exactly my point, Bob. He knows what he can get away with, and the murder of the president's niece does not fall into that category. Of course, he'll deny it, anyway—I'm surprised he hasn't done so already. But Bashir will have to understand he needs to deliver the goods…the man who actually carried out the attack. That is the person we need to get our hands on. That is the person who can stop this from going any further than it already has.”

“And what if you're wrong?” Andrews asked quietly. “Or if Bashir decides not to play along for some reason? What then?”

Harper mused over the questions for a moment, but the answers were already clear. “If it gets to that stage, we'll have no choice but to find the man ourselves. Otherwise, Stralen will have exactly what he needs to pressure the president into making a bad decision. Omar al-Bashir may be a devil, but he's the devil we know, and we have no idea who might be waiting in the wings to take his place.”

Andrews paused to let that sink in. “I'm not arguing, John. But do you have any idea how difficult it would be to pick one man out of Sudan? We don't even have a name, let alone a face. If Bashir doesn't give him up, who is capable of going in there to find him?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

Andrews finally shifted in his seat to look at his subordinate. His gaze was steady and flat, completely unreadable. “I thought he was out.”

“He
is
out. He was out the last couple of times we needed him, too, but that didn't stop him from coming back. If we're forced to get involved on a deeper level, I'd rather have him running point than anyone else. Besides, he's already over there.”

“In Africa?”

“Right,” Harper said. “He's been working with Blackwater for the last couple of months.”

“Private security?” Andrews seemed surprised by this. “Is it one of our operations?”

The Departments of Defense and State regularly contracted out security work, including the safeguarding of foreign leaders and dignitaries overseas, to independent outfits through various governmental agencies, including the Bureau of Diplomatic Security—which technically fell under the purview of the DOS.

Harper shrugged. “I think it's direct between Blackwater and the government of South Africa, though we might have been consulted,” he said. “Last I heard, he was running one of their mobile security units.”

The director frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of bringing Ryan Kealey back into the fold. “You think you can talk him into it? The last time he did something for us, it nearly got him killed. Not to mention the other part.”

Harper nodded briskly. “He'll get on board, one way or another.” He sounded more confident than he probably should have, but he didn't want to give the director a chance to change his mind. What Harper hadn't said was that Andrews was right. Everything rested on what he had so tactfully described as the
other part.
The death of Naomi Kharmai, and its lingering effect on him. It was potentially the single greatest obstacle to drawing Kealey back into the fold, and Harper knew that when the time came, he would have to approach with the utmost care. To that end, he'd already arranged for a meeting in Baltimore with someone who could be of immense help.

Of course, the hope was that it wouldn't come down to getting Kealey involved, but somehow, Harper already knew that it would. The only question was how long the president would be able to stand up to Stralen, and what disastrous course of action might result from that uncomfortable union.

JUNE

I
t was just after two in the afternoon as Alex Whysall stood in the sparkling white lobby of the courthouse, his back resting lightly against a towering marble pillar. The building was packed with reporters, photographers, and politically minded South Africans who had come to await the outcome of the trial currently in session, and the tension in the airy, spacious lobby was impossible to miss. The crowd had been building steadily since that morning, and now it felt as if the room was about to burst at the seams.

There were at least 100 people in the lobby alone, all of them clamoring to be heard over one another, and another 1,000 or so were standing outside the building. That was where the real threat was located, Whysall knew, and as he listened to the massive crowd chanting on the other side of the large, glass-paned doors, he unconsciously tightened his grip on his primary weapon, a Heckler & Koch MP5 fitted with a collapsible stock and a forward-mounted handgrip. His secondary weapon, a 9mm Beretta, was holstered on his right hip, but Whysall knew that if he had to use it, he would already be in serious trouble. Of course, the chances of things escalating to that point were slim to none, but he had to be ready for anything. It was all part of the job.

At twenty-six, Whysall was just one month out of his second three-year enlistment with the U.S. Marine Corps. During his time in the Corps, he had served as a staff sergeant with the 1st Force Reconnaissance Company based out of Camp Pendleton, California. As a Force Recon marine, Whysall had fought in Afghanistan during Operation Achilles, the NATO-led operation to clear the southern province of Helmand of Taliban fighters in 2007. He had been awarded the Bronze Star for his actions in that particular conflict, and he could still remember the day the battalion commander had conferred the medal. Most distinctly, he could remember the pride he had felt at doing his job well enough to earn that coveted decoration.

At the time he had not been able to conceive of anything he would rather be doing, and he had been eagerly anticipating his next enlistment. Then, while visiting his parents on leave, he had seen an advertisement for private security officers posted on the Internet. To put it simply, the numbers had stunned him. Blackwater Worldwide, once a little-known security firm with less than a hundred twenty-five thousand dollars in government contracts, had blossomed in the wake of the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center. The company had expanded its operations across the board and was now offering six figures to former members of the U.S. military's elite units. As a long-standing member of Force Recon nearing the end of his enlistment, Whysall had been in a prime position to capitalize on the opportunity, and after much consideration, he'd decided that the money—nearly four times what he earned annually as an active-duty marine—was just too good to pass up. His second enlistment had ended a few months later, and once he'd received his discharge papers, he had immediately signed a one-year contract with Blackwater.

He had fully expected a posting to Iraq, and for a while, it had looked like that was where he was headed. Then, while he was attending the company's two-week training course outside the Great Dismal Swamp in Moyock, North Carolina, Blackwater had inked a lucrative deal with the South African government to provide protection for President Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma and senior members of his party, the African National Congress. The company's executives immediately began shifting resources, and one week after his training had finished, Whysall had found himself on a plane to Johannesburg. Much to his surprise, he had been met at the airport by the head of the PSD, or protective security detail, to which he was assigned. His surprise at this unexpected courtesy, however, had turned to sheer disbelief when he realized who the man standing in front of him actually was.

Whysall suspected he knew as much as anyone else about Ryan Kealey, and that wasn't much. But it was enough. The former army officer had served in the 3rd Special Forces Group from 1995 to 2001, ending that assignment—his last in the U.S. Army—with the rank of major. Prior to that, he had served with the 10th SFG at Fort Carson, Colorado. It was said that he had been assigned to the elite 1st SFOD-Delta as well, though unsurprisingly, no one could verify that particular rumor. What was better known was the man's accomplishments over the past several years, during which time he had worked for the Central Intelligence Agency as an independent contractor.

Whysall was not easily impressed, but Ryan Kealey's résumé was beyond remarkable, and he had been gratified to learn that he would be working under the man in Johannesburg. During his time at the Blackwater facility in Moyock, Whysall had come to question the standard to which the incoming recruits were trained. Contrary to popular belief, not all of Blackwater's security people were former members of the SF community. In fact, some of them had no military experience whatsoever. Still others had highly questionable backgrounds. One man Whysall had trained with at the Moyock facility was Chilean, and there were whispers that he had served under the brutal regime of Augusto Pinochet during the late eighties.

Still, Whysall had been relieved to find that the PSD to which he was assigned in Johannesburg had none of those problems. Regardless of whether or not the stories about Kealey were true, there was no denying the fact that the man knew how to run a protective detail. This in itself was nearly enough to confirm for Whysall that Kealey had, in fact, been a Delta operator, as close-quarter protection wasn't part of the training program in any other branch of the military, save for the Marine Security Guard, which was assigned to U.S. embassies around the world, as well as the White House itself.

A loud roar from inside the courtroom jarred the former marine back to the present, and he felt a moment of shame for allowing his attention to wander. Straightening, he studied the doors leading into the main chamber and wondered what had just taken place inside. He checked his watch quickly and decided that it was too soon for the verdict to have been read. On the other hand, he doubted that the jury would be out for much longer, as the case was all but open and shut, which explained why he was there to begin with, along with seven other members of President Zuma's Blackwater security detail.

David Joubert, the man currently on trial, had been Zuma's close friend, business associate, and right-hand man when he was deputy president of South Africa under the previous administration, headed by Thabo Mbeki. Though they were fellow Xhosa tribesmen whose relationship went back to Zuma's childhood, Zuma had disassociated himself from Joubert shortly after the National Prosecuting Authority, South Africa's leading judicial body, had charged Zuma with two counts of corruption in 2005, adding fraud, racketeering, and money laundering a couple of years later—allegations that had clung to him even after he won the presidency four years later, ousting Mbeki from the post he'd held since Nelson Mandela left office.

In the eyes of many, including Whysall himself, Joubert was a sacrificial lamb. The intractable poverty and joblessness that beleaguered South Africa—and the entire continent—often led to the fortunes of African politicians turning on a dime. Before his parliamentary election Zuma had been a populist icon, the man who'd gained the backing of organized labor and vowed to bring new business and employment to the nation. But Whysall had been in enough of the world's poorer countries to know that hope and desperation blinded people to the stains on their chosen savior's robes.

The charges against Zuma stemmed from his association with Schabir Shaik, a Durban businessman who had been convicted of bribing senior officers in the South African Navy in order to win several lucrative contracts, including the construction of four Valour-class frigates valued in excess of one and a half billion rand, or a hundred fifty million euros, apiece. Additional charges linked Shaik—and, by extension, Zuma—to a French arms company. In that instance, the NPA claimed that Shaik had accepted bribes for military contracts on behalf of Zuma, who was alleged to have unwisely proceeded to launder the money through some of South Africa's largest banks. Ultimately, Schabir Shaik was sentenced to fifteen years in prison, and shortly thereafter, the National Prosecuting Authority had started to collect the evidence it would need to formally indict Jacob Zuma.

That had been four years earlier, and the problem lay in what had occurred since. Despite having been accused and barely acquitted of rape before his election, Zuma had found a solid base of support in South Africa's far left, which had grown disillusioned with Mbeki's habit of ignoring views that conflicted with his own, as well as his steadfast refusal to address the needs of the nation's vast lower-class community. Zuma's popularity was so great that the ANC had voted him in as its new party head in 2007, effectively putting an end to Thabo Mbeki's grasp on the presidency. The only problem had been the assortment of charges levied against Zuma, and they were dismissed on grounds of prosecutorial misconduct, finally clearing his path to power.

Whysall could not have said whether the dismissal had come on a legitimate, if convenient, technicality or quiet disclosures that Mbeki had been pressuring the NPA to disgrace and imprison his chief competitor. Both were rumored, but he was not inclined to plunge into the quagmire of African politics for the truth. He knew, and wanted to know, only as much as was necessary to do his job.

What he knew now was that the same constituency that boosted Zuma to the top had grown disillusioned less than a year into his first term of office. Winter in South Africa lasted from May through September, and the last had been marked with especially cruel, frigid weather. With millions homeless, and millions more living in un-heated shacks, there had been walkouts by chemical, construction, and municipal workers demanding higher wages for themselves—and better housing for their families. As the strikes caused industry to grind to a halt, and unrest spread across the nation, Zuma had returned to his home province of KwaZulu-Natal to implore his most faithful supporters to remain patient with him.

It was no surprise when the corruption allegations resurfaced. Zuma's recurring problems represented new openings for his opposition. If he were again bogged down in legal proceedings, his career as president, one on which many others staked their own careers and reputations, would grind to an abrupt and final halt…and so would the government, at perhaps the worst of times. In the end it would be the South African people who suffered most from all the political and judicial machinations.

Again, Whysall did not know whether the latest accusations were legitimate. Many Zuma devotees were calling them “Mbeki's revenge,” asserting he might have stirred the pot behind the scenes. The only sure thing was that Zuma held a secret trump card this time—an electronic and paper trail of evidence he'd supposedly uncovered indicating that it was his lifelong friend David Joubert, who had been appointed national police commissioner, that was responsible for the dealings he'd supposedly engaged in with Shaik.

Was his evidence real? Concocted? Had Zuma thrown Joubert to the wolves to spare himself another trial? It was all too much of a tangle for Whysall, and he wouldn't likewise twist his brain into knots trying to figure it out. The simple truth was it wasn't his concern. Blackwater Worldwide was morally neutral, apolitical, and disinterested in anything but the protection of its client.

Bottom line, so was Whysall. For him the situation boiled down to this: Zuma's people had approached Blackwater just as the Joubert trial was getting under way. It had been discovered that several of the senior figures in the president's security detail were former members of the South African Police Service whose loyalty to Joubert ran deep. After discovering this alarming fact, Zuma had disbanded his detail in favor of an outside security contractor. Given its success protecting Paul Bremer in Iraq, Blackwater Worldwide had topped the list of possible candidates.

It still wasn't known if Joubert's supporters in the SAPS posed a credible threat, but for Blackwater it represented an inarguably profitable one. The outfit's senior executives had been more than happy to write up the contract, and on receipt of a substantial deposit they had immediately begun drawing up a security profile for the South African president. Now Zuma had an eight-man team at his disposal, as well as five armored vehicles and a Bell helicopter to provide aerial support. The convoy, Whysall knew, was currently waiting in the parking garage, the entrance to which had been sealed off by the local police, and the helicopter would be called in once the Joubert verdict was read.

What happened from that point forward was anyone's guess. For the most part, the huge crowd gathered outside cared nothing about what happened to Joubert. Many were die-hard Mbeki supporters; others disenchanted followers of Zuma. A sizable group of people asserted the whole trial was a distraction, a sham in which Joubert had willingly participated to turn attention away from Zuma's dishonesty.

For the Blackwater team it added up to a mess. In short order the courtroom doors would open, and they would have a potentially serious problem on their hands.

A familiar voice caught Whysall's attention now, and he quickly adjusted the secure Motorola receiver/transmitter nestled in his right ear. “This is Whysall. Go ahead.”

“Whysall, Kealey. What's happening out there?”

Whysall took a quick look around, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Ryan Kealey, he knew, was inside the courtroom, sitting not more than a few feet from the South African president. Zuma had insisted on attending the last day of the trial, and despite his best efforts, Kealey had not been able to talk him out of it.

“The people out here are getting antsy,” Whysall said. “And additional police units arrived in the square a few minutes ago. Six more vehicles and fifteen officers, for a total of fifteen and eighty—damned if I know whether they're friends or foes. Otherwise, there's nothing to report.”