Andrew Britton: The Invisible

A full workup had been ordered on the secretary of state’s arrival, and it had already revealed two cracked ribs, a cracked cheekbone, a hairline fracture on the left tibia, and the beginning stages of posttraumatic stress disorder, accompanied by possible psychotic depression. Only time would reveal the true extent of the psychological damage Fitzgerald had suffered at the hands of her captors, but the psychiatrists who’d examined her on arrival had already expressed some serious concerns. The preliminary reports of what she had gone through had leaked that very morning, and they had been graphic enough to provoke a large-scale emotional response. Hundreds of thousands of citizens from across the nation had been flooding the major news outlets ever since with calls to express their outrage. Harper was one of the few who had not felt a sense of personal outrage, partly because he was able to keep it all in perspective. Overall, Brynn Fitzgerald was a very lucky woman, especially compared to some of the people who had worked so hard—and suffered so much—to bring her home. Harper collapsed onto a couch in the seating area and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. He was exhausted, but more than that, he was weighed down by what had happened in Sialkot. All things considered, he knew he should have been pleased. The director certainly was. The Agency had performed an important role in Fitzgerald’s recovery. Indeed, were it not for Ryan Kealey’s misplaced trust in Javier Machado, they would almost certainly still be tracking down false leads in Pakistan. But it hadn’t turned out that way. They had managed to find her and bring her back, and because they had succeeded, the accolades were pouring in.

So why , Harper wondered absently, do I feel like we failed? He had been weighing that question for the last eighteen hours, and he had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. At that moment, the east door leading out to the Rose Garden opened, and the president stepped into the room, followed closely by Robert Andrews, Kenneth Bale, and Stan Chavis. As Harper wearily stood, the first thing he noticed was the exultant, satisfied look on their faces. He could see right away that the press conference had been a tremendous success, but there was nothing surprising in that; the media was always kind when the news was good. He had been asked to attend by Brenneman himself, but he had been unwilling to submit himself to the adoration of the press. Praise from the media was something that senior CIA officials rarely received, but that didn’t make it any more enticing, especially when so much had been sacrificed to make it possible.

The president crossed the room and extended a hand, grinning broadly. He was dressed immaculately in a navy suit with a pale yellow tie, but he was typically groomed for the cameras. There was nothing unusual in that; naturally, the most powerful man in the free world was expected to look presentable at all times. But the others had clearly made an effort, as they were dressed with more panache than usual. Even Chavis, who usually resembled a harried accountant in his standard rumpled dress shirt and Dockers, had taken the opportunity to sharpen his image in front of the Washington press corps. This afternoon he was dressed in a charcoal single-breasted suit with a patterned navy tie, which was only slightly crooked. For once, the man looked almost presentable. Bale was wearing his customary dark suit, as was Andrews.

“Thanks for coming, John,” Brenneman said, as though the deputy DCI had a choice in the matter. They shook hands briefly, but with clear enthusiasm on the president’s part. “I’m sorry you opted out of the press conference. There are a lot of relieved people out there today, and you helped make that possible. You should have been there . . . You deserve the credit.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harper replied, not knowing what else to say. He felt the complete opposite, of course, but one did not contradict the president, especially not in the Oval Office.

“Let’s take a seat, shall we?” Brenneman said. Harper resumed his place on the couch, and the other men took their customary seats, Brenneman with his back to the fireplace. A Navy steward entered with coffee, deposited the tray, and left without a word.

“So,” the president began. Harper saw that his face had taken on a sober expression, which was fitting, since he knew what Brenneman was about to ask. “Let’s start with the obvious question. How is Ryan doing?”

So it’s Ryan now, Harper thought silently. In the past, the president had always referred to the young operative by his last name, and that was on the rare occasion he referenced Kealey at all. Harper cleared his throat. “It’s touch and go, sir.” He saw their shoulders slump with relief, and he knew what they were thinking: at least he’s alive . He couldn’t blame them; he’d felt exactly the same way when he’d received his last update forty minutes earlier.

“He might make it, and he might not . . . There’s no way to know for sure, and we probably won’t have definitive word for another few hours. The major problem was the hemorrhaging, but there was some internal damage that has proved . . . well, sort of hard to seal off. Still, it could have been much worse. If that sergeant hadn’t been thinking . . .”

The other men nodded slowly; they had already heard the story. Shortly after Kealey had lost consciousness outside the house in Sialkot, the master sergeant standing nearby—an eight-year Delta veteran by the name of Deakins—had remembered that the house belonged to a board-accredited surgeon, a scrap of information he’d picked up during the pre-mission briefing. A quick search of the house had turned up Said Qureshi, who’d been locked in his own surgical suite. It had taken only a minute to explain the situation, and a confused but compliant Qureshi had instructed them to move Kealey into his OR on the ground floor. He’d set to work immediately, his efforts helped enormously by the fact that both MH-53 Pave Lows had been preloaded with bags of plasma of every blood type, as was standard operating procedure in any CSAR mission. A quick call to Langley had verified that Kealey’s blood type was O+. From there, it was just a matter of luck and skill, and Qureshi was very skilled indeed. Harper had personally talked to the medic—

the first man who had worked on Kealey—and the young sergeant had made it abundantly clear that Qureshi had saved the CIA operative’s life. And for that, not to mention his work on Brynn Fitzgerald, the Pakistani surgeon would be handsomely rewarded, although he probably didn’t know it yet. Harper was going to enjoy making him the offer, though. He had read through Qureshi’s background, and he thought that the man deserved another shot at practicing real medicine, along with a tax-free annual sum deposited in any offshore bank of his choosing.

“And where is Kealey now?”

Harper, still thinking about Qureshi, snapped back to the conversation. He looked at Bale, who had asked the question, and said,

“He’s en route to Ramstein, sir. Said Qureshi agreed to accompany him that far; he’s keeping him stable until they arrive in Germany. That should happen sometime this afternoon.”

“He’s a good man,” Brenneman pointed out quietly. For a second, Harper wasn’t sure if he was talking about the surgeon or Kealey. “I don’t think I ever realized just how good, but if he makes it through this, he will have the gratitude of an entire nation. Hell, he already does. I, for one, would like to see Ryan Kealey receive the recognition he deserves in person.”

Harper nodded along, knowing full well that even if Kealey did survive, he would never set foot in front of a camera. Nor would he dream of attending a press conference, regardless of its purpose. It wasn’t his style to bask in his accomplishments. Part of this was due to his intensely private nature, but mostly, his dislike of the limelight could be traced back to his training, which had drilled into him the need for secrecy, deception, and operational security from day one. Harper suddenly realized that the room had gone quiet. Looking up, he saw that the president was watching him steadily, and the other three men looked suddenly awkward. It occurred to him that the mention of Kealey had reminded them all of what Javier Machado had done to Naomi Kharmai. Or presumably done, anyway. He had briefed them all on the specifics that morning, focusing on the means through which Kealey had acquired Benazir Mengal’s location to begin with. There had been no word from Kharmai or the retired Spanish operative since Kealey had refused to heed the Spaniard’s bizarre order in Pakistan, and there was little doubt in any of their minds that Machado had carried out his threat. Privately, he wondered if they were secretly pleased that Naomi was no longer a threat to the administration. What had taken place in Madrid three days earlier was still a hot button issue. So far, the president had stuck with the story he had fed to Miguel Vázquez, and though it was only a matter of time before the Spanish government unveiled their evidence, they still didn’t have a personal admission of guilt, and now they never would. If they couldn’t produce Kharmai in person, the story would die a quick death in the media, and what had transpired in Madrid would soon fade from the collective public consciousness. Harper had no doubt that everyone in the room had already considered this, though none of them would ever admit to it. As if reading his mind, the president cleared his throat and said,