Andrew Britton - The Exile

She was shaking her head with a mix of incredulity and denial. “John…I wish you could be more specific.”

“I don’t have to be,” Harper said. “Look at the foreign governments with vested interests in Sudan. China. Russia. The old tried-and-true biggies. And then, of course, you have Bashir’s Moslem brethren who are on the cusp of supporting him.” He paused. “You used the word ‘retaliate.’ By definition that means hitting back. But contemplate for a minute what it would mean if the United States picked the wrong target for its vengeance.”

The renewed silence between them surpassed the previous one in its length and weight. Allison could feel it pressing on her like the compounded gravity inside some inescapable black hole. She willed a breath into her lungs, trying to absorb everything Harper had told her, struggling to put it into some sort of order and context.

It seemed forever before she managed to exhale.

“I’m not a world rescuer-not in the sense you are,” she said. “I take it one person at a time, you understand?”

Harper looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

She nodded, willing the immense weight that had borne on her to shift in his direction.

“Good,” she said firmly. “Because if I’m going to make a pact with you, the devil, or both, I mean to be able to live with it. Maybe not easily, and certainly not without lasting regret. But what I’m requiring that you provide in return will allow me to tenuously hang on to my self-respect. And maybe salvage something else besides.”

Harper’s expression showed that he had grasped her meaning at once.

“Kealey,” he said, articulating it with a single word. “You want Kealey.”

“And your commitment that I will have a chance to help him, whenever he’s through saving the world.” Allison said with another nod. “God forgive me if it borders on psychological manipulation. But get him here to me, just get him here, and I’ll prepare you for your meeting with him. And then find a way to live with this bargain.”

Harper was very still for a time, before he leaned forward in his chair, reaching a hand out to her. When Allison took it, there was no double handclasp, and it wasn’t nearly as warm as it had been. No, she thought, not now. And maybe never again.

She could tell Harper had felt the chill as he pulled his arm back across the desk, then rose from the chair.

“We’ll talk soon?” he said.

“As soon as possible.”

Harper nodded, turned, and walked toward the door, halting midway across the office. “One more question for you,” he said with a glance over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”

Her gesture fell somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

“What’s the clinical term for a fear of chickens?” he asked.

Allison looked at him, managing a faint smile. “Alektorophobia,” she said.

Harper grunted. “I’ll try to remember it,” he said. “To stump the guests when Julie and I finally get around to throwing that cocktail party.”

Her hands on the briefcase he had left on her desk, Allie had nothing more to say as she watched him leave the room.

JOHANNESBURG

As expected, the South African president moved directly toward the rope line, where the press pool was eagerly awaiting his statement. From where he was standing, Whysall could see Kealey walking a few steps behind Zuma. The man’s dark gray eyes were in constant motion as he scanned the crowd for anything out of the ordinary, but otherwise, his face was completely unreadable. Seeing this, Whysall shook his head in grudging admiration. In his previous job he had come under fire on more than one occasion, and he had never been rattled, at least not in any meaningful way. Now his hands were sweating profusely, and every muscle in his body was painfully taut.

Kealey, on the other hand, appeared to be unnaturally calm, completely unshaken by the commotion surrounding him. Even his movements seemed to be fluid and relaxed, so much so that one would be hard pressed to notice the careful way he had positioned himself with respect to his principal. It wouldn’t be readily apparent to most people, but Whysall noticed that Kealey was never more than five feet from Zuma. The weapon on his left hip holstered with the butt pointing forward to facilitate ready access with the right hand, he was in a perfect position to provide immediate cover without physically intruding on the African leader’s space.

Whysall watched as Kealey stopped a few steps behind Zuma and drifted a little to the left so that he could scan the crowd while the president spoke. A hush fell over the crowd as Zuma accepted a few pages of paper from one of his aides, thanking the man with a gracious nod. Even his most ardent critics gradually stopped chanting their slogans, their jeers falling away as Zuma, seemingly oblivious to all of it, studied his handwritten notes. Then, when the room was completely silent, he slipped on a pair of reading glasses, lifted his stately head, and began to read.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press. I am happy to report that today justice has been done in your High Court of Johannesburg…”

Outside the courthouse, the crowd had swelled to nearly 1,500 students, union delegates, political activists, and unemployed workers. The statement that would exonerate Zuma at the expense of his old friend and confidant had been given under oath-and as the word spread, any semblance of cohesion between members of the throng evaporated in an eruption of violent confrontation. Fists were thrown, people trampled, and a car was set ablaze on the far side of the square. Screams of fear and pain mixed with chants both bitterly denouncing and extolling the Zuma government as the police tried in vain to hold back the crowd from the president and each other. Flowing outward over the pavement, it pushed angrily against the flimsy metal barricades that had been erected seven hours earlier on the intersecting streets in front of the building. At the same time, the police captain in charge placed a frantic call to Metro headquarters, seeking permission to use the array of nonlethal deterrents at his disposal.

In the confusion, no one noticed the young man who approached the police car parked alongside the curb on Kerk Street, 50 meters east of the courthouse. The teenager fumbled a key from his pocket, the same key that his brother-in-law-a sergeant with the South African Police Service and a longtime adherent of David Joubert-had given him the previous day. He reached into the backseat and found the plastic CNA shopping bag his brother-in-law had left for him. Pulling it out of the vehicle, he quickly checked the contents. Satisfied, he hit the automatic locks and closed the door behind him. He took a few seconds to check his position on the street and calm his nerves. Then he started moving toward the parking garage on the far side of the courthouse, the shopping bag dangling low in his right hand.

Ten minutes after he finished addressing the press in the lobby of the Johannesburg High Court, President Jacob Zuma and his small entourage passed through a steel doorway and into the concrete expanse of the fourth-floor parking deck. The deck had already been swept by Alex Whysall and four other men, and the motorcade was waiting, a total of five vehicles idling in the otherwise deserted parking garage. The entire deck had been cleared out the night before, and any cars that had been left behind had been towed that morning. It was the kind of precaution that wouldn’t win Zuma any new supporters at the courthouse, but Kealey had insisted, and Zuma’s chief of staff, a man named Steve Oliphant, had reluctantly concurred.

Ryan Kealey followed his charge through the door and started across the smooth concrete. The courthouse was attached to the parking garage, and in the near distance he could hear the sounds of the riot taking place at the intersection of Von Brandis and Kerk. With each step he took, the cacophony seemed to grow louder, closer, and more threatening, and he could no longer ignore the risk to the man he was charged with protecting. Quickening his pace, he moved close to the South African’s left shoulder.