Andrew Britton - The Exile

“So what are your plans now?” Harper asked carefully. “Assuming, of course, that the National Prosecuting Authority decides to overlook your role in the death of six uniformed SAPS officers, where will you go from here?”

Kealey leaned back in his seat. “That sounds more like a warning than a question.”

Harper shrugged. “Zuma is under a lot of pressure to hold someone accountable, Ryan. Remember, the South African people didn’t see the attack on the motorcade. All they saw was the aftermath, and they’re not exactly happy with the way it turned out. You’d be surprised at how many people were behind those six cops you killed. Now those people are screaming for blood. There’s no guarantee that Zuma won’t buckle under the weight of public opinion, if only to stave off the inevitable for a few more months, and if he does, there’s a good chance you’ll end up facing the sharp end of the stick. You can see why that would be a problem for us. The idea of you taking the stand in the Pretoria High Court does not make the director comfortable.”

“It won’t get that far.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Harper persisted. “Because I have to tell you, if it does get that far, the Agency will have no choice but to disavow. Do you understand that? If and when the NPA decides to file charges, you’ll be on your own. I won’t be in a position to help you.”

“So you’d prefer to help me now. Is that it?”

Harper had been doing his best to ignore the younger man’s combative attitude, but he could no longer contain his rising frustration. “Ryan, why are you making this so difficult? I am trying to help you, for Christ’s sake. I’m offering you a way out, and if you had any sense at all, you’d listen to what I’m telling-”

“I don’t need your help, John, and I didn’t ask you to come here. Besides, I know how this works. I can see through your bullshit. Maybe I couldn’t before, but I can now. You wouldn’t be offering to bail me out unless you wanted something in return, so why don’t you do us both a favor and get to the point?”

Harper exhaled sharply. Okay, Allison, here we go. God forgive us both, he thought, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the first photograph. He looked to make sure it was the right one, then placed it faceup on the table and pushed it across with two fingers. Kealey looked down at it but did not react.

“You recognize her?”

“Yes,” Kealey said. He was still looking at the photograph, which featured a dark-haired woman in her midtwenties. The aid worker was surrounded by a cluster of dark-skinned children, most of whom were badly undernourished but smiling broadly regardless, just like their benefactor. To anyone who didn’t know how the story ended, it probably would have seemed like a heartwarming image. “Lily Durant.”

“I’m guessing you know what happened to her.”

“I know.” Kealey studied the photo, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tensing slightly. It was a nearly imperceptible change in his expression, but Harper, a self-taught expert in kinesics, or nonverbal communication, caught it at once. The younger man looked up and pushed the photograph back across the table. “Is that what this is about? Did Brenneman send you?”

Harper looked at him. “I’d be out of a job if he had any inkling I was here.”

For the first time Kealey was left without a ready response. “So why are you here?”

Harper slumped back in his seat and let out another slow breath. “You were right,” he finally admitted. “About what you said before. I need your help. But that isn’t the only reason I came. Give me five minutes to explain, okay? You won’t regret it.”

Kealey shook his head and looked away, staring absently at a couple sitting a few tables away. Then he returned his attention to Harper, a wan smile on his face. “I always regret it, John. Every time you come looking for me. I don’t see why it should be any different this time.”

“You’re going to want to hear what I have to say. I know you don’t trust me. But trust me on that one point. Five minutes and you’ll know everything.”

Kealey shook his head again, but he didn’t make a move to leave. Harper knew better than to break the awkward silence, though he was sorely tempted to do just that. As he waited for the younger man’s response, he thought back to what he had seen a moment earlier. The way Kealey’s face had changed with the mention of the president’s niece confirmed what Harper had known all along-and what Allison Dearborn had reinforced in his mind. His best chance at getting Kealey back lay with Lily Durant. Or very specifically, with what had happened to her.

Allison had given him what she’d called her “psychobabble one-oh-one” on the different analytical terms for what drove men in his line of work-a rescue personality, instinctive-cooperative behavior, the Jungian hero model. There had been those, and others he couldn’t remember. But when you cut through the obtuse scholarly language, she’d explained, it came down to them being core idealists.

It isn’t so unusual. There’s a reason the Superman character has been popular with boys for almost a century. He embodies their desire to be identified as strong and helpful. And some of them actually grow up to be that way.

That was Allison, Harper thought. He respected her ability to keep things simple. Perhaps more importantly, he liked her because of it. And thank heaven he’d walked into her office, and not some other shrink’s, after he was shot. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even his wife, Harper knew he would have never followed through on their first counseling session if she’d flaunted her doctorates and rained jargon on his head.

Harper well understood that Ryan Kealey was not the type to let the rape and murder of an innocent woman go unpunished. He believed he was supposed to be saving lives and righting wrongs. But whether you were a cop, a fireman, a law enforcement agent, or a surgeon, you had to maintain an emotional firewall, a hard line of defense against the stress and disappointment that accompanied those inevitable losses.

How had Allison put it? Bad guys get away. Patients die. Loss comes with the job when you’re in the business of saving lives.

The problems often came when someone like Kealey assumed personal responsibility for events that were beyond his ability to control. When the expectations he placed on himself collided with reality, and he started measuring himself against failure and loss rather than success. Then every failure became a blow to his sense of worth, and as they compiled, they led to a massive guilt complex.

The upshot was frustration, bitterness, rage, and sometimes a blurring or complete disintegration of behavioral boundaries.

Harper supposed he should have understood what he had in Ryan Kealey when he’d first read his biographical data. Years before they’d met, before Callie Palmer and Naomi Kharmai, when Kealey was with the 1st SFOD-Delta, the death of an innocent young girl in Sarajevo had led him to actions that went far beyond-no, Harper had to be honest with himself-that shattered any acceptable standards of conduct. The punishment he’d visited upon the perpetrators, a group of Serbs in the local militia, had nearly landed him in a military prison for the rest of his life. Instead, he’d been quietly shifted out of that theater of operations.

Harper knew a little of how it felt wanting to be Superman, and admitted it was a large part of his connection to Kealey. But he’d always had a healthy pragmatic streak to keep his ideals in check. Kealey, on the other hand, had his sense of justice, his moral code, and no tempering characteristics. It was at the core of what made him special…and what made him a dangerous risk.