Andrew Britton - The Exile

And, Harper thought with a lack of regret he found almost stunning, what may just allow me to push his buttons. Regardless of the anger Keeley was feeling toward Harper and the Agency as a whole, he would want a hand in tracking down the people responsible for Lily Durant’s death. Or so Harper hoped and prayed. He was banking everything on it.

Kealey had been gazing across the room for what seemed a very long time before he turned back to look at him. As if on cue, he said, “Is this about Durant?”

“Yes,” Harper replied. He felt a sense of quiet satisfaction that he’d gotten it right. He really and truly was one calculating son of a bitch. “In a way.”

“Don’t jerk me around, John. Is it about finding the man who killed her or not?”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Much more. Will you hear me out?”

Kealey shook his head again, but it wasn’t a refusal. Harper waited patiently. Finally, Kealey turned his attention away from the couple to look the older man right in the eyes.

“I’ll listen, but that’s all. I’ll listen for her.”

And not for you, was the unspoken sentiment.

Harper ignored it. He felt a surge of relief, though he managed to keep it from showing on his face. He still didn’t have what he’d come for, but at least he knew that he hadn’t flown 8,000 miles for nothing. He now had the chance to get Kealey back on board, and for the moment, that would have to suffice.

PRETORIA

“So how much do you already know?” Harper asked, taking a second to glance at his watch.

It was now past eight in the evening, but the bar was still remarkably quiet. Aside from the couple at a nearby table and a few men hunched over their beers on the far side of the room, the place was empty. If it hadn’t been for Springsteen’s “Born to Run” coming over the speakers at a moderate volume, the room would have been just as quiet as it was deserted. Harper was grateful for the solitude and the music, which served to cover their conversation, though he found himself wondering what had drawn the younger man to the bar in the first place. There didn’t seem to be much to recommend it…but then it occurred to Harper that right there might have been the basis of its appeal for Kealey. A place like this was indistinguishable from countless other places like it, and that very possibly suited his desires-to simply be somewhere, unnoticed, out of sight.

Harper suppressed a frown. Or maybe he was overthinking and Kealey just liked the goddamned beer on tap.

Kealey, meanwhile, had shrugged in response to his question. “What I know is basically just what the networks reported. The Janjaweed raided the camp and Durant was killed, along with forty or so refugees. A doctor called it in, some guy from UNICEF, and the embassy sent some people out to identify her body. The ambassador flew out there himself, if I remember correctly. Al-Bashir denied involvement and promised to find the people responsible, but nothing came of it. No surprise there.”

Harper nodded again, sat back in his seat, and lifted his scotch. He’d just walked up to the bar for a second round, but even though he’d offered to pick up the tab, Kealey had refused a drink. Harper knew that the younger man’s newfound abstinence didn’t mean a thing and was probably based entirely on his presence. Earlier in the day he’d asked the SF captain in charge of Kealey’s security about the American’s drinking habits. The question was spurred by the captain’s revelation that Kealey had visited the Elephant amp; Castle on five of the last eight nights. It had immediately set off Harper’s internal alarm.

Unfortunately, the South African’s answer had done nothing to alleviate his concerns. Kealey had run up quite a tab on the nights in question, and even though he seemed to handle it well, at least according to the captain, Harper was less worried about the drinking than he was about what was causing it, and wouldn’t have needed Allison’s input to know it was a manifestation of Kealey’s overbearing guilt. He had not been able to forgive himself for the choice he’d made in Pakistan the previous year, the one that indirectly led to Naomi’s death. And he’d been punishing himself ever since. The heavy drinking was only a signpost, a symptom of much deeper issues.

Harper couldn’t help but wonder how this internal conflict would affect his ability to carry out the task at hand, assuming he was willing to take it on to begin with. But it was just a passing thought. In for a dollar, in for a pound. Of flesh.

The deputy director let none of this show on his face. Setting down his glass, he said, “So you think Bashir ordered the attack. You think he wanted her dead.”

“Actually, no. I don’t think that at all.”

Harper supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d come to send Kealey into the fire. But he’d also missed him-and the chance to test his thoughts against Kealey’s razor-sharp perceptiveness. “Why not?”

“It doesn’t make sense, for one thing,” Kealey said. “He would know it could only give the ICC and the United States a common agenda…and a sound justification to act on it. Russia would kick and scream at anyone taking any unilateral action against Bashir. So would the Chinese. But with the World Court already declaring him a criminal, and American blood on his hands, that’s about all they could do.”

Harper willed his face to remain neutral. “Arrogance and power have led smarter men than Bashir to overextend their reach before.”

“Except Bashir’s got something more valuable to a dictator than brains, and that’s a well-developed survival instinct,” Kealey said. “For him to do anything this drastic, he would need to have something to gain. And there’s nothing. In that respect, he’s like any other dictator. He’s interested in two things-one of them being power, which you already mentioned. And he’s got all he’s ever likely to have.”

“Which leaves money,” Harper said.

“Right,” Kealey said. “But killing Durant does nothing to boost his bank account. There’s no upside to ordering her death, so why would he do it?”

“Pride? Anger? Separately or in combination, take your pick,” Harper suggested. He was, of course, still playing devil’s advocate here. But he wanted to see how far the other man had thought it through-and was admittedly enjoying it. “The sanctions Brenneman approved back in February are nothing to sneeze at, Ryan. The Sudanese defense minister had his personal accounts in the U.S. frozen and eventually seized. We’re talking about several million dollars, and the minister is a first cousin to Omar al-Bashir, not to mention one of his closest advisors. You don’t think that would be enough to provoke some kind of retaliation?”

Kealey shook his head. “His only concern for his family is that they stick close to protect him. And if he really wanted to, he could throw him that much money as a bone. It’s chump change compared to what he stands to lose…enough to prompt a lot of talk, but that’s it.” Kealey shrugged. “Anything Bashir does to us is going to come back to him tenfold. He knows that. More to the point, he’s seen it happen in Iraq. After he pulled out of Kuwait back in ninety-one, Saddam did nothing but talk and wave his sword in the air, and that in itself was enough to bring him down. Bashir knows what he’s up against. And I don’t think he’s behind the attack.”

Harper managed to look skeptical. “You realize that opinion puts you in the minority.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s what I think,” Kealey said. “Tell you something else. If he’d known what was coming ahead of time, my guess is he would have done everything in his ability to stop it.”