Andrew Britton - The Exile

“Let’s move,” Kealey said, hustling Mirghani along toward the car. The sirens were close now-too close for anything that remotely passed for comfort.

“Where are you taking me?” The opposition leader was sweating profusely, and Kealey didn’t think it was from exertion.

“You’ll find out when we get there,” he said and then wrenched open the Subaru’s back door, shoved Mirghani through it, and followed him inside.

A split second later Mackenzie went screeching off into the gathering dusk.

WASHINGTON, D.C.,SUDAN

David Brenneman had always felt something special sitting behind the Resolute desk in the Executive Office. Inspiration was probably the best word for it, but there was also a certain assurance imparted by its impressive size and solidity, its sturdy design fashioned from the timbers of a nineteenth-century British expeditionary vessel that had braved and survived the Arctic wastes to return intact. FDR and Truman had sat behind it in times of peril and momentous decision. John F. Kennedy, whose solitary ponderings had often run deep into the night, must have gathered his will and inner fortitude at that very desk when the Russians and Cubans threatened nuclear war in the summer of 1962. Brenneman, who as a young man was an enthusiastic member of Kennedy’s Peace Corps and was originally moved toward public service by his early admiration of the murdered president, liked to think the desk was infused by that which was best about the men who had preceded him as occupants of the Oval Office-their strength of purpose and higher ideals, regardless of political affiliation.

This morning, however, he felt like an exposed impostor, unworthy of the place he occupied behind the Resolute. A pressed-wood desk might better suit him…some less than authentic material, wood shavings and flimsy veneers held together with glue.

How had he allowed himself to be so badly led by the nose? When had he become such a fool? He thought of his pigheadedness, his unwillingness to listen to trusted advisors, his dismissal of men who had his best interests-and the best interests of the nation-at heart. He thought of his faulty judgment, colored by some amok inner wrath rather than anything that approached wisdom, intelligence, and a calm examination of information. He thought of his refusal to probe and question, his eagerness to lash out in vengeance…and he looked across a desk that now seemed a reminder of his unworthiness at John Harper and Bob Andrews, two of the men he’d ignored, and then at the troubled face of the woman he’d dragged along with him, Brynn Fitzgerald, who had been as susceptible to manipulation as he himself.

“I’ve blown this terribly,” he said. “I want you all to know that I will own up to my mistakes, whatever the consequences from this point forward. That I will do what I can to rectify them. And I also want to apologize to each of you for actions that damned well might be inexcusable…”

He fell silent, his hands balling into fists on the desk. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palm.

“Sir, thanks to the capture of Ishmael Mirghani, we’re in a position to do what you say-prevent this whole thing from exploding on us and the rest of the world,” Andrews said from across the room. “We are still in a position to stop Simon Nusairi. He’s acquired the necessary weapons and equipment, and I won’t diminish the imminent threat of an attack in northern Sudan. But let’s remember he hasn’t yet launched it-”

“No,” Brenneman interrupted. “He did with great success in Darfur, though, most relevantly for us against the refugees at Camp Hadith.” His voice sounded almost self-pitying to his own ears, and that had been far from his intent. “He and his people, disguised as regular Sudanese army, raped and killed my niece, and I took the bait. I bit like a fish going for the hook.”

“It isn’t as if Omar al-Bashir is an innocent,” Harper said. “In fairness, the man’s earned his reputation for genocidal brutality and then some…”

Brenneman shook his head vehemently. “Don’t massage me here. For all the ass kissing he gets from the Russians, Chinese, and his neighborhood friends in the Arab world, Bashir is a wanted criminal. An international outcast. We’d gone a long way toward isolating him without a shooting war that could result in more people dying…potentially tens of thousands of people. But I botched it. I authorized the misappropriation of millions of dollars of taxpayer funds at a time when our national economy is stretched to the limit. And before you stop me again, John, we can split hairs about what constitutes a legitimate CINC discretionary project, but the head of the Senate Armed Services Committee won’t when it comes time for midterm elections, and he’ll be completely justified in lining us up like targets in a firing range. We…no, I…could have listened to you and Bob. I could have paid attention back at Camp David. Instead, I dismissed you from my presence. I sanctioned Stralen’s plan to deal with Somali pirates and get stolen tanks and helicopters into the hands of Sudanese rebels. I armed, equipped, and financed a small army lead by Simon Nusairi, who may be a worse devil than the one we hoped to unseat, and is certainly shrewder and more calculating in his ability to manipulate us.”

The secretary of state produced a long sigh, her face worn despite a careful application of makeup, her mouth and eyes surrounded by radial lines, which seemed to have stamped the skin around them in an almost inconceivably short time. “Mr. President, with all due respect, we now have two choices. We can beat ourselves up about this, or we can do what you and Bob have explicitly and implicitly suggested today. Which is to act quickly and use the small window of opportunity that remains to take charge of the situation… rehabilitate it, if you will…before it deteriorates beyond repair.”

“Brynn’s absolutely right,” Andrews said. “The capture of Ishmael Mirghani was more than an intelligence score. It could be an achievement that has lasting positive ramifications. And I don’t mean in terms of politics, but real benefits for the Sudanese people.”

Harper was nodding. “When I met with Ryan Kealey in South Africa, I recall that we spent a few minutes pondering Mirghani’s reasons for splintering off from a couple of known rebel factions…particularly the Sudanese Liberation Army,” he said. “But here’s where the Agency takes some of the blame for what’s developed-it turns out it’s something that should have been assessed with organized, targeted intelligence analysis.” He paused. “Based on his questioning at the embassy in Khartoum, Mirghani is a far more politically and socially moderate alternative to Bashir than any other opposition leader in the country. That is why he parted ways with the SLA. When he first joined the organization, it was supposed to be a non-religious coalition of Darfurian peoples who were under oppression from Bashir. But it’s turned out to be highly polarized along tribal lines…and over time its reprisals against civilians who aren’t members of the cause have grown as barbaric as Bashir’s. Mirghani, on the other hand, split with them over those coercive tactics and has a record of vocal opposition to human rights abuses-”

“Unless it happened to be the bloodbath at Camp Hadith,” Brenneman said. “He knew Nusairi was responsible. How am I supposed to see him as anything but a run-of-the-mill opportunist when he’s allied himself with that murderer?”

“It’s a good point,” Harper said. “I’m not trying to paint a portrait of Mirghani with a halo and wings…or tell you he’ll become a champion of democratic rule in Sudan. He closed his eyes to an un-pardonable atrocity. But he did not participate in its planning or commit any of his guerrilla forces to it. And his cousin Hassan Saduq has independently, and without knowledge of Mirghani’s capture, told Interpol that his linkage with Nusairi was formed out of desperation. Rightly or wrongly, he’d become convinced there was no other way to unseat the Bashir regime and end the civil war.”