Andrew Britton - The Exile

“And I came to the same conclusion,” Fitzgerald said. “Let’s be honest. We are sitting here right now because of our willingness to enter into a moral compromise. We knew Nusairi had an unstable personality. We were well aware he’d provoked antigovernment riots that left hundreds dead or imprisoned, and then egged on more protests based on those deaths-a cynical, manipulative way to keep stoking hostilities against Bashir. And that was fine with us… So why hold Mirghani to a higher standard?”

Brenneman was shaking his head. “There’s a difference. We had no evidence Nusairi was guilty of butchery. In some cases with his own hands…as we now know all too well.”

“Mr. President, that’s the trap General Stralen and I fell into,” Fitzgerald said. “You can close one eye or the other to ugliness, or just squint so what you’re seeing is enough of a blur that you can stomach it. It’s still deliberately choosing not to see what’s right there in front of you.” She sighed. “But let’s take a step back. I shouldn’t have brought up the possibility of Mirghani as a future ally in Sudan. We can evaluate that, or not, at a later date-it’s a digression we don’t need at this stage. I want to get back to what Bob said at the start of this meeting. If we move fast, we can prevent what is about to happen on the ground there now. That, and that alone, is of the essence.”

Brenneman looked thoughtful, just vaguely aware his hands had begun to unclench on the desktop. “What’s our present objective?” he asked simply.

Fitzgerald glanced at Andrews, deferring to him.

“It’s twofold,” he said. “Nusairi played us. He claimed he intended to use the tanks and choppers against Bashir’s troops in Darfur, at the southern end of the country, and instead moved them into the north right under our noses.”

“That’s if Mirghani is to be believed,” Brenneman said. “How is it the spy sats can’t tell us anything?”

“They can,” Andrews said. “But it takes time to deflect them from orbit, and Nusairi’s known it all along. He also knows it takes time to deploy our surveillance drones. That’s why he moved the tanks and choppers to the staging grounds so quickly. But thanks to Mirghani-and I do believe he can be trusted- we now know his goal is to invade the petroleum refineries and pipelines outside Khartoum and seize control of their production. From a tactical standpoint there are only several possible staging grounds for a takeover of the area.”

Brenneman shook his head in disgust. He’d been played, all right. Not only had the Chinese and Russians poured trillions into those refineries, but their current fuel demands required the uninterrupted production and shipment of oil out of Port Sudan. If Nusairi took control of the facilities, he would control the flow of oil to their shores-and gain a stranglehold on their economies. Whether they bowed to his demands or tried to retake the facilities, the destabilizing effect on global politics would be incalculable…and any military action against him would surely result in the refineries’ destruction at his hands. In one swoop, that butcher would become one of the world’s most powerful men, and it would be only a matter of time before it was revealed that the United States had given him that power.

He expelled a deep breath, pulling his thoughts together. “Okay, Bob,” he said. “By a twofold goal, I assume you mean our first is to find out where Nusairi intends to launch his attack, and our second is to prevent him from getting away with it.”

Andrews nodded. “Plainly stated, that’s the position in which we’ve put ourselves. Though there are no assurances we can accomplish it.”

“And where do you propose we start trying?” asked Brenneman.

Andrews looked at his assistant director, nodded for him to pick up the ball.

“With Omar al-Bashir, distasteful as that may be,” Harper said. “And on the ground with Ryan Kealey.”

“Simon,” Mirghani said into his satellite phone. “I have some hard news to deliver.”

“It has already reached me on Talfazat, ” Nusairi said.

Mirghani had expected it would. The Arabic Internet news service carried feeds from the Sudanese Radio and Television Corporation as well as Al-Jazeera.

“I have watched the images of your home burning,” Nusairi said. “They say those who conducted the raid have not yet been identified, and that you somehow managed to elude them.”

“Only by the grace of Allah,” Mirghani said. “But ‘elude’ is not quite the word. I was fortunate enough to have been warned of the attack shortly before it occurred. A number of my loyal guards were killed. Had you heard?”

“Yes. The information being given is incomplete. There are reports of gunfire and several deaths, but the police have allowed no witnesses to speak.” A pause. “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Mirghani said. “I am in a safe place.”

“And do you have any idea who was responsible?”

“It was Mukhabarat. ”

“Bashir’s secret service?”

“Yes,” Mirghani said. “I have expected such a move for weeks. Al-Bashir blames me for the unrest in the city. The protests and civil disobedience. The strike was in retaliation… He seeks to intimidate me.”

“So it had nothing to do with our immediate plans?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“It was unrelated,” Mirghani replied. “As I said, I was advised it might happen by informants within the service.”

A pause. “Ishmael, I do not doubt you. But perhaps it would be best if you avoid the staging area.”

“I would greatly regret that. Our day has been long awaited.”

“I know. But under the circumstances, it is best to be cautious.”

Mirghani was silent.

“My brother, listen to me,” Nusairi said. “Let us not put in jeopardy everything toward which we have worked together.”

Mirghani did not say anything for another several seconds. Then he produced a relenting sigh. “I cannot argue against prudence,” he said at last. “The American, White, left the city well ahead of me. I expect he will be at the prearranged meeting place to taste the sweetness of our nation’s fruit.”

Nusairi laughed a little. “I am sure,” he said. “And your fighters?”

“They are in position to join your forces… There will be four hundred and more.”

“Good,” Nusairi said. “They will carry your spirit with them, Ishmael. And do not fear. We shall have adequate time to celebrate our victory.”

“Yes,” Mirghani said. “ Insha’Allah, God willing, I have faith we will.”

He thumbed the disconnect button on his phone, wiped a hand across his brow, and glanced up from his chair at Seth Holland and Ryan Kealey, who were standing to either side of him in the CIA station chief’s fourth-floor embassy office.

“There,” he said. “It is done.”

Kealey looked at him stonily. “For you, anyway,” he said.

In a traditional mud brick home near the defunct rail station at Kassala, a short distance from the city’s famed outdoor markets and some 250 miles from Khartoum, Simon Nusairi sat looking across a simple wooden table at Cullen White. There was no electrical power in the dwelling, and an oil lamp burned between them to illuminate the room.

“It is as you suspected,” Nusairi said. His features showed a kind of simmering anger. “The CIA has taken Mirghani into custody, and he has likely told them everything.”

White mulled that a second. “How soon can you roll?”

“The second convoy of tanks and helicopters will not reach the outskirts of the city until tomorrow,” Nusairi said. “I can have my men stand by for action, but it would be the next day before we are properly organized.”