Andrew Britton: The Exile

“Sir, I understand that you’re upset,” Harper continued quickly. All he could think about was cutting off Stralen before he could do any more damage. “My apologies if this is repetitious…but going after Bashir directly would be a huge mistake. There’s no stressing that enough. It is not a viable or responsible course of-”

“Upset?” The president stared at him with a blank, uncomprehending gaze. The deputy director instantly realized that he had missed something in Brenneman’s tone of voice moments ago and, in doing so, had made a monumental error in judgment. Before he could take it back, though, Brenneman continued in a voice tinged with the wrong kind of amusement. “My niece has just been murdered by a pack of savages in a third-world country, and you think I’m upset? That’s very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation.”

“Sir, I…”

The president held up a hand to stop him, then shifted his gaze to a far corner of the room, his face fixed in a tight expression of barely suppressed fury. “That will be all for now, John. Would you step outside, please? Josh will come and find you if we need anything else.”

Harper opened his mouth to respond, hoping to repair the damage, but nothing came out, and he could see that Brenneman would not tolerate any further argument. He shot a quick glance at his boss and saw that Andrews was studying him with a mixed expression of frustration, sympathy…and, perhaps worst of all, futility. He didn’t have to look at Stralen to know he would see something very contrary to that in the general’s eyes.

Harper knew when he was beaten. With a sinking feeling, he acknowledged the president’s order in silence. Then he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind him.

It was still raining when Jonathan Harper stepped outside a few moments later-a warm, soft rain that seemed to drift out of nowhere. He walked past the agents standing post, down the steps, and continued on the drive, unconsciously trying to put some distance between himself and the president’s cabin. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the empty black sky and closed his eyes. His head was buzzing, and he was completely unaware of the inclement weather, even though the rain was dripping down his face and his suit coat was already soaked through.

Harper was stunned to the core by what had just taken place. He had been advising David Brenneman for nearly six years, and in all that time he had never seen the man behave in such an irrational way. That’s very perceptive of you, John. Thank you for shedding some light on the situation. Harper regretted his verbal miscue, but it probably hadn’t worsened matters so much as exposed their already dire nature. Brenneman was allowing his grief and anger to cloud his judgment, and Stralen’s provocative statements-none of which were based on confirmed facts-were only making things worse.

Harper had lost track of how long he had been standing there when he heard voices behind him. He turned to see Director Andrews walking down the steps, followed closely by Joshua McCabe. The two men paused at the top of the drive to shake hands, and even from a distance, Harper could see that they were both subdued, their shoulders slumped beneath a shared, invisible burden. As he looked on, McCabe turned to go back into the cabin. Then the director lifted a hand in his deputy’s direction and pointed toward the Tahoe parked nearby. A minute later they were both seated inside the large truck.

Harper was tempted to apologize for the damage he had caused, but decided it would be better to let the other man breach the awkward silence.

The director pulled a linen handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and used it to methodically wipe the rain from his face. When he finally spoke, he did so quietly and without turning to face his subordinate.

“You didn’t help us in there, John,” he said. “You didn’t help us at all. You did your homework, and I thought it might have been enough to get through to Brenneman. But it would’ve been better if you’d quit while you were ahead and given him some time to mull things over. By pushing it, you went and played right into Stralen’s hands. Made him seem almost reasonable. Now, thanks to you, we’re on the defensive.”

Harper bit his tongue, though he was sorely tempted to remind the other man of his own meager contribution to the heated argument inside the building. Instead, he simply agreed quietly.

Andrews acknowledged the words with a short nod, though judging by the testy look on his face, he could tell that his deputy’s apology was less than sincere. “Look, I think I managed to talk him down a bit,” he continued. “At least for the time being. Of course, Stralen is a problem for us, and he’s not going away. He’s probably still in there trying to undo everything I just said.”

“He doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about,” Harper snapped, his demeanor of feigned calm slipping away with the mere mention of the other man. “I can’t believe he doesn’t understand the consequences that come with killing a head of state, especially when you don’t have ironclad proof to justify direct action. In this day and age, it just isn’t done.”

Andrews shook his head wearily. “Don’t sell Stralen short, John. He’s a very smart man who understands more than you might think. And he has a great deal of power at his fingertips. You would be wise to remember that. More to the point, he has the president’s ear. He can’t be discounted simply because you don’t like or agree with him.”

“That isn’t the issue, Bob. The man is beyond dangerous. You heard what he was saying in there. I send out a warning flare about getting into a pissing contest with Russian and China, and he does his best to shoot it right down.” Harper shook his head. “Normally, the president would never consider something so crazy. He just doesn’t want to listen to reason right now… He’s too wrapped up in what happened to his niece. Too emotionally invested.”

The director didn’t seem to hear. His mouth was pursed into a sullen frown; his dark eyes locked on the seat in front of him.

“What is it?” Harper said. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t even paying attention.”

Andrews shook his head. “Wrong,” he said. “I’ve registered every word out of your mouth.”

“Then you’re keeping something from me, Bob, because you normally don’t go blank like you did a minute ago.”

Andrews sat in silence for a long moment, that expression of brooding dismay again dropping over his features like a curtain. Finally he let out a deep, heavy sigh.

“The secretary of state is this close to jumping on board with Stralen,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

Harper stared at him, incredulous. “Brynn Fitzgerald?” he said. “Do you know this for a fact?”

“It’s my informed read,” Andrews said. “I spoke with her before heading over here. Actually, she called me after speaking to the president.”

“You’ve got to be mistaken. She’s one of the most reasonable people in Washington. How could she suddenly be that knee-jerk?”

“I don’t know,” Andrews said. “Loyalty to the president? Or maybe the residual effect of having been taken hostage in Pakistan…and watching one of her good friends cold-bloodedly shot to death in the process. Whatever explains it, we’re seeing a lot of clouded judgment around us.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s take this thing a step at a time, John. It isn’t as if we have a choice, anyway. You have to remember that the president’s had only an hour or so to soak it all in. Besides, I think I managed to talk some sense into him. At least for now. Needless to say, we’re going to have to watch this closely. If he decides to do something drastic, it’s going to come back on us, whether we were involved or not. That is just the way it goes, and I have no intention of letting the Agency take the fall for something Stralen talked him into doing.”