The Exile (9 page)

“It goes back to what we were talking about when I walked in here. Sudan, President Brenneman, and your observation that retaliatory action may be imminent,” he said. “I've already told you I believe it would be a mistake at this point. I can't tell you why I believe it, and I can't tell you what I think is necessary to forestall that course of action….”

“But you're hoping to find a way do it.”

He sat quietly again, his forehead seamed with concentration, the crow's-feet Allison had noticed around his eyes spreading and deepening. “I'm going out on a limb telling you this, Allie. But there are things that need to be looked into under certain people's radar. And I'm convinced Ryan Kealey is the only person capable of pulling off the job.”

“Have you asked him if he's interested?”

“Not yet. And I can guarantee he won't be. But I'm going to try to persuade him. It means flying fifteen hours and eight thousand miles, and that's okay. When I reach him, though, I'm going to have only one crack at it.”

Allison sat there thinking. She was no mathematical whiz. But basic addition wasn't a problem for her.

“You want me to profile him for you,” she said, pointing her chin at the briefcase. “Based on…what information?”

“His psych workups and personal history. Files going back years before he was Agency. Everything about everything in Ryan Kealey's life.” He lifted the case off his lap and placed it on the desk. “It's all in there for you to read and evaluate. And just to be harshly explicit, Allie, I'm requesting more than another psychological profile. What I want to know from you is how to push his buttons. Pull his strings. Manipulate him by any and all means possible. Whatever it takes to get him to come aboard.”

She went bold straight in her chair, eyes widening, boring into him, her shoulders as stiff as wooden pickets.

“My God, John…this is
beyond
unprincipled. Do you realize how many ethical codes you're asking me to violate?”

Harper met her stare and didn't blink. “I'd be breaking a few myself,” he said. “In fact, I've blown a few to smithereens just getting hold of his files. And probably more coming here to discuss them with you.”

Silence.

“If I agree to do this,” Allison said, “it would be done without conscience.”

“No, Allie. It wouldn't. For a couple of reasons. The first is Kealey. It isn't as if we just lost him at the Agency. He's lost himself. I don't know how else to put it. But the course he's on right now isn't a good one. Or the kind that lasts long before there's a major train wreck.”

The Downbound Express.
Allison looked at Harper as if he'd prepared for their conversation by wiretapping her earlier thoughts.

“And your second reason?”

“If I'm right in what I'm doing—and successful—you might be helping to prevent a tremendous, unnecessary amount of destruction. Americans' lives are my primary concern. But we're talking about people in Africa and elsewhere. And about possible escalation on a level I don't even want to contemplate.”

She was shaking her head with a mix of incredulity and denial. “John…I wish you could be more specific.”

“I don't have to be,” Harper said. “Look at the foreign governments with vested interests in Sudan. China. Russia. The old tried-and-true biggies. And then, of course, you have Bashir's Moslem brethren who are on the cusp of supporting him.” He paused. “You used the word ‘retaliate.' By definition that means hitting back. But contemplate for a minute what it would mean if the United States picked the wrong target for its vengeance.”

The renewed silence between them surpassed the previous one in its length and weight. Allison could feel it pressing on her like the compounded gravity inside some inescapable black hole. She willed a breath into her lungs, trying to absorb everything Harper had told her, struggling to put it into some sort of order and context.

It seemed forever before she managed to exhale.

“I'm not a world rescuer—not in the sense you are,” she said. “I take it one person at a time, you understand?”

Harper looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.”

She nodded, willing the immense weight that had borne on her to shift in his direction.

“Good,” she said firmly. “Because if I'm going to make a pact with you, the devil, or both, I mean to be able to live with it. Maybe not easily, and certainly not without lasting regret. But what I'm requiring that you provide in return will allow me to tenuously hang on to my self-respect. And maybe salvage something else besides.”

Harper's expression showed that he had grasped her meaning at once.

“Kealey,” he said, articulating it with a single word. “You want Kealey.”

“And your commitment that I will have a chance to help him, whenever he's through saving the world.” Allison said with another nod. “God forgive me if it borders on psychological manipulation. But get him here to me, just get him here, and I'll prepare you for your meeting with him. And then find a way to live with this bargain.”

Harper was very still for a time, before he leaned forward in his chair, reaching a hand out to her. When Allison took it, there was no double handclasp, and it wasn't nearly as warm as it had been.
No,
she thought,
not now. And maybe never again.

She could tell Harper had felt the chill as he pulled his arm back across the desk, then rose from the chair.

“We'll talk soon?” he said.

“As soon as possible.”

Harper nodded, turned, and walked toward the door, halting midway across the office. “One more question for you,” he said with a glance over his shoulder. “If you don't mind.”

Her gesture fell somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

“What's the clinical term for a fear of chickens?” he asked.

Allison looked at him, managing a faint smile. “Alektorophobia,” she said.

Harper grunted. “I'll try to remember it,” he said. “To stump the guests when Julie and I finally get around to throwing that cocktail party.”

Her hands on the briefcase he had left on her desk, Allie had nothing more to say as she watched him leave the room.

A
s expected, the South African president moved directly toward the rope line, where the press pool was eagerly awaiting his statement. From where he was standing, Whysall could see Kealey walking a few steps behind Zuma. The man's dark gray eyes were in constant motion as he scanned the crowd for anything out of the ordinary, but otherwise, his face was completely unreadable. Seeing this, Whysall shook his head in grudging admiration. In his previous job he had come under fire on more than one occasion, and he had never been rattled, at least not in any meaningful way. Now his hands were sweating profusely, and every muscle in his body was painfully taut.

Kealey, on the other hand, appeared to be unnaturally calm, completely unshaken by the commotion surrounding him. Even his movements seemed to be fluid and relaxed, so much so that one would be hard pressed to notice the careful way he had positioned himself with respect to his principal. It wouldn't be readily apparent to most people, but Whysall noticed that Kealey was never more than five feet from Zuma. The weapon on his left hip holstered with the butt pointing forward to facilitate ready access with the right hand, he was in a perfect position to provide immediate cover without physically intruding on the African leader's space.

Whysall watched as Kealey stopped a few steps behind Zuma and drifted a little to the left so that he could scan the crowd while the president spoke. A hush fell over the crowd as Zuma accepted a few pages of paper from one of his aides, thanking the man with a gracious nod. Even his most ardent critics gradually stopped chanting their slogans, their jeers falling away as Zuma, seemingly oblivious to all of it, studied his handwritten notes. Then, when the room was completely silent, he slipped on a pair of reading glasses, lifted his stately head, and began to read.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press. I am happy to report that today justice has been done in your High Court of Johannesburg….”

 

Outside the courthouse, the crowd had swelled to nearly 1,500 students, union delegates, political activists, and unemployed workers. The statement that would exonerate Zuma at the expense of his old friend and confidant had been given under oath—and as the word spread, any semblance of cohesion between members of the throng evaporated in an eruption of violent confrontation. Fists were thrown, people trampled, and a car was set ablaze on the far side of the square. Screams of fear and pain mixed with chants both bitterly denouncing and extolling the Zuma government as the police tried in vain to hold back the crowd from the president and each other. Flowing outward over the pavement, it pushed angrily against the flimsy metal barricades that had been erected seven hours earlier on the intersecting streets in front of the building. At the same time, the police captain in charge placed a frantic call to Metro headquarters, seeking permission to use the array of nonlethal deterrents at his disposal.

In the confusion, no one noticed the young man who approached the police car parked alongside the curb on Kerk Street, 50 meters east of the courthouse. The teenager fumbled a key from his pocket, the same key that his brother-in-law—a sergeant with the South African Police Service and a longtime adherent of David Joubert—had given him the previous day. He reached into the backseat and found the plastic CNA shopping bag his brother-in-law had left for him. Pulling it out of the vehicle, he quickly checked the contents. Satisfied, he hit the automatic locks and closed the door behind him. He took a few seconds to check his position on the street and calm his nerves. Then he started moving toward the parking garage on the far side of the courthouse, the shopping bag dangling low in his right hand.

 

Ten minutes after he finished addressing the press in the lobby of the Johannesburg High Court, President Jacob Zuma and his small entourage passed through a steel doorway and into the concrete expanse of the fourth-floor parking deck. The deck had already been swept by Alex Whysall and four other men, and the motorcade was waiting, a total of five vehicles idling in the otherwise deserted parking garage. The entire deck had been cleared out the night before, and any cars that had been left behind had been towed that morning. It was the kind of precaution that wouldn't win Zuma any new supporters at the courthouse, but Kealey had insisted, and Zuma's chief of staff, a man named Steve Oliphant, had reluctantly concurred.

Ryan Kealey followed his charge through the door and started across the smooth concrete. The courthouse was attached to the parking garage, and in the near distance he could hear the sounds of the riot taking place at the intersection of Von Brandis and Kerk. With each step he took, the cacophony seemed to grow louder, closer, and more threatening, and he could no longer ignore the risk to the man he was charged with protecting. Quickening his pace, he moved close to the South African's left shoulder.

“Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?”

The South African president stopped in his tracks and turned to face him. He looked mildly surprised by the request, but he nodded once and walked a few steps away from the waiting vehicles. Kealey followed and quickly explained his concerns.

When he was done, Zuma nodded thoughtfully. He looked carefully at his head of security and wondered, not for the first time, what had brought him to this place. It could have just been the money, of course, and for most of the security contractors, he would have guessed that to be the primary motivation. In Kealey's case, however, he did not feel comfortable making that assumption.

The American was of medium height, lean and tan, with long, lank black hair that stopped just short of being inappropriate for the job he was tasked with. As usual, he was dressed casually in a faded black polo shirt, pressed tan slacks, and a pair of rugged, expensive-looking hiking boots. It was a uniform common to every member of the security detail. Unlike his peers, though, Kealey did not carry an automatic weapon. Instead, he was armed only with a 9mm handgun, which was holstered in a cross-draw position on his left hip. The man was as inconspicuous as he was effective—Zuma had learned as much over the last two months, much to his unspoken relief. He had expected a more visible presence at the start and had been vaguely disappointed, not to mention uneasy, when Blackwater had sent him Kealey and company.

As it turned out, the eight quiet professionals had managed not only to keep him safe but also to keep a remarkably low profile in the process. In fact, they were so unobtrusive that the South African media had yet to pick up on the fact that he had outsourced his personal security to an American firm. He didn't know how long that could last, but it was still a pleasant, if unexpected benefit to the whole situation.

At the same time the man standing before Zuma remained a mystery, and he continued to find that a little troubling. He didn't understand what could have prompted Ryan Kealey to sign on with Blackwater Worldwide. The man was a veritable legend in the U.S. intelligence community, and despite the CIA's best efforts, his government had been unable to completely conceal the full scope of his contribution to the nation's security. Zuma had wondered on more than one occasion what could have prompted the young American to walk away from all of that, though he had yet to come up with any likely scenarios. He suspected it had something to do with the haunted look that was never far from the young man's eyes, though he would never have presumed to ask. Simply put, it was none of his concern, and besides, it didn't really matter. The man's capabilities were all Zuma truly cared about, and they were undeniably intact.

The American was still awaiting an answer. Zuma sighed, shot a glance at his watch, and said, “What is your alternative, Mr. Kealey? Bearing in mind that I can't stand around all day waiting for the police to do their job.”

“We have a helicopter providing sniper support for the run back to Pretoria. It holds only four, but we can squeeze in seven, and we'll send the rest of the men in the cars later, once the police manage to get things in hand.”

“
If
they do, Mr. Kealey. I know you're aware of where I stand with many of them as a result of this trial.”

Kealey grunted. “I've checked out the Metro captain in charge. He's no believer in Joubert, and I think we can trust him as much as anyone. He says they'll have the area secured in forty minutes or less.”

“Is there room for my aide on the helicopter?”

Kealey glanced over at the chief of staff, who was already sliding into the backseat of the fourth armored vehicle, a white Toyota Land Cruiser. “He'll have to stay here, sir. I'm sorry, but I can't leave you with less than six security officers. Company policy.”

Zuma appraised the younger man with a slight frown. Something about the way he said “company policy” made the South African leader think that Kealey couldn't care less about the company
or
its policies. Even the word
sir
was somehow impertinent coming from this man's lips. At the same time, he was standing there giving his honest, unbiased opinion, and that warranted some degree of respect and consideration. Zuma was a practical man, and he prized his personal welfare far above the formalities of his office.

He thought about it carefully. Usually, he didn't hesitate to follow the American's suggestions regarding his personal security. But on this occasion he desperately needed some time to confer with his chief of staff. He was due in Cape Town in two days' time, where he was scheduled to address the National Assembly regarding the budget he had submitted two months earlier. He needed every minute between now and then to pin down his position and clarify his arguments—and that, more than anything, made his decision for him.

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Oliphant and I have a great deal of work to do, and it cannot wait. I realize there is some level of threat, but I'm sure your people can handle it. Now, are we ready to go?”

Kealey hesitated, but the other man's words had made it clear that his decision was final. “Yes,” he said. “We're ready to move.”

He followed his principal to the armored SUV. Steve Oliphant was already seated in back, and Zuma took the seat next to him. The driver, a former commando in the Honduran army, closed the door behind the South African president as Kealey moved around the front of the vehicle to the passenger-side door. On the way he made eye contact with Alex Whysall and pointed toward the fifth vehicle, another Land Cruiser. Whysall nodded and started to move, as did the rest of the team. As the doors slammed shut on every vehicle, the sound reverberating off the cold cement walls of the parking garage, Kealey climbed into the fourth truck and shut the door, the driver following suit a few seconds later.

Ramón Flores looked over and raised an eyebrow. Kealey held up a finger, indicating he needed a minute. He turned on the radio and performed a quick communications check. Once he was satisfied that everything was in working order, he ordered the first vehicle to move. Flores followed a few seconds later, and the five vehicles began the short run down to street level.

 

It had taken the teenager ten long minutes to fight his way through the dense, riotous crowd, during which time he had nearly lost the shopping bag twice. Scrabbling hands had caught at the thin plastic on several occasions, and one man had made a halfhearted attempt to tear it out of the teenager's grasp, but the bodies around them had changed position at the last second. He had used the shift in momentum to pull away from his assailant, who was quickly swallowed by the surrounding sea of flailing limbs. Miraculously, the bag had stayed intact through the entire ordeal. Now, as he slipped unnoticed past one of the fallen barricades, the weight of its contents caused the plastic handles to cut into his hand, cutting off the circulation to his sweaty fingers. The pain was intense, but he did his best to set it aside, knowing that he could not afford the slightest distraction.

The entrance to the parking garage was less than ten meters away, and on the second level, through a narrow gap in the concrete decks, the teenager caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting off white paint. He couldn't hear the engines over the deafening roar of the aggressive mob, but he sensed that the vehicles moving rapidly through the garage were the ones he was waiting for. Returning his gaze to ground level, he kept moving forward, aware that the police officers behind him were still fighting and failing to keep the crowd back. They hadn't used the gas yet, but the teenager knew it was coming, just as he knew that the riot would eventually be contained. In his mind, the police were not to be blamed, despite the brute force they were using to put down the revolt. After all, his own brother-in-law was currently fighting to contain the violence, even though he privately supported the pro-Joubert factionalists. The two groups had no way of knowing that they wanted the same thing, but the teenager knew, and he was ready to act on behalf of them all.

The gate leading into the ground floor of the parking garage was already in the elevated position, as his brother-in-law had said it would be. The teenager could not detect any sign of a police presence in or around the concrete structure, yet he knew it was there. As he quickened his stride, he reached into the bag and found the plastic switch by feel. Summoning his courage, he flipped it over and started to run, his feet pounding over the sunlit cement. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a police officer in full riot gear shouting at him, telling him to stop. But he ignored the man and kept moving forward at a dead sprint, the heavy contents of the shopping bag bouncing painfully against his leg.

The first Toyota appeared without warning, the vehicle's glossy paint reflecting the white winter sunlight. The heavy truck swung a hard right onto Von Brandis, the street directly in front of the parking garage, and a second Land Cruiser followed less than five meters behind. The teenager kept sprinting forward, eyes fixed on the fast-moving motorcade. The rioting crowd was a dull, distant roar; the shouted commands of the police officer nothing but meaningless gibberish in his ears. All his attention was locked on the gleaming white vehicles in front of him.