of the woman’s body were covered by white sterile dressings drenched in saline, Naomi could see that this was easily the worst of all the injuries she had encountered so far.
“Agent Lawrence? My name is Naomi Kharmai. I’m with Central Intelligence, and I need to talk to you about the assassination of Senator Levy.”
“I’ve already given my supervisors a full account, as well as the FBI. Capitol Hill PD sat in on that one. Aren’t you supposed to be sharing information with them?” Megan asked resignedly.
Although the deterioration of her jaw had slurred her speech, Naomi could still detect the lyrical, lilting quality of Megan Lawrence’s voice. She thought that a few days ago it would have been a pleasure to listen to this woman speak. “I’m sorry, Agent Lawrence, but you know how it goes. We’re going to need a firsthand account, and I have some pictures I’d like you to take a look at.” Naomi hoped that by addressing this woman as “Agent,” she might foster a little professional courtesy. To Megan, it just sounded patronizing.
“Look,” Megan tried one last time, “if we could maybe talk later, I just don’t feel—”
“You know, I don’t really have time later, so if you don’t mind—”
“Time?” Megan interrupted, a look of disbelief spreading across her misshapen features. The man leaning by the door stood a little straighter at the tone in her voice. “You want to talk to me about time?” Lawrence was shouting now, the garbled sound of her speech gone, crystal-clear words echoing off the clean white walls. “You have all the time in the world! I’m never going to leave this room alive, and my daughter is about to lose her mother. She doesn’t have anyone else!” She collapsed back onto her bed, the anger dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. Her own words brought it all rushing back, though, and the reality of her situation was suddenly sharp, stinging deeper than any physical pain as tears began to stream down her ravaged face.
In three quick strides the heavy agent in the corner reached Naomi’s side, grabbed her arm roughly, and dragged her out of the room. As he pulled her down the hallway, the sound of Megan Lawrence’s sobs followed them, blending with Naomi’s furious protestations. The agent did not let go of her arm until he watched her leave the building.
Outside the hospital, a light snow had begun to fall, early winter in October. She stood motionless for a long moment, finally stepping off the curb to stalk angrily to her car. Behind her, the doors were pushed open and a voice called out in her direction. She turned to face the young resident from the fifth floor.
“I thought you should know.” Naomi waited impatiently until the doctor continued. “She has less than a week left. Her husband passed away three years ago, and she won’t see her daughter again because she doesn’t want that image to be the girl’s last memory of her mother.”
The resident watched Kharmai’s face long enough to realize that the words meant nothing to her. Then he turned and retreated from the cold, heading back to finish his shift.
CHAPTER 4
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Kealey was standing before a bank of monitors and audio equipment in a darkened room occupied by the Directorate of Science and Technology. He wore a visitor’s pass around his neck that identified him by number, although the laminated surface also bore a photograph of himself taken three years earlier. The crowded space was filled with young analysts looking at data, monitoring rows of numbers, and occasionally speaking quietly to each other over Styrofoam cups of cold coffee. Ryan Kealey, standing next to the chief analyst, Roger Davidson, was lost in the sense of anonymity that seemed to blanket the room.
“Okay, this copy arrived in June of 2003 via the Saudis—God knows how they got it. Originally broadcast on Al-Jazeera, it’s the usual fare, so it didn’t get a lot of attention at first. Declaration of fatwa—a religious proclamation—issued on a standard feed, decent resolution. Remember, we’re looking at the background…This isn’t surveillance tape, so we didn’t really need to run any compression. We got what we were looking for when we adjusted this spot here—you see?”
As the analyst manipulated strings of data on a laptop computer, the corner of the screen on the second monitor darkened, revealing a small group of people. Some were reading from what Kealey thought were handmade military field manuals, while others were stripping and cleaning weapons.
“Got it?” asked Davidson. “Okay, this tape was shot at midday, at least according to the time-and-date stamp. My tech officers swear up and down that it hasn’t been altered, so we’ll call that fact for now. Now, you can see the glare was initially blocking out this group of people, so we’ve…”
Ryan tuned the analyst out as he leaned in to stare at the tape. The group of men were seated on the sand beneath a worn canvas tarp lashed to wooden supporting poles. For the most part, they appeared to be of Arab descent, dressed in loose, dark clothing or flowing robes covered in dirt and dust. All were wearing the traditional kaffiyeh, including one man half-turned away from the camera, the sun giving light to blond hair that strayed from beneath the head covering. The angle did not reveal the man’s face, only the clean, straight line of his jaw, obvious even beneath the heavy beard.
Ryan Kealey stared at the frame for a long time.
He turned and caught Davidson watching him with a satisfied smile on his face. “Harper said you would pick up on that right away.” He tapped emphatically on the screen where the image was located. “I don’t think it’s an accident that this guy is facing away from the camera. He’s far more disciplined than the others, probably because someone has a file on him somewhere. He’s a player, but he wasn’t always so careful. I’ll show you what I mean.”
The analyst kept the image on the screen and started a different segment of tape on another of the room’s many flat-screen monitors. “This is a copy of a tape found in the Khyber Pass four months ago. The original was badly damaged by fire, probably in an attempt to destroy it. Mostly they were successful, but we recovered about two minutes of intermittent footage.
“In this one, we have what appears to be a high-level meeting of lesser Al-Qaeda operatives and members of the majlis al shura, the governing council. Although the time and date are not displayed, we believe that it was recorded well after 9/11, as our intelligence indicates that this man, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, was still busy recruiting for Ansar al-Islam in northern Iraq until early 2002. In fact, the most recent sighting came in May of that same year, when a Pakistani army captain supposedly spotted him in Peshawar…”
Kealey might as well have been alone in the room, his attention completely focused on the monitor. At that moment, the man with whom al-Zarqawi was speaking briefly glanced up in the direction of the camera. The face was without expression, but the flashing green eyes seemed to stare right through the glass, as though catching sight of an old friend from across a crowded room.
“Son of a bitch,” Kealey whispered under his breath. He turned to Davidson, abruptly interrupting the man’s impassioned commentary. “I’ve seen enough. Take me to Harper.”
Seated in the deputy director’s seventh-floor office, Ryan could catch distant views of the Potomac River across treetops lightly dusted with snow. The sight of the water reminded him of his old house on Cape Elizabeth, and he suddenly felt the urge to call Katie. Would she even pick up the phone? She could definitely hold a grudge, as he had discovered much to his chagrin on several other occasions…
“Ryan, I take it you feel sure enough to move on this?” Harper asked.
Kealey
