they come up with a list of casualties. Then we’ll focus on who’s missing, such as bodyguards and hotel employees. We’ll also take a look at building security…Like I said, sir, the gates were manned by the IPS. That might be a good place to start.”
Brenneman sighed heavily and ran a hand through his silver brown hair. “It doesn’t sound like we have much to work with.”
“I know,” Harper agreed. “But we’re just getting started, sir.”
“Fair enough. What kind of fallout can we expect from this?”
The DDO mulled over the question for a moment. “It’s been unusually quiet over the past several months, but this could definitely serve as a catalyst. We’ll probably see increased insurgent activity in the major cities, particularly Baghdad and Fallujah. Of course, some of that depends on what happens with the prime minister.”
Brenneman got to his feet and moved to the windows, looking over the South Lawn for a long moment. “This couldn’t come at a worse time,” he finally murmured. “Even if he makes it through. It’s hard to justify troop withdrawals when we can’t guarantee the safety of the senior leadership.”
He suddenly seemed to come back to reality. “What kind of assets do you have over there?”
Harper ran through the list in his head. “Exley, sir. He’s one of our guys in the embassy, used to be army intelligence. He’s connected in all the right places. Keith Moore is chief of station. Jenna Thompson’s the head tech officer—”
“What about Kealey?”
The question seemed to hang in the air for a long time. “He’s in the area. A little farther to the west,” Harper replied cautiously. “But I don’t know if he’s…”
“Available?” The president turned from the window to stare at his subordinate. “Is that what you were going to say?”
Harper frowned but didn’t respond.
“Is he up to speed in the Middle East?”
“As much as anyone.”
“You may not be aware of this, John, but I took an interest after what happened last year. I know he asked to come back in an official capacity. I also know that his request was initially rejected by Director Andrews, and that you intervened and signed the waiver when he wouldn’t talk to the in-house counselors.”
The president paused and shot the DDO a curious glance. “Why did you do that, by the way? I never had the chance to ask you.”
Harper was uncomfortable with the question, and it showed. “Kealey’s a good man, sir. He’s been through a lot, but he’s not the type to respond to any kind of counseling. It wouldn’t have helped. As for bringing him back inside…Well, let’s just say I couldn’t turn him down. Not after what happened.”
Brenneman considered this for a long moment, finally turning back to his guest. “John, I need to know if this goes any deeper. The press will be all over me if I don’t stick to the timetable, but I can’t start pulling soldiers out with the knowledge that I’ll have to send them back in six months. More to the point, someone has to be held accountable for this. I need someone who can move fast and get results. If Ryan’s already over there, so much the better.”
Harper shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think he’s the right man for this.”
The president did not respond. Instead, he assumed a neutral expression and motioned for Harper to continue.
“For most things, I’d put him out there in a heartbeat. But not in this case. There’s too much riding on it, and lately, he’s been…taking chances.”
Brenneman furrowed his brow. “I know he got hurt. Is that the problem? Because if that’s an issue…”
“Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. That’s not what concerns me.”
Another aching silence. “Look, John, I appreciate your honesty. At the same time, you brought him back to the Agency for a reason. Unless you can point to something specific, we need him on this. I need him on this.”
Reluctantly, Harper nodded. Brenneman glanced at his watch and stood, ending the conversation. As the other man got to his feet and started toward the door, the president’s voice brought him to a halt.
“This will not pass, John. Find your man, and bring him up to speed. I want to know who was responsible, and soon.”
CHAPTER 3
FALLUJAH
A dirty gray dawn was just beginning to lift as a helicopter beat a steady path east from the Habbaniyah air base, a small facility located 80 kilometers west of Baghdad. The Soviet-designed aircraft, now passing over the Euphrates River valley, had been used by both Taliban and Northern Alliance forces during the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan. Since the enemy on the ground had been reluctant to open fire for fear of engaging their own commanders, the Mi-17 had been adopted by the CIA as a preferred means of travel in the region. Its popularity had begun to fade in recent months, as its role in the American fleet was becoming a well-known fact in all the wrong circles, but it still offered better protection than some of the Agency’s more conspicuous aircraft.
From his seat just aft of the cockpit, Mark Walland peered through a grimy window on the starboard side as the outskirts of Fallujah appeared through scattered clouds, revealing broken walls of pale stone and low-slung cinder block homes. Although the view was far from scenic, Walland knew that things would look much worse on the ground. He wasn’t looking forward to going down there, but it seemed as if he had been doing just that—heading into harm’s way—for the better part of his short career.
Like the men in the cockpit, Walland was attached to the Special Activities Division, the Agency’s elite paramilitary force. He was short but well built, with dark, restless eyes set deep in a sunburnt face. His light brown hair was trimmed close, which put it at odds with the thick beard he had grown over the past few months. Walland had joined the CIA following his departure from the army three years earlier, at the surprisingly young age of twenty-seven. He’d seen plenty of action as a captain in the 82nd Airborne Division, particularly in the mountains of Afghanistan. Still, the former Ranger knew that his experience was nothing compared to that of the individual who was seated directly across from him, on the other side of the wide, empty aisle.
Walland had been working on and off with Ryan Kealey for the past six months, yet the man remained a mystery. He’d heard a few things, of course, brief snatches of conversation caught during his time at the forward operating bases to the east. Mostly, they were rumors with respect to Kealey’s military record: his time with the 3rd Special Forces Group, his role in the death of a senior Islamic militant in Syria, the two lost years during which his name had been placed on the Security Roster, the army’s list of covert operators. Walland knew something of his recent work as well; Kealey’s role in the prevention of a major terrorist attack the previous year was too big to have been covered up entirely, despite the best efforts of the operations directorate. For the most part, however, the man—and his past—remained a closed book.
The young operative broke from his thoughts as the airframe shuddered, the engines flaring as the pilot applied the aft cyclic. The helicopter dropped through the clouds with startling speed, the wheels bouncing once, then settling into the dirt a moment
