The Exile (17 page)

Despite the lengths to which Zuma had gone to protect Kealey in the wake of the incident, the American's future in South Africa was far from assured. Harper had learned as much through a brief conversation with Zuma himself, which had been conducted by telephone earlier in the day. While the South African leader credited Kealey with saving his life, the fact remained that he had killed six police officers on a crowded street in broad daylight. That kind of bloodshed could not be covered up, and South Africa was a far cry from Iraq, where a similar incident might have been met with a slap on the wrist and a plane ticket home.

Kealey was now officially under house arrest at the Pretoria Hof Hotel, though the term
arrest
could only be used loosely in his situation, if at all. Instead of being confined to his room, he'd been given the freedom to move about as he pleased, which explained how Harper had come to learn about the bar. According to the Special Forces captain in charge of the detail, Kealey had visited the Elephant & Castle on the Selikaats Causeway five out of the last eight nights. For this reason, as well as the bar's relatively secluded location, Harper had selected it as the place he would first make contact. His intention in showing up unannounced had been to grab the upper hand from the outset, but apparently, Kealey had been ahead of the game the whole time.

Harper wasn't bothered by the fact that Kealey had seen him coming; in fact, he was reassured by the younger man's instincts, which were clearly as sharp as ever. Those instincts—as well as his ability to act on them—were a large part of the reason Harper had sought him out in the first place.

The deputy director tapped a folder sitting to the left of his untouched meal. It was stacked on top of two smaller folders, but Harper wasn't ready to get to those just yet. “Do you know what this is?”

Kealey didn't bother to glance at the bulky manila folder. “I can guess.”

“It's the official incident report compiled by the South African government following the attack on Zuma's motorcade. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“But you wrote part of—”

“I haven't read it.”

Harper let the interruption slide, mainly because he didn't have any other choice. Moving his plate out of the way, he pulled the folder in front of his body but didn't bother to open it up. “I don't get it, Ryan.” He rested his hands on top of the folder and stared across the table. “I've read this thing from cover to cover, and I have to say, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. You pulled a gun on this guy Flores when he refused to follow your orders, and you threatened to shoot him if he didn't turn around and drive you back to Marshalltown. Then, less than ten minutes later, you risked your life, not to mention the lives of your principal and his aide, to get him out of there safely. Can you explain that?”

Kealey returned his steady gaze. “I don't need to explain it, John. Not to you. Besides, you already know the answer. I never liked Flores, but he was part of my team. I was responsible for him. It's that simple.”

“So you weren't willing to leave him behind, but you
were
willing to shoot him if he didn't follow instructions. Is that right?”

The younger man shrugged. “I wouldn't actually have done it. I just needed to get my point across.”

Harper didn't believe that for a second, but he wasn't about to waste time arguing. Instead, he opened the folder and flipped idly through the pages. “There's a lot of uncomplimentary stuff in here,” he said. “Flores is just the tip of the iceberg. For instance, a man called Steve Oliphant signed a sworn statement the day after the incident in which he accused you of physically assaulting Jacob Zuma.”

Harper looked up to see if Kealey grasped the full gravity of that statement. Judging by his indifferent expression, either he didn't understand the serious nature of the charges leveled against him or he just didn't care. Harper knew that he was dealing with the latter scenario. Kealey understood perfectly well what he had done, and he clearly wasn't about to apologize for it. “He accused you of assaulting the
South African president,
” Harper repeated. “I assume you can see the problem that causes.”

“If it does create a problem, it's mine, not yours,” Kealey pointed out. “Besides, why does it matter? Who cares what this guy is accusing me of?”

“It matters because the aide says that you—”

“I saved that man's life, John. Zuma himself says as much on page eighty-four of that so-called report, so the aide can bitch and moan as loud as he wants. I thought you said you read the whole thing.”

“I thought
you
said you didn't read it at all.”

Kealey didn't respond. Harper closed the folder and pushed it out of the way.

“It also says that after the firefight in downtown Johannesburg, you returned to Kerk Street in time to pull two of your teammates, Alex Whysall and Russell Stiles, from their vehicle, which was knocked out of commission by an IED in front of the courthouse. Both men credit you with saving their lives.”

Kealey shrugged. “Whysall and Stiles were marines before they signed up with Blackwater. They would have done the same for me. That's what Flores didn't understand, and that's why he'll have a hard time finding anyone else willing to work with him.”

“He'll have an easier time than you,” Harper pointed out. “The South Africans weren't the only ones to compile a full report. At the prompting of the State Department, Blackwater carried out its own investigation. The team as a whole was cleared of any serious wrong-doing, but you weren't so lucky. The head office basically laid the blame for the entire incident at your feet. They accused you, among other things, of exposing your principal to unnecessary risk by ordering your driver to stop in a hostile area.”

“This isn't news to me. I was there, and I know what happened. What are you getting at?”

“I'm wondering why you didn't stand your ground. Why you let them pin it all on you.”

“Why would I fight it?” Kealey asked. “I took that job only as a favor to Paul Owen in the first place. Given Zuma's high profile and the nature of the threat, he asked me to run the detail, and I accepted with several conditions. The first was that I didn't have to sign a contract with Blackwater. The second was that I had complete control over the way I ran my PSD. Since he was willing to meet both conditions, I took the job. Believe me, I didn't want it that much to begin with. Getting kicked off the team is no big loss to me.”

Harper took a second to break that statement down. Paul Owen had been Ryan Kealey's commanding officer during the younger man's time with the 3rd Special Forces Group. Later the two men had served together in the 1st SFOD-D, otherwise known as Delta Force. While they were stationed at Bragg, Owen was promoted to the rank of lieutenant colonel and Kealey to major, the rank he retired with in 2001. Over the last few years Owen had been “sheep-dipped,” or “borrowed,” by the CIA to take part in covert operations abroad on several occasions. Most recently, he'd been involved with the recovery of the secretary of state in Pakistan. He and Kealey had worked on that assignment together, butting heads more than once in the process.

Harper had been as surprised as anyone when word trickled down eight months earlier that Owen, after twenty-two years in the army, had decided to retire as a lieutenant-colonel, even though he was scheduled to receive a long-overdue promotion to O-6. The reason for his abrupt departure became readily apparent when he signed up with Blackwater Worldwide less than a month after separating from the armed forces. Unlike most of the former SF operators who signed up with the company, though, Owen did not find himself back on the front lines. Instead, he took a high-level executive post at Blackwater North, the recently established training facility in Mount Carroll, Illinois, where he currently served as program director. Essentially, he was now in charge of the entire facility.

It didn't surprise Harper that one of Owen's first acts with the company had been to actively recruit Ryan Kealey for Zuma's detail in Africa. It would have seemed like a smart move right from the start, and had he been in Owen's position, Harper might well have done the same thing. Having a man with Kealey's reputation on the payroll would only boost Blackwater's already sterling reputation as the leading security firm in the world. Nor did it surprise him that Kealey had elected to fall on his sword rather than allow Owen to take the blame for what happened in Johannesburg. Harper was sure that Owen had tried to talk him out of it, but the retired colonel had more to lose than Kealey did, and Kealey would have been the first to remind him of that fact. Harper couldn't help but wonder what Paul Owen regretted more—being forced to dump the blame on Kealey's head or recruiting the man in the first place. It was a question worth considering, he knew, as there was a good chance he'd be asking himself the very same thing in the near future.

“So what are your plans now?” Harper asked carefully. “Assuming, of course, that the National Prosecuting Authority decides to overlook your role in the death of six uniformed SAPS officers, where will you go from here?”

Kealey leaned back in his seat. “That sounds more like a warning than a question.”

Harper shrugged. “Zuma is under a lot of pressure to hold someone accountable, Ryan. Remember, the South African people didn't see the attack on the motorcade. All they saw was the aftermath, and they're not exactly happy with the way it turned out. You'd be surprised at how many people were behind those six cops you killed. Now those people are screaming for blood. There's no guarantee that Zuma won't buckle under the weight of public opinion, if only to stave off the inevitable for a few more months, and if he does, there's a good chance you'll end up facing the sharp end of the stick. You can see why that would be a problem for us. The idea of you taking the stand in the Pretoria High Court does not make the director comfortable.”

“It won't get that far.”

“What if you're wrong?” Harper persisted. “Because I have to tell you, if it
does
get that far, the Agency will have no choice but to disavow. Do you understand that? If and when the NPA decides to file charges, you'll be on your own. I won't be in a position to help you.”

“So you'd prefer to help me now. Is that it?”

Harper had been doing his best to ignore the younger man's combative attitude, but he could no longer contain his rising frustration. “Ryan, why are you making this so difficult? I
am
trying to help you, for Christ's sake. I'm offering you a way out, and if you had any sense at all, you'd listen to what I'm telling—”

“I don't need your help, John, and I didn't ask you to come here. Besides, I know how this works. I can see through your bullshit. Maybe I couldn't before, but I can now. You wouldn't be offering to bail me out unless you wanted something in return, so why don't you do us both a favor and get to the point?”

Harper exhaled sharply.
Okay, Allison, here we go. God forgive us both,
he thought, then reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the first photograph. He looked to make sure it was the right one, then placed it faceup on the table and pushed it across with two fingers. Kealey looked down at it but did not react.

“You recognize her?”

“Yes,” Kealey said. He was still looking at the photograph, which featured a dark-haired woman in her midtwenties. The aid worker was surrounded by a cluster of dark-skinned children, most of whom were badly undernourished but smiling broadly regardless, just like their benefactor. To anyone who didn't know how the story ended, it probably would have seemed like a heartwarming image. “Lily Durant.”

“I'm guessing you know what happened to her.”

“I know.” Kealey studied the photo, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tensing slightly. It was a nearly imperceptible change in his expression, but Harper, a self-taught expert in kinesics, or nonverbal communication, caught it at once. The younger man looked up and pushed the photograph back across the table. “Is that what this is about? Did Brenneman send you?”

Harper looked at him. “I'd be out of a job if he had any inkling I was here.”

For the first time Kealey was left without a ready response. “So why
are
you here?”

Harper slumped back in his seat and let out another slow breath. “You were right,” he finally admitted. “About what you said before. I need your help. But that isn't the only reason I came. Give me five minutes to explain, okay? You won't regret it.”

Kealey shook his head and looked away, staring absently at a couple sitting a few tables away. Then he returned his attention to Harper, a wan smile on his face. “I always regret it, John. Every time you come looking for me. I don't see why it should be any different this time.”

“You're going to want to hear what I have to say. I know you don't trust me. But trust me on that one point. Five minutes and you'll know everything.”

Kealey shook his head again, but he didn't make a move to leave. Harper knew better than to break the awkward silence, though he was sorely tempted to do just that. As he waited for the younger man's response, he thought back to what he had seen a moment earlier. The way Kealey's face had changed with the mention of the president's niece confirmed what Harper had known all along—and what Allison Dearborn had reinforced in his mind. His best chance at getting Kealey back lay with Lily Durant. Or very specifically, with what had happened to her.

Allison had given him what she'd called her “psychobabble one-oh-one” on the different analytical terms for what drove men in his line of work—a rescue personality, instinctive-cooperative behavior, the Jungian hero model. There had been those, and others he couldn't remember. But when you cut through the obtuse scholarly language, she'd explained, it came down to them being core idealists.