Everett shook her head sadly, just as she’d done every day for the past month. “She can’t, Ryan.
She’s just not ready.”
Kealey looked away, struggling to hide his disappointment, but the nurse stepped close and put a comforting hand on his arm.
“It’ll happen. Just give her time.”
Kealey nodded. When he turned back, his face was set. “As much as she needs.”
A noise to his right caught his attention. He looked over, hope springing up, but it was just Jonathan Harper. He’d come out through the kitchen and was holding two steaming Styrofoam cups. He held one out and said, “I heard the gatehouse on the radio, so don’t start thinking I’m telepathic. I thought we might go for a walk.”
Kealey looked out the window. It was about to snow again, but that was fine; he needed the air.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
They went out and turned right, crossing the grounds toward the pond, moving at a slow, deliberate pace. The gristmill was off to the right, the wooden walls covered in lichen, sagging with time and lack of maintenance. The waterwheel was half frozen in the surface of the pond.
They crossed the narrow trestle bridge, heading for the gravel footpath on the other side.
“When did you get here?” Kealey finally asked.
“Just a few minutes before you did,” Harper replied. He hesitated, wondering what Kealey was thinking. It was the first time he had come to Windrush since the start of October, and he knew how that must look to the younger man. He hurried to change the subject.
“How’s the arm?”
Kealey looked down at his left arm, which was still in a white sling. “Not bad. They fixed it up pretty quick.”
“That’s bullshit, Ryan. I talked to the paramedics, as well as the doctors. I know you almost bled out on the way to the hospital, so don’t try to play it down.”
“Yeah, well…” Kealey looked away. “What happened to me was nothing, really. Not when you think about it.”
The unspoken thought seemed to cloud the air between them, but neither felt up to discussing it.
They walked for a time, drinking their coffee, talking around the subject of Naomi. Most of what they went over had already cropped up over the past month, but so much had happened, it was helpful to go back and check the facts.
When the white Isuzu truck outside the Renaissance Hotel in Midtown Manhattan was finally opened by the NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit two hours after it tipped over, the contents generated an enormous amount of press coverage. Predictably, the news was followed by public outrage, and Will Vanderveen — even in death — quickly became the focus of an intense media storm. The former U.S. soldier was depicted as a psychopath and a terrorist-for-hire, but those were just two of the less-than-inventive titles bestowed upon him by Western media, none of which were complimentary.
Following the events of September 16th, it seemed as if his face was everywhere. Official U.S.
Army photographs acquired through dubious means had appeared on the cover of Newsweek and Time. Indirectly, the latter image stirred up a storm of controversy, as it depicted Vanderveen standing outside a hangar in Somalia in 1993, deep in discussion with Major General William F.
Garrison.
The networks immediately jumped on the opportunity to boost ratings and began speculating that Vanderveen might have deliberately warned the Somali militia of the impending raid in which 18
U.S. soldiers were killed, later known as the Battle of Mogadishu. Before long, the theory evolved into something approaching fact, despite the absence of any supporting evidence beyond the grainy photograph, which wasn’t really evidence at all, except in the world of sensationalist journalism.
There was no limit to the coverage, or to America’s rabid fascination with the man who had turned against his own. Vanderveen was the subject of an MSNBC investigative report as well as a CNN indepth special, which aired during prime time. A hastily composed biography had hit the bookstores a week ago and was already topping the best-seller lists. Everyone wanted to know about the Special Forces soldier who’d betrayed his country, lending his skills to some of America’s worst enemies, with the goal of destroying thousands of innocent lives. His infamy was only enhanced when it became clear that the bomb he had brought into the country would have wreaked devastation on a scale rivaling 9/11, had Nazeri been allowed to reach his target.
Strangely enough, Amir Nazeri was hardly mentioned in the ensuing media storm; Vanderveen alone seemed to have captured the nation’s attention.
Harper had done his best to keep Kealey’s name out of the whole thing, but it had proved impossible; the two former soldiers had too much shared history, and there was no avoiding it.
Even so, the situation would have been tenable were it not for a lengthy article that appeared in the New York Times less than a week after the failed attack. The article contained information that could only have been leaked through an Agency source, and while the Times reporter had refused to divulge his source — resulting in another Valerie Plame–like incident — it had been clear to everyone who mattered — Kealey included — that the leak could only have come from one person.
It had been clear to the president as well. Rachel Ford had ample motive. It was well known that she’d despised the entire operations directorate to begin with. Beyond that, however, she’d made it clear that she didn’t buy the official record of what had transpired in the warehouse on West Thirty-seventh Street. The Bureau’s internal investigation had determined that Special Agent Matt Foster had killed his partner, Samantha Crane, before being shot to death himself by Naomi Kharmai. The Bureau would have preferred to avoid the tarnishing link to Vanderveen, but there were just too many fingers pointing toward Foster. Kealey, for one, had demanded that the Bureau come clean, and in the end, he’d gotten his wish.
Ford had instantly started screaming about a cover-up, accusing Kealey of involvement in her niece’s death. A few people listened at first, but she lost any support she had when she leaked Kealey’s personnel file to the press. Even before that, Hakim Rudaki had been making noises about where Foster was getting his information — namely, from Samantha Crane — and that could only mean one thing: that Ford was involved, at least on the periphery. The president had quietly offered her a choice. She could either endure some painful and very public inquiries, or she could quietly resign her post. In the end, the choice had been easy to make.
Less than a week after the president accepted her resignation, he’d submitted Jonathan Harper’s name for the vacant post. The Senate had yet to confirm the nomination, but word had trickled down that Harper was a lock for the job. His skillful handling of the crisis had ensured he would sail through the confirmation process, but there was something infinitely more important at work, and that was the fact that no one else had seen it coming. Had it not been for the work of Harper, Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai, the attack would have easily succeeded, with disastrous consequences. In essence, giving Harper a promotion — with the implied promise of an eventual nomination to the top job — had been the best way for the president to defuse a more thorough investigation into his own personal handling of the entire situation, which was sorely lacking.
Ironically, David Brenneman had gotten the most mileage out of the incident, even though he’d done nothing but stand in their way since the embassy break-in. The plot had failed, and that automatically worked in his favor, but when it became clear that the bomb was meant primarily for the thirty-five members of the United Iraqi Alliance staying at the Renaissance Hotel, Brenneman received some of the credit for preventing — at least indirectly — what might have been a disastrous setback in Iraq. His political advisors milked the story for all it was worth, pointing out that the loss of the UIA’s core leadership would likely have led to civil war, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of U.S. soldiers before a suitable plan for withdrawal could be put into effect.