Andrews looked skeptical. “Do you really believe that he’s innocent of this? Because I have to say, John, it doesn’t seem likely, and you didn’t exactly convince the president, either.”
“I just don’t see how doing something this brutal and direct would benefit the regime in Khartoum,” Harper reasoned. “Bashir wouldn’t see it, either. He knows how to work the international community. Remember his pilgrimage to Mecca? This is with the ICC warrant pinned to his back. And if that wasn’t defiant enough, he attends the Arab Union summit in Qatar after saying his devout prayers. Complains that the ICC’s decisions are biased against Africans. I mean, can you picture it? He’s a fugitive from justice, and there you have Kaddafi holding his hand in a gesture of brotherhood, calling the ICC a terrorist body. Meanwhile, the UN secretary-general’s squirming with embarrassment at the dais.”
Andrews sighed. “I remember that junket. He can be like Saddam in his heyday.”
“That’s exactly my point, Bob. He knows what he can get away with, and the murder of the president’s niece does not fall into that category. Of course, he’ll deny it, anyway-I’m surprised he hasn’t done so already. But Bashir will have to understand he needs to deliver the goods…the man who actually carried out the attack. That is the person we need to get our hands on. That is the person who can stop this from going any further than it already has.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” Andrews asked quietly. “Or if Bashir decides not to play along for some reason? What then?”
Harper mused over the questions for a moment, but the answers were already clear. “If it gets to that stage, we’ll have no choice but to find the man ourselves. Otherwise, Stralen will have exactly what he needs to pressure the president into making a bad decision. Omar al-Bashir may be a devil, but he’s the devil we know, and we have no idea who might be waiting in the wings to take his place.”
Andrews paused to let that sink in. “I’m not arguing, John. But do you have any idea how difficult it would be to pick one man out of Sudan? We don’t even have a name, let alone a face. If Bashir doesn’t give him up, who is capable of going in there to find him?”
“I would have thought that was obvious.”
Andrews finally shifted in his seat to look at his subordinate. His gaze was steady and flat, completely unreadable. “I thought he was out.”
“He is out. He was out the last couple of times we needed him, too, but that didn’t stop him from coming back. If we’re forced to get involved on a deeper level, I’d rather have him running point than anyone else. Besides, he’s already over there.”
“In Africa?”
“Right,” Harper said. “He’s been working with Blackwater for the last couple of months.”
“Private security?” Andrews seemed surprised by this. “Is it one of our operations?”
The Departments of Defense and State regularly contracted out security work, including the safeguarding of foreign leaders and dignitaries overseas, to independent outfits through various governmental agencies, including the Bureau of Diplomatic Security-which technically fell under the purview of the DOS.
Harper shrugged. “I think it’s direct between Blackwater and the government of South Africa, though we might have been consulted,” he said. “Last I heard, he was running one of their mobile security units.”
The director frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the prospect of bringing Ryan Kealey back into the fold. “You think you can talk him into it? The last time he did something for us, it nearly got him killed. Not to mention the other part.”
Harper nodded briskly. “He’ll get on board, one way or another.” He sounded more confident than he probably should have, but he didn’t want to give the director a chance to change his mind. What Harper hadn’t said was that Andrews was right. Everything rested on what he had so tactfully described as the other part. The death of Naomi Kharmai, and its lingering effect on him. It was potentially the single greatest obstacle to drawing Kealey back into the fold, and Harper knew that when the time came, he would have to approach with the utmost care. To that end, he’d already arranged for a meeting in Baltimore with someone who could be of immense help.
Of course, the hope was that it wouldn’t come down to getting Kealey involved, but somehow, Harper already knew that it would. The only question was how long the president would be able to stand up to Stralen, and what disastrous course of action might result from that uncomfortable union.
CHAPTER 4
JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA, JUNE
It was just after two in the afternoon as Alex Whysall stood in the sparkling white lobby of the courthouse, his back resting lightly against a towering marble pillar. The building was packed with reporters, photographers, and politically minded South Africans who had come to await the outcome of the trial currently in session, and the tension in the airy, spacious lobby was impossible to miss. The crowd had been building steadily since that morning, and now it felt as if the room was about to burst at the seams.
There were at least 100 people in the lobby alone, all of them clamoring to be heard over one another, and another 1,000 or so were standing outside the building. That was where the real threat was located, Whysall knew, and as he listened to the massive crowd chanting on the other side of the large, glass-paned doors, he unconsciously tightened his grip on his primary weapon, a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 fitted with a collapsible stock and a forward-mounted handgrip. His secondary weapon, a 9mm Beretta, was holstered on his right hip, but Whysall knew that if he had to use it, he would already be in serious trouble. Of course, the chances of things escalating to that point were slim to none, but he had to be ready for anything. It was all part of the job.
At twenty-six, Whysall was just one month out of his second three-year enlistment with the U.S. Marine Corps. During his time in the Corps, he had served as a staff sergeant with the 1st Force Reconnaissance Company based out of Camp Pendleton, California. As a Force Recon marine, Whysall had fought in Afghanistan during Operation Achilles, the NATO-led operation to clear the southern province of Helmand of Taliban fighters in 2007. He had been awarded the Bronze Star for his actions in that particular conflict, and he could still remember the day the battalion commander had conferred the medal. Most distinctly, he could remember the pride he had felt at doing his job well enough to earn that coveted decoration.
At the time he had not been able to conceive of anything he would rather be doing, and he had been eagerly anticipating his next enlistment. Then, while visiting his parents on leave, he had seen an advertisement for private security officers posted on the Internet. To put it simply, the numbers had stunned him. Blackwater Worldwide, once a little-known security firm with less than a hundred twenty-five thousand dollars in government contracts, had blossomed in the wake of the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center. The company had expanded its operations across the board and was now offering six figures to former members of the U.S. military’s elite units. As a long-standing member of Force Recon nearing the end of his enlistment, Whysall had been in a prime position to capitalize on the opportunity, and after much consideration, he’d decided that the money-nearly four times what he earned annually as an active-duty marine-was just too good to pass up. His second enlistment had ended a few months later, and once he’d received his discharge papers, he had immediately signed a one-year contract with Blackwater.
He had fully expected a posting to Iraq, and for a while, it had looked like that was where he was headed. Then, while he was attending the company’s two-week training course outside the Great Dismal Swamp in Moyock, North Carolina, Blackwater had inked a lucrative deal with the South African government to provide protection for President Jacob Gedleyihlekisa Zuma and senior members of his party, the African National Congress. The company’s executives immediately began shifting resources, and one week after his training had finished, Whysall had found himself on a plane to Johannesburg. Much to his surprise, he had been met at the airport by the head of the PSD, or protective security detail, to which he was assigned. His surprise at this unexpected courtesy, however, had turned to sheer disbelief when he realized who the man standing in front of him actually was.