Reynolds was a student of history, and he believed with every fiber of his being that in the weeks following Durant’s death, David Brenneman had had more power at his fingertips than at any other time of his presidency. It was the kind of global support that gave its bearer a blank check, the ability to launch a devastating attack on the Sudanese government without regard for the consequences. And yet, shockingly, Brenneman had done virtually nothing to take advantage of the political climate. There had been no retaliatory strikes, no threats of retribution, no additional sanctions…nothing at all. Stranger still, there had been no explanation for the president’s refusal to act. He had neglected to issue a statement, other than the usual condemnation of the Sudanese government’s role in the ethnic cleansing of West Darfur, and in the weeks following the attack, he had said nothing at all about his relationship to Lily Durant, the sole foreigner to die in the raid.
Faced with this inexplicable silence, the hugely frustrated press corps had sought answers through alternative channels. But Lou Samberg, the White House press secretary, had been just as reticent to comment, as had the rest of the senior White House staff. In short, there was no explanation as to why the president was willing to let the Sudanese government get away with murdering his own niece. As the silence stretched on, it became more and more obvious that nothing was going to happen, and then the inevitable came about as a result. Public sympathy for Brenneman’s personal loss began to erode, along with his approval ratings. Now, two months after that tragic incident, he was facing the darkest days of his presidency.
Reynolds tossed back what remained of the potent brew in his cup, turned away from the window, and took a seat at his desk, absently scanning the dusty surface, which was cluttered with books and stacks of unread files. He was conflicted inside. In the end a president’s approval was a visceral thing for Americans, less about his specific policies than an estimation of character. To some extent, he couldn’t blame them for abandoning Brenneman. After all, how could they be expected to support a man who wouldn’t stand up for his own family? More to the point, if he wasn’t willing to act on behalf of one person, how could he possibly be counted on when the lives of hundreds, thousands, or millions of Americans were at stake?
These were fair questions, and yet, Reynolds had met David Brenneman on several occasions, and he couldn’t bring himself to concede that the press had it right. He couldn’t accept the idea that Brenneman had sacrificed the memory of his niece, mainly because nothing in his past-including a record of commitment to fulfilling the promises he’d made as a candidate, and a willingness to buck the polls and his opposition in order to overcome Washington’s inertial tendencies-suggested that he was the type to cave in without a fight, especially to a hardened thug like Omar al-Bashir. At the same time, the evidence was laid bare for all to see, and the senior diplomat had to admit that it didn’t look good. Brenneman’s inaction seemed to speak for itself, and even Walter Reynolds, one of the president’s staunchest supporters, couldn’t help but wonder if the pundits had been right all along. Maybe the man had lost his nerve.
As he sat there brooding at his desk, he checked his watch with a combination of annoyance and frustration. The person he was expecting was late, but Reynolds supposed that was his prerogative. After all, somebody with the consultant’s political backing did not have to be prompt for anyone, especially a washed-up old diplomat with a terrible diet, an aversion to exercise, and the waistline to show for it. In recent months, Reynolds had taken to wearing oversize sport coats and loose-fitting pants to accommodate his bulk. The way he saw it, there was no point in being uncomfortable, as he and his counterpart in the foreign ministry were still giving each other the silent treatment. It was a battle of nerves that didn’t seem likely to end anytime soon, and since he was holed up in his office all day, there was no reason not to take advantage of a less stringent dress code.
At least, that was the usual state of affairs. Today, in deference to the status of his mysterious visitor, he had made an effort to spruce up his appearance. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a dark blue suit of worsted wool, and polished wing tips. A scarlet tie completed the picture. He was extremely uncomfortable-the tie was cutting off his air, and probably contributing to his reflux in some arcane medical way-but with three decades of government service in his portfolio, Reynolds knew when it was time to make a show of himself, and this was one of those rare occasions.
He had learned of the impending visit the previous day. When his secretary appeared in the door to announce that Scott Linton was on the line, Reynolds had smiled and heaved a sigh of relief. Even before he’d picked up the phone, he knew what it meant. Linton was a heavy hitter, the assistant secretary of state for consular affairs at the State Department, and his call could only mean one thing: that the U.S. Embassy to the Republic of the Sudan was about to be closed down, its staff pulled out of the country. With Linton’s call, it had looked like the long wait was over. The president had finally decided to make a stand.
When he picked up the phone, though, it had not been Linton on the line. Instead, a young man had asked him to hold for Brynn Fitzgerald, the secretary of state. Reynolds, in a state of shock, had stuttered a few clumsy words in response to Fitzgerald’s greeting, but before he could redeem himself, she had come straight to the point. A man whom she murkily described as-quote unquote-a consultant to the president would be arriving in Khartoum the following day, and she would appreciate it if Reynolds would extend him every courtesy during his stay in the country, which she characterized as open-ended…again, using her exact words.
Although Fitzgerald had relayed this request with unfailing courtesy, Reynolds was left with the distinct impression that the consultant’s visit was not to be taken lightly. The veiled speech seemed only to confirm this notion, as did Fitzgerald’s next instructions, which were delivered in a much firmer tone. Reynolds was to keep the consultant’s visit a closely guarded secret. No one was to be told about it, and there was to be no record of his arrival or departure at the embassy. Reynolds, with no room or desire to argue, had agreed readily to these conditions, and Fitzgerald had promptly ended the call, leaving him with the better part of a day to muse over the strange conversation and what it might mean for him and his staff of seventy.
Although he had come up with plenty of possibilities, Reynolds had not been able to hit on the true nature of the consultant’s mission in Sudan. He could think of nothing that would justify such secrecy, or a call from someone as highly placed as Brynn Fitzgerald. In fact, the whole thing was so unusual that he had started to think he had dreamed it up.
But that clearly wasn’t the case. His secretary was standing in the door, and she was trying to get his attention.
“Yes, Joyce?” he asked, though he already knew.
“Your three o’clock is here, sir. He’s on the way up.”
Reynolds nodded and pulled at his tie. He still had no idea why the consultant had traveled as far as he had, or what he might possibly want, for that matter. But there was no point in worrying about it now. He had waited this long, after all, and he would have his answers soon enough.
“Good,” he said. “When he arrives, send him right in.”
CHAPTER 6
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
The redbrick town house that served as both home and office to Allison Dearborn, PsyD, EdD, was located in the Bolton Hill section of Baltimore, a short drive from the grand Victorian dome and towers of the Johns Hopkins Hospital, where she had completed her residency in the midnineties, after an earlier internship at Mayo, and now served as an affiliate clinical psychologist. For five years in between, she’d worked in Washington, D.C., as a screening, evaluation, and crisis-intervention counselor for the CIA…although once the Agency recognized her outstanding skills as a therapist, the latter area of specialization had come to occupy most of her time. Inside and outside the office.