He watched as the younger man approached. Instead of sliding into the opposite seat, though, Kealey stopped a few feet away and fixed him with a calm, steady gaze.
“What are you doing here?”
Harper did not immediately respond, even though he knew he was pushing his luck by ignoring the question. Instead, he took a moment to look the other man over. Kealey had replaced most of the weight he’d lost the previous year, but while his upper body was reasonably filled out, his face was still gaunt, suggesting that he’d packed on the pounds in a hurry. The lingering effects of the bullet he’d taken in Pakistan showed in the hard lines that creased his deeply tanned skin, as well as the dark shadows beneath his deep-set eyes. He had not shaven in several weeks, judging from the thick, uneven growth on the lower half of his face, and his lank black hair looked as if it hadn’t been trimmed in months.
The man’s appearance did not inspire a great deal of confidence. It never had, for that matter, but Kealey seemed to have reached a new low in that department. Harper couldn’t help but feel that if he were to take away the black leather jacket, dark jeans, and Columbia hiking boots, Ryan Kealey, in his current state, would look more like a transient than the highly trained counterterrorist operative he actually was. Before flying into Pretoria, Harper’s primary concern had been whether or not he could talk the younger man into coming back. Now, faced with this less than encouraging picture, he was starting to wonder if he should even try.
Harper shook it off, reminding himself of what Kealey had done the previous week. On the flight over, he had read a detailed account of the attack on Jacob Zuma’s motorcade in Johannesburg. The details of that report, if nothing else, assured him that Kealey had not lost a step in the last year, despite the lasting effects of his wounds. More than that, Harper reminded himself that the man standing before him had never failed to achieve his given objective, and perfect track records were hard to come by in their line of work. That the current situation had nothing to do with Kealey’s specialty didn’t concern the deputy director in the least. Kealey’s skills were not only unique but highly transferable, and Harper had no doubt that he would able to bring them to bear in the forthcoming weeks, assuming he accepted the task at hand.
Still ignoring the pointed question, Harper appraised the younger man carefully, his face giving nothing away. “How have you been, Ryan? It’s been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Kealey replied. His flat tone seemed to indicate that Harper’s visit was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, easily remedied. “Why are you here, John? What do you want?”
Harper sighed wearily and gestured at the opposite seat. “Sit down for a minute, will you? I flew eight thousand miles to see you, Ryan… It’s the least you can do.”
Kealey stared at him a long while, impassive, then slid into the booth on the opposite side. Harper was momentarily surprised by the man’s ready compliance, but he quickly realized that the gesture meant nothing at all. Although it was warm inside the bar, Kealey hadn’t removed his jacket, and he hadn’t ordered a drink. There was nothing keeping him there but the history between them, and Harper knew that would take him only so far. He would have to get to the point quickly, or risk losing the man once and for all.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.
“When my bodyguards disappeared this afternoon, I decided it could only be one of two things,” Kealey replied. “Either someone in the SAPS got the security pulled so they could get to me, or you were in town. I was hoping for the former.”
Harper ignored the unsubtle jab. The “bodyguards” Kealey was referring to had been supplied through a directive issued by President Jacob Zuma himself. The orders had been handed down less than twenty-four hours after the failed assassination in Johannesburg. Since officers in the South African Police Service had been behind the attempt on Zuma’s life, the entire organization had been deemed compromised. With few options remaining, Kealey’s protective detail had been culled from the ranks of the South African Army. His personal security team consisted of four enlisted soldiers and one officer, an infantry captain, all of whom had been pulled from their regular duties at Special Forces headquarters in Pretoria.
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 amp; 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?”