The Invisible

By Andrew Britton

Tensions between Pakistan and India are at an all-time high. To complicate matters, twelve American climbers have disappeared in Pakistan's Hindu Kush range. As the conflict escalates, the U.S. Secretary of State's motorcade is ambushed on the outskirts of Islamabad. When her back-up team arrives, they discover a disastrous scene: dozens are dead, including seven diplomatic security agents, and the secretary of state has vanished without a trace.

In the wake of the unprecedented attack, CIA agent Ryan Kealey's operation goes into high gear. Naomi Kharmai, the British-born analyst who has taken on a daring new role with the Agency, is on his team again. But Kharmai is becoming increasingly unpredictable, and as they work their way toward the target, it becomes clear to Kealey that anyone is fair game--and no one can be trusted.

Thundering to a stark and chilling climax, The Invisible raises the stakes on every page. A crackingly intelligent thriller, it is filled with shocking betrayal and, ultimately, revenge.

Praise for Andrew Britton and his novels. . .

"Brilliantly well-written. . .a sizzling page-turner." --Brad Thor, New York Times bestselling author of Blowback and State of the Union

"Terrifying and gripping." --Stephen Frey, New York Times bestselling author of The Successor

"In this age of terrorism, [Britton's] plots seem to jump straight out of the headlines." --St. Louis Post Dispatch

"Exciting. . .high-octane action."--Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pinnacle Books
• Release date: Jan 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9780786021710

Andrew Britton

Born in England, Andrew Britton moved with his family to the United States when he was seven, settling in Michigan, then North Carolina. After serving in the Army as a combat engineer, Andrew entered the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and received his degree just before his death in 2008, at the age of 27.

Book preview

harm.

PROLOGUE

THE KARAKORAM HIGHWAY (KKH), PAKISTAN

In Rebeka Česnik’s opinion, the view, even when seen through the cracked window of the ancient bus winding its way down from Kashgar to Islamabad, was simply magnificent. Perfect. Stunning in every conceivable way. These were the words she had used to describe every trip she’d ever taken, and her effusive comments always made her friends and relatives smile, though it had taken her quite a while—the better part of her life, in fact—to understand just why that was.

Her mother had been the one to finally let her in on the joke. That had been a few years earlier, shortly after Rebeka joined Frommer’s as a travel photographer. At the time, the observation had struck her as not only true, but slightly humorous. Even now the memory made her smile, but she couldn’t dispute her mother’s words.

It’s a good thing you took up photography instead of writing, she had said, because no matter where you go, your descriptions are always the same. Every place you visit is just as perfect as the last.

It was a true enough statement, Rebeka supposed, though she’d never really dwelled on her lack of verbal creativity. All she cared about was her traveling and her art, and to her great satisfaction, she’d been able to make a successful living with both. She’d always had the ability to pick out a unique, compelling scene, but that wasn’t enough for her. Nor was it enough to satisfy her extremely demanding employers. Instead, her goal was to pull the readers into the photograph, to draw them away from the article itself. It was a lot to aspire to, as the magazines she worked for employed some of the best writers in the business. Moreover, it was nearly impossible to capture the grandeur of the things she saw on a regular basis. Still, judging by the awards and accolades she had racked up over her short career—including the prestigious Hasselblad Award in 2006—she had managed to make her mark in an industry brimming with talent, and that was no small feat.

Rebeka had embarked on her current career after winning a regional photography contest at seventeen years of age. She’d started shooting on an amateur basis in 2002 with a secondhand Minolta Dynax 8000i. The camera had been a gift from a spoiled cousin who’d since moved on to more expensive hobbies, and she’d fallen in love with it instantly. Her love of travel, however, dated back to her childhood, and she sometimes wondered why it had taken her so long to work her two favorite hobbies into what had become a spectacular career. She had grown up on the Soča River in the Julian Alps, not far from the famed Predjama Castle, and she credited the gorgeous scenery of her childhood with sparking not only her interest in nature, but her desire to see as much of it as possible.

Since leaving Frommer’s the previous year, she had embarked on freelance assignments for Time, Newsweek, Le Monde, National Geographic, and Nača žena in her native Slovenia, just to name a few. Those assignments had given her the opportunity to visit fourteen countries over the course of two short years, in addition to the twelve she’d already seen, and she had thoroughly documented her journeys—not only with her camera, but also in her journal, by far her most treasured possession. Every assignment carried with it the promise of a new adventure, but as she stared out the window, ignoring the unpleasant sway of the bus on the steep mountain road, she couldn’t help but think that the snowcapped peaks surrounding the Hunza Valley had surpassed her wildest expectations. A brief shower earlier in the day had given way to a spectacularly clear blue sky, and the afternoon sun made the snow-topped spires in the distance glisten in ways she could never hope to capture on film. It didn’t happen often, but there were times when she knew she could never do justice to the scenery, and while those moments were among the most thrilling of her personal life, they were hard to accept professionally. Still, she wouldn’t have traded the sight for anything.

After a while the bus rocked slightly to the right as it swept around the mountain, and the splendid sight of Tirich Mir—the highest peak in the Hindu Kush range—faded from view as the bus began the long descent into Khunjerab National Park. Disappointed with the change in scenery, Rebeka turned in her seat and let her gaze drift over her fellow passengers. The vehicle was filled to capacity, which wasn’t surprising, given the time of year. Many were climbers destined for the world’s most challenging peaks, and they were assured of permits only during the summer months. She had traveled with these people for weeks on end, and she’d come to know most of them fairly well.

Sitting directly across from her was Beni Abruzzi, the rakish, handsome, long-limbed climber from Brescia. He was talking—with animated gestures, as always—to Umberto Verga, his stocky Sicilian cousin. Umberto rarely spoke, and when he did, it sounded more like a series of grunts than actual speech, but Beni was only too happy to pick up his cousin’s slack. He’d served as a caporal maggiore, an infantry corporal, in the Italian army. He’d also spent some time in Iraq, a fact he’d mentioned more times than Rebeka cared to remember. Abruzzi had spent hours bragging about his military exploits, and while Rebeka believed most of his stories, she wasn’t impressed in the least. Unsurprisingly, the Italian’s gaze was presently fixed on the trio of pretty Norwegian nurses who had joined them in Tashkurgan. That had been two hours earlier, and forty minutes before the bus crossed from China into Pakistan via the Khunjerab Pass, the highest point on the Karakoram Highway.

There was also the downtrodden group of Danish climbers who’d arrived at K2 four days earlier with the goal of summiting, only to turn back at base camp in Concordia, and a small knot of aging Canadian trekkers. There was even a renowned American geologist by the name of Timothy Welch. The professor emeritus from the University of Colorado seemed to spend a great deal of time staring at his hands and muttering under his breath, which Česnik found both amusing and a little unnerving.

Beni managed to catch her eye, but she turned away before he could fix her with his usual lascivious stare. To cover her reaction, she hastily pulled her journal out of her Berghaus pack, undid the clasp, and started to scribble a few notes, catching up on the events of the past few days. It was hard to concentrate under the lean climber’s intense gaze. She’d done her best to make her disinterest clear, but her efforts had clearly been wasted. Although she was just twenty-three—the same age as Abruzzi—Rebeka had accomplished a great deal in her young life. For this reason, she tended to look down on many people her own age. She knew it was snobbish, but she couldn’t help it; she was a driven woman, and that meant things like men, sex, and partying didn’t figure high on her list of priorities.

At the same time, she knew her looks had given her a considerable boost in her current career—that they would have helped her in any career. She took this in stride, though, and it didn’t change the way she viewed her success. After all, she’d seen the recent U.S. edition of Outside magazine, and her picture on the page of contributing journalists had not been any larger than that of the editor in chief, a decidedly unattractive Swede in his midsixties. This discovery had only confirmed what she already knew: that it was her talent—not her looks—that had made her one of the world’s most sought-after young photographers.

She looked up, startled out of her reverie as the bus shuddered, the driver downshifting suddenly. Craning her neck, Rebeka saw a number of vehicles parked alongside the road up ahead, men milling about on the paved surface. As the bus rolled forward, the scene came into focus, and she saw something that chilled her blood.

Rifles. Every man in sight was heavily armed, and there were plenty of men. Judging by the low rumble of voices in the surrounding seats, everyone else was just as confused and concerned as she was. Passports and visas were frequently checked on the KKH, but this wasn’t one of the scheduled stops. As far as Rebeka knew, they still had miles to go before they reached the next Pakistani checkpoint. Tensions between General Musharraf’s government and that of Indian prime minister Manmohan Singh had been rising steadily over the past few months, but this was the first time she’d seen any tangible evidence of the escalating situation.

She only hoped she was right, that it wasn’t something else entirely. Bandits had always been a problem on the Karakoram Highway, though guarding against them was usually just a matter of taking the proper precautions, such as not traveling alone or after dark. As it stood, it was midafternoon, still light, and they were nowhere near the Line of Control—the heavily guarded border that separates the disputed territory between Pakistan and India. In short, these were about the best conditions a traveler on the KKH could ask for.

The bus ground to a gentle halt, and the doors at the front banged open. The air in the vehicle seemed unusually thick, and no one was making a sound. Rebeka realized they were waiting to see what would happen, just as she was. But then a man appeared at the front, and the collective tension seemed to drain away. The man standing next to the driver and surveying the passengers was wearing the uniform of a Pakistani army captain. Rebeka felt her breath come a little bit easier, and she wasn’t concerned in the least when the captain asked them all to disembark and present their passports. Realizing that the soldiers might poke through their belongings, she slipped her journal under her coat. She wouldn’t be surprised to get back on and find some items missing from her pack, and while most of it was replaceable, the journal was the one thing she couldn’t bear to lose.

She was sitting near the back of the vehicle, so she had to wait for the passengers up front to disembark. As they began to line up on the side of the road, documentation in hand, Rebeka saw a rare opportunity and decided to take it. The soldiers seemed to be unusually wrapped up in their task, so she dug out her camera—a Canon EOS-1V with an 85mm lens already affixed—and carefully lifted it above the ledge of the window. She took a few quick shots with the flash disabled, hoping to capture her fellow passengers’ frustrated expressions. It wasn’t part of her assignment, but she happened to know a freelance writer who was doing a story on corruption in the Pakistani army, and she thought she might be able to get some mileage out of the photographs.

Once she’d fired off a half-dozen shots, Rebeka quickly lowered the camera and checked to see if anyone had noticed. It didn’t look like it, but either way, she had run out of time; the front of the bus was nearly empty, and a young soldier was striding toward the open doors.

Rebeka quickly ejected the film, dropped it into a spare tube, and slipped it into her pack. She had just gotten to her feet when the soldier reached the back of the bus and gestured toward the camera. Shouting something she didn’t understand, he grabbed her free arm with his left hand, then reached for her camera with the other. She pulled it away instinctively, but he leaned in and managed to knock it out of her hand. Then, as she watched in disbelief, he kicked it toward the back of the vehicle.

What do you think you’re doing? she shouted in English, tugging free of the soldier’s grasp. Do you have any idea how expensive that was? As soon as we get back to Islamabad, I’m going to—

She never got the words out. The soldier slammed a fist into her stomach, then slapped her hard across the face. Rebeka’s knees banged against the edge of the seat as her body followed the blow. She hit the plastic cushion hard, tears springing to her eyes as she struggled for air. Momentarily stunned, she didn’t fight as the soldier reached down and wrapped a hand in her hair, yanking her to her feet. Hunched forward and crying out with pain, she reached behind her head and frantically tried to pull his fist apart as he marched her to the front of the vehicle. Once they had reached the driver’s seat, he released her and shoved her hard down the stairs.

Rebeka tumbled through the open doors. As she hit the ground awkwardly, something gave way in her shoulder with an audible pop. Although her head was swimming with confusion and fear, she instantly tried to prop herself up using her right elbow. It was completely instinctive, but it was also a huge mistake; her shoulder instantly screamed with agony, and she screamed in turn, collapsing onto her side. Ten seconds later, the young Pakistani stepped off the bus and walked past her, carrying the broken remains of her camera.

Her fellow passengers were starting to resist, having realized that something was wrong. Shifting her weight to her left elbow, Rebeka managed to sit up and take in the scene, though her vision was still slightly blurred. She watched as Umberto Verga stepped forward and spat a few words in halting Punjabi to one of the guards, who immediately tried to push the hefty climber back into line. Verga barely moved, but his face turned red with indignation. Taking another step forward, he slapped aside the barrel of the Pakistani’s rifle. Rebeka watched in a daze as Verga repeated his question in English, and although he was standing about 30 feet away, he was shouting so loud, she could hear every word.

What the fuck did you hit her for? the Sicilian bellowed, spit flying out of his mouth. His heavily bearded face was just a few inches from that of the soldier. Who do you think you are, you little shit? Do you have any idea what you’re starting here?

She was vaguely surprised to see Umberto jumping to her defense, especially since he had never muttered more than a few words in her direction. But her surprise quickly turned to horrified disbelief when the Pakistani took two steps back, whipped the AK-47 up to his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. A number of rounds punched into Verga’s barrel chest. The Sicilian took two uncertain steps back, then spiraled to the ground, shock carved into his weathered face.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence. Then the passengers started to scream, everyone running in different directions. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go. Nothing but flat plains in every direction, all of which led up to mountainous peaks, and the soldiers had clearly planned for this possibility. They had arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the bus, and they didn’t seem to panic as the passengers scattered. Instead, they fanned out to a greater degree. Strangely enough, nobody fired a shot. Above the panicked screams, a sonorous voice pleaded for calm in cultured English.

Rebeka, still propped up on her left elbow, watched it all unfold in a dreamlike state. Part of her was hoping she was right, that it was just a dream, but she couldn’t deny what had happened to Umberto Verga, and she couldn’t deny what was happening now.

A sudden noise caught her attention, and she realized the bus was pulling away, the rear tires kicking up a spray of crushed gravel. She felt pebbles stinging the right side of her face, then heard a high-pitched whine as the vehicle shifted into second gear. A hoarse voice carried over the cacophony, giving a command in Punjabi. It was the same voice that had called out in English earlier, but it had taken on a different, harder tone. The next thing she heard was the sound of gunfire, immediately followed by splintering glass. There was a loud thump, the sound of a vehicle crashing into a shallow ditch. Then there was nothing, save for a few distant sobs and the steady hum of an idling engine.

Looking around, Rebeka saw that the soldiers had taken on a less threatening posture, their weapons pointed toward the ground, faces fixed in neutral expressions. The leader seemed to be holding court, his rifle slung over his chest, hands raised in a calming gesture. He was speaking in English, but Rebeka couldn’t make out the specific words, her ears still ringing from the earlier blow. Whatever he was saying seemed to be working; her fellow passengers had mostly lapsed into silence and were moving back toward the soldiers cautiously. As Rebeka watched from a distance, Beni Abruzzi stumbled forward and dropped to his knees beside his cousin’s body, his mouth working silently. The other passengers seemed equally glued to the disturbing sight, but nevertheless, they kept moving forward. It was as if they recognized the futility of running, that for the moment, their best option was to comply, to adhere to their captors’ demands.

Captors. The word seemed to lodge in her head for some reason, even though these men were dressed as soldiers. To the north, a rapidly approaching truck was kicking up plumes of dust on the KKH, its windshield sparkling in the pale yellow sun. The armed Pakistanis didn’t seem to notice the vehicle, which gave Rebeka a very bad feeling. After what they had just done, they wouldn’t be looking for extra attention. As her head cleared, the truth started to dawn, piece by piece, like a jigsaw puzzle coming together before her eyes. Only this puzzle was forming a picture she didn’t want to see: the soldiers were expecting the truck.

They didn’t need the bus, because they had the truck. They were going to leave the bus all along, because it served as a message. The bus was proof of what had happened here, and the truck was taking them somewhere else.

They were being kidnapped.

When the truth hit her, Rebeka was overcome by a wave of foreboding. She had read accounts of journalists who’d been caught up in similar situations, but she also knew of the larger number who had not survived to tell their tale. Still, despite the fear that clenched her gut, she didn’t visibly react. Instead, she just stared around, wondering if any of her fellow travelers had figured it out. Part of her wanted to fight this injustice, so she staggered to her feet and hunched over at the waist for a second, trying to stop her head from spinning.

Once she’d pushed down the worst of the nausea, she straightened and turned to look for the leader, the man who’d calmed the other travelers with his gentle command of the English language. Rebeka couldn’t pick him out, but she did see the cargo truck, which had come to a halt 20 meters away. Her fellow travelers were now facedown on the ground, their hands being tied behind their backs. Most were lying passively, but a few were struggling, and two or three weren’t moving at all. Looking closer, she realized that the still figures were bleeding profusely from head wounds. She didn’t think they’d been shot—she hadn’t heard any additional gunfire—but even from a distance, she could recognize how serious their injuries were.

A soldier was moving toward her, boots crunching over the coarse gravel, his rifle slung over his chest. He smiled, produced a strange-looking length of cord, and gestured for her to turn around. She did so slowly, struggling to suppress her fear. Her hands were pulled gently behind her, then bound securely with the plastic restraints. Feeling a tap on her uninjured shoulder, she turned once more. This time, however, the soldier was no longer smiling. Holding his weapon in both hands, he pulled his arms in tight at shoulder height, then whipped the butt of the rifle forward, directly into her face.

Rebeka saw a flash of bright light, then felt a sudden, blinding pain, her head snapping back with the force of the blow.

Her legs gave way, and everything went blessedly, mercifully black.

CHAPTER 1

ORAEFI, ICELAND

The whitewashed hotel at the foot of the Svínafellsjökull Glacier was simple, comfortable, and nearly empty, even though the roads were clear and spring had just given way to the short Arctic summer. In short, it was everything the lone traveler had been looking for when he’d walked into town two days earlier, legs aching from a day’s worth of arduous trekking. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d departed the sprawling capital of Reykjavík, based 200 miles to the west, and he’d spent most of that time crossing the bleak Icelandic wilderness on foot. The Skaftafell Hotel seemed almost luxurious after his previous accommodations, a cramped, foul-smelling hut on the Morsárdalur mountain track. Still, he would have been satisfied with much less.

Southeastern Iceland was only the latest stop on what had become a prolonged expedition to some of the world’s most challenging environments. Ryan Kealey wasn’t exactly starting from scratch, as he’d spent his teens and early twenties hiking and climbing in places ranging from Washington’s Mount Rainier to Ben Nevis in Scotland, but he’d never pushed himself as hard as he had in recent months. He knew where this sudden desire to test himself had come from, but while he had tried to address the source, he’d been unable to come up with any real answers. In large part, this was because he couldn’t find the woman who’d caused him so much pain and frustration, despite his best efforts and high-level connections.

She’d walked out in January, four months after a terrorist attack in New York City that had nearly claimed her life. Kealey had waited for two months, putting out feelers, calling in favors, but it had gotten him nowhere. By the time March rolled around, he’d finally admitted defeat, accepting that she didn’t want to be found. He’d pushed it aside for another few weeks, but then, tired of sitting around with nothing to do but think about her, he’d decided to strike out on his own. His only goal at the time was to clear his head, lose himself in the raw, primitive beauty of the world’s most isolated regions.

That had been three months earlier. Since then he’d climbed Denali in Alaska, Kilimanjaro in northeastern Tanzania, and Mount Cook in the Southern Alps of New Zealand. He’d crossed Chile’s Atacama Desert at its widest point, scaled Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains, and completed the 60-mile, six-day Paine Circuit in Patagonia. He had beaten his body to the point of sheer exhaustion and then had pushed harder, but nothing had helped. It had taken him half a year to figure it out, but the truth had been staring him right in the face the whole time. No matter what he did or where he went, he couldn’t stop thinking about Naomi Kharmai.

Kealey had been sorting it through in his mind since the day she’d disappeared, trying to figure out what he could have said or done to stop her from leaving. It was hard to pick out the worst part about the whole situation. It was all bad, but some aspects were worse than others. When he thought about it honestly, it wasn’t the fact that she had left that troubled him most. What really bothered him was her inability to face the past. The terrorist attack that nearly claimed her life the previous September had left her scarred in more ways than one, and while Kealey had done his best to help her through it, she had never fully recovered. At least not on the inside. In fact, the last time he’d seen her, she was still very much in denial.

It weighed heavily on him, and it was hard not to feel a sense of personal failure. If she had left because she needed more than what he had to offer, that would have been one thing. It would have been hard, but he could have dealt with it. What concerned him was that she might have gotten worse since walking out—that she might have spiraled further into her inner sanctum of guilt, grief, and depression. He didn’t want to push her, but he would have given anything to hear her voice, if only to know that she was still alive.

Shifting the weight of the pack on his shoulders, Kealey crossed the dark gravel expanse of the parking lot, heading toward the hotel’s main entrance. Stopping well short of the building’s lights, he looked up and appraised the clear night sky. The stars had come out an hour earlier, and they were shockingly bright, given the dimly lit surrounding countryside. Svínafellsjökull towered behind the low-slung building, the glacier itself a dark silhouette against the deep navy backdrop. Ribbons of green light seemed to ripple and dance in the crisp, clean mountain air. The aurora borealis—better known as the northern lights—was something that he’d never seen before landing in Keflavík, and the sight was at once ethereal and incredibly eerie.

After admiring the view for a few minutes more, Kealey pulled open the door and nodded hello to the plump, smiling receptionist. She returned the gesture and went back to her crossword puzzle as he climbed the stairs, making his way up to the bar on the second floor. The worn oak doors were propped open, dim light flickering into the hall. Stepping into the room, he pulled off his wool knit watch cap, ran a hand through his lank black hair, and started toward the bar. The walls were paneled in pale oak, uninspired prints hanging around the room and above the fireplace, where a small fire was burning. The dark green couches, shiny with wear, complemented the worn carpet perfectly, and burgundy velvet drapes hung behind the bar itself, where a morose young man stood guard behind the small selection of taps. Kealey had just finished ordering a beer when he sensed movement over by one of the large windows. He turned and stared for a few seconds, appraising the solitary figure. Then he lifted a hand in cautious greeting. Turning back to the bar, he revised his order, his mind racing. Less than a minute later he was walking across the room, a pint glass in each hand, wondering what might have brought this particular visitor halfway around the world.

Jonathan Harper was seated with his back to the wall, his right foot hooked casually over his left knee. He was dressed in dark jeans, Merrell hiking boots, and a gray V-neck sweater, but despite his youthful attire, the deputy DCI—the second-highest-ranking official in the Central Intelligence Agency—looked far older than his forty-three years. His neat brown hair was just starting to gray at the temples, but his face was gaunt, and his skin was shockingly pale. His mannerisms were even more noticeable. He seemed shaky and slightly guarded, but also resigned, like an old man who senses the end is near. All of this was to be expected, though, and Kealey knew it could have been worse. In truth, the man was extremely lucky to still be alive.

Kealey placed the beers on the water-stained table, shrugged off his jacket, and slid into the opposite seat. They appraised each other for a long moment. Finally, Harper offered a slight smile and extended a hand, which the younger man took.

Good to see you, Ryan. It’s been a long time.

I suppose so, Kealey said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in a casual way. About seven months, I guess. When did you get here?

I flew into Keflavík this morning, but the bus only arrived a few hours ago.

Sorry to keep you waiting. How have you been?

Not bad, all things considered. Harper took a short pull on his lager, coughed sharply, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The doctors are happy enough, so I guess that’s something.

And Julie?

She’s fine. I think she secretly enjoys having a patient again, though she’d never admit it.

Knowing her, it wouldn’t surprise me at all, Kealey replied. He knew that Harper’s wife had worked for years as a head nurse at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, one of the best hospitals in the country. The smile faded from his face as he debated going forward with his next question. Finally, he went ahead and asked it.

What about Jane Doe? Any luck on that front?

Not a thing. I’m starting to think we’ll never find her. Even if we did, it’s not like we could hand her over to the FBI. There just isn’t enough evidence to charge her with anything. They never found the gun, you know.

Kealey nodded slowly. Eight months earlier, the newly appointed deputy director had narrowly survived an assassination attempt in Washington, D.C. The attack had taken place on the front step of his brownstone on General’s Row, just as he was stretching after his morning run. Harper had been facing away from his armed assailant when the first shot was fired. The .22-caliber round penetrated his lower back, then ricocheted off the third rib and up through the right lung. The second and third rounds had torn into his upper arm as he turned toward the shooter, and the fourth had punched a hole in his chest, missing his heart by less than an inch.

The woman had been moving forward as she fired, and by the time the fourth round left the muzzle of her gun, she was less than 10 feet from her target. As she approached to fire the fatal shot, a D.C. Metro police cruiser had squealed to a halt on Q Street, lights flashing. The police officer’s arrival on the scene had been pure chance, nothing but luck, but it had saved the deputy director’s life. The woman fired at the officer as he stepped out of the vehicle, killing him instantly, but the distraction gave Julie Harper—who had been making coffee when the first shots were fired—the chance to open the door and pull her husband inside to safety.

Unfortunately, the would-be assassin managed to escape in the ensuing chaos, even though the Metro Police Department was able to seal off the surrounding streets with astonishing speed. What followed was one of the largest manhunts in U.S. history, but despite the enormous resources it had thrown into the search, the government had yet to track her down.

The CIA had looked harder and longer than anyone else, of course, and in time, they’d managed to dig up a few tenuous leads. Jane Doe had been involved with a former Special Forces soldier named William Vanderveen. In 1997, while on deployment in Syria, Vanderveen had made the decision to sell his skills to some of the world’s most dangerous terrorist organizations. From that point forward, he’d earned—through countless acts of cold-blooded murder—his status as one of the most wanted men in the world. The connection between Vanderveen and the would-be assassin was based on photographs taken in London by Britain’s Security Service, MI5. The men who took the shots were assigned to A branch, Section 4, the Five unit tasked with domestic surveillance. The shots showed Vanderveen and the unknown woman walking side by side in the heart of the city, but despite the excellent image resolution, the photographs had proved useless. The Agency’s facial recognition software had failed to find a reliable match in the database. MI5, the French DGSE, and the Israeli Mossad had also come up empty, as had a number of other friendly intelligence services.

In other words, the woman was a black hole, a nonentity. Kealey knew how much it bothered Harper that she’d never been caught, but as he’d just said, there had been no progress on that front. This realization brought Kealey to his next point.

John, it’s good to see you again, but what exactly are you doing here?

The deputy director didn’t respond right away. Instead, he picked up his beer and swirled the contents thoughtfully.

I’m surprised to hear you ask me that first, he finally said. I thought you might be wondering how I found you. He looked up and studied the younger man. You know, I have a few questions of my own. For instance, I’d like to know why you haven’t set foot on U.S. soil in two and a half months. I mean, I spend half that time looking for you, and when I finally catch up, I find you… He trailed off and lifted his arms, as if to include the whole country.

There was an unspoken question there, but Kealey wasn’t sure how to answer it. When he’d set out three months earlier, it was without a plan. Without a real idea of what he was looking for. But whatever it was, he’d found it on the alpine tundra and the vast, seemingly endless ice fields of Iceland. He’d found it in Alaska, Tanzania, Patagonia, and all the other places he’d seen in recent months. For lack of a better word, it was solitude, the kind of terrain where one could walk for days without hearing a sound other than the wind. It was what he had wanted at the time—what he still wanted, to a certain degree—and he couldn’t explain why. Naomi’s disappearance had played a role, but that was only part of it. Something else had instilled in him the desire to get away from it all, though he had yet to identify the secondary cause for his restless behavior.

I’d also like to know where you picked up a French passport in the name of Joseph Briand, Harper continued. He paused expectantly. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to volunteer the information.

Kealey gave a wan smile, and that was answer enough.

I didn’t think so. It’s funny, seeing how you don’t even speak French. A Saudi passport would have been far more—

Comment savez-vous que je ne parle pas français?

"Okay, so you speak a little French. The older man couldn’t conceal a small, fleeting smile of his own. It’s good to see you’re expanding your horizons."

Just trying to keep my mind active.

Sounds like you’re ready to return to the ranks.

Not in this lifetime. Kealey shook his head and looked away. And if that’s why you’re here, John, you’re wasting your time. I’m not interested. I’ve done my part.

We’ve already played this game, Ryan, on more occasions than I care to recall. You say the same thing every time, but when it comes down to the wire, you always—

I meant it when I said it before, the younger man shot back. And I mean it now. His face tightened suddenly, his dark eyes retreating to some hidden point in the past. I just didn’t walk away when I should have. That was my biggest mistake. There was always something else that had to be done. Before it was Vanderveen, and at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. But you know what it cost me to track him down, and then last year, with Naomi…

Harper nodded slowly, his face assuming a somber expression. I know what it cost you, Ryan, and I know what it cost Naomi. He hesitated, then said, You may not believe this, but I personally advised the president against bringing you into this matter. I told him everything you just said to me. I told him that you’ve done your part. That you wouldn’t be interested. He didn’t want to hear a word. After what you did in New York last year, he won’t have it any other way. As far as David Brenneman is concerned, you’re the first and only choice, at least when it comes to the current situation.

And you couldn’t say no to the president, Kealey said sarcastically. Is that it? He didn’t bother asking what the current situation was; simply put, he didn’t care to know.

That’s part of it, Harper conceded. But there’s another reason you need to be involved, and once you hear me out, I think you’ll feel the same way.

Kealey studied the older man for a long moment without speaking. Jonathan Harper was one of the smartest people he knew, but he could also be extremely manipulative. They had known each other for nearly a decade, ever since Harper had first sheep-dipped him for an off-the-books assignment in Syria. Sheep-dipping was a term that referred to the temporary recruitment of active-duty soldiers for black, or deniable, operations. Usually, the CIA had a hand in the process, and Kealey’s first task was no exception. At the time he had been a captain in the U.S. Army’s 3rd Special Forces Group, and that assignment—the assassination of a senior Islamic militant—had changed him forever, as well as putting him on the path to a new career.

Since then, he and Harper had become good friends, but the job always came first, and Kealey knew the other man wouldn’t hesitate to impose on their relationship. He had done it before, and Kealey had always been up to the task. He wanted to refuse this time and knew he would have been justified in doing so. But while the older man’s face was as implacable as ever, there was something in his tone that gave Kealey pause. He could tell there was more to the current situation than Harper was letting on, and that made the decision for him.

Okay, he said. I’ll hear what you have to say, but I’m not committing to anything. Let’s get that straight from the start. Kealey lifted his glass and drained the contents. What’s this about, anyway?

Harper pushed a plain manila folder across the table, then rose and collected their empty glasses. Read through that, and then we’ll talk.

CHAPTER 2

ORAEFI

"This guy doesn’t have much of a track record, Kealey said ten minutes later. He closed the folder and tossed it onto the table. And there’s nothing in that pile of paper to suggest he’s a threat. At least not to us."

Have you ever even heard of him? Harper asked. He had returned with two fresh beers a few minutes earlier, but had sat quietly as he waited for Kealey to finish reading.

The name seems familiar, but no, I don’t really know who he is.

Well, allow me to enlighten you, as the file is a little thin when it comes to his background. Amari Saifi is forty years old, Algerian born, and a former paratrooper in that country’s army, hence his nom de guerre, Abderrazak al-Para. He’s also a senior figure in the GSPC, otherwise known as the Salafist Group for Call and Combat. Since it came to prominence in the late nineties, the GSPC has been responsible for countless acts of terrorism in Algeria, most notably the kidnapping of thirty-two European tourists in 2003. That incident was masterminded by Saifi, and it was also what brought him to the attention of our government. To be fair, we weren’t really interested in the act itself. We were more concerned with how it all turned out in the end.

What do you mean by that? Kealey had looked through the file with a slight degree of interest, but he didn’t know anything about Saifi or the GSPC, so it didn’t make much sense to him. One thing in particular had left him confused. According to the attached documents, the GSPC was committed to establishing an Islamic government in Algeria, which made it a rebel group with a limited objective and, presumably, a limited network. In other words, funding and active members were probably hard to come by. He didn’t understand why this ragtag group should concern the CIA or the president, especially since it had all but disbanded in recent years.

After several months of secret negotiations, Harper continued, the German government capitulated and offered Saifi a ransom of six million dollars in exchange for the hostages, which he accepted. All were returned safely in two stages, except for one woman, who apparently succumbed to heat exhaustion in the Sahara Desert. That was where the hostages were being held. Is any of this ringing a bell?

Not really. Kealey wasn’t impressed. The size of the file—a few articles and some grainy photographs—said one of two things, at least in his opinion. Either Saifi wasn’t that big a deal, or there just wasn’t a lot of background on him. The deputy director’s next words, however, made the distinction clear.

"Ryan, I don’t get the feeling you’re taking this seriously, so let me say it in plain language. Simply put, Amari Saifi is probably the most dangerous person you’ve never heard of. Besides the kidnapping, he was directly involved in the murder of forty-three Algerian soldiers over a period of fourteen months. He was also linked to a number of bombings in neighboring Mauritania, though his involvement was never confirmed. Again, that was in 2003, but he’s been active with the Salafists since 1992.

In March of 2004, Saifi was traveling on foot through the Tibesti Mountains when he was apprehended by another rebel group, the Movement for Democracy and Justice in Chad. That’s the MDJC, for the sake of brevity. Sixteen of his men were also captured in that incident, but Saifi was the only one who really mattered. The rebels instantly knew what they had, as by that time, Saifi had essentially established himself as the bin Laden of the Sahara.

So they decided to auction him off to the highest bidder, Kealey guessed.

Exactly. Unfortunately for the rebels, however, there were no takers, at least not at first. Strangely enough, even the Algerian government didn’t seem to be in that big a rush to get their hands on him. We never figured out why, but it was probably because they didn’t want to risk their diplomatic relationship with the Chadian government.

Why didn’t we step in?

The same reason, Harper replied. "We were tempted to make an offer, as Saifi was already on the State Department’s list of wanted terrorists, but it never happened. After much debate, the president decided he couldn’t deal with the rebels directly, because it would undermine the Pan Sahel Initiative, which was in its infancy at

Reviews for The Invisible

[aresofambition · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

While certainly no masterpiece, Andrew Britton's The Invisible, his third novel featuring CIA agent Ryan Kealey, is an entertaining and page-turning thriller that successfully manages to grab the reader's attention and doesn't relinquish until quite a while after the last period has been reached. The events that shape the plot of this book are believable, and the political rammifications that too many fiction works ignore are successfully brought in to heighten the tension. The action sequences are exhilerating and leave one on the edge of their seat. However, I do find many faults with the often wooden characters, especially Naomi Kharmai, the British born agent whom Ryan Kealey fell in love with in the Assassin (Britton's previous book). She has been reduced from a believable character in the previous novel to an annoying hindrance (so much so, that it seems that Kealey would rather hang out with a female French agent, who is a little tougher and much more bearable). The two most believable characters of this story are Kealey's boss Jonathan Harper, and David Brenneman, the President of the United States. However, thriller novels are known for action and not characters, and on action, this book delivers. (Note: this review is just my opinion. If you have read this book and have a different opinion, you have the right to respectfully disagree).Side Note: This is the last book that Andrew Britton wrote. He passed away from an undiagnosed heart condition just three weeks after this book's publication at the age of 27. While Britton's works are still being published, they are all posthumous.

[taylorsteve_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Too much narration and not enough interaction with the characters. I found myself knowing the narrator more than the people in the book.