The American rk-1

by Andrew Britton

  It was a very useful tool for people in certain other lines of work as well.

  The gate guard stuck his head out the sliding window when Vanderveen pulled up.

  “Help ya?”

  “Jes’ here to collect some crates.” Falling straight back into the role. “Got m’ license if ya need it.”

  “Gotta see ya bill of lading, too.”

  Vanderveen frowned. “I ain’t got one a them, buddy. Got m’ waybill, though. They tole me that was good enough.”

  “Yeah, that’ll work. Lemme see it.”

  When he was satisfied that everything was in order, the guard turned to his computer and pulled up the Yard Management System. Then he handed back Vanderveen’s ID and waybill, both of which identified him as Timothy Nichols. “Okay, sir. Ya already been cleared through Customs. They got yer crates in Warehouse Three. Can’t have no personal vehicles in the yard, though.”

  “Aw, come on now.” He was laying it on thick. “How else am I gonna get m’ stuff out?”

  The guard nodded sagely. “I hear ya. They don’ tell people shit around here. Happens all the time.” A brief hesitation. “Tell ya what. You jes’ go on ahead… I’ll take care of it fer ya.”

  Vanderveen allowed a relieved expression to slide over his face. “I ’preciate it, buddy. Jes’ down here, ya say?”

  “That’s it. Two rows down, then take a left. Can’t miss it.”

  “Gotcha.” The thin wooden barrier lifted and he drove through, following the guard’s directions until the warehouse came into view. He pulled up next to the enormous metal structure and hopped out of the van, ambling into the brightly lit interior of the building.

  Almost immediately, he was approached by a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman, wearing a hard hat and a frown. Looking her over, Vanderveen’s eyes drifted down to the identification badge pinned to her clean chambray shirt: Bobbie Walker, Warehouse Manager.

  “Sir, you can’t be in here without a hard hat. Can I help you?”

  She was clearly not a Southerner, but he couldn’t stop now. There was no way of telling how well she knew the captain and the gate guard. He gave her a rueful grin. “Sorry ’bout that, ma’am. Man at the gate tole me t’ come on up here and get m’ crates. Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout the hard hats.”

  Her face softened a little bit. “Well, that’s okay.” She took a few steps and snagged one from the top of a nearby locker. “Put this on, please. Now, you have your documentation on you, Mr…?”

  “Nichols, ma’am, Tim Nichols. I sure do.” He handed her his driver’s license and the waybill. Her forehead creased as she considered the name, but her mind couldn’t quite make the leap.

  They walked across the warehouse floor past heavy piles of aluminum girders and rolls of wood pulp. She was checking numbers against her list when they stopped in front of a stack of small wooden crates.

  “Here we go: forty crates, seventy-five pounds each. That’s a heavy load.” She looked at him curiously. “Whatcha got in here, anyway?”

  “Jes’ some computer stuff, far as I know.” The lie rolled effortlessly off his tongue. “Can’t really tell ya, t’ be honest. Company just puts m’ name on there for convenience. I do what I’m told, Ms. Walker. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

  She laughed, her small blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Everyone works for the man, Mr. Nichols. That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  Vanderveen was looking around the warehouse. He didn’t spot any watchers, but they didn’t get the job by being obvious. If they had a line on him, they would make their move in the next few minutes. “So, Customs already through with me, huh?” He tried to pass it off as a casual question, but he watched her reaction carefully.

  “Yeah, they just do a spot check most of the time.”

  “So they didn’t open ’em up, then.” She’ll lie to you. If she lies, kill her. Do you have your knife? His hand involuntarily drifted back to an object hooked to his belt. Yes, there it is. Use it now. Now. NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW.

  She was shaking her head. So was he, but for very different reasons. “Things have been crazy around here lately, what with the terror alert and all. We got people from OSHA and Customs all over the terminal. Cause more problems than they solve, you ask me. They don’t bother too much with us, though. Spend their time looking at the dry-bulk and open-top containers on Pier Two. Government don’t got time to be looking through everything that comes out of our little yard.”

  She seemed sincere. He breathed a very soft sigh of relief and nodded along with her. “They’s troublemakers, all right. Ms. Walker, you think I might pull m’ van in here t’ get this stuff? Only take me ’bout twenty minutes, tops.”

  She looked reluctant. “I don’t know… It’s against policy.”

  Another smile. “Come on now. Think I don’t know a woman in charge when I see her? Hell, you’re th’ one makin’ the rules around here anyway, right? Anyone gonna break ’em, might as well be you.”

  She blushed very slightly and touched his arm. “You’re a charmer, I’ll give you that. Okay, you bring it on in. Twenty minutes, though, and that’s it. Fair enough?”

  “I’ll be in and out b’fore ya know it.”

  She giggled like a teenage girl at his choice of words. “I don’t think so, Mr. Nichols.” Her face was a deep scarlet now. “In fact, I highly doubt it.”

  Twenty-five minutes later Vanderveen rolled out of the gate. A cold can of Coke rested in the cupholder next to him, a parting gift from the blushing Bobbie Walker. A brief wave to the gate guard and he was leaving Terminal Boulevard, taking the right turn onto Hampton, a smile on his face and 3,000 pounds of SEMTEX H in the cargo hold of his rented van.

  Eight days to go, he thought. In eight days he would change the world.

  David Brenneman watched as a gentle rain drifted over the gardens spread out before him. He was seated in a simple chair in the Blue Room, sipping steaming coffee from a delicate china cup. For once he was alone, and he took advantage of the solitude to admire the beauty of his surroundings.

  Brenneman knew that many of his predecessors had grown tired of the mansion’s elaborate trappings, thinking it more like a museum than a home, but he had become only more fascinated with the history of the place as time wore on. The Blue Room was his personal favorite by far — a large, oval space that offered a sweeping view of the South Lawn. The center of the royal blue carpet was dominated by a marble table purchased by James Monroe in 1817. Hanging above it was an elaborate French chandelier dating from the early-nineteenth century. When he closed his eyes, he was pleased to hear only the gentle tap of the rain against the lead-lined windows.

  The brief reprieve would have been much more enjoyable, though, if he didn’t have to return to the situation brewing on his doorstep.

  A week earlier, the FBI’s Explosives Unit had finished its analysis of the residue collected at the Kennedy-Warren blast site. The explosives were identified as SEMTEX H, originating from the Czech Republic. When these results coincided with the findings of an independent lab, it became clear that the main charge had been smuggled into the country, which meant that Customs was first on the firing line.

  Of course, there was plenty of blame left over for the man in charge of it all. His approval ratings had dipped six points in one week, and supposedly there had been quiet talk from the new Senate Majority Leader about pulling support for the incumbent in the upcoming election year. Brenneman believed the rumors to be true, and was astounded and angered at the speed with which his own party had dismissed his chances for reelection.

  He was startled from his thoughts by a Secret Service agent standing at one of the entrances to the room. “Excuse me, Mr. President. Deputy Director Harper is here to see you.”

  Brenneman waved a hand absently. “Thanks, Dan. You can send him in. Oh, and could you call the kitchen and have them send some more coffee over?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The agent withdrew, and
Brenneman stood as Harper entered the room. “John, good to see you. How’s Julie?”

  “She’s fine, sir. Thank you for asking.” Harper never ceased to be amazed by the man’s prodigious memory and sheer graciousness, especially considering the pressure he was currently under.

  Brenneman gestured to the seat opposite his own and glanced at his watch. “Take a seat. I’m supposed to be at a meeting with Patterson from Treasury, but you’ve got my full attention for the next twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll get right to it, then, sir,” Harper said as he sat in a mahogany chair. “You’re familiar with the file on Jason March?” He received a brief nod in return. “Then you’ll know that March is not his actual name. Two of our officers have just returned from Pretoria, where they were able to discover his true identity.”

  The president leaned forward with interest. “And?”

  “His name is William Paulin Vanderveen, a South African national, thirty-nine years old.” The deputy director handed him a briefing folder, which the president immediately opened. The pictures were the first thing to catch his eye. “The South African authorities believe that he was responsible for the murder of one Joseph Sobukwe in 1975. Vanderveen was eleven years old when Sobukwe was killed. Vanderveen’s sister died under unusual circumstances as well, but he was never officially tied in with that.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Brenneman leaned back in his chair and perused the contents of the folder. The picture began to unfold over the next several minutes: Francis Vanderveen, a South African general even more ruthless than the policies he enforced; William, the general’s brilliant, misguided son, wholly devoted to his father; a broken promise of American money and support; a fiery helicopter crash on a warm December morning. The president was absorbed as a Filipino steward glided into the room and poured coffee from a silver carafe. The room was silent until the man was gone and the door closed behind him.

  “So this man, William Vanderveen. He blames us for what happened to his family, is that right?”

  “That would appear to be the case, sir. We found evidence in South Africa — letters — that suggest William Vanderveen knew plenty about the general’s antipathy toward us in the last days of the Angolan campaign. Then you have his sister’s death and his mother’s subsequent suicide… It doesn’t take a great stretch of imagination to see how this might have played out.”

  “And we trained him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The president leaned back in his chair and closed the folder. “So what are we dealing with here, John? How can we use this information?”

  “Sir, to be perfectly honest, this kind of information is useful for shoring up a case against him when he’s caught, and that’s about it. There’s a reason the Department of Transportation keeps coming up empty on the airport surveillance tapes. Vanderveen probably has at least two airtight identities, everything from driver’s licenses down to birth certificates. That’s the only way to explain his ease of movement in and out of the country.”

  The president nodded slowly as he lifted his cup. “I’m sure you’ve heard that some of my advisors are pushing me to reconsider the military option. They think Tehran’s involvement is clear enough to justify air strikes.”

  Harper lifted his open hands. “Sir, we know who is directly responsible for these attacks, and we know that he’s not hiding out in a training camp. It would be a-”

  “So where is he?” Brenneman interrupted. “What are your people saying? This, uh…” — he looked around for his briefing folder — “Kealey. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. He was one of the officers involved.”

  “What does he think?”

  “In his opinion…”

  Brenneman lifted an eyebrow. “Out with it, John.”

  “He thinks that Vanderveen is coming after you, sir.”

  The rain beat against the windows, but there was no other sound in the room. The president shifted in his seat, but the expression on his face did not change. “May I ask how he came to that conclusion?”

  Harper hesitated once again. “Vanderveen hasn’t failed here yet. Kealey thinks he’s going to set his sights higher.”

  “That’s it?” Brenneman looked skeptical.

  “No, sir.” Harper went on to tell him about Gray’s final words, and the same confluence of facts that Ryan had pointed out during their recent meeting with Director Andrews.

  “So where is Kealey now?”

  “Something came up that he could only take care of today. Naomi Kharmai, the only other officer directly involved in this case, is with him, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Brenneman ignored the circumspect answer. “What exactly do you need from me, John?”

  “Sir, I’ve got my best people working on this, as does the Bureau. It’s just a matter of time, really, but any adjustments that could be made to reduce the threat to your own security would be-”

  “You want me to hide in a corner, is that it?”

  Harper hesitated, unsure of the other man’s reaction. “As a precautionary measure, I believe — as does the director — that it would be a wise decision to cancel any high-profile events for the next couple of weeks. Especially those for which details have been released by the White House press secretary.”

  “If I’m hearing you correctly, most of your argument stems from this man Kealey’s instincts. You must have a lot of faith in him.”

  Harper leaned forward in his chair. He sensed defeat, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “Sir, Ryan Kealey has risked his life several times in the past few weeks tracking down William Vanderveen. I’ve known him for eight years, and I trust his judgment. It’s only because of Kealey and this other officer, Kharmai, that we can even put a name to the face. Believe me, I know we don’t have much right now, but we’re getting closer, and the threat is very real. Vanderveen has serious backing and financial support from Al-Qaeda, and there is solid evidence that the Iranians are involved as well. They have a clear motive here, sir. Kealey knows this man, and he’s our best chance at finding him. When you look at it that way, we’re not asking you for much. The reason for the change in schedule doesn’t even have to be released to the press.”

  Brenneman nursed his coffee and stared out at the rain clouds moving over the gardens. It was several minutes before he spoke. “John, I respect your judgment… I always have. Nothing you’ve said just now has disabused me of that notion. At the same time, I can’t afford to change my schedule without something more concrete. I’m not trying to prove anything; this isn’t about reckless bravery. I’m meeting with President Chirac and Prime Minister Berlusconi early next week. If we can come to some agreement for compensation of lost oil contracts, that meeting might very well result in the dismantling of Iran’s weapons program without one American soldier setting foot in the country.” There was a brief pause. “It’ll be historic, John, the best thing I’ve done in four years in office. I just won’t cancel that meeting without good cause.”

  The president stood, signifying that the conversation was over. Harper rose to his feet as well, and the two men looked at each other in silence as the rain streamed down the large windows beside them.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir, but I respect your decision.”

  Brenneman reached out to firmly shake hands with his deputy director. He thought about the steel wires protruding from the torn remains of the Kennedy-Warren, and he remembered the mangled vehicles that had lined Independence Avenue less than a month earlier.

  “I want you to find the bastard, John.” Brenneman’s voice was low, but the anger it held cut through his calm demeanor. “Find him and put him down.”

  “You have my word on it, Mr. President.”

  CHAPTER 24

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  It was early evening when Ryan finally pulled into the Alexandria Detention Center’s parking lot after having battled the reams of rush-hour traffic on I-95. He locked his car and walke
d toward the building’s entrance. Adam North was already there, waiting on the steps and smoking a cigarette. He smiled as Ryan approached, and the two men shook hands.

  “It’s about damn time,” North said. “What happened?”

  “The traffic around here is a killer. I don’t know how people put up with that every day.”

  “Hey, the money’s in the city. People will suffer anything for a paycheck every couple of weeks. Listen, I have bad news.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Elgin’s found himself a lawyer, and he’s recanted on waiving his Miranda rights.”

  Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head. “I should have seen this coming. Court-appointed, right?”

  North took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the gutter. “No, he’s actually managed to get somebody decent, probably on the smallest retainer possible. Elgin’s assets have been frozen, and I guarantee that his attorney isn’t aware of that little fact.”

  The DEA agent paused and turned his face up to the dim light, breathing in the damp, heavy air. “The government’s moving fast on this one. He’s already been indicted, and the A.G. is seeking three Federal counts. Conspiracy to murder U.S. nationals tops the list. Maybe if they weren’t in such a hurry… I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, anyway. He’ll never talk to you one-on-one now. You want to leave it, see if we can cut a deal?”

  “We don’t have time for that. Besides, he had a knife to Naomi’s throat, Adam. He’ll give us the information, one way or another, and then he can rot in jail. What does the conspiracy charge carry, anyway? Twenty years? If he doesn’t feel like talking, he’ll be lucky to see day one of that sentence.”

  With most people, Adam would have dismissed these words as an empty threat. Instead, he was immediately reminded of Elgin’s screams in the dark back room of the Waterfront Bar. “Where is she anyway?”

  “Naomi? I told her it got pushed back a few days. I’m hoping that she doesn’t call me on it until then.”

  A small smile replaced the bigger man’s uneasy expression. “I wouldn’t want to see her face when she finds out…”