The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Kealey. Ford lowered her arms to the desk and flipped open the file, an involuntary scowl spreading over her face. Despite her misgivings, she had to admit that the man’s record was remarkable. He had separated from the army as a major in 2001, but not before being awarded a Bronze Star, then repeating the feat twice more. He had also earned a pair of Purple Hearts, the Legion of Merit with one Oak Leaf Cluster, and a Distinguished Service Cross, one of the highest commendations a soldier could receive. What really caught her attention, however, were the awards conferred by the CIA. Kealey had been awarded the Intelligence Star in a secret ceremony three years earlier, but even that was secondary. For his subsequent role in preventing the assassination of President David Brenneman, he had received the Distinguished Intelligence Cross — the Agency’s most prestigious and coveted award.

  He was educated, as well. He’d done his undergraduate work at the University of Chicago before earning an MBA from Duke in 1994. By that time, he was already a first lieutenant fresh out of Special Forces Assessment and Selection. Kealey’s extensive academic credentials did not surprise her in the least; she knew that many officers in the U.S. military held advanced degrees in their respective fields. It was a moot point, though, because Kealey was no longer a soldier. Now he was just an undisciplined, uncontrollable field operative. The directorate of operations was full of them. Nearly all of the Agency’s public disasters could be attributed to the DO, and for this, she held Jonathan Harper personally responsible.

  Ford let out a sharp breath through pursed lips and closed the file. The meeting had not gone as expected. She had been whispering in the director’s ear ever since she’d learned of Kealey’s involvement in the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem, but she had yet to completely sway his opinion. Apparently, Andrews thought quite highly of the young operative. Ford would get rid of them all if she could, Jonathan Harper being first on her list. To her way of thinking, his entire directorate was a thing of the past. Men on the ground were useful to a point, but the future lay in technology, satellite reconnaissance, and signal intercepts. Harper, in particular, was nothing more than a relic, an antiquated symbol of everything the Agency used to be. Unfortunately, he was also well connected. It would be nearly impossible to unseat him, but Ford was willing to try. In fact, she was almost relishing the challenge.

  Kealey was another matter entirely. Thinking about it, she suddenly realized that she might be working too hard. Given time, it was very possible that he’d do something to ensure his own demise, something so unforgivable that not even his record could save him. Even as she acknowledged this possibility, her impatience carried more weight than her logic. If the man didn’t self-destruct soon, Ford decided she would have to step things up a notch. It wouldn’t be hard; Kealey was well beneath her on the food chain, and that, she knew, made all the difference.

  As she left her office and slid her key into the director’s elevator, two concurrent thoughts cut into her pain-addled mind. Things are going to change around here.

  And I’m going to change them.

  CHAPTER 17

  PARIS

  The woman’s vehicle was a silver Mercedes ML500, parked 100 meters behind his own, facing north. Vanderveen looked for a rental sticker as they approached from the rear and, not seeing one, decided that the SUV had probably been provided by her local contacts. It could also be hers, in which case she was probably based out of the city. Paris was as good a place as any to hide, he thought as he moved to the passenger-side door. The city was home to a rapidly expanding Muslim population, as was the rest of Western Europe, where the number of Arab Muslims had more than doubled over the past two decades. The person sitting next to him would blend right in.

  She introduced herself as soon as they pulled into traffic, apparently unaware that he’d already been given the basics. Yasmin Raseen was about forty, not that it was easy to tell; only the fine lines around her eyes and the slight crease on either side of her strong nose prevented her from passing as a much younger woman. Her mouth was wide and perfectly shaped, and her face was slightly squared off, the full cheekbones framed by an unruly mass of black-brown hair. She was perhaps five feet four, judging from the way she’d stood next to the car, and about 130 pounds, her healthy curves concealed by snug slacks and a loose-fitting blouse.

  She could feel his attention — that much was obvious. Her discomfort could be seen in her iron grip on the steering wheel and the way her dark eyes flickered between him and the road, as well as the rearview mirror. He made no attempt to avert his gaze, pleased to see that his presence disturbed her. Perhaps Raseen had been told a thing or two about him as well, but he was annoyed with himself, and that was why he didn’t mind watching her squirm. She had easily outmaneuvered him at the café, and that had never happened before. Mindful of the lack of concealment in the area, he’d gone out of the way to acquire the taxi for the afternoon. He might have been just another driver on his afternoon break, and yet she’d seen right through the ruse.

  Her appearance could be a problem; he could see that much already. She was beautiful — far too alluring for this line of work. Her skin was surprisingly pale, not much darker than the average Westerner’s summer tan, and bore no distinguishing marks that he could see. But that didn’t matter, because all it would take was one picture, one current photograph sent out through Interpol, and her face would be fixed in the mind of every male law-enforcement officer in the world. He was reminded of what he’d been told in Tartus. Before he’d left, Tahir al-Tikriti had filled him in on Raseen’s background — not too much, just a tease, just enough to establish her value. What had really caught Vanderveen’s attention, however, was the reverence and care with which the intelligence chief had chosen his words.

  She is known to the West. Not her name, of course, and certainly not her face, but her existence is not a secret. It is a rare thing, you understand, to encounter a woman capable of such terrible things. A woman like this defies the cultural norms in most countries, but especially in the United States. As you well know, the Americans are taught their roles from birth, inundated with the idea of what a woman should be. I can tell you now, Yasmin Raseen fits very few of their criteria. For Raseen, killing is a simple task, as natural as drawing breath. In this respect, she is far ahead of our time. Ahead of yours, even…

  Her resume was short but very encouraging. In particular, her connections to the Parisian underground had proved extremely useful. According to the former head of the IIS, she’d been based in the city for the past several weeks, arranging the details. If she’d done even half of what al-Tikriti had promised, he would have to find a way to use her in New York, assuming the meet went forward. He would know in the next few days, but there was plenty to do in that time frame.

  After thirty minutes of seemingly random turns, the woman abruptly pulled in to the curb, expertly nestling the small SUV between a Honda motorcycle and a black Citroën. She got out first and motioned with a curled forefinger for Vanderveen to follow, gliding through the afternoon crowds with practiced ease, making her way toward a small boulangerie. They’d done a complete circle, he saw; they were back in the 8th Arrondissement, not far from where he’d left the Renault.

  The bakery was cramped, too warm after the frigid street, the air laced with the scents of sugar and yeast. Vanderveen was starting to wonder what they were doing there when he caught sight of the woman behind the counter. Dark hair, white cardigan… the same woman he’d seen at the café.

  Raseen turned and followed his gaze, then smiled. “She’s a friend,” she whispered in heavily accented French. “Not to me, exactly. A friend to us.”

  Vanderveen nodded and followed her up a narrow flight of wooden stairs, the sense of unease growing worse. He was completely out of his element here, despite his intricate knowledge of the city and the language. He didn’t know the people he was dealing with, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage. They passed through an open door, the sounds of the busy shop fading as they
climbed yet another staircase, emerging on the third floor.

  “Close the door,” Raseen commanded. He obliged as she walked over to shut the sole window, blocking out the steady rumble of afternoon traffic on the rue Tronchet. She turned and crossed to an intricately carved armoire. Opening the heavy oak door, she ducked down and leaned into the cavernous opening, her body disappearing from the waist up.

  As she gathered her materials, Vanderveen looked around. It was set up as a loft-style apartment, a chipped Formica table occupying the center, cabinets and a sink against the west wall, a white wooden door leading into a tiny bathroom. The bed was away from the window, tucked against the back of the armoire. Stepping into the kitchen, he ran his hand over the counter, leaving marks in the dust. He opened the fridge and saw that it contained only the necessities. It was clear that the room was used infrequently, which was a good thing. Different faces tramping through every week would be more likely to raise suspicion than a new face every few months.

  Raseen emerged from the stand-alone closet, easing the door shut with her foot, a stack of papers and photographs in her hands. She placed the pile on the table and gestured toward a chair.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Vanderveen, please. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  He looked at her for a very long moment. With the use of his name, she was making it clear that al-Tikriti had passed information in both directions. More importantly, though, the discomfort she’d shown in the car had vanished without a trace. She met his even gaze without a hint of anxiety. He was oddly pleased; her new behavior meshed with what he’d been told, but he sensed something more, something that appealed to him on many levels: her true nature. Vanderveen guessed that she was much more capable — and dangerous — than her masters knew.

  “If we’re going to work together,” he said, “we’ll have to get past the formalities.” He smiled at her, wondering just how much she really knew. “Call me Will.”

  She gazed back at him, intractable, unshakable. She didn’t return the smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched, and her eyes flickered with amusement. She knew; he could read it in her little gestures. She knew exactly what he was, and it didn’t bother her in the least.

  “Very well,” she said, acknowledging his offer. “Now please, sit down. We have little time, Will, and there is much to do.”

  They worked for two hours straight. Raseen had taken meticulous notes, but didn’t seem to need them. She relayed the information in a low but confident voice, everything from the target’s personal habits to his schedule and security measures. From his discussion with al-Tikriti in Tartus, Vanderveen knew the information had come from a highly placed source in the Iraqi legislature.

  She also told him about the men who would carry out the actual assassination. It was Vanderveen’s greatest concern, so he listened intently as she skimmed over their backgrounds. They had the requisite nationalities and a shared history of violence, but their operational experience was all but nonexistent, limited to a few shootings and the bombing of a Shiite mosque in Basra. According to Raseen, they were part of the swell of foreign insurgents that had crossed the border into Iraq shortly after the fall of the regime. They had cut their teeth taking potshots at American soldiers on the streets of Kirkuk; for some inexplicable reason, they assumed this gave them the necessary skills to move into freelance work.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Argenteuil. I had many to choose from. Unfortunately, few were qualified.”

  Vanderveen nodded, not in the least surprised. Argenteuil, a crumbling housing estate located south of the city, was a hotbed of antigovernment sentiment. The vast majority of the suburb’s residents were impoverished Muslims, and as such, they harbored considerable disdain for French authority, a near-tangible hostility that extended to the security forces. For Iranians who’d entered the country illegally, Argenteuil would be the perfect place to seek shelter.

  “I assume they agreed to your plan,” he said.

  Raseen nodded abruptly. “Obviously, they didn’t have access to my information, so they were forced to let me pick the time and place. It did not matter to them; money was their only concern, and they’ve been well paid. I supplied the weapons as well. The fourth stop on the schedule offers the best line of sight, which is why I selected it. I hope you agree.”

  He nodded once. The assassination would take place on the Right Bank, a short distance from the Champs-Elysées, just outside Le Meridien Etoile. In twelve hours time, the hotel was scheduled to begin hosting a two-day economic development conference, sponsored by the International Chamber of Commerce. Some of the world’s most prominent economists would be in attendance, as would a number of foreign business leaders and politicians. Representing Iraq’s National Assembly was Dr. Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, a prominent Sunni politician and a man who was respected on both sides of the Sunni-Shia divide. His efforts to unify the Iraqi government had not gone unnoticed by the U.S. president. Unfortunately for the London-trained physician, his work had not gone unnoticed by Izzat al-Douri, either.

  “What time is he scheduled to leave the conference?” Vanderveen asked.

  “Seven o’clock in the evening. He has a meeting right after that at the Palais des Congrès, which is directly across the street. It works very well for us. Based on my surveillance, traffic will be heavy enough at that time to slow the police response, but not so heavy as to prevent our escape. The second vehicle will be parked three minutes away. I’ve driven the route a number of times, and that’s the average: three minutes.”

  “Tell me about the location of the second vehicle.”

  “It will be parked in an underground garage on the rue Guersant. It’s used primarily by the staff of a financial group across the street. They arrive early and leave late, so with any luck, the garage will be empty when we arrive. More importantly, there are no cameras. The woman from the café will leave the second vehicle by herself.”

  Vanderveen shifted uneasily; it was yet another complication. “I assume you trust her.”

  “With my life,” Raseen replied evenly. “She has served us well. I only hope she will not be implicated when it’s over.”

  Vanderveen shook his head absently, thinking it through. What he had to accomplish the next day was the only thing on his mind; the safety of the woman downstairs was the very least of his concerns.

  He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly. “Grab your keys.”

  Raseen looked up from her notes. “Why?”

  “I want to look at the hotel and get a feel for the area. I also want you to show me where the backup car will be parked.” He glanced at his watch. “Then we’re going to take a drive.”

  A small, unreadable furrow appeared between her eyes. “Where are we going?”

  His gaze moved to the black plastic case at the foot of the bed. “We’re going hiking.”

  CHAPTER 18

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The trip from Harper’s home on Q Street to the hotel passed relatively quickly, for which Kealey was grateful. He had considered stopping in for a drink or two, and he knew that he would have been more than welcome. Julie Harper was, after all, as much a friend to him as Jonathan was, but he knew where the conversation would lead, and he was too tired — both emotionally and physically — to deal with the past. After an exhausting ten-hour flight and the raid on Duke Street, he wanted nothing more than to get some sleep.

  The driver dropped him at 15th and Pennsylvania, a stone’s throw from the White House. As he entered the eleven-story building and walked through the newly renovated lobby, Kealey could not help but admire the beautifully appointed interior of the Hotel Washington. It could not have been more different from the surroundings he’d grown accustomed to over the past six months, and it was definitely an improvement.

  Harper had given him a key card in advance, so there was no need to check in. He reached the elevators and punched a button for the fifth floor. As he was waiting, a familiar v
oice called out from behind.

  He turned to find Naomi Kharmai standing a few feet away. She was watching him with a strange expression, almost as if she didn’t recognize the man standing before her.

  “Hey,” he said, breaking the strained silence. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too,” she replied, crossing the distance between them. “How have you been?”

  “Not bad.”

  For her part, Naomi could see that this wasn’t true. For one thing, he’d lost weight, a good deal of weight. His face was gaunt, the cheekbones razor sharp beneath tanned, taut skin, and his eyes were smudged with dark circles. His hair was far too long, and he looked incredibly tired, as though he hadn’t slept in months. It was a shocking transformation from the man she remembered, but despite the obvious changes, her attention was fixed on a much smaller detail: the fact that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

  Naomi wasn’t sure what to make of the missing ring, but she did think it strange that he hadn’t gone through with it. She knew all too well how much he cared about the other woman, and Ryan didn’t seem like the type to draw an engagement out over the months and years. From the way he had once described it, it sounded as if they had the perfect relationship, and Naomi couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to change all that.