The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  “Okay,” the president said. “So to summarize, Rühmann can be linked, at least indirectly, to al-Umari and Vanderveen, both of whom were responsible for the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister.”

  “That’s correct,” Naomi confirmed.

  “But none of this can be tied to the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi in Paris, right?”

  “Not yet,” she agreed reluctantly. “We’re still looking at that angle, sir.”

  “And this is the only lead we have? Apart from the Iranian connection?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s all we have at this time.”

  “I could call Chancellor Merkel directly,” Brenneman pointed out. “She can hardly refuse the request if I make it myself.”

  “Actually, sir, she might very well do just that,” Andrews put in. “At best, she’ll stall, and time is a factor here. The meeting at the UN is scheduled to take place on September sixteenth, coinciding with the opening of the General Assembly’s annual session. As you know, Prime Minister al-Maliki was the only member of the core Shiite group not scheduled to attend, the core being thirty-five key members of the United Iraqi Alliance. Nasir Tabrizi was on the other side, of course, but a moderating factor, nonetheless. From the Agency’s point of view, the fact that these men were specifically targeted is very troubling, and perhaps indicative of a larger attack here on U.S. soil. If the alliance is being targeted, we may be looking at more to come.”

  Kealey instantly shot Harper a questioning look that said, What meeting? He didn’t notice that Kharmai had done the same thing, but Harper ignored both of them and turned to the president. “Sir, here is what it comes down to. I understand the Bureau has told you otherwise, but the Iranians have only been loosely implicated in the information we’ve gathered. Everything from our end points to an Iraqi mastermind. We need to talk to Rühmann, but we have no idea where he is. Nor do we know what name he’s using, and we’ve already checked the obvious.”

  “So you need to find him without going through diplomatic channels. I assume you’ve come up with a way to do that,” Brenneman said. He did not need to voice his displeasure that two of the country’s key agencies were at odds over who was responsible for Baghdad and Paris; the look on his face said that much and more.

  Naomi cleared her throat gently. “Sir, we know that Rühmann was stationed here in Washington for two years, beginning in ’98. He worked out of the German Embassy, commuting to the UN when necessary. It’s likely they have a record on him at the embassy, including a point of contact. It would be classified, of course, but we have a way around that little problem.”

  “And how do you propose to get this information?” Brenneman asked. His voice was dangerously quiet, as though he were daring them on.

  A hush fell over the room. Finally, Naomi took a deep breath and took the plunge.

  “We steal it, sir. We break into the German Embassy and steal it.”

  CHAPTER 26

  CALAIS • WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The drive from Paris to Calais took just under four hours, delayed by an overturned tractor-trailer on the A26. The second car, a maroon Audi with a slippery clutch, had been waiting in the parking garage on the rue Tronchet, as expected. After collecting it and wiping down the Mercedes, they followed the aptly named boulevard Périphérique around Paris to the A1, which became the A26 near Lille. They pulled off the main road just south of Amiens, following a rural road through a thick forest of black pine. The detour added twenty minutes and five brief stops to the trip, but gave Vanderveen the time needed to break up the G2 assault rifle and hurl the components deep into the trees.

  After producing the keys to the Audi in the garage, Raseen had climbed into the driver’s seat without a word. Vanderveen had nearly offered to take the wheel, worried that she was too tightly wound to handle the car with the necessary skill, but one look at her face told him that she needed the activity. She began flicking through the channels as soon as she started the engine, but the first report did not come through until they were twenty minutes outside of the city. The facts were sparse at best, but the Iraqi foreign minister was confirmed dead at the scene, along with a veteran CRS officer and two unidentified gunmen. Unsatisfied, she continued to scan the news channels. They were 40 kilometers outside of Paris when the story took on new depth, stoked by the rising body count and the death of a prominent American businessman.

  “Twelve dead?” Raseen seemed strangely unnerved by the possibility, as if realizing for the first time the scope of what they had started. “Is it possible?”

  “It’s possible,” Vanderveen conceded. The fact that 12 people — including 4 Americans — had died in the attack did not bother him in the least. In fact, it was a positive turn of events. American casualties would only serve to cloud the president’s judgment, provoking him into an emotional response when the assassins were identified as Iranian nationals. That much may have happened already; in a case such as this, enormous pressure would be placed on the French security service to come up with quick answers.

  Of course, the fact that the killers were Iranian would only lead to suspicion, nothing more. It was al-Douri’s asset in New York who would support the idea that Tehran was working behind the scenes to destroy the nascent Iraqi government and undermine U.S. policy in the Middle East. Once the accusation became public, the Iranian president would undoubtedly incriminate himself by veiling his denial of wrongdoing with his usual rhetoric. The inflammatory comments he had made in the past would only increase suspicion and remove any lingering doubts.

  Killing al-Maliki and Tabrizi was designed to do two things: first, to eliminate the most prominent supporters of the U.S. presence in Iraq, thereby weakening the Shiite-dominated parliament, and second, to fan the flames between radicals on both sides of the Shia-Sunni divide. The second goal had already been largely achieved, despite the fact that al-Maliki had survived the bombing in Baghdad.

  Everything they had done so far, however, served only to set the stage; success hinged entirely on the upcoming meeting at the UN. With the assassination of the core leaders of the Shiite alliance in New York, the National Assembly — the Iraqi parliament — would lose all credibility, and the country would fall into complete disrepair, giving al-Douri the perfect opportunity to snake his way back into power. Promises had already been made, money exchanged. The attack on U.S. soil would be immediately followed by an unprecedented wave of violence in Iraq, propagated by Syrian insurgents sweeping into the western half of the country. The violence would lead to desperation; that much was inevitable, and with the fear would come the search for established leadership, the search for a steady hand. A well-known Sunni candidate had already been earmarked for advancement, and with his ascension, al-Douri would return to the seat of power. He would be forced to wield his authority behind the scenes, of course, but it would be his nonetheless, and few would dare to oppose him. Memories were long in the Middle East, and the men who now represented U.S. interests would quickly fall back into line once the Baathists returned to the beleaguered capital.

  This much had been explained to Vanderveen days earlier, whispered while al-Umari’s body was cooling on the second floor of the house in Tartus. It was hugely ambitious, and the plan was strewn with obvious flaws. If the U.S. government took the bait and held Iran responsible, it could very well lead to open conflict. Troops would be pulled out of Iraq to support the offensive, but ultimately, the United States would gain yet another foothold in the region, however precarious. When Vanderveen had pointed this out, the Iraqi had waved it away with mild irritation.

  “How can things be any worse?” he had argued. “The Americans have already taken all that was ours. Let the Iranians suffer as well. That is their concern. Our opportunity is here and now, and it must be seized, whatever the consequences.”

  During this speech, Vanderveen revealed none of his doubts, which were as real as al-Douri’s monstrous ego. The former vice president was as irrational and narrow-mi
nded as his peers, but he was not a man to cross. With al-Umari’s final contribution, al-Douri now had the financial ability to track him to the ends of the earth, and Vanderveen had no desire to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. None of that really mattered, though, because he wanted to go through with it. He had taken the money, but that was not a mitigating factor, and it did nothing to secure his allegiance; Izzat al-Douri had made him a wealthy man, but Vanderveen was no more indebted to the Iraqi than he was to the country that had trained him to kill. What pushed him on was not what he could buy with the money, but what he could accomplish with it.

  A total of twenty million dollars. He had not had much time to think about it since the agreement was struck, but now, as the Audi swept toward the lights of Calais, the sum rattled around in his head, pinging off the possibilities, illuminating the darkest corners of his mind. As the road narrowed and the buildings grew large around him, he was engaged in what had once been dreams. His dreams were as ambitious as any man’s, but they were not of the luxuries that the millions could buy. Instead, what consumed him was the memory of a warm September morning in 2001, and the knowledge of what one man had done with nothing more than time, desire, and a fraction of the sum that would soon be sitting in his numbered Zurich account.

  “Well, that could have gone better,” Harper said.

  They were strolling through the National Mall, which was strangely deserted in early evening. The tourists had retired to their hotels, but the city’s homeless had yet to emerge from the shadows. Kealey felt conspicuous in the borrowed gray suit, and his feet were cramped in black leather loafers that were a size too small. Still, the air felt good after the claustrophobic atmosphere of the White House, cool with a slight breeze coming in from the east. They’d left the executive mansion through the southwest pedestrian gate, making their way down Pennsylvania, past his hotel. Naomi had disappeared without warning; but Kealey had seen Harper murmur a few words in her ear before her sudden departure. He briefly wondered what they had talked about, but now was not the time to bring it up. There were other things on his mind.

  The president had received Kharmai’s proposal with a healthy dose of skepticism, but to his credit, had listened carefully as she explained the need to break into the German Embassy, as well as how such a risky maneuver could be successfully pulled off. She had made a convincing case, but in the end, Brenneman had referred once more to the Bureau’s conflicting information, and announced his intention to contact the German chancellor on unofficial terms the following day. It was exactly what they’d hoped to avoid.

  “Do you think she’ll cooperate?” Kealy finally asked.

  “Chancellor Merkel? I doubt it. She has nothing to gain by investing herself in this mess. Rühmann will probably get a call from someone in the German cabinet sometime tomorrow afternoon, and he’ll be out of the country in a few hours’ time. Going to Brenneman with this was probably a mistake, but it had to be done. We both know that.”

  “Maybe so, but we need to stall,” Kealey said quietly, more to himself than anything else. “Once he makes that call tomorrow, it’s out of our hands. Rühmann is our only lead, John. If anyone knows what Vanderveen’s planning, it’s him.”

  “I agree, but I don’t see a way out of this little hole we’ve dug for ourselves. Judd paid us back in spades for that stunt you pulled in Alexandria. I mean, he has a source in the Iranian government, for Christ’s sake. Who would have thought it?”

  “It sounds like bullshit. This supposed informant knows a little too much if you ask me. What I don’t understand is why the FBI can’t see that. Nobody has access to that kind of intelligence without being somehow involved.” Kealey paused. “John, we really need to know who this guy is. More to the point, we need to know who he’s talking to in the Bureau. Maybe we can get some kind of access.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Harper said, surreptitiously wiping a drop of clear fluid from his nose. He pulled a wad of tissue from his pocket and blew into it sharply. “Damn cold… It’s been creeping up for days. They come like clockwork twice a year, always in March and September. I’ll have to start scheduling my vacations accordingly.”

  Mired in thought, Kealey let that comment slide. Something had been gnawing at the base of his brain ever since they’d left the White House, but he didn’t know how the other man would respond. He needed to broach the subject carefully, but he also needed to get his point across.

  “John, if the president had signed off on the embassy break-in, we could have pulled it off, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Harper rammed his hands into the pockets of his Burberry as a swift, sudden wind swept the gravel footpath. “You know about ORACLE… That was all we needed. Well, that and a man with the skills to get inside. It would have worked.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. ORACLE was the CIA code name for a long-term operation that had started back in 1983, shortly before the FBI and the National Security Agency embarked on a highly ambitious joint operation of their own, the construction of a tunnel below the new Soviet Embassy in Washington, D.C. The tunnel cost hundreds of millions of dollars to build and maintain, and although it was manned round the clock by NSA technicians with eavesdropping equipment, the project was only a modest success, garnering nothing more than low-grade intelligence. Years later, the Bureau would learn that the tunnel had been compromised shortly after its completion by the infamous Robert Hanssen, a Bureau agent who had spied for the GRU, the KGB’s military counterpart, from 1979 up until his arrest in 2001. Even at the height of the project’s output, the top minds at the Agency had recognized just how inefficient the tunnel actually was, and they began searching for ways to gain maximum output with minimal cost.

  The result was ORACLE, an operation designed to gain embassy blueprints, access to secure computer systems, and the names of intelligence officers concealed within the diplomatic community. Embassies were a natural starting point, as they serve as jumping-off points for nearly every intelligence officer brought into a host country. Recruitment was the most difficult part, but once that was accomplished, it was a simple cash-for-information exchange. Defection was clearly not an option, as the disappearance of a member of the embassy staff would simply result in immediate changes in security. Ironically, the CIA was initiating measures already in use with both the KGB and the GRU. It was the latter agency that purchased from Hanssen the details of the tunnel — a multimillion-dollar project — for less than $30,000 in cash and diamonds.

  Over the next two decades, ORACLE expanded exponentially, the Agency cultivating sources in embassies representing forty-eight countries, including Germany. As required by the Agency’s charter, all of the embassies were located overseas, but many agents — having served in the United States — were able to relay information regarding embassy security on domestic soil as well. Such was the case with the chancery, the German Embassy’s office building on the western edge of Georgetown. The CIA’s operations directorate had access to passwords, blueprints, and the specific security measures — both human and electronic — that served to protect the building from intruders. All they were lacking was authorization.

  They crossed 7th, heading east, the dome of the Capitol Building shining in artificial white light, the waters of the reflecting pool lapping silver in the distance. They strolled silently for a while, their feet crunching on the gravel, until Kealey finally took the plunge.

  “If somebody broke into the chancery tonight, John, what would it mean for you?”

  Harper glanced over and frowned, but to the younger man, it looked more like concern than disapproval. “I think I’d probably be finished. They wouldn’t kick me out on my ass, not after what we pulled off last November, and not this close to the election, but my options would certainly be limited. They would squeeze me out by the end of the year.”

  “Maybe not,” Kealey countered. “You have a lot of friends at State and Justice. If enough of them landed on your side, the presiden
t might—”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Ryan. If I go against the president, I’m done at the Agency. It’s that simple.”

  A short silence ensued, and Kealey feared that he might have pushed it too far. The DDO was only forty-two years old, and retirement was a long ways off. They approached a bench on the left, partially illuminated beneath a white sodium lamp. Harper took a seat unexpectedly, emitting a weary sigh in the process. Kealey joined him.

  “I want to go in, John. I want to do it tonight, but I need your help. You know it needs to be done. I saw it on your face while Brenneman was searching for ways to say no.”

  “That’s true,” Harper replied. “It does need to be done. Rühmann might be able to give us Vanderveen, but it’s more than that. This meeting at the UN could be a coup for Brenneman, but that also makes it a prime target. They went after the prime minister first, and now Tabrizi. Tabrizi was a Sunni, but definitely a moderating factor. Nuri al-Maliki, on the other hand, was — and still is — the recognized leader of the United Iraqi Alliance, and the UIA counts for two-thirds of the National Assembly. If Vanderveen is going after that particular group, he’ll have the perfect opportunity in New York. It would totally destroy the Iraqi government, take away all credibility. The country would plunge into civil war.”

  “With our troops caught in the middle,” Kealey muttered.

  “Exactly.”

  “This meeting on the sixteenth… Why did Brenneman keep it so close to the vest?”

  “He’s afraid of leaks, I imagine. Like I said, this could be big for him. If the UIA throws its support behind him and his plan for bringing the troops home, it could have a dramatic effect on the polls. People are tired of the situation over there. They want rapid withdrawals, but that could easily destroy the little we’ve managed to accomplish over the past five years. Needless to say, Brenneman can’t make that kind of statement himself; it just doesn’t resonate. Hearing it from the leading members of Iraq’s National Assembly, on the other hand, might change some minds. After all, their support is the only way we can accomplish anything over there. It’s a risky play, and it’s late in the game, but it’s all he has if he wants another four years.”