The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Kealey looked down at the gravel, thinking about it. “If I’m going in, it has to be tonight. Once Brenneman makes that call to the German chancellor, we’re dead in the water.”

  “It’s impossible, Ryan. Even with the access codes and the security layout, you’d need at least a week to set it up.”

  “We don’t have a week.” Kealey paused, looking over the grass. The National Air and Space Museum could be seen in the near distance, the towering windows reflecting the night sky in shimmering shades of blue and black. “I’m not asking the president, John,” he continued quietly. “I’m asking you. I’ll be finished as well. I know that. They won’t give me a glowing send-off, either. I’m willing to pay the price, but I can’t make that decision for someone else, and I certainly can’t make it for you. If you want me to look for another way, that’s the way it’ll be.”

  Harper nodded silently to himself, and his chin drifted down to his chest. Kealey briefly wondered if he was dozing off, but then his head rose. “I’ve known you for eight years, Ryan. I think you forget that sometimes.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I knew you’d ask for the chance, regardless of what Brenneman decided, so I pulled everything together in advance. I gave Naomi instructions before we left the White House.”

  The younger man was not particularly surprised; Kharmai’s hasty departure had seemed a little unusual. “And?”

  “She’ll bring the relevant material to your room at ten tonight. Take all the time you need with it, but be sure to give it back to her before you leave the hotel. If they catch you in the act, you can’t have anything on you.”

  That much was obvious, but Kealey nodded anyway. Something lifted from his shoulders, and his vision seemed suddenly sharper: he was back in the hunt. “I understand. If—”

  He fell silent as Harper grabbed his arm forcefully, something he’d never done before. “I hope you do understand, Ryan. If you’re caught, you’re on your own. I can’t lift a finger to help you. And Naomi is not to have a part in this. She’ll give you the file, but her involvement ends there. I don’t care how much she complains, you leave her out of it. I have a feeling that she’d do just about anything for you, but bear in mind that we’re talking about her career, okay? And make that clear to her as well.”

  Harper released his arm and reached again for the Kleenex, erupting in a short series of hacking coughs. Kealey rose to his feet. “Ten PM?”

  “Yeah, you’d better hurry.”

  He took a few quick steps back down the path, then slowed, stopped, and turned. Harper was still sitting on the bench, shoulders hunched with fatigue. Watching him, Kealey felt a sudden rush of emotion. There was barely ten years between them, but Harper had been the closest thing to a mentor he’d ever had, and now the man was putting his career on the line for him. For Kealey, it had nothing to do with Thomas Rühmann or the upcoming meeting in New York. It was all about finding Vanderveen. In the end, that was all that mattered, at least in his mind. He suspected Harper knew this much and probably more.

  But none of that needed to be said; they had known each other too long. Instead, Kealey simply turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER 27

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Kealey had been back in his room at the Hotel Washington for less than ten minutes when the knock came at the door. He’d had just enough time to shower and change into a pair of dark gray utility pants, running shoes, and a North Face zip-neck fleece. Crossing the room, he pulled open the door and Kharmai stepped inside immediately.

  She brushed past him and stopped, staring around as if picking out the differences between their respective rooms. Then she walked past the bed, tossed a folder onto the small table, and turned to face him. “I guess Harper told you—”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “Quite a risk on his part, I would have thought.”

  She was eyeing him steadily, but he turned away and picked up the phone. “I was going to order up some coffee. You want anything?”

  “Tea would be great.”

  He nodded and dialed room service. After the order was placed, he walked over and joined her at the small wooden table, pushing aside the hotel stationery and a complimentary guide to the city. Naomi began describing the embassy’s external security measures as soon as he eased into the seat, but something was wrong, and he picked up on it right away. She was talking too fast, as if trying to ward off an impending argument, and she refused to meet his gaze. Finally, she stopped and looked up to catch him staring at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  She looked down at her clothes. It wasn’t the outfit itself that had caught his attention; there was nothing conspicuous about her loose-fitting hoodie, tracksuit bottoms, and sneakers. But the fact that she was dressed entirely in black, given the situation, could only mean one thing.

  She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and looked him square in the eye. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No,” he replied instantly. “You’re not. There’s no way I’m going to—”

  “Ryan, just think about this for a second, okay?” The words came out in a torrent, as if by talking faster, she could overwhelm him with the force of her argument. She leaned forward and slapped a hand on top of the bulky file, which was still closed. “Even if we hold off as long as possible, we only have a few hours to go over this. There’s just too much to learn, and you have to remember it all under pressure. I’m not talking about going into the building with you, but you need someone to walk you through. Otherwise, it just won’t work… One mistake will alert security, and we can’t allow that to happen. Remember, I have just as much invested in this as you do.”

  She didn’t realize what she’d said until Ryan looked away, pain flickering over his face. Remembering just how much he had lost to the man they were now chasing, Kharmai winced and opened her mouth to apologize, but he went on before she could get the words out.

  “Naomi, even if we get what we need on Rühmann, I’m going to lose my job over this. Do you understand that? It only has to happen to one of us, and it won’t be you. There is no way you’re coming along.”

  “Well, you’re going to have a hard time getting into the embassy computers without the administrator password,” she said, leaning back and adopting her best poker face. “I seem to have misplaced it.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Yep.” She gave him a meaningful look. “Makes your job a lot harder, anyway. On the other hand, I might be able to track it down with a little effort.”

  He shook his head, but he had to smile. “That’s bullshit, Naomi. I know you better than that. There’s no way you would let me go in there without the right information.”

  She tried to keep her face blank, but it couldn’t last, and she finally looked away in defeat. “Ryan, I just want to help,” she said softly. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even have gotten this far. Believe me, I know what I’m doing. I also know the odds, and there is no way you can pull this off alone.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and she went on before he could object. “Think about what you’re risking, will you? This is our only link to Rühmann, and that makes it our only link to Vanderveen. Knowing that, are you still willing to take the chance? Any chance at all?”

  He hesitated, and she felt a weight lift; she had finally gotten through to him.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  She tapped the folder again. “When I went to pick this up at Langley, I stopped by to visit an old friend in the DST. He gave me the use of some radios. They’re not encrypted, unfortunately, but they are pretty powerful. I’ll wait in the car with the layout and walk you through. That way you can focus on what you’re doing in there. Security’s light, especially on the grounds, and the building itself will be all but empty.”

  “Isn’t that normal, given the time of day?”

  “Yes, but tonight the amba
ssador is holding a reception at the residence, so most of the staff will be tied up with that. It’s perfect for us.”

  Kealey nodded absently. He wasn’t pleased that Naomi had talked him into giving her a more active role, but he couldn’t fault her logic. It occurred to him that she had changed his mind with amazing speed, and he couldn’t help but wonder about the way she had brought Vanderveen into the equation. I have just as much invested in this as you. Had she dredged up the past intentionally? If so, she was a promising actress, judging by the embarrassment that had crossed her face once the words were out. She was difficult to read, but he had always thought as much; she appeared to wear her emotions on her sleeve, but knowing how intelligent she actually was, Kealey could never be sure how much was real and how much was feigned. Methods aside, she seemed happy enough to have gotten her way; her eyes were bright as she opened the folder and began leafing through the pages with obvious enthusiasm.

  Kealey knew how much those pages meant; everything hinged on the accuracy of the file’s contents. If the source recruited through ORACLE had given them good information, their chances were vastly improved, but Harper was right; under normal circumstances, an operation such as this, with the potential for enormous fallout if they were caught in the act, would be planned out weeks in advance and rehearsed extensively. This worrisome fact plucked at his confidence, but he’d made the decision, and he wasn’t about to back out now.

  Room service arrived a moment later, and Kealey got up to collect the tray. When they were settled back in, Naomi said, “So, where should we start?”

  He turned some of the documents so he could see them better, then selected a stack of paper. “Entry points. I have to get in fast and out of sight. If I can’t do that, nothing else will matter.”

  “That makes sense. When are we going in?”

  He looked at her sharply. “I’m going in at four AM. That gives us five hours, allowing for time to test the radios.”

  “Right.” When their eyes met, she offered a neutral smile instead of a broad grin. She had already gotten her way, and she knew rubbing it in wouldn’t help. “Well, there’s a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.”

  The Hotel Victoria, located just off the Quai du Commerce, was a charmless, two-story structure of grey stone situated in the heart of Calais. The fourteen-room hotel was marked only by two small, flickering signs in bright blue and orange; otherwise, it could have been any other building on the block, and no better for it.

  It was this very anonymity that had pulled Vanderveen in when they arrived in town late that evening, nearly four hours after Tabrizi’s death in Paris. They were met at the door by a bleary-eyed woman in her late fifties, who managed to greet them graciously, despite the late hour. They presented their passports and signed the registry as she searched for a free room. Handing over the keys, she smiled again and sent them up to the second floor.

  The accommodations were adequate at best; the carpet was frayed, the furnishings scratched from years of use and lack of polish. The tile in the bathroom was cracked and stained, the wallpaper above the sink speckled with some unknown substance. The smell of antiseptic was overpowering. None of it mattered to Vanderveen; he had spent months, even years on end in places far worse. After pulling the curtains closed, he went into the bathroom and stripped down, then showered quickly. When he emerged ten minutes later, the room was dark, but he could see Raseen’s still form on the bed. She was still fully clothed, curled into a tight ball on top of the covers, her right side rising and falling with each shallow breath. He studied her for a minute, dispassionately picking out what was visible in the low light: the line of her square jaw, the gentle curve of her right shoulder, and the slope of her slender neck, which led up to a tangled nest of black-brown hair.

  Watching her, he was reminded of her demonstration in the field near Dordogne, as well as the remarkable poise she had shown outside the hotel in Paris. She had witnessed and participated in a number of atrocities over the past few days, and yet she slept without stirring, her face serene in a sliver of moonlight. He thought this trait — the ability to sleep soundly after what she had seen and done — said more about her nature than any words he had been offered in Tartus. In this respect, he knew, they were much the same. With this realization, this acknowledgment, he felt something he had not felt in many years: affection for another human being. It was a strange, unnerving sensation, and for a moment, it left him confused and vaguely annoyed.

  Shrugging off the momentary lapse, he closed the drapes with a swift tug, the clean white light blinking out in an instant; then he crossed to the door and slipped out quietly. He went down the narrow, musty flight of stairs and stepped into the street a moment later. Then he turned left and began walking south on the rue de Madrid.

  Calais, a town of approximately 80,000, is located on the northern coast of France, overlooking the choppy gray waters of the English Channel. On a clear day, the white chalk cliffs of Dover can be seen from the shore with the naked eye; closer still is the fleet of ferries and commercial vessels that make the daily crossing. Although it has its charms, 90 percent of the town’s infrastructure was destroyed during World War II. As a result, there is little history to be found in the narrow streets of Calais, and even fewer architectural achievements. In fact, Calais is nothing more than a stopping point for most of the tourists entering France, as evidenced by the vast array of transportation options at hand. Vanderveen knew the Eurotunnel Terminal was located just southwest of the town, and there were a number of bus stations scattered about in convenient locations. Those facilities would become useful soon enough, but for now, Calais would suffice. It was as good a place as any to drop off the radar for a few days before moving again.

  The pale quarter-moon slid behind a bank of clouds as he crossed the rue Mollien, making his way past the ornate redbrick façade of the train station. He entered the Parc Saint-Pierre a few minutes later, the Town Hall lit up to his left. The building’s 75-foot belfry towered over the trees and Auguste Rodin’s famous bronze, The Burghers of Calais.

  Vanderveen stopped and appraised the work. He was well aware of its history. Completed in 1888, the sculpture was commissioned to commemorate an event that occurred during the Hundred Years’ War. According to documents dating from that period, the burghers were recognized as the city’s leaders, and, as such, were responsible for the defense of Calais. When Edward III laid siege to the city in 1347, Phillip VI of France commanded them to hold out indefinitely. When support failed to arrive, however, they were eventually forced to surrender, trading their lives and the keys to the city in exchange for the lives of the city’s inhabitants. Although the burghers were eventually spared by the English, it was this image of them — leaving the gates of Calais in utter defeat, each with a noose tied round his neck — that Rodin had immortalized in bronze more than a hundred years earlier.

  Vanderveen stood before the figures for several minutes, listening intently, then walked in a wide circle to view the sculpture from a number of angles. While his interest in the piece was genuine — there was something about those pained expressions that he found intensely appealing — he was far more concerned with what was happening across the boulevard Jacquard. He’d passed the Church of Notre Dame nearly fifteen minutes earlier, and ever since then he’d felt uneasy. It was nothing he could see, which meant it was almost certainly his imagination, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

  The footpath wound its way through the park, bordered on both sides by misshapen trees, black silhouettes in the low ambient light. Vanderveen crossed the boulevard and continued on, making his way past a wartime telephone exchange. At some point, the unremarkable concrete structure had been converted to a museum; twin flagpoles stood outside the single entrance, the trees giving way to rows of dark green hedges. A sudden noise to his left caught his attention: the bray of a young man’s drunken laughter, followed immediately by a burst of profanity and a shouted
rebuke.

  Vanderveen felt a sudden spark of concern. He knew about the darker side of Calais, the side that could not be found in any guidebook, no matter how honest the author. Because of its proximity to England, the city was a gathering place for asylum seekers from all over the Near and Middle East, including some of the globe’s most troublesome regions: Sudan, Afghanistan, and the Palestinian territories. The hopeful masses had once congregated in the sweeping square next to the Parc Richelieu but moved around constantly to avoid the gendarmes, the local police. Vanderveen knew that by and large, the locals thought of these “asylum seekers” as nothing more than human waste, criminals forced from their native lands. Ironically, most of the criminal activity that stemmed from the immigrants’ presence was propagated by French nationals, blue-collar men who were quick to exhibit their frustration over the ongoing problem.

  In his current persona, Vanderveen could hardly be mistaken for one of the refugees, but that was a small comfort. Ethnicity aside, he had no desire to confront a nationalistic dockworker on the tail end of a daylong drinking binge. Pushing his right hand into his jacket pocket, he felt for the handle of the 4-inch Benchmade knife he was carrying. He had no doubt that he could extricate himself from any situation, but he would prefer to stay on in Calais until it was time to move. An unexpected confrontation could quickly ruin his plans, especially if he was forced to leave a body behind.

  By skirting the shadows, it was easy enough to avoid the source of the laughter, and soon after leaving the park, he found what he was looking for on the rue Aristide Briand. He’d passed half a dozen public telephones since leaving the hotel, but he’d wanted to walk, craving the exercise after the lengthy drive north from Paris. It had little to do with spotting surveillance; if they were being watched, the authorities would have moved in by now, but the tingling sensation at the back of his neck was only getting worse. Still, he had to make the call. He’d put it off for too long already.