The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  He’d purchased a French Telecom smart card shortly after arriving in Paris. Slipping it into the card reader, he punched in a thirteendigit number and lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Taylor,” Vanderveen said, using the prearranged code. “What do you have for me?”

  When the response came, the soft, familiar voice was tight with irritation and concern. “I was expecting your call yesterday. There’s a problem. The meeting did not go as planned.”

  “Explain.”

  “We had a couple of uninvited guests show up in Alexandria. They were both from the Agency, and one of them managed to get hold of our friend’s laptop after he died. There was some politics involved — some sparring on the top floors — but we should have it back in a matter of hours. Unfortunately, we don’t know what’s on it. The man in the north may be compromised.”

  Rühmann. Vanderveen’s grip on the phone was firm, but his words were calm and measured. “When will you know for sure?”

  A slight hesitation, then, “Twenty-four hours, max.”

  “That’s too long. He has to go if they’re onto him.”

  “He has to go either way. You need to understand, there is no way I can bury this… If the hard drive contains usable information, the Bureau will find it and act on it. I can only control so much.”

  “I understand,” was Vanderveen’s terse reply. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Has the package changed hands?”

  “Not yet. There are a few details to work out, but I’ll finish the transaction soon enough.”

  “When exactly?”

  The brief, uneasy silence that followed the question was answer enough, but Vanderveen voiced the words anyway. “That is not your concern. Just keep me updated. I need to know what’s on the computer. Mason may have known more than we thought.”

  “Fine. Is there anything else?”

  He was about to respond in the negative, but something sparked in the back of his mind. “The men from the Agency… I don’t suppose you caught their names?”

  “The senior man called himself Jonathan Harper. He showed up at the NCTC earlier in the day, looking for information. His ID said he was with the Office of General Counsel, but something about it didn’t seem right to me. For one thing, I’ve never heard of an Agency lawyer showing up at a Bureau raid. There was no reason for an OGC rep to be there.”

  Vanderveen considered for a moment, then said, “I want to know more about him. Do you have access to that kind of information? It could prove useful.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Good. Do what you can. What about the subordinate? He’s the one who took the laptop, right?”

  “Yes. His name is Kealey, Ryan Kealey.”

  Vanderveen closed his eyes and replaced the receiver. He remained in that position for nearly a full minute, then opened his eyes slowly and lifted the phone once more. This time, the number he dialed put him through to a very different part of the world.

  When the receiver was picked up on the other end, he simply said, “It’s me. I’m afraid we may have a small problem.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CALAIS

  After concluding the second call, Vanderveen left the glass booth and walked back toward the path leading into the park. Sounds emerged from a brightly lit restaurant across the avenue: the tinkle of a woman’s laughter, the clinking of glasses, and dozens of meshed conversations in a multitude of languages. The rich smells wafting out of the open doors served as a stabbing reminder that he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, but for the most part, his mind was consumed by what he had just learned.

  Kealey. Vanderveen shook his head in delayed disbelief. At the same time, he wondered why he was so surprised. The man’s involvement was all but inevitable; he was, after all, one of the Agency’s most experienced field men, particularly when it came to the Middle East. Still, the unfortunate development raised uncomfortable doubts, forcing him to question some of his earlier choices. It seemed as though the shot he had taken on that sweltering Syrian hilltop eight years earlier had haunted him ever since. Rightly, Ryan Kealey should have died that day. Vanderveen could understand the need for revenge after that kind of betrayal, but the truth was that the man’s motivations ran far beyond the near-fatal wound he had suffered in Syria, far beyond the loss of his fellow soldiers. With this personal admission, Vanderveen once again found himself wondering: Had killing the woman in Maine been a mistake?

  Yes, said the insistent voice inside, the same voice that had guided him since adolescence. He had been asking himself that specific question for months on end, and now he had his answer. It was a mistake, an act carried out in a moment of black rage. Better to have killed the man and been done with it. By sparing Kealey and taking his woman instead, Vanderveen had given him all the motivation he would ever need to track her killer to the end of the earth.

  Despite the recriminations, despite the uncomfortable examination of his past decisions, Vanderveen was comforted by one truth he had learned over the years, which was this: opportunities are rarely lost, only delayed. The trick lay in recognizing a second chance when it presented itself, and it went both ways. After all, fate had given Ryan Kealey his fair share of opportunities, all of which he had squandered. He had missed his target in Syria after losing nearly half of his detachment to Vanderveen’s aimed fire, and he’d failed to finish the job on that frigid night in Maine nearly one year earlier, counting instead on nature’s fury to finish the work he had started.

  Now the tables were turned once more, and this time, Vanderveen knew he could not fail. In fact, he suddenly realized there might be an opportunity here, a chance to remedy two problems at once. There was no doubt in his mind that Kealey would do everything in his power to track down Thomas Rühmann. In this respect, Vanderveen had the advantage, as he already knew exactly where the Austrian arms broker was holed up. All he had to do was get there first. He would also need the proper materials.

  A frown crossed his face with this realization. The second person he’d called had promised to fill Vanderveen’s order, but he was reluctant to place his faith in the distant voice. His own contacts, while abundant in the Middle East, were extremely limited in Western Europe. On the other hand, if the insurgency’s agent in England failed to come through, there was a chance — a good chance, even — that Yasmin Raseen could get hold of the right people. According to al-Tikriti’s veiled speech, she had operated extensively on European soil, a fact she had already demonstrated with consummate skill during their time in France.

  As Vanderveen made his way through the park, the lights of the belfry drawing ever closer, he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a woman’s scream. The indignant cry was cut off in the middle, as though a hand had suddenly clamped over an open mouth. In the intense silence that followed, a burst of drunken laughter cut through the trees, followed immediately by a sound he could not quite place, a shuffling, grunting noise, which carried clearly in the brisk night air.

  He did not hesitate; his stride was unbroken. In fact, he quickened his pace, hoping to get clear of the park before the police were alerted. The station was nearby, he knew, on the eastern side of the Town Hall. Whatever was happening — a rape, a robbery — was not his concern. His continued freedom precluded his intervention in such matters, but it was his utter indifference that sealed the decision to walk away, which was made unconsciously. The next sound he heard, however, caused him to freeze in his tracks and breathe a soft curse.

  The woman had cried out again, apparently breaking free of the hand that silenced her. This time, the scream was accompanied by a flurry of pointed obscenities, which were not uttered in French, but in Arabic.

  The park beyond the footpath was reasonably open, which worked both for and against him. The grass beneath his feet was close clipped, damp from the earlier rain, and the trees and hedges were neatly pruned, giving him a clear view of what lay ahead, or at least as much as the diffuse
d light would reveal. Fortunately, the vegetation surrounding the war museum was less well kept, as though the men and women who maintained the exhibits had no time or concern for the aesthetics of the building itself.

  It was from that copse of tangled trees that the woman’s scream had originated, and now, drawing closer, he heard yet another muffled cry. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman was Yasmin Raseen; what he didn’t understand was why she had followed him. He was struck by a sudden flash of anger; he had watched his trail carefully, and yet she’d somehow managed to track him for nearly an hour without giving herself away. She had operated in this capacity for much longer than he had, he knew, but knowing her capabilities didn’t slow the rising anger, which threatened to overwhelm him.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, he forced himself to clear his mind and focus on the approach. He moved in a crouch, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Judging by the drunken sound of the laughter he’d heard a moment ago, Raseen’s assailants were in no state to offer a serious challenge. For this reason, Vanderveen left the knife in his pocket. Whatever happened next, he was determined to keep things simple, and that meant leaving them alive if at all possible.

  There. The trees gave way, and he took in the scene with a practiced eye: two bodies were intertwined, grappling on the ground, the larger figure on top. There was a second shape several feet to the right, a still form on a bed of crushed leaves. The figure was lying on its back, not moving, arms outstretched.

  For a split second, he considered leaving her. It would be better if he did not have to explain her death, but some things couldn’t be helped. On the other hand, Vanderveen realized that she could be carrying some kind of identification. If so, she would quickly be traced back to the hotel on the rue de Madrid. Once the police learned that Raseen had not checked in alone, they would seek out her traveling companion for questioning. Once the companion failed to materialize, he would become the prime suspect. To complicate matters, the woman at the desk still had his passport, which he’d been asked to leave when they checked in. The passport contained a false name, and his appearance was subtly altered in the photograph, but it was still evidence. He had no desire to leave it behind.

  Turning his attention back to the struggle, he focused on the man astride the smaller figure. Having made his decision, he moved forward and snaked his right arm around the thick neck in front of him, then pulled back sharply, placing his left hand on the side of the head for leverage. Hands instantly sprung up to wrap round his arms, trying to loosen the grip. The man was strong; for a moment, Vanderveen’s right arm began to give way, and then he felt something hot and wet spraying against the thin fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. The man seemed to jerk spasmodically, then fell forward, crashing onto the smaller figure. Surprised, Vanderveen stepped back. Raseen’s assailant began to choke as she pushed him off with a huge effort. She rolled away and tried to sit up, gasping for breath. Beneath her open coat, her blouse was visibly torn in several places. There were leaves in her hair and a wet streak over her left eye — blood, Vanderveen realized — but there was nothing in her expression to indicate fear, panic, or even relief that he had come to her aid.

  The larger man was bleeding out; that much was obvious. She must have nicked the artery before he arrived in the clearing. Ignoring the dying man, Vanderveen went to the other body and checked for a pulse. Not finding one, he looked at the face. It was obscenely white in the dark, eyes wide in surprise. The throat was intact, but there was a dark spot on the shirt, indicating a puncture wound placed neatly between the fourth and fifth ribs.

  He turned back to Raseen, who was still breathing heavily. Her eyes flicked down to the bodies, and something changed in her face; she seemed not pleased, but oddly satisfied with what she had done, as though she had confirmed some long-held belief in her own capabilities. He wondered if she had ever killed before, despite what he’d been told in Tartus. The knife was still in her hand, a slim shard of steel, the blade glistening wet in the moonlight.

  Vanderveen met her gaze, his face tightening. She seemed to sense his thoughts, as she clambered to her feet and took a fast step back, her eyes fixed on his. Strangely enough, she seemed wary, but not afraid. He could tell the difference; he was all too familiar with the nuances of joyless expressions.

  Kill her, said the voice inside.

  He took a slow step forward; for the moment, his body was as irrational as his mind, his limbs trembling with rage. She moved the knife in front of her body, as if to remind him that she still had it. Still, her expression did not change. Her face was cool but not distant; she was entirely engaged in the moment.

  She’s too much of a risk… Just look at the mess she’s left you. Kill her now.

  He took another step forward, which she countered with another step back. She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind and clamped it shut. They were separated by 2 feet at most; if he moved quickly and got hold of the knife hand, he could crush her trachea in a matter of seconds. He just needed the slightest distraction….

  Feet in the underbrush, branches whipping around an advancing form. Vanderveen stepped into the shadows instinctively, and the woman froze in place.

  “Hello?” a gruff, cautious voice, asked with authority. “Police. Is anyone there?”

  Raseen’s gaze skipped to the shadows, questioning. Vanderveen moved carefully forward, nodded once, then stepped back. He was now completely reliant on her, and it occurred to him how quickly the tables had turned; in other circumstances, it would have been almost amusing.

  Raseen dropped down to the wet grass, simultaneously wiping her hand over the cut near her left eye. Smearing the blood over her face, she positioned herself next to one of the bodies and cried out in faltering French. “I’m over here! Please, help me! Please…”

  The noise through the brush grew louder, leaves sliding under fast, heavy feet, branches snapping. A portly figure burst into view. Even in the dark, Vanderveen could make out the patrol uniform and the radio hooked to the right side of the man’s belt. The officer took in the scene, murmuring an obscenity. Then he dropped to his knees next to Raseen. “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, êtes-vous blessé?” Are you hurt?

  In one swift motion, Raseen grabbed the policeman’s hands and pulled him over her body, lifting him off his feet. At the same time, Vanderveen approached from behind, the Benchmade knife coming out of his pocket. He flipped his thumb and the serrated, 4-inch blade sprang free, clicking into place.

  The policeman shouted a warning to no one in particular and started to rise, struggling to find a foothold in the slick grass. He was clambering to his feet, fumbling for the radio, when Vanderveen knocked off his cap with his left hand. At the same time, he gripped a handful of hair, pulled the man’s head to the left, and thrust the knife up under the right ear. The police officer shuddered and emitted a strange sound, something between a cough and a scream. Then he went still. Vanderveen jiggled the blade back and forth a few times before pulling it out and releasing his grip. The dead man fell to the ground with a muffled thump.

  Yasmin Raseen was already moving. Her coat was soaked in blood; pulling it off, she rubbed the cloth liner over the damp grass, then used it to wipe her face. Then she placed the knife inside the coat and wrapped it into a bundle, arranging the material under her left arm so that none of the stains were visible.

  For the moment, she was unarmed. She glanced at the knife in Vanderveen’s hand, but a quick look at her face told him that nothing had changed; she remained unafraid.

  She could not have known what her indifference meant; she had no way of knowing that it was this — her complete lack of fear — that had saved her life. If she had shown an ounce of panic, a moment of indecision, or a trace of dependence on him, he would have killed her instantly. Instead, he wiped down his knife and carefully dropped the weapon next to one of the bodies. Then he took Raseen’s free arm and guided her out of the park.

  The
lights of the hotel were all but extinguished by the time they returned. Vanderveen pulled open the front door and led her past the drooping, disinterested eyes of the girl at the desk, past the wilting plants in the shabby stairwell. They climbed the dark stairs. In the room on the second floor, Raseen felt her way into the bathroom and flipped on the light, then closed the door behind her. Vanderveen heard tap water running in the sink as he went to the window. Cracking the drapes slightly, he stared down at the road. There was no sign of anything amiss, though he could hear distant sirens through the glass.

  They had dropped their bloodied coats into a pair of trash cans on the way back, reaching the hotel clothed only in jeans and T-shirts. The brisk walk back from the park had taken less than twenty minutes, but that was more than enough time for his rage to climb to impossible heights. The woman had compromised everything to satisfy her idle curiosity. She had overstepped her bounds, exceeded any authority her connections afforded her. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, his fury had pushed him past any semblance of rationality; now, he was willing to endure any consequence to see her dead. He would leave her body in the room if he had to. At least, that was how he felt until the door swung open and she appeared before him, backlit by the bulbs over the sink. Then it all fell away, and he could not help but stare in frank admiration.

  Her beauty was evident in any light, but there was something about the dark that brought out what lay within, perversely illuminating her darkest desires. Raseen had stripped off the T-shirt and stood before him in worn jeans and a black lace bra. The light from behind made her curves stand out in sharp relief, but it was not her physical attributes that pulled him in. There was something else that he found inexplicably unique and appealing, something about her utter indifference that stripped him of all self-control; he felt as though he would do anything to elicit some kind of reaction, something beyond the enigmatic crease between her eyebrows. He wanted to know who she really was, what had driven her into the life she was leading. What had created her? Who — if anyone — had turned her into a killer?