The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  He zipped up and shouldered the pack once more, then began to climb. Once he reached the second balcony, he climbed over the railing and pulled up the rope, then untied it and slung it over his shoulder. Walking to the other end of the balcony, he peered over the side, carefully examining the next challenge. The cameras were directly beneath him, about 20 feet down, level with each other and spaced a foot apart. The service door, in turn, was located beneath the cameras.

  Straightening, he turned to his right and checked out the windows. It was as he expected: the windows opened only from inside the building. If he tried to force one, there was a good chance the pane would give way. Clearly, the door below was the best option, although that wasn’t saying much.

  Dropping the rope from his shoulder, he tied a knot at one end to prevent him from sliding all the way to the ground. The other end of the rope was secured to the railing with an anchor bend, which, once pulled taut, was almost impossible to untie. Loosely coiling the free end of the rope, he dropped it onto the floor of the balcony and opened the pack, pulling out a handful of nonlocking caribiners. He was already wearing a Petzl rappelling harness, which was nothing more than a waist strap attached to fabric loops that encircled the thighs. Kealey hooked a few caribiners to the gear loops on either side of the harness, then selected another object from the pack. The small metal device was known as a shunt. Once clamped around the rope and linked — with the help of a caribiner — to the main attachment point on the harness, the shunt could be used to arrest an uncontrolled rappel. More importantly, it could be locked at any point, giving him free use of both hands.

  Finding the gear had been a challenge in itself. It had taken a number of calls, but he’d finally managed to get through to an instructor at Camp Peary, otherwise known as The Farm, the CIA’s main training facility, near Williamsburg, Virginia. By chance, the instructor had left most of the necessary equipment at Langley a week earlier. Kealey had made the drive to headquarters just after midnight, stopping along the way at a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart. There, he had collected the rest of what was needed: a battery-operated screwdriver, a Mini Maglite with an assortment of colored filters, and a pair of thick leather gloves. He’d also picked up a Gerber multitool. Favored by military personnel, the Gerber was similar to a Swiss Army knife in form and function. The Maglite remained in the pack, which he left on the balcony. The screwdriver was hooked to his harness, dangling from one of the gear loops, as was the Gerber.

  Having secured the shunt to the rope and his harness in turn, he pulled on the pair of thick leather gloves, adjusted his lip mic slightly, and said, “Naomi, I’m about to take care of the cameras. Ready on your end?”

  “Yes. I’m making the call now.”

  In the Taurus, Kharmai pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. The other end was picked up after the first ring. A brisk voice announced, “German Embassy.”

  “Yes, hello?” She was nearly shouting into the phone. “I can hardly… I can’t hear you. Hello?”

  “Yes, this is the German Embassy. How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Gunter. Is he… Is he there? Sorry, can you hear me? This phone is…”

  She allowed herself to trail off and held her breath, waiting for the reply.

  “Yes, he’s right here. One moment please…”

  Naomi hung up immediately. The file contained the names and positions of nearly everyone who worked at the chancery, including the guards on the night shift. Anything could have changed over the past couple of months, but their luck seemed to be holding. She wasn’t sure if the guard on the phone had bought her act, but it didn’t really matter. There were only two men on duty from 8:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., and she’d just verified their locations. Both were in the security booth, which was on the other end of the building. Ryan would not get a better chance.

  She keyed her mic and said, “They’re in the booth. You’re free to move.”

  On the second-floor balcony, Kealey acknowledged her transmission and started to move. First, he slipped the rope over the side of the railing and began lowering it carefully. It was going to go too far, he realized; if he descended, he’d overshoot his target and end up in full view of the cameras. Pulling the rope back up, he looped it around the railing a few times, tied a second knot, and lowered it once more. This time, the rope stopped right where he wanted it to.

  He performed a quick check of his clothing, looking for anything loose, something that might snare in the shunt’s pulley. Satisfied with his preparations, he climbed over the railing and stood with his heels between the bars, facing out into space.

  Inverted rappelling basically amounted to descending a rope face first. It was a dangerous proposition under the best of circumstances, but here in the dark, with the bare minimum of equipment, it was nearly suicidal. Kealey knew this as well as anyone, but he was completely calm as he leaned forward and loosened his grip on the rope. It all came down to timing.

  Kneeling, he dropped forward over the railing. He fell with startling speed for the first 10 feet before pulling the rope hard over his chest. At the same time, he pinched the trailing end between his feet. Although he was using every ounce of strength he possessed to slow his fall, he was unable to stop in time. His hands bounced over the knot in the end of the rope, and he slammed to a halt a split second later. Looking up at his harness, he could see that the shunt was jammed into the anchor knot; it was the only thing that had stopped him from tumbling headfirst to the cement footpath.

  The heart-stopping descent had left him shaken, but there was no time to waste. Stripping off his gloves, he examined the cameras, both of which were in arm’s reach. Each was covered by a weatherproof plastic housing. The housings were screwed into place; four screws on each, he could see, and beneath that, another four screws to remove the access panels.

  He hooked his leg around the rope to stabilize his body, then felt back to his side for the screwdriver, unhooking it from the caribiner. He moved slowly; if he dropped the screwdriver, he would have no choice but to abort. Once the cameras went off-line, one of the guards would surely come to investigate. If he were to find a screwdriver beneath the disabled units, the embassy would be locked down immediately, and reinforcements called in. If, on the other hand, the cameras did not appear to be tampered with, the security guard might simply ensure the door was locked, head back to finish his shift, and report the incident in the morning. Kealey was not sure of any of this, but given the situation, there was no other alternative.

  He managed to get both housings off in less than a minute, propping them on the mounts drilled into the walls. The access panels came next. Although the cameras were set to ignore a certain amount of vibration, he was careful to avoid bumping them. He felt sure that the slight vibration generated by the screwdriver would set off the alarm. If that happened, he would not know until the door was opened below; the alarm wired to the cameras was only audible inside the security booth. The process was nerve-wracking, and by the time he was down to the last two screws, his face was bathed in sweat, despite the cool air.

  The last one came free. He pinched it between his fingers, but it slipped free, rattling off the front of the camera.

  Shit. Kealey looked down to the cement. The screw was clearly visible, impossibly bright in the weak light. There was no way the guard would miss it when he came to investigate. No way.

  He swore under his breath, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do now; he just had to carry on in the hope that the guard was too tired or ignorant to notice. Snapping the screwdriver’s fabric loop back into the caribiner, he reached next for the Gerber. Unfolding the wire cutters, he found the appropriate bundle of wires in the exposed circuitry of the first camera. He would have preferred to simply short out the cameras, thereby creating the illusion of an electronic malfunction, but he couldn’t be sure of success. Cutting the wires was the only way to guarantee the feed would go down. He snipped the wires quickly, then did the same to the
second unit. The cameras were off-line.

  Now there was not a moment to lose; the guard would arrive in less than a minute. Most of the embassy’s security measures were external. Inside the building, the doors were secured by cipher locks, each of which could be opened with a simple four-digit code. The guard would have access to every door on the ground floor, and it wouldn’t take him long to reach the back of the chancery.

  Kealey hooked the Gerber back to the harness and retrieved the screwdriver. Ten seconds had elapsed. Moving fast, he slipped the metal covers back into place, covering the access panels, then began screwing them down. Thirty seconds gone.

  He reached for the weatherproof housings. One came free right away, but the other started to slide off the opposite side of the mount. Lunging out with his left hand, he caught it at the last possible second, the plastic material pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Breathing hard, he set the housings over the cameras and checked his watch for the third time, lighting up the digital face: forty-five seconds.

  No time to screw in the housings. Unhooking his leg, he shifted so his body was horizontal with the ground, then reached for the rope and started to climb. The shunt, still jammed into the knot at the end of the rope, followed him up. Naomi’s voice was loud in his ear, but he couldn’t make sense of her words; all he could hear was his own ragged breath and the sound of his blood, which was hissing in his ears.

  Five feet to go. He was climbing fast, hand over hand, the coarse rope stripping his fingers bare. Beneath him, he heard the door snap open, and his heart nearly stopped; he was in plain view. If the guard looked up, it would all be over, and how could he not? The cameras were right there, right in the line of sight. There was no choice. Kealey kept climbing and flung himself over the railing, willing the iron to absorb the sound of his falling body. At the same time, he yanked the wires out of the radio, unsure if Kharmai’s transmission could be heard on the ground.

  He lay still for a long moment, trying to silence his breathing. Below, he could hear cautious feet on cement as the guard moved around. It sounded like one man, which meant that the other guard was probably still in the booth. He was tempted to look over the side of the railing, but common sense kept him in place; there was nothing to gain by exposing himself. If the guard had spotted the screw on the footpath — or if he’d seen some other sign that things were amiss — Kealey would know soon enough.

  Finally, a short phrase drifted up to the balcony. It carried a note of finality, but the words made no sense to him. Kealey was fluent in four languages, but German, unfortunately, was not among them. The door slammed shut a moment later, and everything was quiet again.

  As carefully as possible, he slid over the iron and looked down to the chancery grounds. The security guard was nowhere in sight. Plugging the earpiece back into the radio, he reached Kharmai and repeated the phrase he had heard to the best of his ability. When he was done, there were a few seconds of silence while she translated.

  “I think you heard him correctly,” she said. “He told the other guard there was no sign of tampering. They think one of the boards went bad, that it was just a nuisance alarm. It sounds like you’re in the clear.”

  “Good. I’ll let you know once I’m inside the building.”

  “You remember the code?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  Less than a minute later, Kealey was back on the ground, standing in front of the service door. He had changed his shoes to avoid trailing mud through the building. He had also stripped off the Petzl harness, replacing it with a waist holster containing his Beretta 9mm. There was no way he could use the gun, but he was not used to working without it. Just having it on him made him feel better about the whole scenario. The climbing rope was back in the pack, along with the rest of his equipment. He’d taken care of the cameras, but the pressure was still on. It should have been easier. Thanks to the ORACLE source, they had the computer passwords, cipher lock combinations, alarm codes — even the names of the guards on duty. Everything but the key to this door.

  He examined the lock carefully. It was just as the file promised, a Schlage pin tumbler housed within a Securitron dual alarm/door unit. He was not surprised to see a small red light protruding from the steel plate, which indicated the system was armed. This was perhaps the riskiest part, as the cylinder had to be picked twice: once, to deactivate the alarm, and again to unlock the solenoid bolt. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing how the switches were wired. He might turn the cylinder clockwise to unlock the door and end up triggering the alarm. Normally, he would just remove the cover to get a look at the wiring, but in this case, the plate was held in place by tamper-proof screws. He had no choice but to pick the lock and hope for the best. The odds of getting it right the first time were fifty fifty, which didn’t inspire a great deal of confidence.

  The red filter was already in place, covering the lens of the Maglite. Holding the light in place, Kealey looked at the keyway. For most pin tumbler locks, a lock-pick gun was the most expedient choice. Unfortunately, it was also the noisiest method, and in this case, the Securitron switch precluded its use. Besides, having already drawn attention to this door by disabling the cameras, Kealey was unwilling to further provoke the guards. Shrugging off the pack once more, he reached inside and withdrew a small nylon case. Inside were a number of picks and rakes, all of which had been legally acquired through ESP Lock Products, a company based out of Leominster, Massachusetts.

  Selecting a standard diamond pick and a dual-tension wrench, he clamped the Maglite between his teeth and set to work on the lock, applying torque with the wrench as he felt for the pins, manipulating the pick with his thumb and forefinger. After a short while, he’d pushed all of the pins past the shear line, allowing the cylinder to turn to the right. Moving the wrench to the opposite side, he repeated the process, and the cylinder turned to the left. Holding his breath, he pulled open the door. Nothing happened. Stepping inside, he found the backup alarm, a keypad placed next to the door. He punched in the four-digit code, praying it would work, knowing it probably wouldn’t. The source had been out of the picture for months. During that time, people had been hired, fired, promoted, sent back to Europe… The code would not be the same.

  But it was. The alarm stopped beeping, and he moved forward into the building.

  CHAPTER 30

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  For Ryan Kealey, embassies were not a place of sanctuary. At no time in the past had that fact been more apparent. During his years with the Agency, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d operated with official cover, which would have afforded him the safety net of diplomatic immunity. He had, however, visited dozens of embassies over the course of his short career. As such, he would have had a good idea of what he was walking into, even without the ORACLE source. Owing to their relatively small size, most U.S. embassies and consulates were monitored from a single room, known as Post One, which could usually be found right inside the front door, for the purpose of intimidating the few guests whose intentions were less than honorable. It was from this small space that the entire building was monitored, everything from the grounds to the fire doors to the CCTV cameras and the exterior lighting. In U.S. embassies, Post One was manned during the workday by a specially trained team of marine security guards, while after-hours exterior security, in an oft-overlooked display of diplomacy, was usually provided by contract guards from the host country.

  In this building, exterior security was limited to the gatehouse on Reservoir Road. Post One was represented by the security booth on the south side of the chancery, staffed at this early hour by just two men. The guards were not capable of monitoring the whole building, at least not effectively, but Kealey still felt on edge as he moved through the darkened halls, following Naomi’s instructions over the radio. He had already realized that her help was invaluable; without her guidance, his progress would have been slowed substantially. She directed him through a maze of off
ices and conference rooms on the ground floor, keeping him as far from the booth as possible. Soon he was in the stairwell, making his way up to the third floor, the home of the administrative department.

  The passenger seat of the Taurus was strewn with paper and diagrams depicting the chancery’s layout. Naomi was doing her best to arrange the unruly pile when Kealey’s next transmission came over the radio. She pressed her earpiece more firmly into position, but she wasn’t quite fast enough, and she missed part of the message.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Say it again.”

  “I need to get through a cipher lock. Room 304.”

  She grabbed a handful of paper and flipped through it as quickly as possible. She wasn’t expecting a miracle, but when a page slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor, she snatched it up and saw it was the right one. “It’s on the list. The code is seven, four, one, three.”

  “Okay.” There was a pause as he punched it in. “I’m in.”

  “Right, the next thing you’ll need is the administrator password.” She was rifling through the loose pages. “If you’ll give me a second, I have it right here—”

  “I remember it,” he said, cutting her off. She heard distant tapping over the line, then, “Okay, I just logged on. I’m bringing up the file now.”

  She waited as long as she could, but the silence was too much. “Ryan, did it work? What came up?”

  “Just a minute… Yeah, it worked. Everything’s here. Fitness reports, commendations, reprimands, even a forwarding address. He’s in Germany, Naomi. The bastard’s in Berlin.”