The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  She breathed a prolonged sigh of relief. She was slightly amazed it had worked. Raiding the chancery had been a long shot from the very start, but now, against all odds, they had what they needed. “Okay, let me know when you… oh, my God.”

  There was a short, uncertain pause, then, “Naomi? Naomi, what happened? What’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t respond; she couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was in her throat, her eyes wide and locked to the rearview mirror.

  A D.C. Metro police car had slowed to a stop directly behind her vehicle. As she watched with rising panic, the officer behind the wheel stepped out of the cruiser, adjusted his belt, and started toward the Taurus.

  On the third floor of the chancery, Kealey had seated himself at one of the desks and was working the keys as fast as he could. He was struck by how easy everything had turned out once he was inside the building. The computer had readily accepted the password contained in the ORACLE file, giving him access to the entire database. There was a wealth of information at his fingertips. Normally, he would have taken the time to copy everything to a high-capacity zip disk, but given the circumstances, he wasn’t interested in learning which members of the German diplomatic community were actually professional intelligence officers. All he cared about was finding Thomas Rühmann.

  Using an integrated search engine, he narrowed the parameters to the two years that the Austrian arms broker had worked at the embassy. He was waiting for the computer to kick up the results when Naomi’s faint voice came over the radio. It was clear she was speaking to herself, but the edge to her voice was unmistakable.

  At first, he thought she had come across something unusual in the file, but when the radio stayed silent, he knew something was wrong. He immediately pressed the TRANSMIT button and asked her what was happening.

  “Ryan…” The single word was nearly inaudible, arriving as a strained wheeze over the line. She sounded like she was in the throes of an asthma attack. “There’s a police car behind me. I can see the officer through the windshield. I think he’s running the tags right now.”

  “What?” His mind raced to find a solution, but he was stuck on the fact that she had the ORACLE file in the car. No matter what happened, they could not let that folder out of their hands. “You have to get out of there. Right now. You can’t let him—”

  “Where am I supposed to go?” she asked frantically. “I can’t lose him. It’s too early. There’s no traffic. Oh, shit, he’s getting out of the car. What do I do? Ryan, what do I do?”

  “Naomi, listen to me. You have to… Naomi? Naomi!”

  She was gone. He couldn’t hear anything over the radio. Even static would have been preferable to that terrible silence.

  Breathing a soft curse, he exited the program with a few keystrokes, then deleted the history. Standing, he reached for his pack, slung it over his shoulders, and turned toward the door. Only then did he realize he was not alone in the room. Two men were blocking his path. Both were wearing the austere blue uniform of the embassy security detail, and both had 9mm pistols leveled at his chest.

  CHAPTER 31

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “2054, D.C. I need you to run a tag for me.”

  Officer First Class Steve Lowe ran a hand over his fleshy, clean-shaven face and peered through the windshield, eyes locked to the car parked in front of his cruiser. The call had come in a few minutes earlier, and as one of just 8 beat officers in PSA (Police Service Area) 205 in the 2nd District, he’d had little choice but to respond. Two of the other cars were responding to an 11-6 — shots fired — which left Lowe to deal with this minor incident.

  Suspicious vehicle reported in Senate Heights… He shook his head wearily. Like 90 percent of these calls, it was probably nothing: somebody locked out and waiting for spare keys to arrive, or a spurned lover parked outside her ex’s house, hoping to beg for a second chance. Everyone had a story, of course, but over the years, Lowe had learned how to tell the truth from the bullshit. He’d also learned how to interpret a scene on sight. The car he was looking at now — a late-model Ford Taurus — was not setting off his internal alarm. From what he could see, there was just one person inside, and it looked like a woman, as the call had suggested. This was something he could handle alone, which was a good thing. His partner was out sick, along with half of the force. Normally he would have picked up a spare man for the shift, but the flu had decimated the department’s ranks. Lowe didn’t mind in the least. Frankly, he preferred to ride alone. He despised his partner, and the feeling was mutual. In fact, he was barely on speaking terms with just about every officer in the 2nd District.

  It had started a year earlier. The first whispers cropped up when several officers in his squad had been called into the lieutenant’s office to answer for minor infractions. Lowe had been present when each incident took place, which made him the only possible source of the leaks. The rumors had never been verified, but they had earned him the worst kind of reputation a cop could have: that of a man willing to narc out his fellow officers. Worse still, it appeared he was willing to betray them for nothing more than a chance to advance his career. The irony was that he had been angling for assignment to Internal Affairs all along. His aspirations were well known within the department, and they only reinforced the prevailing rumors.

  Lowe didn’t care what they thought of him; he had the right pedigree, the right education, and the right connections, all of it hard earned. Nothing else mattered: not the disgusted look on the face of the lieutenant, which she’d worn even as she’d mouthed the appropriate words, commending him for doing the right thing; not the rejection of the so-called blue brotherhood, that supposedly upstanding group of ignorant, narrow-minded assholes; and certainly not this bitch of a dispatcher, who seemed to have made it her life’s mission to send his calls to the bottom of the list.

  Irritated by the delay, he snatched up his radio and repeated the call. “2054, D.C. Can you run these tags or what?”

  The woman’s voice, completely neutral, came back after a lengthy pause. “Go ahead, 2054.”

  “I’m on Hoban Road in Senate Heights, just off the two thousand block of Reservoir Road. The car is a blue Ford Taurus, Virginia tag, Victor-Paul-David 7376.”

  Half a minute passed, then, “2054, that vehicle comes back to James Dobson. It’s registered to an address in Richmond. No 29.”

  Lowe nodded to himself. “No 29” meant that the vehicle had not been reported stolen. It was another reassuring sign. A woman alone in a car… She was probably just lost. This would be easy to handle. “D.C., I’m going to check it out.”

  He got out of his car and adjusted his belt, tucking it under his paunch. Then he checked to make sure his radio was on the primary channel. As he started toward the Taurus, he heard the officers responding to the 11-6 clearing the call. He briefly considered requesting a second unit — “contact and cover,” which required two people, was SOP when approaching a vehicle — but decided against it. They would take forever to show up anyway. From where he was standing, he could see the woman’s face in the side mirror. She looked a little nervous, but that wasn’t unusual. Maybe she’d never been approached by a police officer. Lowe smirked to himself. He knew that some people couldn’t differentiate between being approached and being arrested. Maybe she thought she was going to jail for no reason at all.

  He reached the driver’s side window and tapped the glass. The car wasn’t running, but the window slid down, so the key was in the ignition. He took note of that fact as the driver offered a strained smile and said, “Hi, Officer. What can I do for you?”

  Lowe caught the accent right away. That voice was something all by itself, but she was a good-looking woman, too: in her midtwenties, he guessed, with shoulder-length black hair, green eyes, and a cute little nose. He unconsciously smoothed his thinning blond hair and smiled broadly, revealing crooked teeth and more than a scrap of his evening meal.

  “Good evening, ma’am. Or morning, I should sa
y.”

  She looked at her watch and laughed, but there was something forced about it. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  “Can I ask what you’re doing out here?”

  “My car clunked out on me,” she said, sounding exasperated. “As luck would have it, I just lapsed on my AAA, too.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed again. “Just one of those days, I guess.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “Richmond,” she replied, without hesitation. “I’m going to visit my mother. Or at least I was.”

  “Did you manage to get hold of a tow truck?”

  “Yes, I did. Mike’s Towing. I got the name from directory assistance. They should be here shortly.”

  Lowe nodded politely. “And where does your mother live, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “…Baltimore. Just outside of Baltimore, I mean.”

  He couldn’t help but take note of the pause. It could be the truth, but it seemed a little strange; even the least capable traveler could hardly stray this far off course, engine trouble or not. He checked the woman’s hands for the second time; they were still in her lap, one clasped over the other. Good. Scanning the passenger seat, he saw a hooded pullover resting on the cushion. He couldn’t see what might be beneath the article of clothing, but he remembered seeing a blur of motion when he’d first flashed his lights, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the sweater might be covering. His curiosity was piqued by the loose papers scattered over the floor. All of a sudden, he had the feeling that something wasn’t right here.

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you, ma’am,” he said tonelessly. “May I see your license and registration, please?”

  She didn’t reply right away, her mouth working silently. “Is that really necessary? I mean, I was just sitting here—”

  “I’m afraid it is. You see, we received a complaint about your vehicle, so we have to be thorough.”

  “Well, I don’t have it on me, actually. In fact, I don’t have any ID at all.”

  “What about the registration?”

  “I, umm…” She made a show of looking in the glove compartment. “I don’t have that either. Listen, Officer, I—”

  “Whose car is this?”

  “It belongs to my boyfriend.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step out of the car. You can take the keys with you.”

  “Officer, I really don’t think—”

  “Step out of the car, please. Right now.”

  He’d added a note of authority that time, and she complied right away, pushing the door out toward him. He stepped back to let her out, then said, “Move to the front of the vehicle, please, and put your hands on the hood. Are you carrying anything I need to know about? A weapon of any kind, needles, anything like that?”

  “No, of course not.” She was indignant but complied readily, leaning against the fender and opening her stance. He took a long moment to admire the view. “Are you even allowed to do this?” she asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Lowe ignored the question. He patted her down slowly, using the backs of his hands as regulations required, but not without a tinge of regret. Technically speaking, he was feeling for anything solid, anything lumping beneath the dark, loose-fitting clothes. That was another thing, the way she was dressed… not suspicious in itself, but something to file away.

  She didn’t appear to be armed. Satisfied, he stepped back. “Ma’am, I’d like to search your vehicle. Do you mind?”

  “Do I…? Yes, I do mind.” She raised her level of indignation, knowing he would only expect it if she truly had nothing to hide. “That’s completely uncalled for.”

  He nodded slowly, wondering how far he wanted to take this. In truth, the woman’s story made perfect sense: she had engine trouble; she was waiting for help. She knew the name of a local tow company, and her tags had checked out. Still, he couldn’t ignore his instincts, and they were telling him that something was wrong with this whole situation. His radio stuttered to life. He listened for anything interesting, but it was just another unit clearing a call.

  Lowe gripped her right arm just above the elbow and steered her toward his cruiser. She stiffened under his grasp, but didn’t try to resist. “I’m going to have you sit in my car for a few minutes while we sort this out.”

  “But why?” she asked, her voice beginning to climb. “This is ridiculous. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “Then you won’t mind answering a few questions.” He moved to open the rear door, but before he could, she caught his eye and spoke again in a more reasonable tone.

  “Officer, do I really need to sit in the back?” She gave him a pleading look. “I mean, it’s not like I’m under arrest, right?”

  He looked at her, then back at the car. It was true; she hadn’t really done anything wrong, and he didn’t want to invite a harassment charge at a later date. Besides, he’d rather have her up front, anyway. At the very least, it would give him something to look at for the next thirty minutes or so.

  “Fine,” he said, guiding her round to the passenger side. He opened the front door, and she reluctantly got in. “Just wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Once the door was closed, Naomi quickly composed herself and watched intently as the officer walked to the front of his car, unhooking his shoulder mic. As he turned away and faced the embassy grounds, she sat up and checked out the cruiser. She didn’t bother trying the door, as there was nowhere to go. Looking down to her left, she examined the radio mounted between the seats. The chatter was audible, and the green LED light showed a “1,” which she assumed was the primary channel. She listened for the officer’s voice, which was nasally, unpleasant, and easy to catch, but heard nothing she recognized. She quickly decided he must be transmitting on a secondary channel.

  She nearly pressed her ear to the window in an attempt to hear what was happening, but stopped herself in time, realizing how futile the gesture would be. He could be double-checking the tags on the Taurus, or he could be calling his patrol supervisor. Her panic was starting to get the best of her. She had done her best to seem disadvantaged but not incapable. After all, she needed him to leave; it wouldn’t do to have him sitting around, waiting for a tow truck that would never arrive. Unfortunately, he hadn’t bought her act, and now, the only thing working in her favor was that she had talked herself out of the backseat, where she would have been completely vulnerable, stripped of all her options.

  She swore under her breath, second-guessing her actions, wondering how else she could have handled it. It might have been better to just hand over her real ID, but the officer might have detained her anyway, and she couldn’t risk being listed on a police report. It would be too easy to link her to the embassy break-in at a later date, as she was parked so close to the building. Ideally, she would have had a false ID to satisfy a casual inspection, but even if Harper had been willing to go that far out on a limb, there just hadn’t been time to get one forged. Besides, forging an ID for a mid-level analyst would have raised a lot of questions. It also would have meant bringing too many people into the loop, and in this case, that simply wasn’t an option.

  Things were not looking good right now, but they had the potential to get much worse. If a detective was called down to take over the questioning, she would never get rid of them in time. Ryan would be making his way through the grounds; from his last transmission, she knew he had found what they needed. All he had to do now was get out of the building and back to the car.

  Maybe he’ll spot the cruiser and walk away, she thought. Naomi didn’t think he would leave her, but given the situation, it might be the best thing. She couldn’t be arrested; she hadn’t done anything wrong. They might hold her for questioning, but if she stuck to her story, they would have no choice but to let her go. On the other hand, if they managed to dig up probable cause — or at least enough to convince a magistrate — they could get a warrant to s
earch the Taurus. And if that happened, one of the first things they would find was the file on the front seat.

  With this thought, she felt suddenly sick. The ORACLE file contained enough damaging information to drag the Agency through the mud for the next five years. Needless to say, its public disclosure would also completely destroy her career. Letting them search the car was not an option.

  She looked through the windshield. From where she was sitting, the chancery was barely visible, a black smudge over the treetops. She peered into the darkness, searching in vain for the smallest sign of movement.

  Come on, Ryan. Where are you?

  CHAPTER 32

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  On the third floor of the chancery, Kealey sprung into action. He reached out for the gun in the hand of the closest guard, shouting at the top of his lungs to distract them. He had been in this kind of situation before and knew almost nothing would work in his favor. One man was easy to handle — even easier to outwit — but two was a different proposition altogether. Even with the bare minimum of training, the guards would be hard-pressed to miss him at this range. At the same time, he guessed they would be reluctant to fire. As German nationals, they would have endured the compulsory nine months of military or civil service, but embassy duty did not typically draw the best and the brightest. They might be covering each other properly, but they would be slow to pull the trigger, fearing the inevitable fallout. His only chance was to play on that hesitation, using the one point in his favor for all it was worth.

  As it turned out, he was wrong; the gun went off as Kealey closed his left hand around the guard’s wrist, his right coming down in a hammer blow on the radial nerve. The 9mm slipped from the guard’s limp hand and fell to the floor. The man near the door was screaming something in German, but Kealey ignored him, turning the incapacitated guard around and drawing his Beretta at the same time.