The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Vanderveen’s head shot up, his eyes boring into those of the man standing 4 feet away. He could not disguise his astonishment, and as the seconds ticked past, it was a struggle to keep his control from slipping away… This man, this courier, who in all probability was being watched by the Security Service, knew his real name and his next target. Looking over to Raseen, he could see that she was equally stunned.

  Khalil, misreading their shared expression, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m only here to help. I’m flying back to Amman tomorrow morning, and once I board that plane, you will never see me again. But as I’m here, I have something else for you. Look in the newspaper. It’s on that chair over there.”

  Raseen was closest. Picking it up, she flipped through the large pages awkwardly until a single, smaller sheet slipped to the floor. She picked it up, turned it over, and froze.

  “What is it?” Vanderveen asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

  Raseen looked up, her face stricken. “It’s you.”

  He motioned silently, and she walked over, handing him the sheet. Vanderveen didn’t need to read the fine print to know what it was; the header said everything, as did the photograph.

  He studied it carefully, though he recognized the picture instantly. It had been taken ten years earlier during his army service. He scanned the text, looking for the distribution date. When he found it, his chest tightened, and a jolt of anxiety passed through his body; the Red Notice — an international arrest warrant — had been issued by Interpol a full two weeks earlier.

  “Every airport in Western Europe has one of those,” Khalil said quietly. The airy attitude was gone, and his face had settled into a grim expression. “Both commercial and private, along with most of the major hubs in South America, Africa, and the Middle East. The information was being tightly held until a few days ago, but somebody made the decision to give it wider distribution, which is how we learned about it. England is no longer safe for you. MI5 has watchers at train stations and ferry crossings. It’s a miracle you weren’t picked up this morning… As it stands, you look exactly like the picture. You have to change passports as soon as possible.”

  Vanderveen barely heard a word, still trying to wrap his mind around this newest development. His most recent information indicated that the U.S. government believed he was dead. Dead for the past year, drowned in the Atlantic, off the coast of Maine. Something had happened in the past couple of weeks to change that, something that even his contact in Washington didn’t know about.

  Then something else occurred to him. Lifting the sheet, he said, “You had the newspaper at the café. Have you been carrying this around all day?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to leave it lying around for a maid to find.” Khalil paused uncomfortably, then said, “There’s more, I’m afraid. You’ve been placed on the 1267 Committee List. I have the documentation, if you want to see it.”

  Raseen had taken a seat next to the windows, looking distinctly unhappy. Turning toward them, she said, “Committee List? What is that?”

  Khalil was the one to explain as he handed Vanderveen the relevant paperwork. “The 1267 Committee,” he began, “was created under a UN resolution in 1999. Its sole purpose is to enforce sanctions that have already been imposed by the Security Council. The sanctions are limited to people and companies controlled by the Taliban, al-Qaeda, and Osama bin Laden, and the Committee List is simply a list of everyone who falls under that designation. Individually speaking, the sanctions are used to restrict travel and seize assets….”

  The courier was clearly enjoying his little recital. In the meantime, Vanderveen had found his name on the last page of the 1267. He was flanked by a senior lieutenant to bin Laden and a Moroccan financier being detained in Italy. He read through the entry quickly.

  204. *Name: 1: WILLIAM 2: PAULIN 3: VANDERVEEN 4: na

  Title: na Designation: na DOB: 6 July 1966 POB: Piet Retief, South Africa *Good quality aka: a) Jason March b) Nathan Camden c) Joseph O’Donnell, born 1 Dec. 1968 Low quality aka: “the American” *Nationality: South African *Passport no.: a) Counterfeit Danish driving license no. 20378893, made out to Michael Jørgensen b) Swiss birth certificate, issued for Ernst Baumann, born on 24 Sept. 1968 in Lausanne c) German travel document (“Reiseausweise”) A 0064881 National identification no.: SSN: 438-91-5391(U.S.A.) Address: na *Listed on: 08 Sep. 2008 *Other information: Reportedly killed in November 2007 in the United States (amended on 07 Sep. 2008)

  When he reached the end, he set down the document and ran a hand over his face, thinking it through. He was slightly relieved. Almost all of the information Interpol and the Security Council had compiled was worthless. He had discarded the German papers in 2004 after using them once. The same was true of the Swiss and Danish documents, and he had ceased to be Jason March eight years earlier in Syria. Somehow, they had managed to verify his involvement with Al-Qaeda, but that was old news. The aliases, while accurate, were severely outdated. Still, seeing his name on a document of this nature was hardly reassuring, and the tables had undoubtedly turned. The opposition knew he was alive, and that took away his greatest advantage. Khalil was right; he had to change passports — and his appearance — at the earliest opportunity.

  “I don’t understand,” Raseen was saying. “Why would they issue a Red Notice and put you on the 1267? Isn’t that sort of… redundant?”

  “No,” Vanderveen replied. “In fact, it makes perfect sense. Wider distribution means more attention. In a way, they’re simply covering their bets.”

  Raseen suddenly went rigid in her seat. “Can I see the list?”

  He handed it over and watched as she sped through the pages. It was interesting that she wanted to check for her name, Vanderveen thought. At the very least, it meant that she had worked directly with Al-Qaeda at some point in the past.

  Finally, she seemed to heave a sigh of relief and slumped back into the chair. Apart from their strange encounter the previous night, it was the most emotion he had seen her exhibit since their first meeting in Paris.

  “Good,” Vanderveen said. His satisfaction was genuine. “At least one of us can move freely. You may need to take on a larger role when we get to New York.”

  Khalil nodded slowly. “Everything is working as expected. The Iranian — that is, the informant in New York — has performed admirably. He has convinced even the senior members of the FBI, and they are undoubtedly working to sway the president. Moreover, the meeting at the UN has been finalized. It will take place on the expected date and time. The specifics will be sent to you once you arrive in the city, which will be…”

  “In three days’ time,” Vanderveen said. “Barring any unforeseen complications. Are you sure that Rühmann is still in Berlin? He hasn’t been warned?”

  “He’s still there, but he knows you’re coming.”

  Vanderveen looked up sharply. “What?”

  “I informed him that you wished to discuss the arrangements in person,” Khalil clarified. “Anywhere in Western Europe. He was reluctant, but agreed after I threatened to terminate our business arrangement. As you know, he’s earned a great deal of money through our organization.”

  Vanderveen nodded slowly. Using cutouts such as Anthony Mason, Thomas Rühmann had provided more than fifty tons of small arms to the Sunni insurgency over the past six months. Nearly all of the weapons were currently being stored across the border in Syria. The day before the Iraqi delegation was to be taken out in New York, the weapons would be distributed to Sunni insurgents and Syrian-based members of Hamas and Hezbollah. Appropriate targets in the western provinces of Iraq had already been selected by Izzat al-Douri and members of his senior staff. With the Iraqi Parliament in complete disarray, the wave of attacks would have a profound effect, further devastating the integrity of the government and creating a vacuum of power. At least, this was what al-Douri and his advisors anticipated. Vanderveen had his doubts, but he had his own reasons for going fo
rward with the plan; namely, money and the chance to launch a devastating attack on U.S. soil.

  “Rühmann will meet you tomorrow in Potsdam,” Khalil continued. “Three PM at the Brandenburg Gate. The details are in the envelope, and you’ve already seen the pictures. Needless to say, he can’t be allowed to live. We have more than enough weapons for the upcoming offensive, and Hamas will supply a good deal of their own. At this point, the Austrian is more of a liability than an asset.”

  “I understand that,” Vanderveen replied coldly. It had been his suggestion to kill the man in the first place. “What about the other materials I requested?”

  “Yes, an interesting list,” Khalil murmured. He could barely be heard over the roar of the television. “A very interesting list. I can understand the handguns, but why do you need a long-range weapon? Why do you need explosives?”

  “That is not your concern.” Vanderveen had asked for a quick description of Rühmann’s residence in Berlin the previous night. The list of items he’d requested was based on what he’d been told. “Can you supply them or not?”

  “Yes. There is a man waiting to meet you now. Do you know the city well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Take a taxi to the British Museum, then another to Charing Cross. Hold on to the phone, and I’ll call you in ten minutes to give you further instructions. A car is waiting to meet us, but it’s best if we leave here separately. It’s also better to take different routes. Once we reach the final destination, he will supply what you asked for.”

  “That doesn’t help at all,” Raseen said. Her unsettling gaze was locked on the courier. “How are we supposed to get the explosives from here to Germany? We can’t exactly take them through customs, you know.”

  “I understand that,” Khalil replied. “And so does the supplier.” His voice was tight; clearly, he was sorely tempted to put Raseen in her place. That he could not bring himself to do it said much about the woman’s place in the organization, Vanderveen thought. It was yet another indication of how important she actually was.

  “This man has a way to bring the explosives and the weapons into Germany by boat. He’ll explain it to you once you’ve examined the goods. Is that satisfactory?”

  There was an edge of sarcasm there, but Vanderveen ignored it, nodding his agreement. “When are we supposed to meet him?”

  Khalil looked at his watch. It was a flashy Breitling chronograph, perfect for drawing unwanted attention. “In less than an hour, so we’d better be going. Are you ready to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Khalil walked into the bathroom and shut the door. A few seconds later, they could hear him urinating noisily.

  Raseen was out of her chair in an instant. Moving close, she rested a light hand on his chest and whispered urgently into his ear. “The Security Service may have your picture, Will, but they have this man in their sights right now. He knows your name, and he knows about Rühmann. He knows too much. You have to kill him. It means forfeiting the explosives, I know, but there’s no other choice.”

  Vanderveen turned his face into her fragrant hair, lowering his voice to a murmur. “I agree, but losing the gear means changing the plan, and it’s a little bit late in the game for that.”

  Her eyes drifted away for a moment, and then she snapped back to reality. “I might be able to get what we need, but I’ll have to place a few calls.”

  “You have a supplier in Germany?”

  “Yes. I worked with a man in Dresden three years ago. If he’s still active, he should be able to meet our needs.”

  He looked at her, questioning. This was the first time she had mentioned another possibility, a contact of her own. The information would have been useful earlier, but there was no point in getting into that now. “Okay. We’ll follow him out, but then I want you to walk away. Don’t go too far, and keep the phone… I’ll call you once it’s done.”

  “Very well.” She was about to say something else, but the courier was back in the room, reaching for his suit jacket. He pulled it on, grabbed the black case, and moved to the door. Vanderveen replaced the documents, sealed the envelope, and slipped it under his coat before following them out.

  They left the hotel separately, as instructed. Khalil was the first to depart, nodding politely to the doorman as he stepped out into the rain. Raseen followed two minutes later, wearing the bright red anorak. As she approached the doors, she pulled the hood over her head and shot the doorman a little smile, which he eagerly returned. Vanderveen was wearing the black windbreaker, the ball cap pulled low over his blond hair. Raseen took a right after leaving the building, heading back down toward the Embankment, but Vanderveen crossed Savoy Street, poked around a newsstand for half a minute, then walked quickly back down the Strand.

  He already knew why the courier had asked them to take a taxi. The British Museum was well out of the way, and the unnecessarily long trip could only mean that he intended to reach Charing Cross on foot. The station was located on the other end of the Strand, and if they had followed his instructions, they would have arrived at roughly the same time. Vanderveen’s suspicions were confirmed after a short while, when he again spotted the dark head of the man named Khalil weaving in and out of the crowd.

  At least, it looked like the same man. Vanderveen knew he would have to get closer to make a positive identification, but he had done this kind of thing before, and he trusted his instincts. He was getting ready to close the gap when the courier solved the problem for him, pausing to examine a window display of expensive watches. A little break in the crowd gave Vanderveen a clear view of the other man’s profile. It wasn’t much, but enough to make a solid ID, and there was the last piece of evidence: the black case, dangling loosely from his right hand. The gap suddenly closed, obscuring the view. The street was no less busy now that the lunch hour was over, a great rush of humanity sweeping by on the sidewalk. The rain had started to clear a little as well, a few errant drops angling down from the low gray clouds.

  He kept moving, letting the crowd carry him forward. Having spotted the courier, Vanderveen was now looking hard for signs of surveillance. The green Opel appeared on schedule, and this time, he got a good look at the license plate. He was slightly chilled to see that Raseen had been right; it was the same car. The sedan passed him once more in the space of five minutes, but it was the only visible sign. Vanderveen couldn’t pick out any familiar faces on foot, but that didn’t mean a thing; he could be surrounded by watchers and never know it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t drop back in the hopes of picking them out; Charing Cross was less than five minutes away. If he was going to act, it had to be now.

  The courier was 30 feet ahead of him. He picked up the pace, closing the distance rapidly.

  In the driver’s seat of the Opel, Ian Haines leaned on the horn, angrily scanning the traffic that was currently snarled along Maiden Lane. The rain had started to slow, so he flicked off the wipers and leaned back in the seat, where he took a deep breath and tried to resign himself to a long wait. He still couldn’t believe the Arab had decided to leave the hotel before the shift change. The fucking nerve of these people… If the inconsiderate bastard had stayed in his room for another five minutes, they would have had time to move the next team into position. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked out that way. Now they could easily end up spending the next several hours trailing him around the city, just waiting for an opportunity to switch out the surveillance teams. Judging by the terse, humorless transmissions coming over the radio, Scott was just as unhappy with the situation as he was.

  “Ian, he’s still moving southwest on the Strand. Where the hell are you?”

  “Maiden Lane. Some kind of accident… Christ, I don’t know. Any idea where he’s going?”

  A crackle of static, then, “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. But I’ll tell you one thing. If he gets on the tube, we’re fucked.”

  “Got that right,” Haines
muttered to himself. In spite of the situation, he could console himself with one fact: if they ended up losing Banker, it probably wouldn’t mean much to the people in charge of “A” Branch, Section 4 at Thames House. After all, he reasoned, the man couldn’t be that important; if he was, a full team would have been tasked with trailing him. Then again, that might have been wishful thinking on his part. Haines knew the Service was spread too thin on the ground, despite the constant threat of terrorist activity and a marked upsurge in public interest following the London bombings of July 7, 2005. Manpower wasn’t the only problem, either. The Service was also badly in need of additional funding; the annual budget, which was shared with MI6 and the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), had risen a scant 250 million pounds over the past year. At the same time, expectations had risen tenfold.

  Yet another impediment was the public’s ignorance when it came to matters of national security. Many people tended to forget that MI5 had no arrest powers, which meant that it was entirely dependent on actual government entities, such as Special Branch, to act on domestic intelligence. Haines had learned firsthand how hard it was to let others take the credit after months of thankless surveillance, but generally speaking, he didn’t mind operating in the shadows, and he didn’t mind the hard work… at least not most of the time. Right now, however, he wanted nothing more than to get on with the weekend; the Temple Bar was calling his name. He shifted in his seat wearily. If the little shit would just sit down for a meal somewhere, they could bring in the next shift and get this over with….

  Haines was jolted out of his daydream by a horn blared from behind. The traffic had cleared up ahead. Easing his foot off the clutch, he rolled forward and turned onto Southampton. Twenty seconds later, he stopped at another light, ready to make the right turn onto the Strand. He had just finished relaying his position to Scott when the light turned green, and he swung onto the busy street for the fifth time that day.