The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  In response, Ahmadinejad aired a speech in which he denied Iranian involvement, but praised Moqtadr al-Sadr and the Mahdi Army for what he described as “God’s work in ridding Iraq of the Zionist invaders.” That Nuri al-Maliki — the Shiite prime minister — had also been targeted in the recent wave of attacks seemed to have escaped the Iranian leader’s attention, but his remarks had had the expected effect. The U.S. ambassador to the United Nations called for a full inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the death of Nasir al-Din Tabrizi in Paris, and a former secretary of state appeared on Meet the Press, where he stated his belief that Iran was actively working to undermine U.S. policy in Iraq. He also remarked that such activities would not go unchecked by “this or any other administration.”

  Vanderveen folded the newspapers and absently sipped his coffee, which tasted as if it had been made several hours earlier. Everything was working according to plan. The Iranians were under escalating suspicion, and the various factions in Iraq were at each other’s throats. The American troops were caught in the middle and sustaining huge losses with each passing day. Once the delegation in New York was taken out, Iraq would almost certainly slide into civil war. Izzat al-Douri was about to get his wish.

  Thunder overhead pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced at his watch. Raseen, catching the gesture, looked over her shoulder. Tourists were clustered on the other side of the square, standing around the Brandenburg Gate, apparently unaware that there was a much grander specimen — with the same name, no less — on the Pariser Platz in Berlin, just a few kilometers to the east. Most of the tourists were toting cameras and daypacks, and a few carried umbrellas in anticipation of the building storm. As Vanderveen watched, one man walked to the center of the square, turned, and fired off a series of shots with a digital camera.

  “That isn’t him,” Raseen remarked softly, her eyes trained on the figure in the near distance. “He’s wearing the right clothes, but that isn’t Rühmann. Why didn’t he come?”

  Vanderveen slowly shook his head. He hadn’t really expected the Austrian to show up in person. The man standing in the center of the square, looking around impatiently, without a hint of subtlety, was Karl Lang, Rühmann’s bodyguard and personal assistant. His picture and background information were in the file they’d been given the previous day. Before leaving London, Vanderveen had memorized the contents and dropped the file down a grate on the King’s Road.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, raising a hand to wave Lang over. “But this man is here for us, so let’s say hello.”

  Lang was in his late thirties, short and heavily built. An expensive Nikon was draped around his neck, the strap tucked under the grimy collar of a light cotton jacket. His features were strangely androgynous, not in keeping with the rest of his body. As he walked to the table, he removed a blue daypack from his shoulders. Once he was seated, he tossed it casually under the table, where it landed next to a nearly identical pack.

  “How did you get here?” he asked in English. His tone was distinctly confrontational.

  “We have a car,” Raseen told him. “No one followed us.”

  Lang snorted but did not reply.

  “Where is Rühmann?” Vanderveen asked. “I was told he would be here.”

  The words earned him a disdainful look. “My employer is a very important man. He can’t afford to waste time dealing with trivialities. Besides, meetings are dangerous. This could have been handled over the phone.”

  “What about the key to the storage facility?”

  “That could have been sent by mail.” The man leaned forward, his face pinched in anger. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t want to be here, and you don’t impress me. For a professional, you take a lot of foolish risks. I know who you are, Vanderveen, and so does Herr Rühmann. Did you honestly believe that he wouldn’t learn your identity? How do you think he lasted this long?”

  “Certainly not by employing arrogant little shits like you,” Vanderveen replied in a calm, measured voice. The German bridled instantly, reaching over the table, but Raseen quickly batted his hand away.

  “Stop it,” she hissed, glaring at each of them in turn. “We’re in the middle of a public square.” She focused her cold gaze on the courier, and there was something in her face that made him sit back instantly. “Since you’re here, I assume you’ve received the final payment.”

  “Yes. The wire transfer came in yesterday,” Lang confirmed. “The key is in the pack. It will open a ground-level unit at the Lake Forest storage facility in Montreal. Unit 124, to be precise. Directions from Montreal-Trudeau are in there as well, along with an invoice for the boiler. All that leaves is the equipment. You know what you need, correct?”

  “A truck and a forklift,” Vanderveen replied.

  “That’s right.” Lang had a pedantic way of speaking, as though he were addressing a child. “But not just any truck and forklift. It’s important that you get it right, or you won’t be able to move the device, at least not safely. The truck needs to have a gross vehicle weight rating of at least thirty thousand pounds, with multi—”

  “Multi-leaf spring shocks, I know. And a pneumatic forklift rated at twenty thousand pounds. I’m well aware of the specifications.”

  Lang’s face tightened into a sneer. “Well, you seem to be very well informed, which only proves my point. This meeting was entirely unnecessary.” He nodded toward the clear glass table, beneath which both packs were clearly visible. “You have what you need. We’ve received the money. Is there anything else?”

  Vanderveen smiled pleasantly. “No, that should do it. Thanks for your time.”

  “Right,” Lang said curtly. He retrieved the pack that Vanderveen had brought, stood, and walked away.

  “What a nice man,” Raseen remarked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You know, I don’t think Mr. Rühmann is too pleased with us.”

  “Well, he doesn’t really know us, does he? Let’s see how he feels in a few hours. Maybe we can improve his disposition.”

  After paying the check, they started back toward the car, which was parked on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate. As they walked, Vanderveen retrieved the satellite phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “A friend in Manhattan.” He looked over. “We need to find a copying place. Any ideas?”

  “There’s one on the Charlottenstrasse. I saw it when we left the car.”

  “Good. I need to send him something.”

  CHAPTER 37

  NEW YORK CITY

  It was just after 10:00 AM in a warm, cluttered office in the garment district of Manhattan. The room was enclosed by low cement walls and glass panes, the interior blinds pulled down. There was almost no natural light in the room, owing to the height of the surrounding buildings. On the other side of the glass, Amir Nazeri could hear his employees at work: the low rumble of voices, the whine of a small forklift, the thump of heavy pallets hitting the smooth cement floor. Behind him was the steady rumble of morning traffic on West Thirty-seventh Street. Caught in the middle, Nazeri was lost to the sounds, immune to the racket that constituted his daily work environment. As he flipped through the accumulated mail, his telephone rang. He looked up, startled. The sound caused a ripple of apprehension to run through his body, just as it had done for the past several weeks. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching for the receiver.

  “Amir, it’s Erich.”

  Nazeri’s mouth went dry instantly, but he forced himself to speak, his spare hand tightening around the arm of his chair. “Kohl.” He caught himself and said, “I’ve been expecting your call.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” The voice on the other end was calm and confident. “It’s time, my friend. Have you made the arrangements?”

  “Yes. The transportation is waiting, along with the forklift. The second vehicle is already in Ithaca.”

  “What about the other materials?”

  “Here a
t the warehouse, locked in a spare room.”

  “Good.” There was a rustle of paper, then, “The manifest needs to list a 150-horsepower commercial steam boiler. The width of the cabinet is fifty-six inches, the length is one hundred and fifty-six, and the height is one hundred and forty-five. That includes the barometric dampener. I’m going to fax you the commercial invoice. What else do you need?”

  “The manifest, of course, but I can fill that out myself. My people in Montreal will fax it to the U.S. broker.”

  “Fine. Amir, I want to be sure you can handle this. We don’t have time to waste. Today is Sunday. We need to be ready by Tuesday morning.”

  Nazeri had written down the dimensions. He looked at the numbers and ran through them quickly. “It’s longer than I expected, but that’s not a problem. How heavy is it?”

  “The actual shipping weight is 15,340 pounds.”

  “Fine. I have a vehicle prepared.” Nazeri hesitated. “Will this stand up if I’m stopped on the bridge? I can’t risk—”

  “It won’t have to stand up if you fill out the manifest correctly. You’re a naturalized citizen, and you’re known to customs. You come in and out of Canada all the time. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Yes, I… I suppose you’re right.”

  There was a lengthy pause. “Amir, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted to set things right.”

  Nazeri felt sweat running over his ribs. It had all been talk to this point, but now the time for talk was over. In theory, he could still go back. In reality, he had sealed his fate with the promise he’d made six months earlier. He steeled himself and said, “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I haven’t forgotten, Erich.” He paused, and a face flashed into his mind. It was a face he had not seen in many years. A face he would never see again, at least not in this lifetime. Suddenly, all doubt was gone. “I could never forget.”

  “Then I’ll see you in Montreal, my friend. The Lake Forest storage facility, unit 124. Ten a.m. tomorrow.”

  Nazeri looked at the clock on his desk. “If I’m going to make it by morning, I need to make some calls.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it. And Amir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be ready to work all night. It all comes down to Tuesday.”

  The phone went dead. Nazeri held it for a minute longer, staring absently at the far wall. His chest felt hollow, his mind buzzing with fear and adrenaline. It was hard to believe it had all come down to this.

  When Nazeri looked back on his life, he could not help but feel a certain amount of pride; by any standard, he had accomplished a great deal in his forty-four years. He had been born in Tehran, the fifth of seven children. His mother was French, his father a professor of physics at the Iran University of Science and Technology. From an early age, it was clear that he had not inherited his father’s aptitude for science, though his intelligence was never in doubt. At the same time, he had little interest in school, and even less interest in the impoverished state in which his family existed. When Amir was a child, his uncle had spoken of Europe in glowing terms, and it was this thought that had consumed his teenage years. He wanted nothing more than to leave Iran and never return, and following the fall of the shah in 1979, the opportunity finally presented itself. He immigrated less than a year after Khomeini assumed power, but he did not travel to Europe, as he’d originally intended. Instead, he went to America.

  The United States was everything he could have hoped for, though at first, he’d been unsure of how to approach his newfound freedom. Owing to his lack of formal education, he was forced to work a series of mediocre jobs. Eventually, he went to work for a transport service based out of Ithaca. The company was owned by an Iranian American, a man who’d built his wealth in real estate before branching out to freight. The owner took a liking to the hardworking Nazeri and brought him into the front office in the summer of 1985. Over the next two years, the owner taught his young apprentice everything he’d ever need to know, and then he sold Nazeri the company, Bridgeline Transport, Inc.

  At the time, the company consisted of two associates, three tractors, and five trailers. Now, more than twenty years later, Bridgeline had a fleet of twenty trucks and fifty trailers. The company employed more than 30 staff and drivers. Opportunities had come along in recent years, the chance to expand at a faster rate, but Nazeri had preferred to keep things on a manageable level. He had no desire to take on a partner, and by keeping things small, he’d never been forced to do so. The company specialized in cross-border transportation; for this reason, Nazeri owned a small terminal just outside Montreal, on the St. Lawrence River, in addition to the original facility north of Ithaca. The hub on West Thirty-seventh was used primarily for administrative purposes, though he also used it to run a vending service for businesses in Manhattan.

  To the casual observer, Amir Nazeri appeared to epitomize the American dream. He had come from humble roots, survived an oppressive regime, and risen to considerable wealth and success in a new land. But the things Nazeri thought and felt in his private world would have shocked the people closest to him — if there had been people close to him. The truth was that he had never felt a connection to his parents, and his siblings meant nothing to him. He had never had any real friends or romantic attachments to speak of. The only person he’d ever truly cared for — ever really loved — was his cousin Fatima.

  She was his first cousin, the daughter of his father’s youngest brother. As children, they had lived two houses apart in Tehran. From the very start, he had been confused by his devotion to her. She was a plain girl at best, not particularly pretty, not especially charming. But she had returned his affection, and there had been something between them that he could never hope to duplicate. In short, she was his whole world. He had watched with bursting pride when she was admitted to Azad University, with burning jealousy when her marriage to a fellow student was arranged, and with overwhelming, guilty satisfaction when her suitor was killed in a car accident two days before the wedding was to take place. Once Nazeri gained financial security in the United States, he had begged her to join him, but she had refused, citing her work. They remained extremely close, however, and he traveled to Tehran as often as possible to visit her. He had repeated the offer on dozens of occasions, but she always declined. At least until the previous year, when her correspondence had stopped without warning. No telephone calls, no letters… nothing at all.

  The silence was unbearable. He was desperate for answers, but there was nowhere to turn. Her parents were dead, as were his, and he had not been in touch with his siblings for years. Fatima’s only brother was also deceased, an indirect casualty of the Iran-Iraq war. Nazeri had no idea where she worked: she had always avoided the topic, and when confronted, she addressed it in vague generalities. He’d always had the impression that her position was with the government. He couldn’t be sure, though, and even if he was right, it didn’t help; he had no contacts within the regime. In short, no one could tell him what had become of her. He labored for months, distracted at work, unable to let it go.

  And then came the fateful day. Five months after her disappearance, a man telephoned Nazeri at his Manhattan office, claiming to have information about Fatima’s disappearance. Nazeri agreed to meet at once, already aware of a crushing weight in his chest. He met Erich Kohl for the first time the following day, and the news the German brought only confirmed his worst fear: his beloved cousin was dead.

  Kohl never explained how he knew of Fatima’s fate. Nor did he explain how he’d acquired the proof, and Nazeri, consumed by grief, never thought to ask. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t matter. The German had showed him government documents detailing an FBI raid in Washington, D.C., an incident that claimed the lives of two Iranian nationals, including that of his cousin. It had taken place exactly five months earlier, around the time she had stopped returning his calls. For Nazeri, it suddenly became clear: her work
with the Iranian government was far from ordinary. According to the FBI account, however, her death had nothing to do with politics. Instead, it was the result of a high-risk arrest warrant gone bad. The file contained a detailed account of the raid, concluding with a description of Fatima Darabi’s final moments. The dry, economical prose had left Nazeri trembling with rage.

  The file was accompanied by pictures. He had not been able to look at them for long, but what he had seen remained in his mind and swelled in his chest, turning his love for his adopted country into something else entirely. Kohl had given him a week to ponder what he had learned, and then he’d returned with a simple offer. At some point in the future, he said, he would return with an opportunity. A way to show the Americans that their actions were not without consequence. For Amir Nazeri, the decision was easy to make, and now, nearly half a year later, he was bound by his word. Despite his fears, he did not regret making the promise.

  Turning to a metal filing cabinet, he found the appropriate documents and placed them on his desk. He heard the fax machine start up as he began filling out the manifest. When he was done, he went to the fax and retrieved the invoice that Kohl had sent. He scanned it quickly. Everything seemed to be in order.

  He looked at the phone. All he had to do was place the call to his U.S. broker. Once he did that, there was no turning back.

  He picked up the phone and started to dial.

  CHAPTER 38

  BERLIN

  When Thomas Rühmann’s business brought him to Western Europe, he worked from the top floor of a five-story building in central Berlin, on the south bank of the River Spree. The front of the squat, gray stone structure faced a narrow road lined with parked cars, and the back dropped straight into the river, flush with the retaining walls that guided the waterway through the heart of the city. The apartment building was flanked by a crumbling antique shop and a store that sold secondhand musical instruments, the façade of which was covered in graffiti and leaflets advertising upcoming shows throughout the city.