The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Kealey could not disguise his impatience. “John, I appreciate this, but we have a lot to go over. Now is not the time for—”

  “Hold that thought.” Harper looked to Naomi and said, “Could you give us a minute? We’ll follow you up.”

  “Of course, sir.” She walked up the stairs, and Harper turned back to Kealey, his face set in a firm expression.

  “Ryan, you’ve been pushing yourself hard for days on end. As it stands, all the bases are covered.”

  “I realize that, but—”

  “Are you personally going to drive up to Canada? Are you personally going to check every vehicle coming through every border crossing?” Harper let the rhetorical question sink in, then said, “Stressing yourself now is counterproductive. We have all night to figure out our next move, so right now, go upstairs and clean yourself up. We’ll get down to business after we eat. Okay?”

  Kealey couldn’t do much but nod tightly. Everything the other man had just said made perfect sense, and he wasn’t in a position to argue. “Fine.”

  They presented themselves at the table twenty minutes later. Both had taken the time to shower and change, Kealey into a gray University of Chicago sweatshirt, Kharmai into a white woolen turtleneck. They were both in jeans. Despite the similarity of their outfits, Naomi felt distinctly underdressed. She knew it was probably just psychosomatic — the effect of being in her employer’s home for the first time — but knowing didn’t alleviate her sense of unease. The feeling didn’t subside until Harper came down in similar attire, having exchanged his suit for khakis and a black crewneck sweater. He poured the wine as Julie emerged from the kitchen. Once everything was laid out on the table, she started to fill their plates.

  The meal was simple but excellent: vegetable soup to start, followed by linguine with red sauce, sautéed shrimp, Italian bread, and salad on the side. Julie made an obvious effort to promote conversation, but watching her, Naomi realized that the talk was only a cover for the concerned, motherly glances she kept shooting in Ryan’s direction. When the meal was done, she pushed back from her seat and offered to help clear the dishes, hoping to get Julie alone for a private discussion, but Harper waved it away.

  “We have some things to talk about upstairs. Sorry to eat and run.”

  “It was wonderful, though,” Naomi said quickly. She wanted to leave a good impression. “Thank you, Mrs. Harper.”

  The other woman beamed as she cleared the plates. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, dear. And please, call me Julie.”

  Naomi had to smile. Even though Julie Harper was clearly shy of her forty-fifth birthday, her personality seemed to be that of a woman years older. It wasn’t a bad thing, but Naomi couldn’t help feeling slightly awkward; it was strange being called “dear” by a woman barely ten years her senior.

  She turned and followed the two men up the stairs. Jonathan Harper led them into a wood-paneled study. It was a distinctly masculine room, with leather club chairs, an enormous desk in the corner, and Persian carpets scattered across the floor. Harper gestured for them to sit and went to his desk, retrieving the suitcase he had taken from the Suburban earlier. As he opened it and pulled out a number of documents, Julie entered with coffee on a tray. She deposited it on the center table, pausing to rest a light hand on Kealey’s shoulder. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Okay,” Harper said, settling into a free chair. “Where to begin, that’s the question.”

  Naomi jumped on the opening. “Sir, what about the woman? Liz Peterson said she was going to send you the surveillance photographs from London.”

  Harper nodded and slid a number of 8 x 10s across the table. Naomi picked them up and began perusing them instantly, handing some of them off to Ryan. “Do we know who she is?”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t,” Harper replied. He started to pour black coffee into one of the mugs. “We ran her through our facial recognition software, which, as you know, is similar to that used by MI5. We had one hit, but it only came back with nine markers. That’s a forty percent match… not exactly definitive.”

  “Not definitive, maybe, but it’s a start,” Naomi said, trying to remain optimistic. “Who came up?”

  Harper handed her another photograph. “Samara Majid al-Khuzaai, thirty-eight years old, a Sunni born in Baghdad. Her father was part of the Special Republican Guard, Saddam’s innermost circle. The 1st Brigade, responsible for security. He was arrested in Najaf shortly after the invasion, and he didn’t go quietly. As they pulled him out of the house he was hiding in, he started screaming that it wasn’t over, that his daughter would carry on the fight. Even though it was made in the heat of the moment, the remark prompted a brief investigation. As it turned out, he only had one child, and that was Samara.”

  Naomi looked at the two photographs. She studied al-Khuzaai’s face, then the surveillance photos of Vanderveen’s traveling companion. The two women did not look that similar.

  She handed the shots to Kealey and said, “What does that mean, ‘carry on the fight’? Was that a legitimate threat?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Harper replied. “But she isn’t in custody, and she hasn’t shown up in Jordan or Syria looking for political asylum. The Middle East desk at the CTC seems to think she’s still in Iraq, working with the insurgency.”

  Kealey looked up from the photographs. “I don’t think it’s the same person, John. Is this our best guess?”

  Harper sipped some of his coffee and hesitated. “Well, some of the analysts brought up Nouri Hussein, but they tend to do that whenever a photograph like this pops up.”

  “Nouri Hussein?” Naomi asked. “You don’t mean…”

  “Nouri Saddam Hussein. His fourth daughter.”

  Naomi was amazed, and let it show. “I thought she was a myth.”

  “She is,” Kealey put in, his voice laced with disgust. “Her very existence is based on a single document.”

  “What document?”

  “A letter,” Kealey specified. “It was found in a house in Tikrit in 2003, typed and addressed to ‘Nouri, my dearest and eldest.’ It was signed at the end, supposedly by Saddam. Handwriting experts were brought in to verify its authenticity, but they couldn’t reach any firm conclusions.”

  “What about photographs? Has anyone—”

  “No photos have ever turned up,” Harper said, cutting her off. “The letter is the only evidence of her existence.”

  “And that isn’t evidence,” Kealey snapped. “I’m telling you, John, you need to put those analysts in their place. They’re letting their imaginations get the best of them. Nouri Hussein does not exist, and the name does nothing but distract them from workable leads.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Harper said, “but it doesn’t really matter at this point. We have no idea where the woman is, anyway. When we find Vanderveen, we’ll find her. Until that time, learning her identity is not a priority.”

  He paused, then said, “I do, however, have another piece of information you might find interesting.”

  This was what Kealey had been waiting for. He felt himself shift forward on the warm leather chair. “The Iranian informant?”

  “That’s right. His name is Hakim Ghasem Rudaki, a native of Tehran. He’s forty-two years old, a Harvard grad, and a visiting professor at Columbia. He’s also heavily involved with the National Iranian American Council in New York.” Harper paused. “Rudaki approached the Bureau several months ago, and the decision was made to hear him out. He passed on some low-grade intelligence at first, but it all checked out, so he was given more attention.”

  “How did you get this information?” Kealey asked.

  “One of the agents at the New York office wasn’t buying into what Rudaki was saying, so he started complaining to anyone who would listen. Last night he relayed his concerns to his former supervisor at the Los Angeles field office.” Harper smiled. “My old college roommate.”

  “So who’s running Rudaki in New York?” Naomi a
sked.

  Harper’s face turned grim. “Since the end of August, he’s been dealing with just one person. Special Agent Samantha Crane.”

  Kealey sprung to his feet and swore loudly, causing Naomi to jump in her seat. “That bitch. I knew it. I knew there was something about her… She’s working with Vanderveen, John. She has to be.”

  The other man nodded slowly. “I know it looks that way, but we can’t jump to conclusions. Let’s think it through, and then we’ll decide how to handle it.” He gestured to the empty seat. “Come on, sit down.”

  Kealey took his seat and fell silent, but the furious expression was fixed on his face. It was Naomi who said, “Sir, Rudaki is the same man who predicted the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, right?”

  “No,” Harper said. “He predicted the attempt on the life of Nuri al-Maliki, but he was wrong about the place and time. Just like he was wrong about the place and time with Nasir Tabrizi.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” Kealey said sarcastically. “He knew the targets, but nothing else. I don’t buy it. I never did.”

  “Neither do I,” Naomi put in.

  “That makes three of us,” Harper said. “Rudaki was very quick to blame the Iranian government for the Babylon Hotel and the shooting in Paris. A little too quick, if you ask me.”

  “Where is Rudaki getting his information?” Kealey asked.

  “His cousin is Reza Bagheri, the Syrian defense minister. According to Rudaki, his cousin is displeased with the actions of the government. Bagheri believes Ahmadinejad is making a mistake by trying to subvert U.S. policy in Iraq, and he’s worried that U.S. troops will invade Iran if the regime’s true role in Tabrizi’s assassination is discovered. Obviously, that would mean a much larger U.S. military presence in the region, which is the last thing Bagheri wants. Of course, he can’t exactly talk to us directly, so Rudaki is his mouthpiece.”

  “That’s a lie,” Kealey said automatically. “I don’t buy a word of it.”

  Harper nodded slowly, looking over the rim of his cup. “Because of Crane.”

  “That’s right.” Kealey paused and looked at his hands. He saw they were balled into fists, and he forced himself to take several deep, calming breaths. “John, Ford told Crane I took the laptop in Alexandria. We know that for a fact, but it begs the obvious question: What other information has she passed on?”

  Harper leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully into his cup. “Rachel knew about the embassy break-in, and that means she knew about Rühmann. She could have told Crane where he was hiding, what name he was using… everything.”

  “Everything,” Kealey repeated. “And what did Crane do once she had that information? She gave it to Vanderveen.” He paused, letting them reach the natural conclusion. “How else would he know we were coming, John?”

  The room fell silent. They were each lost in thought when the telephone rang. The DDO stood, went to his desk, and lifted the receiver of his secure phone. “Harper.”

  He listened for a long moment, asked a few questions, then hung up. Kealey and Kharmai had heard enough to know it was relevant, and they waited for an explanation.

  “Our people in Montreal managed to track down the owner of the Lake Forest storage facility, a guy by the name of Liman. He remembers the delivery of an item to Rühmann’s unit. That occurred about six months ago. Before that, he says the unit was empty.”

  “Does he know what was delivered?” Naomi asked.

  “No, but he remembers what it looked like, and he remembers the approximate dimensions. He sketched it out for our people. It’s on the way by fax.”

  Kealey said, “Are they still watching the building?”

  “Yes. No movement so far.”

  “Okay.” Kealey leaned back in his seat and tried to set aside his anger. He had no idea why Samantha Crane would betray her agency and her country, especially given her background, but he couldn’t think about it now. Instead, he focused on Thomas Rühmann. Above all else, he was wondering what the Austrian arms broker had placed in the Lake Forest storage facility.

  “John, how did we know about Rühmann in the first place? I mean, how did he come to Langley’s attention?”

  “Because of Al Qaqaa,” Naomi said, beating Harper to the punch. “Remember? He was suspected of arranging the theft of explosives back in 2003.”

  “That’s right,” Kealey mumbled. “What was taken again?”

  “Three hundred eighty tons of HMX and RDX.” Naomi shrugged. “Conventional explosives. Nothing special, really, except for the quantity. There was a lot of speculation in the press, of course. People thought that something else might have been stored in the buildings, but if there was, it never came out.”

  Kealey pondered her words as the fax machine started up on Harper’s desk. The DDO collected two sheets of paper and examined them quickly.

  “It doesn’t mean much to me,” he said, handing over the second sheet. “Do you recognize this?”

  Kealey looked at the drawing, aware that Naomi had gotten out of her chair and was leaning over his shoulder. The picture was relatively crude, but it looked like a large cylinder with a conical protrusion on one end. It seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  Harper was reading through the cover sheet. “According to the owner of the storage facility, this thing was about” — he paused to convert from metric to standard — “eleven feet long and four feet high.”

  Kealey suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “What color was it?”

  Harper scanned the text quickly. “Dark green.”

  “Shit.” Kealey shook his head in disbelief. “That’s military ordnance. I think I know what it is, John.”

  Harper froze and looked up from the cover sheet. “Well?”

  CHAPTER 44

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “It’s called a BLU-82,” Kealey said ten minutes later. He had used the office computer to download several high-resolution images of the bomb, and Kharmai and Harper were both examining printouts. They had also faxed some of the images back to Montreal and were waiting for confirmation from Liman, the owner of the storage facility.

  “It stands for Bomb Live Unit,” Kealey continued, “but it’s more commonly known as a ‘daisy cutter,’ owing to the distinctive pattern it leaves after detonation. Until recently, it was the largest conventional explosive in the U.S. arsenal, and as you can see, it’s very large, with a total weight of about fifteen thousand pounds. It’s also extremely simple… nothing more than GSX slurry in a big metal container. The container itself doesn’t weigh much; nearly all the weight comes from the explosives. Twelve thousand six hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder.”

  Harper looked up. “It says here it was used primarily for clearing helicopter landing zones in Vietnam. That makes it a pretty old design.”

  “But still very effective,” Kealey assured him. “We used them in Afghanistan and Iraq, mostly for psychological purposes. Let me give you an idea of what I’m talking about. Back in the first gulf war, a C-130 dropped a daisy cutter on an Iraqi position just outside Kuwait City. Five minutes later, a Special Air Service recon patrol called in and asked if someone had dropped a tactical nuke in the area. At the time, the patrol was a hundred and ten miles away from the site of the bombing. What they saw was the signature mushroom cloud… They mistook the daisy cutter for a nuke. That’s how powerful it is.”

  Naomi looked up from the paper in her hands, an expression of mixed confusion and concern on her face. “What does that mean for an urban area? What will this thing do?”

  He looked at his hands, trying to think of the best way to explain it. “Think about Oklahoma City,” he finally said. “The bomb that took out the Alfred P. Murrah Building was about a third the size of this one. If Vanderveen actually has one of these and sets it off in New York City, it will destroy every structure within one thousand feet, and the pressure wave will shatter windows for miles. Depending on where he detonates it, casualties
will probably be in the thousands.”

  “Jesus,” Harper breathed. His face had turned white.

  The room was completely silent for half a minute. Then Naomi said, “It was our weapon originally, right? Rühmann must have gotten it from Al Qaqaa. If we can find someone who will say it was there, we can put everything together and bring it to the president. He’ll have to cancel the meeting at the UN. I mean, it’s not just the United Iraqi Alliance that’s scheduled to attend. The secretary of state will be there as well, not to mention the entire General Assembly. If we give him something tangible, he’ll have to call it off.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” Harper pointed out. “The meeting is set for tomorrow afternoon. The Iraqi delegates arrived in New York this morning. Even if I could get an audience with Brenneman in time, he’d want a lot more proof than what we have. Remember, I’m persona non grata with him at the moment, and you two are out of the loop completely.”

  “Well, we have to try,” Kealey argued. “I assume we investigated the incident at Al Qaqaa. Let’s see if we can get a list of all the agencies involved in the investigation, the individual people if possible. Maybe we’ll find a friendly face, someone willing to give us a full account of what was being stored at the facility.”

  “I can get that by morning,” Harper said. “There’ll be a lid in place, of course, but I’ll work around it.”

  “The main thing,” Naomi said, “is getting access to Hakim Rudaki. If anyone knows what’s coming next, it’s him.”

  “Or Samantha Crane,” Kealey muttered.

  “Ryan, I agree it looks bad,” Harper said, “but the evidence against Crane is purely circumstantial. We have to keep that on the back burner for as long as possible. Let’s see if we can get to Rudaki first.”

  Before anyone could say anything more, the phone rang again. Harper answered it, said a few words, and replaced the receiver. Turning toward them, he said, “Liman just verified it. The item stored in Rühmann’s unit was definitely a BLU-82. He gave our people permission to go in and check it out. The unit was empty.”