The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  The previous day, they had used a forklift from the Montreal terminal to load the device at the Lake Forest storage facility, after which they returned the forklift and started west to the border crossing at Buffalo. After passing through customs on the Peace Bridge, Vanderveen had followed I-95 to Syracuse. From there, it was a short drive to Ithaca. The Bridgeline warehouse was located just north of the city, in a commercial sector that had seen better days. Yasmin Raseen and Amir Nazeri had entered the United States hours earlier in a passenger vehicle owned by Nazeri’s company. Vanderveen met them in Ithaca just after 5:00 a.m., where they transferred the bomb to an Isuzu H-Series box truck with a GVWR of 33,000 pounds. The rear axle was capable of withstanding loads up to 19,000 pounds, which was more than adequate for their purposes.

  According to Nazeri, the vehicle was completely untraceable, meaning that no link would ever be found between the shattered remains of the Isuzu and Bridgeline Transport, Inc. Vanderveen didn’t know if this was true or if it was just wishful thinking on Nazeri’s part, but it didn’t really matter. Nazeri had no idea what was about to happen. He didn’t know that he was about to embark on a suicide mission, and when it was over, Bridgeline would be implicated almost immediately. An anonymous call to the FBI would point the investigators in the right direction. The death of thousands of American citizens would, in due course, be attributed to the Iranian who had come to America in search of a better life, only to find that the U.S. government had stripped him of the only thing he had ever cared about.

  The death of Dr. Nasir Tabrizi in Paris at the hands of Iranian fundamentalists — combined with the revelation of Iranian funding for the purchase of Rashid al-Umari’s refinery in Iraq — had already generated enormous suspicion in the Western media. Many people already believed that the regime in Tehran was behind the escalating situation in Iraq, and Nazeri’s actions would only clinch their suspicions. The American public would never believe that the Iranians did not have a hand in it, and with thousands dead in the worst attack on U.S. soil since 9/11, President David Brenneman would be under immense pressure to exact swift, harsh revenge on the Iranian capital.

  The idea that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was ultimately responsible would also be reinforced by Hakim Rudaki, the FBI’s coveted informant. Vanderveen had already called Rudaki directly to provide additional instructions; at the moment, Rudaki was busy establishing ties between Thomas Rühmann and the Iranian president, some of which were imagined, others real. Vanderveen had called his source in the Bureau hours earlier to confirm that everything was on schedule. He had not been surprised to learn that Kealey had survived the trap in Berlin, along with the woman, Kharmai, but he had been disturbed to learn that Kharmai had been granted an audience with Rudaki shortly before noon. Somehow, the CIA was aware of what had been stored at Lake Forest. But that couldn’t be helped now, and it didn’t really matter. They didn’t know about Nazeri, and they didn’t know about the warehouse on West Thirty-seventh. The intense security surrounding the UN would prove to be worthless. Kealey may have cheated death yet again, but he would never be able to stop what was about to happen.

  Vanderveen stood up and stretched, gazing around at the open cement. Using Nazeri made things more complicated than they should have been, but the same was true of the men they had used in Paris. Implicating the Iranians wasn’t strictly necessary, but it did have the effect of diverting attention from the Iraqi insurgency. Vanderveen had listened to the news on the drive east from Ithaca. Iraq was already on the brink of civil war, and in a matter of hours, the Shiite alliance would be wiped from the face of the earth, along with several thousand U.S. citizens. The U.S. military would no longer be able to control the mass chaos that would ensue in Iraq. In other words, Izzat al-Douri was about to reclaim the country he had lost just a few years earlier.

  Vanderveen turned to Nazeri. “Where’s the box?”

  “In my office.”

  “Show me.”

  They followed the Iranian through a set of double-glass doors and into the warehouse. The smooth cement floor was littered with wooden pallets, all of which were weighed down with thousands of bottles of water and soda. Behind the pallets were redbrick walls leading up to a low ceiling. Vanderveen recalled that the warehouse was used to distribute soft drinks to area businesses. Fortunately, Nazeri had had the foresight to dismiss his employees for the day, a point that Vanderveen had overlooked.

  They came to the glass-enclosed office. There was another door on the far side of the room. Nazeri pulled a key from his pocket with trembling hands, unlocked the door, and pulled out a large box sealed with masking tape. He used the key to slice the tape along the fold, then pulled open the cardboard flaps.

  Vanderveen looked inside. The package had come courtesy of Anthony Mason several months earlier. It contained five half-pound blocks of Semtex, two 50-foot coils of what appeared to be time fuse, a pair of wire crimpers, and a cloth-wrapped package. Vanderveen pulled out the package, placed it on the nearby desk, and unfurled the cloth. Inside were several nonelectric blasting caps and three nylon tubes with pull rings on one end. Nazeri walked over, and Vanderveen lifted one of the tubes.

  “I’m going to show you how this works,” he said, adopting the instructive tone he’d used as an E-7 in the 3rd Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Nazeri’s distracted mien was instantly replaced by an expression of sober, undivided attention.

  “This is an M60 fuse igniter,” Vanderveen began. He pointed to the bottom part of the tube, opposite the metal pull ring. “This is the fuse holder cap. You unscrew it” — he demonstrated — “and remove the shipping plug, like this. Now you’re ready to install the time fuse, but first we’ll prepare the blasting cap. Do you have a knife?”

  The other man nodded. Raseen was standing off to the side, watching with interest. Vanderveen went to the box and pulled out one of the coils of the time fuse. Nothing changed in his face, and the hesitation was barely noticeable, but he checked both coils quickly, then selected the one on the bottom. He brought it back over and accepted the Iranian’s pocketknife.

  Vanderveen cut off the first 6 inches of the time fuse and tossed it aside. The box was dry, but he knew it was still possible for moisture to contaminate either end of the fuse. Then he cut off approximately 3 feet from the remaining length. Selecting one of the blasting caps, he checked the open end for debris and, finding none, gently pushed it onto one end of the fuse. Then, with exquisite care, he used the crimpers to secure the cap to the time fuse.

  “You see what I did?” he asked Nazeri. The other man gave a jerky nod. “Now, do you have a blanket around here? Some kind of soft material?”

  “I have a sweater. Will that work?” Vanderveen nodded, and Nazeri retrieved the sweater from a cabinet near the office door. Vanderveen wrapped it around the blasting cap and placed the sweater on the far side of the office, well away from the cardboard box. Then he took the free end of the fuse and slipped it into the well of the M60 igniter. Finally, he tightened the fuse holder cap and held up the tube.

  “Watch what I’m doing.” He waited until he was sure he had Nazeri’s attention. Then he pulled out the safety clip, pushed the pull ring into the M60, turned it to the right, and pulled it all the way out.

  Nazeri looked confused. “Why is nothing happening?”

  “That’s three feet of fuse,” Vanderveen explained. “It burns at roughly forty seconds a foot, so it’ll take about two minutes. Then the cap will detonate. You’ll hear a little pop… Just wait.”

  They waited, and in due course, the cap went off. Nazeri jumped at the noise, even though he’d been told to expect it. Vanderveen walked over and unfolded the sweater, showing Nazeri the scorched, torn material. “If the cap had been surrounded by explosives, it would have set them off. But do you understand what I’m talking about? You’ll have plenty of time once you pull the ring to get out of the truck and into the subway. We’ll be using about twelve feet of the time fuse, so you’ll ha
ve nearly five minutes to get clear.”

  “But won’t the police be able to get inside the truck by then?”

  “No,” Raseen put in. “But even if they do, they won’t know how to stop it in time. Policemen in America are not trained in such matters.”

  Nazeri seemed to take this at face value, though he didn’t look in Raseen’s direction as she spoke. Vanderveen had already noticed that the Iranian businessman was uneasy in her presence. He didn’t know if this was due to a cultural phenomenon or the fact that Yasmin Raseen had a way of making people uncomfortable. He assumed it was a little of both.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to do it again, only this time, you are going to set it up, and I’ll watch. It’s vital that you know how to use the igniter. It’s not a difficult procedure, but it has to be done correctly.”

  Nazeri nodded. He appeared calm, but when he reached out to accept the next green nylon tube, his hand was shaking ever so slightly. Vanderveen studied him for a few seconds, face impassive, then gestured with his head for Raseen to join him outside. They left the office, Raseen closing the door behind them. A moment later they stepped outside. Their breath steamed in the cool morning air. The Isuzu shined white in the pale sun, which had just topped the surrounding buildings.

  Vanderveen turned toward her. “What do you think?”

  “He’s nervous.”

  “I agree. Is the cousin enough to push him forward?”

  Raseen had ridden with Nazeri from Montreal to Manhattan, and she’d used the time to peel back the layers with infinite care. She started with questions about him, probing his fears, dreams, and desires. Then she ventured into the life of Fatima Darabi. Finally, she incorporated the two, asking about their childhood together, the pivotal moments they had shared in their youth. Nazeri had been reluctant to talk at first, Raseen explained, but that was only because she was a woman, and it hadn’t stopped him for long. Amir Nazeri had been in the States for many years, and the cultural strictures imposed on him as a child had faded with time. As the miles and hours passed, she had managed to break through his defenses.

  “I think he loved her a great deal,” Raseen concluded. Her voice was neutral; in Iran, romantic love between cousins was viewed differently than it was in the United States, as marriage within the family helped ensure the preservation of land and other material assets. “He believes she felt the same way. Her death changed everything for him.”

  “Has it changed him enough, though?” Vanderveen mused. “That’s the question.”

  Raseen shrugged. “Have you shown him the document?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When you do, his doubts will disappear, along with his fears. I would wait until the last possible minute; that way, it will have more of an effect. You shouldn’t worry, though. He’s prepared to see this through.”

  Vanderveen nodded. “You have your phone?”

  Nazeri had purchased several pay-and-go phones before driving up to Montreal. They each had one. “Yes, I have it.”

  “And money?”

  “I have that as well. I’ll call you once I’m in position.”

  “Good.” Vanderveen paused. “We’ll meet again this evening, and then we’ll discuss how we’re going to get out of the country.”

  “Fine.” She hesitated. “Will, do you remember what you told me in Germany? About Jonathan Harper?”

  He nodded. During the brief trip from Potsdam to Berlin, he had relayed everything he had been told by his Bureau contact over the phone in the Luisenplatz, right down to the identity of the CIA’s deputy director of operations.

  “Do you think we’ll get the chance to take care of that?”

  “Possibly.” It was a tremendous opportunity, Vanderveen knew. The identity of the DDO was highly classified. Now, thanks to his Bureau contact, they had not only the man’s name, but an approximate address, a brownstone on General’s Row in Washington, D.C. “If the opportunity presents itself, we’ll pay him a visit. For now, we have enough to worry about.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She crossed the open cement, walking to the gate leading out to the street. Vanderveen followed. He unlocked the gate, then pulled it open. She stepped onto the street and turned to face him. There was an awkward pause while they each considered some kind of affectionate gesture, but then the moment was gone.

  “I’ll be in touch.” Before he could reply, she turned and walked off, heading east toward Eighth Avenue. Vanderveen watched her go for nearly a minute, wondering if he would ever see her again. Then he shut the gate, locked it, and headed back to the warehouse.

  CHAPTER 48

  NEW YORK CITY

  As the taxi she’d taken from LaGuardia Airport left Brooklyn and sped over the Williamsburg Bridge, Naomi Kharmai gazed out at the East River. The bridge offered an incredible view of FDR Drive and the Lower East Side, the Manhattan skyline beyond, but she was too distracted to appreciate the view. Her mind was wrapped up in the meeting she was about to attend, as well as the events of the previous night.

  Naomi could still scarcely believe what had happened with Ryan, but she didn’t regret it at all. It had been everything she’d hoped for and more. The only reason she’d gone back to her room was to avoid a potentially embarrassing scene in the morning. After collapsing onto her bed, she had stared at the ceiling for hours, worried that if she fell asleep, she’d wake to find it had never happened, or — worse yet — that he regretted the encounter. It was a strange dichotomy; it had been one of the best and worst nights of her life, a bewildering mixture of lingering happiness and dread for what the morning would bring. She needn’t have worried; all of her fears had melted away with the kiss he’d given her over the breakfast table. She felt sure that, everything else aside, it was the start of something incredible. Part of her just wanted to get the day over with so they could talk about it properly. At the same time, she knew she couldn’t afford to let what had happened distract her. She did her best to push it aside as the taxi turned onto Kenmare Street, then swung a left onto Lafayette Street.

  Naomi still didn’t know how she was going to handle the interview with Hakim Rudaki. She felt sure that Ryan was right — that he was stringing the Bureau along with false information. Judging by the information that Harper had managed to dig up on the Iranian informant, Naomi knew he wouldn’t break easily. He was an intelligent man: a Harvard graduate, a respected member of the academic community. She wasn’t intimidated by this — she had reached comparable heights at Stanford, after all — but she knew she couldn’t discount his academic achievements. At the very least, it meant that he would not succumb to crude psychological manipulation. This realization left her deeply concerned. She had faith in her abilities, but she wasn’t a trained interrogator, and she just couldn’t conceive of a way to get him to confess his true role in the recent events. All she could do was play it by ear and hope that Ryan had more luck in the South Bronx.

  They had separated after their plane landed at LaGuardia. His destination was Vyse Avenue, where he was going to try and track down the Bureau safe house. Privately, Naomi didn’t think he would have much luck. The ADIC had assured the DDO that Rudaki would be present when Naomi arrived at 26 Federal Plaza, which meant that Ryan would find himself with no one to question, even if — by some miracle — he did manage to find the safe house. It would all come down to her.

  It was strange; the full implication of this thought took a long time to sink in, but when it did, it hit her like a ton of bricks. If Vanderveen was planning to use a daisy cutter in the city that same afternoon, the only way they could stop him was by breaking Rudaki.

  And that fell to her. No one else.

  Her mouth went instantly dry. The thought made her feel dizzy and sick to her stomach… How could she not have seen this before? If they were right about Vanderveen’s intentions — and she felt sure that they were — the lives of thousands of people rested in her hands. The thought was so overwhelming that she didn’t notice
they had reached their destination until the driver turned in his seat to scream at her in Spanish, trying to get her attention.

  She handed over the money with shaking hands, then stumbled out onto Lafayette Street. The Civic Center was a block to the south, and for a minute, she wondered why the driver hadn’t continued. Then she realized that the roads surrounding the Bureau’s building were probably blocked off to vehicular traffic. She walked on weak legs down the sidewalk, following the crowds. The people around her were engaged in their daily routines, oblivious to the looming disaster. She couldn’t look at them. Her realization of a moment ago had left her numb… It was so unfair. How could the deputy director have put this on her shoulders? Maybe even he didn’t realize what he’d pushed her into, but she didn’t think that was the case. She felt a bitter anger join the piercing ache in her chest… Jonathan Harper was a lot of things, but he wasn’t naïve. He’d known exactly what he was doing.

  She reached Duane Street and turned right, passing a series of concrete barriers and a small guard shack. The U.S. Customs House was on her right, and past that, the east entrance of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building. She went up the brief flight of stairs, pulled open the glass door, and stepped inside. There were a number of turnstiles off to the right, but they were reserved for building employees with government-issued smart cards. Since she was technically no longer with the Agency, Naomi had only her British passport and her driver’s license. She was forced to wait in line with a group of sullen immigrants and their screaming children, all of whom were destined for the INS offices on the fourth floor. When it was her turn, she passed through the metal detector and endured a brief search of her purse. Then she explained to the security guard her reason for visiting. He placed a call and gestured for her to take a seat on a nearby bench.