“Why, what’s happening?”
“We got a lead on one of those carriers. The company is run by an Iranian right here in Manhattan. According to our records, he was naturalized back in ’86. He has an SCAC, he’s listed with customs, and one of his trucks came in from Canada carrying a heavy load last night. It looks like a solid lead. I’m gonna run over and check it out.”
Best looked at his watch and said, “Take somebody with you. O’Farrell.”
“O’Farrell isn’t here, sir, but I’ll find someone on the way out.”
“Fine.”
Naomi had listened to the conversation with interest, each sentence sparking a different emotion. She was annoyed that Rudaki wasn’t going to arrive until 2:00 p.m., which was nearly three hours away, but she was thrilled that he was with Crane, which probably meant they were at the safe house on Vyse Avenue. Ryan might still have a shot at getting to them. Above all, she wanted to know more about this possible lead. Iranian owner, SCAC, heavy load… It sounded promising. But again, with the Iranians… Despite herself, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt. Maybe they’d gotten it wrong all along.
Before the young agent had closed the door, she called out for him to stop. He poked his head back in and shot her a curious glance. Best looked equally perplexed.
Naomi addressed the older man. “Sir, I was told I’d be able to see Rudaki immediately.”
“I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I’m sure there’s a good reason for the delay.”
“Good reason or not, I don’t want to sit around for three hours waiting on him. With your permission, I’d like to tag along with Agent Foster.”
Best laughed. “Absolutely not.”
The smug look on his face pushed her over the edge. She shot him the hardest look she had and said, “Sir, you said you wanted to avoid an interagency spat, right? Well, my superiors are behind me a hundred percent on this, so if you jerk me around here, I’ll be forced to call them and say we’re not getting the cooperation we were promised. I don’t know about you, but I could see word getting to the president pretty fast after that, and I don’t think he’d be too happy… especially if it turns out that we were right and you were wrong.”
Best stared at her incredulously. From the corner of her eye, Naomi could see that Foster was also completely stunned.
“Kharmai, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you have some fucking nerve, coming in here and—”
“Sir, there’s no harm in it,” Foster said, recovering quickly. The two men shared a meaningful look, and Best sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. Naomi suddenly got the impression that the ADIC was a man with a quick temper who relied on his subordinates to help him keep it in check. “As long as she’s not armed.”
Best looked at her. “Are you?”
“No.” She decided it was time to back down a little. “Sir, I don’t want to cause any problems. Just let me tag along with your agent here until Rudaki gets back.” She looked at Foster. “It won’t take too long, will it?”
He shook his head. “We only need to make a few stops. I want to talk with the Iranian and two others. I don’t have to cross the bridge. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”
Naomi turned back to Best expectantly. Finally, he nodded slowly. “If it gets you out of here, I guess I don’t see the harm.”
“Good. And thank you.” She grabbed her purse and avoided his angry gaze as she followed Foster out the door. The confrontation had left her drained, and suddenly, she couldn’t wait to be out of the building. When the door closed behind them, Foster gave her a look that fell somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
“You have some guts. I don’t think anyone’s ever talked like that to him in his life.”
She shrugged like it was nothing, but in truth, she was feeling quite proud of herself. “Well, I think he was asking for it.”
He looked at her for a moment longer, shaking his head in amusement. Then he nodded toward the exit. “You ready?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 50
NEW YORK CITY
On Vyse Avenue in the South Bronx, Kealey sat behind the wheel of his rented Accord, his whole body taut, his eyes alert and watchful. The vehicle was parked just north of 173rd Street, directly behind a rusting, paint-stripped Camry covered in peeling bumper stickers. In front of the Camry was the blue Crown Victoria. The street was completely empty, but after a few minutes, he looked up at his rearview mirror and saw what he’d been waiting for. The three Latino teenagers that had confronted him earlier were approaching from the south, walking side by side like something out of a bad gangster movie.
The proposition Kealey had put to them was simple: for fifty dollars each, all they had to do was carry out a minor act of vandalism. He couldn’t trust them, of course, so he’d gotten the leader — the only one of them old enough to drive — to hand over his license. Kealey checked it quickly and decided it was authentic. Then he handed it back with a promise: if they backed out of the agreement, he’d pay Miguel Morales a very painful visit. Morales, he assured them, would be more than happy to point out where the other two lived, and they could expect the same. Kealey didn’t enjoy making threats of this nature — they were just kids, after all — but he needed their help, and he needed to get his point across. They had agreed without hesitation, so he’d given them the location of the vehicle, then the money. Now it looked like they were about to come through.
Kealey unconsciously felt for his Beretta as the three youths passed his passenger-side window. A few seconds later they stopped beside the Crown Vic. Morales was holding an aluminum baseball bat. As Kealey watched, he used it to knock off the Ford’s passenger-side mirror. Then, as the others cheered him on, he let loose with a wild swing, which caved in part of the front windshield.
Kealey heard the dull crunch and the ringing sound of the bat, but he wasn’t watching the action. His attention was focused on the housing units beyond the iron fence, and after a few seconds, his patience was rewarded. One of the doors flew open, and a tall, lanky man in a dark suit came running down the sidewalk, swearing at the top of his lungs. The three youths instantly scattered in what was clearly a prearranged fashion; by moving in different directions, they were virtually assured of escape. The man in the suit started to chase one of them, then stopped, realizing the futility of his actions. He walked at a fast pace back to the mangled car. Kealey could see him swearing and shaking his head as he assessed the damage.
This was his guy. With his neat hair, striped red tie, and bulge beneath the jacket, the man had agent written all over him. Kealey made sure his weapon was covered by his T-shirt, then got out of the Accord and walked around to the sidewalk, doing his best to avoid his target’s peripheral vision. The agent was already making his way back down the short path to the safe house. During his sprint from the building, he’d left the front door wide open. He was still swearing viciously, and Kealey silently urged him to keep going, as the noise helped cover the sound of his approach.
He silently closed the last few feet. As the agent put one hand on the door and prepared to step inside, Kealey lifted his shirt with his left hand and drew the Beretta with his right. Raising his arm, he brought the butt crashing down on the back of the agent’s neck. It was a bad angle; the man was much taller than he was, and he didn’t have good leverage, but the blow had the intended effect. The man let out a strange croak and dropped to the ground. He instantly tried to get up, but Kealey hit him again. This time he connected solidly, the blow sending a shiver along his forearm. He immediately raised the gun, ready for someone to come through the door.
Nothing. Kealey grabbed the back of the man’s shirt collar and pulled him inside, then closed the door. He took in the scene instinctively: a few worn couches, a beat-up recliner, a Samsung TV on a cheap wooden stand. Only the necessities. There were no prints on the walls, no rugs on the floor. He listened carefully. There was no noise coming f
rom the kitchen, but he heard voices drifting down from the stairwell. Moving back to the unconscious agent, he checked the man’s coat pockets with practiced speed and skill. He found the gun first, then a leather billfold. He flipped it open. Inside were credentials identifying the fallen man as Special Agent Nicholas Mackie of the FBI.
“Nick?”
Kealey’s head shot up. He raised his Beretta instinctively, but then he realized the voice was coming from upstairs. “Nick, what’s going on down there?”
Kealey was thinking as fast as he could. He couldn’t risk moving the agent; if Samantha Crane caught him in the act, she’d have the drop on him. At the same time, he didn’t relish the idea of climbing the stairs. It was too exposed; besides, she had the elevated position, and it would be too easy for her to duck out of view and get to her gun.
Still, there wasn’t much choice. The recliner was in the middle of the room, positioned next to an overstuffed couch. As he passed it, he shoved Mackie’s 9mm down between the cushions. Then, holding his Beretta in a modified Weaver stance, he approached the stairs in a crouch and looked up to the second floor, ready to fire.
The landing was empty. He moved up the stairs two at a time, painfully aware of the wood creaking beneath his feet. When he reached the last few steps, he paused. There was bare drywall to his right, the second-floor rooms beyond. Moving slightly to the left, he could see part of the room in front of him, but not the people inside.
There wasn’t much of a choice; he’d just have to risk it. Before he could move, though, he heard the sound of approaching feet. The sound sent a jolt of electricity running through his body, but he didn’t have time to react. Without warning, Crane appeared in the doorway in front of him. Her eyes opened wide, and there was a moment when everything froze. Then he advanced quickly, grabbed her by the shirt, and put the gun to her head.
“Don’t move. Who else is up here?”
She didn’t respond. He slammed her against the opposite wall and repeated the question. Her mouth was working silently. Finally, she managed to find her voice. “What are you doing here? What—”
“Who else is up here?”
“No one! Where’s Nick? What did you do to him?”
“He’s sleeping.” Kealey stepped back, but he kept the gun at arm’s length, aimed at her forehead. “Where’s your weapon?”
“My right hip.”
“Show it to me.”
She was wearing a black merino sweater over a white cotton blouse. Slowly, she lowered her right hand and lifted both layers. A Glock 10mm was tucked into her DeSantis holster.
“Take it out very slowly, and drop it.”
She did as he asked, her lips slightly parted, her eyes fixed on the muzzle in front of her face. When she dropped her weapon, it clattered away. Suddenly, Kealey sensed movement to his right and turned to look. Hakim Rudaki was standing in the doorway. The Iranian was of average height, with narrow, intelligent features. He was dressed in jeans and a Columbia University T-shirt, and appeared stunned by the scene unfolding before him.
“I thought you said no one was up here,” Kealey snapped. He grabbed her and turned her around roughly, jamming the muzzle of the Beretta into her lower back. Leaning down quickly, he picked up her gun and, using only his left hand, ejected the magazine. He positioned the upper receiver against his thigh and pushed forward, shucking out the remaining round. Then he dropped the useless weapon and pushed her into the room at the back of the house. Over her shoulder, he spoke to Rudaki. “You, get back in there. Hands where I can see them.”
A few seconds later, he had them sitting side by side on the bed. He could see that Rudaki’s mind was already working, trying to figure a way out of the situation. Crane, on the other hand, looked furious. Her face was flushed, her blond hair sticking out at crazy angles. “Kealey, I don’t know how the hell you found this place, but you’re going to—”
“Stop talking, Crane. There’s nothing you can say… I know what you did. Your only option now is to cooperate. If you do exactly what I tell you, I might even let you live. Until then, keep your mouth shut.” He turned the gun on Rudaki. “You’re the reason I’m here.”
The Iranian managed to look confused. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I know who you are, Hakim. I know what you’ve been telling the Bureau, and I know you’re full of shit. The Iranians were never part of this. Individual people, maybe, but not the regime in Tehran.”
Rudaki shook his head slowly. “Everything I’ve said is the truth.”
“No, it isn’t,” Kealey snarled. “The Bureau may have bought it, but I don’t.” He looked at Crane. “What’s he been telling you now? That Ahmadinejad is targeting the UN?”
Crane looked startled. “As a matter of fact, yes. But security is so tight that—”
“Save it, Samantha. Don’t try to play dumb. I know you have a part in this.”
She stood up, her fists balled by her side. “What are you talking about?” she shouted.
“Sit down!”
“No!” She planted her feet and glared at him. “You’d better explain yourself right now, Ryan, or—”
“The raid in Alexandria,” Kealey said, cutting her off. He stared at her intently. “You were so fucking quick to go in, weren’t you? Why? Was it just to shut Mason up?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What happened after that? Hold on,” he said sarcastically. “Let me guess. You found out that we had Mason’s laptop, and you knew you had to get it back, because it had Thomas Rühmann’s name on it. But that didn’t happen in time, did it? We got the name before you could act, so instead, you told Vanderveen where to find us.”
She didn’t rise to the bait, so Kealey raised his voice, trying to get through to her. “He nearly killed me and Naomi Kharmai in Berlin, Crane. It had to be you… Aside from you and Ford, no one else knew we were going to Germany.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Stop.” She fell silent, and he shook his head in disgust. “The only question is, what are you getting out of it?” He looked at her hard, trying to see what was behind those angry brown eyes. “It’s money, isn’t it? How much did it take to buy you off, Sam?”
Rudaki was starting to look nervous, Kealey noticed, which wouldn’t mean much by itself, but combined with Crane’s expression, it was cause for concern. She looked furious, but also genuinely confused, and while he knew it could be an act, he had seen people try to act their way out of bad situations before. This looked real, and for the first time since he’d learned that Crane was running Rudaki, he felt a tremor of doubt.
“Vanderveen? Will Vanderveen?” She gave an incredulous laugh. “You think I’ve been passing him information?”
“I know you have,” he said through gritted teeth. His finger was tightening on the trigger, the muzzle level with Crane’s heart. “You can’t lie your way out of this. It had to be you. Don’t you get it? Even if you discount the other shit as coincidence, no one else knew about Berlin.”
Crane scoffed. “What, I’m supposed to take your word on that? If anyone’s been feeding Vanderveen information, it’s probably someone at Langley.”
That’s not possible,” Kealey said, but he hesitated. Even through the blustering and the sarcasm, her innocence shone through like a beacon he couldn’t ignore. “Crane, I’m only going to ask you this one time. Did you tell anyone what Ford told you? Anyone at all?”
She shrugged, as if the question was meaningless. “I told my partner, of course, but I tell him—”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Matt Foster,” she reminded him. “From the warehouse in Alexandria, remember? He’s the one who shot Mason.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Everything,” Crane replied, finishing her earlier sentence. She was starting to sound annoyed, and Kealey realized that, gun or no gun, her cooperation was coming to an end.
“He was
on administrative leave while they investigated the shooting,” Crane continued. “But after they cleared him, he decided to stay in Washington instead of coming back here.” Her mouth twitched, a light coming on in her eyes, and Kealey had a sudden insight. It was subtle, but the look on her face suggested that her relationship with Foster went beyond a mere partnership. “I had drinks with my aunt a few nights ago, and when I got back to the hotel, I told him everything.”
“What night did you see your aunt?”
“Tuesday. Tuesday night at the Monocle.”
The night before he and Naomi had flown to Berlin. Kealey shook his head, trying to think it through. “So what happened in Alexandria? You said you got an anonymous tip that Mason was there…?”
“That came through Matt,” Crane confirmed. “He took the call in New York, and I asked the ADIC to call Washington and get us in on the raid. After all, we had been looking for Mason for months, and the tip came through our FO. It was only fair that we should have a part in bringing him down.”
“Could Foster be sure of being there?”
“Of course,” Crane shot back. “He’s my partner, for one thing, and I have… advantages.” Kealey knew she was referring to her relationship with Rachel Ford. “Besides, Matt has connections as well. His father spent twenty years as an agent. He finished as the SAC in Houston, and he still has plenty of friends in the Bureau.”
He looked at Rudaki. “So you’ve been working with Foster.”
“No! I have no idea what you’re—”
“Matt had nothing to do with this!” Crane shouted, cutting off Rudaki’s denial. “And you can’t prove otherwise, so stop accusing him!”
“Save it,” Kealey snarled. He gestured to Rudaki. “What else has this guy been telling you? What’s supposed to happen today?”
She looked at her informant and took a deep breath, as if deciding how much to say. “He said the Iranian government was working with Rühmann. They’re supposed to hit the UN this afternoon.”
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