“How?” Kealey addressed the question to Crane, even though Rudaki was right there. He still wasn’t sure of Crane’s role in all of this, but he definitely didn’t trust the Iranian to give up the truth, even at gunpoint.
“He didn’t say,” Crane said. “But it doesn’t matter. We’ve already locked down the whole area. It would have to be a bomb, but even if the Iranians have one, they won’t be able to get it within two blocks of the target. It would never work.”
“The Iranians are not behind this, Sam. It’s Will Vanderveen, and he does have a bomb. A very large one.” Kealey turned back to Rudaki and pointed the gun at his face. “And you know something about it, so start talking.”
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“I’ll ask you once more,” Kealey said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “And then I’m going to shoot you. Do you understand?”
Rudaki looked to Crane, who looked in turn to Kealey. She scowled and said, “You’d better be bluffing, Ryan. If you do this, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your life in prison.”
“I have the gun, Samantha, and I’m still not convinced of your innocence. You might want to keep that in mind. The only reason I’m not putting these questions to you is because of your position.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t hurt you to get the truth,” he explained. “And I don’t want to, even though you probably deserve it. But I can hurt him, and that’s just what I plan to do unless he starts talking.”
“Bullshit,” she said simply. “You’re bluffing.”
“You can’t let this happen,” Rudaki said, looking at Crane. Some of his bluster was starting to fade. “You’re with the FBI, and this man is threatening me. Do something.”
“Where’s the fucking bomb?” Kealey shouted.
Rudaki looked at the gun, then at Kealey’s face. “I don’t—”
The shot sounded like an explosion in the small room. Hakim Rudaki screamed in agony, his eyes wide in horror. He clutched at his ruined knee and slid from the bed to the floor, blood pumping between his fingers.
“Jesus Christ!” Crane screamed, dropping her arms. “What the hell are you…?”
Kealey never heard the rest of her question. He was on the ground, his left hand wrapped in Rudaki’s hair, his gun jammed under the other man’s chin. He was screaming the same question over and over, his face an inch from Rudaki’s. “Where’s the bomb? Where is it? Tell me, you piece of shit! Tell me!”
Kealey was aware of Crane’s hands on his shoulders. She was trying to pull him back, and it briefly occurred to him that if she was in on it, she wouldn’t even be in the room; she would have gone for her gun in the hall. The fact that she hadn’t only reinforced her innocence.
He shrugged her off and kept screaming the question. Finally, through gritted teeth, Rudaki howled a name.
“What? What was that?”
“Nazeri! I don’t know anything about a bomb! I only know the name, I swear to God….”
“Nazeri? Who is he? Where is he?”
“I don’t know!”
“The Iranian government was never behind this, was it?” Rudaki seemed to hesitate, and Kealey shouted the question again.
“No,” Rudaki gasped. His face was covered in sweat, and Kealey could tell he was about to pass out. “Tehran never had a hand in it. The whole thing started in Iraq.”
“With who?” Kealey demanded. “Who in Iraq?”
Rudaki shook his head, his face contorted with pain. “I never dealt with the top people. Just intermediaries.”
“Like Vanderveen, right? You dealt with Vanderveen?”
“Yes. I dealt with Vanderveen and…” He nodded at Crane, who had been watching the exchange with a mixed expression of shock and disbelief. “Her partner.”
It was irrefutable proof; at this point, Rudaki would gain nothing by lying. Kealey shot a glance at Samantha Crane. She was staring at the Iranian informant, her face frozen. “This whole time?” she finally managed to choke out. “I don’t believe it. You’re lying.”
Rudaki shook his head weakly. “It’s the truth. I swear it.”
“You’re lying,” Crane repeated, but the words had lost their conviction. “It can’t be true. It’s not possible. It’s just not…”
Her voice faltered, but instead of collapsing into herself, she suddenly sprinted forward. “You fuck!” she screamed. “You fucking—”
Kealey was caught off-guard by the sudden outburst, but he managed to restrain her in time, wrapping her up from behind. “We don’t have time for this,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “He’ll get what’s coming to him, and so will Foster.”
He could feel her trembling in his arms; her whole body was shaking with rage. “Come on, calm down, okay? I’m going to let you go. Don’t do anything crazy. Stay calm.”
He released her cautiously. Then he asked for her phone, having left his in the car. As she pulled it out of her pocket and handed it over, he pushed her into the hall, then followed her out. He was careful to keep his body between her and Rudaki, who was still lying on the floor in the bedroom, moaning in agony.
“We have to call the FO,” Crane said. She was still flushed and breathing hard. “They can get a location on Nazeri in less than a minute.”
“In a second,” Kealey said. He was already punching in Naomi’s number. He wanted to give her a heads-up first, and then they would bring the whole world crashing down on this Nazeri character. He let out a long breath, letting some of the tension ebb. It seemed like everything was in hand; the meeting at the UN was still hours away. Soon he would have Nazeri’s location, and when he got there, Kealey had no doubt that he would find Will Vanderveen and the BLU-82. At this point, the only thing he had to worry about was killing Vanderveen before he could set off the bomb.
But then he lifted the phone to his ear, and everything changed.
CHAPTER 51
NEW YORK CITY
“Hello?”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it, wondering if somehow he’d dialed the wrong number. Bringing it back to his ear, he said, “I’m looking for Naomi Kharmai, but I think I have the wrong—”
“Is this Ryan? Ryan Kealey?”
“Yeah.” A little shock there, with the name recognition. “And you are…?”
“Matt Foster. We’ve met before.”
Kealey froze, a quiver of fear running through his chest. What was Foster doing with Naomi’s phone? He glanced at Crane. She looked back at him inquiringly, but he didn’t have time to bring her into this. “Uh… yeah, I remember you.”
“I thought you might. We met in Alexandria.”
“That’s right,” Kealey said. His mind was racing. “Where are you?”
“Just out and about.” There was a smile in the other man’s voice, but there was nothing pleasant about it. “Checking leads, following up, you know. The usual.”
“Right, well… Is Naomi there?”
There was a long silence. “I’m afraid she’s indisposed at the moment.”
Kealey closed his eyes. Indisposed? What did that mean? Surely not what it sounded like. Surely not that.
He couldn’t have killed her; there was no reason to do so. Unless Naomi had somehow figured it out first and confronted him, and Kealey didn’t see how that would be possible. But this wasn’t getting him anywhere. He had to get off the phone and think it through. “Will you tell her I need to talk to her?”
“Sure.” Foster’s tone was a little too pleasant. “Can I have a quick word with Samantha?”
For a second, Kealey thought the other man was trying to trick him into giving something away. Then he remembered that he was using Crane’s phone, and the number would have come up on Foster’s screen.
He looked at Crane. Her face had lost all of its color, and her eyes were wide and glazed over. The rage was gone, at least for the moment, but she looked utterly drained. He knew he couldn’t put
her on the line; she was still reeling from Foster’s betrayal on two fronts. Judging from the show of emotion he’d just witnessed, she would give it away in a second.
“She’s also indisposed,” Kealey said, “but if you want, I can—”
“Tell me something, Ryan. Since you’re using her phone, I assume you’ve had a talk with her. Did you happen to talk to Hakim Rudaki as well?”
Kealey was gripping the phone so hard he thought it would break, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Agent Foster, I don’t know what—”
“Sure you do,” the other man said amiably. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, but I’m afraid that leaves us with a little problem. Have you called the Bureau yet?”
Kealey struggled to keep his voice even. It was clear they were done with the false pleasantries. “No.”
“Good. If you want your friend to live, you won’t try to track us down, and you won’t call the FO. Because if you do, and my fellow agents show up to gun me down, the last act of my life will be to cut her pretty little throat. Do I make myself clear?”
“You fuck,” Kealey rasped. “If you touch her, I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” Foster said, his voice turning hard. “That isn’t too much to ask, is it? Just do nothing for the next hour. Unless you want Naomi back in pieces, that is.”
“Foster, you—” Kealey stopped and looked at the phone. The other man had already cut the connection. “Fuck!”
“What?” Crane asked. She’d already collected and reloaded her weapon, and was slipping it back into her holster. “What happened?”
“It’s your partner. He’s got Naomi.”
Crane shook her head slowly; she was still trying to get her mind around what she had just learned. This was just too much to handle. “How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know, but he said if we call the FO, he’ll kill her.” Kealey leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of Rudaki’s low moans in the next room. He felt numb. Finally, he opened his eyes and started for the stairs. Crane followed, and as they bounded to the ground floor, he spoke to her over his shoulder. “I have to get in touch with Langley. They’ll give us an address for this Nazeri guy, and I’ll just…” He shook his head, unsure of how it had come to this. “I’ll just have to go in alone.”
“Not a chance,” Crane said. Her voice was imbued with sudden determination. They hit the bottom of the stairs and moved for the door. Special Agent Mackie was still lying where Kealey had dragged him earlier. Behind him, he heard Crane ask, “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” Kealey said. They reached the Accord. Kealey thought it said a lot about the neighborhood that no one had come to investigate the shot he’d fired into Rudaki’s leg, but there were sirens on the horizon as he unlocked the door and looked over the roof at Samantha Crane.
“I don’t think you should be part of this,” he said. “I have a habit of wrecking people’s careers, including my own.”
“At this point, that’s the last thing I’m worried about.” She hesitated. “He may have your friend, Ryan, but he betrayed my trust, and he betrayed the Bureau. I can’t let that go. I’m coming with you, and that’s final.”
He nodded; he couldn’t argue with anything she’d said. “Fine. Let’s go.”
On the corner of Thirty-fourth and Eighth, Special Agent Matt Foster disconnected the call, aware that he’d cut Kealey off in mid-sentence. He stared out the windshield for a few seconds, wondering how it had come to this. All he’d wanted to do was keep Kharmai busy until the bomb reached its target, but somehow, Kealey had managed to find Crane and Rudaki. His arrangement with Will Vanderveen had made him an extraordinarily wealthy man, but even in his wildest dreams, he’d never thought he would need the money so soon. With this development, he had no choice; he’d have to leave the country immediately.
He cursed under his breath. He was completely unprepared. At the very least, he would need a false passport, but getting one would take time, time he didn’t have. In a matter of hours, he would become one of the most wanted men in the world. Given the situation, there was only one option left to him.
Foster lifted the phone and punched in a number.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Foster said, struggling to keep his voice level and calm. He didn’t know the other man well — they had only met in person a few times — but he suspected that Vanderveen would not react favorably to panic. “I have a passenger, and we have a small problem.” He put emphasis on the “I” and the “we.” “Open the door. I’m heading your way.”
“Not possible,” Vanderveen said instantly. “This wasn’t part of the plan, Foster.”
“I realize that, but it can’t be helped. Listen, it’s the Kharmai woman, the one you missed in Berlin. She might prove useful.”
There was a long pause. “What happened? Why do you need to bring her here?”
Foster swore under his breath. He didn’t want to relay the bad news over the phone, but he didn’t have a choice. He explained quickly.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Kealey? Yes. I told him to keep the field office out of it, or I’d kill the woman.”
“He’ll come anyway. How far is the safe house from West Thirty-seventh?”
“Twenty minutes or so, but it’s the middle of the day, and the roads are busy as hell. Besides, he’ll need to call Langley to pin Nazeri down. We probably have about half an hour.”
“And where are you?”
“A few streets down. I can be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Where’s the woman now?”
Foster looked out the passenger-side window. Naomi Kharmai was just walking out of the Starbucks on the corner, holding a cup in each hand, nodding at the man who’d held the door for her. “She’s walking back to the car.”
Another long pause. “Okay, bring her in. The door will be up, and I’ll be waiting. We’ll figure it out when you get here.”
The phone went dead. Foster slipped it into his pocket as Kharmai placed the cups on the roof and opened the door. He thanked her as she handed one in, then took her seat with the other. Once the door was closed, he pulled back into traffic.
Naomi took a sip of her tea and flinched as the hot liquid touched her lips. “Ouch… too soon.” She looked around for a cup holder. Not finding one, she held the container gingerly on her knee and turned to face him. “Matt, I was thinking we should head back to your office. Rudaki’s probably already there, or at least on the way.”
“Actually, I just called. It’ll be another half hour or so. In the meantime, we have one more stop to make.”
She looked at her watch and frowned. “Will it take long?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He smiled reassuringly. “Not long at all.”
CHAPTER 52
NEW YORK CITY
As the Bureau Crown Vic turned left onto West Thirty-seventh Street, Naomi looked at her watch again, then scowled out the window. She no longer cared if her impatience was obvious. This was taking much longer than she’d expected, and she really wanted to talk to Rudaki. They were running out of time, but then again, she thought the delay might be a good thing. If Ryan had gotten to Rudaki already, that would explain why the informant had yet to show up at the New York FO. On the other hand, it seemed like if that had transpired, Ryan would have called to let her know. With this thought, she realized that she hadn’t checked her phone in a while. Her purse was down by her feet. Leaning down, she rooted around for a minute but didn’t find it.
“Agent Foster, did you see what I did with my phone?”
“Oh, shit,” he said, digging into his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it over. “Sorry… Some guy named Kealey called while you were getting the coffee. He asked me to tell you that he struck out.”
“Damn it,” she muttered. “Is that all he said?”
“That’s it.”
She looked
at her phone, thought about calling him, then decided against it. If he’d struck out with the safe house, he wouldn’t want to hear that the New York FO had been wasting her time for the better part of an hour. The first person they’d visited had been a naturalized Iranian just west of the Brooklyn Bridge, the owner of a small freight company. He had been adamant in his denials of wrongdoing, and there had been something about his manner that convinced her immediately. Then they’d moved on to a Saudi immigrant in the financial district. That interview proved equally fruitless, ending with the man screaming obscenities at them in Arabic as they’d hurried back to the car. In short, the whole trip had been pointless, making her wish she had just stayed in the Javits Building. Unfortunately, it was a little late for that now.
Without warning, Foster swung the car to the right. They bumped over a little concrete lip, passing beneath a worn wooden sign. The car slowed to a halt in the middle of a large parking area, a brick warehouse off to the right.
Naomi turned to her left, confusion spreading over her face. She was about to ask what they were doing there when she saw the gun in his hand. She froze, unsure of what was happening. For a split second, she thought it was some kind of sick joke. Then she was aware of the metal door sliding down behind the car, blocking the view of the street. Before Foster could say anything — before she could even ask what was happening — her door was pulled open. She turned instinctively and looked up into a face she had only ever seen on her computer screen and in distant surveillance shots: the face of William Vanderveen.
She tried to speak, but no words came out. Vanderveen seemed to realize the effect he was having on her. He smiled, revealing two rows of very even, very white teeth. “You must be Naomi. It’s nice to meet you. Would you mind dropping that phone and stepping out of the car?”
She took note of his voice: flat, calm, devoid of emotion. There was no hint of his native South African dialect, but that wasn’t surprising; according to the files she had read on countless occasions, he had not returned to his homeland in many years. She felt like this must be a dream; in the year since she had learned of his existence, she had almost convinced herself that he wasn’t real, that he was nothing more than a figment of their collective imaginations. But now, sitting before him, she could see he was definitely real. Just like the gun in his right hand.
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