The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  She was standing at one of the windows, facing away from him. Her clothing was basic and warm: a brown velour hoodie over a navy T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and thick woolen socks. She didn’t move when he closed the door behind him, but he saw her shoulders tense and knew at once that she was trying to summon the courage to turn around. This realization filled him with a bitterness he had never known; it felt as though nothing was right with the world, that she should be afraid to face him.

  “Naomi?”

  She finally turned, her eyes downcast. The entire right side of her face was covered in a clean white bandage. The wound itself wasn’t visible, but even so, she looked incredibly different. Her face was gaunt, dark shadows under her pained eyes. It was immediately clear that she’d been suffering from much more than the physical injury, and Kealey knew why: the death of Samantha Crane — and to a lesser extent, Matt Foster — must have been weighing her down for weeks.

  “Hi.” She gestured at the vases that filled the room and tried to smile. “Thanks for the flowers. You might not have brought so many, though. It’s starting to look like a funeral parlor in here, and that’s an association I could do without.”

  He nodded slowly, aware she was joking, but unable to laugh. He took note of her speech. It wasn’t as bad as Everett had led him to believe. In fact, he could hardly notice the difference at all. Suddenly, he was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say in this situation? What kind of comfort could he possibly offer?

  He started to walk over, but she seemed to retreat, putting her back to the window. He stopped, unsure of her reaction. “Naomi, I want to be here,” he began slowly, “but if you need more time, I can—”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. She was trying to keep her voice bright, but it wasn’t working. “I’m fine. I would have seen you sooner, but I didn’t want to scare you off with the swelling. For a while there, it kind of looked like I had two heads.” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound right at all. “How’s your arm? Looks better, anyway.”

  He shook his head. “Forget the arm. Listen, you don’t have to—”

  “Ryan, I’m okay, I swear.” But her smile was starting to slip. “I saw you walking outside,” she said quickly, desperately. “Is it really cold? I heard on the news it’s supposed to snow all night.”

  “Don’t do this,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Please don’t do this. Talk to me.”

  “I am talking. I just…”

  She tried to hold on, but it couldn’t last, and she had pushed it down for too long already. Even from across the room, he could see her lower lip was starting to tremble, one hand tightly gripping the other. Then the façade gave way completely. She started to cry softly, and he closed the space between them quickly, putting his arms around her, pulling her close. Before long she was sobbing hard, hiccupping when she ran out of air, her hot tears dripping onto his sweater, soaking through to his skin. He felt a lump in his throat rising, but he pushed down his own emotions. He knew he had to be strong for her. He had already failed her twice: once with Crane and again with Vanderveen. He hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He only knew one thing for sure: that he would do whatever he could to make it up to her.

  After about ten minutes, she pulled away and sat on the bed, her shoulders slumping. He joined her and took hold of her left hand, just waiting, letting her get control. When she finally spoke, her voice was exhausted and barely audible.

  “I haven’t slept in days,” she mumbled. The emotional outburst had left her utterly drained. “He’s there every time I close my eyes. And if it’s not him, it’s Crane. In some ways, she’s worse. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. I know how much she hates me, Ryan. I took away everything she had, her whole life, and now I just—”

  “Stop,” he said quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.” He pulled her close as the tears started up again, rubbing her back gently with his good arm. He knew she needed to get it out, but it was hard to listen to her talk as if these people were still alive in some kind of abstract reality, just waiting for her to fall asleep so they could continue tormenting her. He couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever really recover from what had happened. The thought that she might have to live this way forever filled him with a sense of numbing despair, but at the same time, he knew he would never give up on her. He would do everything in his power to help her through it.

  But only if she wanted him to. Once again, he wondered how much she blamed him for what had happened, and while it felt selfish to ask, he had to know. If being there caused her more pain than she was already feeling, he didn’t want to stay.

  She shook her head when he posed the question, but refused to meet his eyes. “I think I hated you for a little while,” she admitted softly. “But not anymore, and I didn’t really mean it to begin with. I know you would have stopped it if you could have.”

  “I should never have left you in the building,” he said bitterly. “If I’d just—”

  “Don’t say that,” she said. “It just worked out badly. You didn’t make me leave the field office with Foster, and you couldn’t have known that Vanderveen was waiting outside the warehouse. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He nodded, not really believing her. He tried to shrug off his feelings, knowing it wasn’t the time for self-pity. This wasn’t about him, after all, and there was something important he needed to ask her. He hesitated, unsure if this was the right time, but it couldn’t wait.

  “Naomi, they’re going to be releasing you in a week or so. I want you to come back to Maine with me. To Cape Elizabeth.”

  She didn’t look up, but he felt her body tense. “Isn’t that where…?”

  “Yes.” Katie Donovan had died in the house on Cape Elizabeth nearly a year earlier. He hadn’t been back since.

  “Can you go there?”

  She didn’t expand on this, but he knew exactly what she was asking.

  “I couldn’t before,” he said. “But I can now, I think. As long as you’re by my side.”

  She looked up, and he went on. “Naomi, I want to take care of you. I want to help you through this, and I want to see you strong again.” He hesitated, then said what he really meant. “But mostly, I just want you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

  What happened next surprised him, though it probably shouldn’t have. She pulled away, got to her feet, and walked back to the window. He stood up, confused.

  “You don’t mean that,” she said, bitter regret creeping into her voice. “You can’t possibly mean that. Not anymore, so don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She spun around angrily, her eyes filling with tears. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  He suddenly understood what she meant, but it left him in a difficult position, as he couldn’t address it directly. There was almost nothing he could say that wouldn’t hurt her feelings in one way or another. After thinking for a moment, he walked over and took her hand. She didn’t try to pull away, but she wouldn’t face him, either. “Naomi, look at me.”

  When she finally lifted her gaze, he didn’t speak. Instead, he simply leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled away a minute later, a small smile appeared on her face. It was tiny and fleeting, but it was all he needed to see: a real smile, completely impulsive, not forced in the least. The reason for the kiss was simple and twofold: first, he had wanted it for weeks, and second, he felt the need to remind her of how beautiful she was. In truth, though, his feelings for her ran far deeper than she could have known, certainly much deeper than physical attraction. She was an incredible woman, and he’d take her any way he could get her. It was that simple.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked in a small voice. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to do it out of guilt or because you feel sorry for me.”

  “Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.” Very carefully, he touched
the bandage on her face, selecting a spot that he knew wouldn’t hurt her. “This will heal, Naomi. It’s just skin-deep.” He moved his hand down and lightly placed it over her heart. “I’m more worried about the wounds in here, but they will heal as well. You’ll see. It just takes time.”

  The tears started again, and he pulled her close, stroking the back of her hair, murmuring all the right words, or at least trying to. He held her until she had cried herself out. Then he eased her over to the bed, sat next to her, and held her hand until her breathing assumed the soft rhythm of sleep. By the time Everett knocked on the door, Naomi was gone to the world. For now, at least, it seemed the dreams had released her from their terrible grasp. Kealey wished he could take comfort from her peaceful repose, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew all too well that the dreams would eventually creep back.

  In the end, they always did.

  CHAPTER 59

  AL ANBAR PROVINCE, IRAQ

  The Palestine Hotel, a squat, square building devoid of both character and charm, sits on the eastern edge of the town of al-Qaim, 200 miles northwest of Baghdad, less than 2 miles east of the border with Syria. In April of 2005, the town was the scene of intense fighting between Sunni insurgents and the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, along with four other towns on the Syrian border. Al-Qaim, however, stood out in that particular group, as it was thought to be the temporary headquarters of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Ultimately, al-Zarqawi eluded capture, only to be killed little more than a year later in a safe house north of Baqubah, but the U.S. forces remained and established Camp al-Qaim on the city outskirts. The camp was now home to the 3rd Battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment, but while the gate was less than a mile from the Palestine Hotel, Ryan Kealey had no intention of visiting. He had everything he needed where he was, and in any event, he didn’t plan on staying long.

  He was sitting in a small courtyard to the rear of the hotel, his green plastic chair resting on two legs against the stucco exterior wall, a paper cup of weak lemonade in his right hand. He tilted his head back to the sky, searching in vain for a breeze. The temperature was 90 degrees Fahrenheit, cold for November, but not after the snow he’d left behind in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Propped up against the wall next to him was a well-worn AK-47 with a single 30-round magazine. The courtyard was enclosed with yellow walls of stone and mortar and topped with concertina wire, all of which had been strung by the building’s occupants. On top of the flat roof was a guard shack surrounded by sandbags, manned by two men with scoped rifles.

  Inside the building, however, lay the real security: an entire 12-man detachment of U.S. Special Forces operators, all of whom belonged to the 5th Group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Six of the men were currently dressed as Iraqi soldiers, as was Kealey. The fatigues were almost identical to those worn by U.S. forces. In fact, the Iraqi Army’s battle dress uniforms were supplied by the Department of Defense. Only the rank structure was different, but that had been factored in, and all the uniforms had been carefully checked for authenticity. Kealey knew it was all relative; despite his dark features and black hair, the only way he would pass as an Arab was at a distance. For today’s work, that would suffice.

  He had arrived in-country the day before, having spent most of the past week in Maine, preparing the house on Cape Elizabeth for Naomi’s arrival. He had found a simple pleasure in shopping for her, doing the small things in advance that might make her life a little bit easier. He’d gone so far as to set up a room entirely for her and her alone, complete with a queen-size bed and comfortable furnishings. While he hoped their relationship would continue to move forward, he knew she needed time and space to herself: time to recuperate and time to move past what had happened to her, as well as what she had done. Harper had asked them both to come back to the Agency, offering Naomi a considerable promotion, but both had refused. Naomi just wasn’t ready to even consider it, and Kealey wanted to devote himself entirely to her recovery. In fact, he wouldn’t be in Iraq at all if it wasn’t for the Agency’s work in breaking Hakim Rudaki, the supposed Bureau informant.

  Once the FBI leadership had washed its hands of Rudaki, the Agency had stepped in to take over. It had been made clear to the naturalized Iranian that failure to cooperate would result in severe consequences, none of which would end with deportation. The meaning of this statement could not have been plainer, and Rudaki hurried to appease his new group of handlers. In the end, his contribution was largely limited to putting the Agency in direct contact with his cousin, the Syrian defense minister.

  Unfortunately, this was where the Agency lost the advantage. There was simply no proof that Reza Bagheri had anything to do with the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister, Nuri al-Maliki. Nor did he appear to have any connections to the Iranian dissidents who’d claimed the life of Dr. Nasir Tabrizi in Paris. When Kealey mentioned the ongoing investigation to Naomi at Windrush, she absently suggested a possible link between Bagheri and the Iranian conglomerate that had purchased Rashid al-Umari’s refinery near Samawah. It had seemed like a good possibility, but even that failed to turn up any evidence of wrongdoing. In short, the Agency couldn’t prove that Bagheri was anything but who he claimed to be, so the man in charge of negotiations, the recently confirmed deputy DCI, had been forced to deal.

  The first goal, of course, was to determine whether Bagheri had useful information to begin with. It soon became clear that he did, and his innocence was quickly cast aside when he requested personal immunity from U.S. reprisal in addition to a large deposit in an offshore account. Harper had agreed readily, eager to put the matter to rest. Once Bagheri had his money and his immunity, he proceeded to tell an amazing story. As it turned out, the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, Tabrizi’s assassination, and the attempted terrorist bombing of New York City had all been masterminded by Izzat al-Douri, the former vice president of Iraq and a man believed dead since 2005. Since the invasion, al-Douri had been forking over large sums of money to select members of the Syrian government in exchange for asylum. His relationship with Will Vanderveen had resulted in the recruitment of Rashid al-Umari in Sadr City, and with al-Umari’s large contribution of working capital to the Sunni insurgency, the plan, long devised, was set into motion.

  The minister also confirmed that he had received five million dollars for his role in putting al-Douri in touch with the Damascus-based offices of Hezbollah, Hamas, and Islamic Jihad, all of which had received healthy infusions of cash in recent weeks. According to Bagheri, the cash was incentive for the various groups to cross the Iraqi-Syrian border in the last two weeks of September, armed with weapons brought into the region by Vanderveen and his European arms broker, whom Bagheri couldn’t identify.

  The one point that Reza Bagheri had stressed above all was his ignorance of the attack in New York. He had been paid to facilitate a meeting, nothing more, nothing less, and he’d had no desire to take part in a terrorist act on U.S. soil, especially an atrocity on the scale of 9/11. Harper wasn’t sure whether this was the truth, but Bagheri had made it sound convincing. Either way, Harper had made his deal, and he intended to keep it. As far as he was concerned, Bagheri’s story would ring true if — and only if — he could produce Izzat al-Douri, currently the most wanted man in Iraq.

  Bagheri was quick to deliver. Within a week, he provided a current location as well as details of past movements. The former Iraqi vice president had moved several times since the start of the operation, from Tartus to Aleppo, Aleppo to Damascus, and from there to a town near al-Hasakar, where he’d inspected an arms cache delivered by Will Vanderveen several months earlier. That same cache — and many like it — had since been seized by U.S. forces sweeping over the border, but al-Douri had already traveled south to avoid capture.

  Once Bagheri had turned over his wealth of knowledge, Harper pointed out that the Syrian government — culpable or not — would have to face some very difficult questions over the near disaster in New York if its relationship with Izzat al-Douri eve
r came to light. Bagheri had agreed. His first offer was to have al-Douri killed and the body produced for the purpose of identification, but that wasn’t good enough for the Agency. For what al-Douri had tried to do, he would have to answer to the United States on a more personal level. And so a plan was set in motion. Once the arrangements were made and confirmed, Harper had sent for Kealey, which explained why he was now sitting outside the Palestine Hotel, on the Syrian border.

  He looked up sharply as the door to his left swung open. Lieutenant Colonel Paul Owen poked his head out and nodded once. The two men had patched up their differences over the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem in Fallujah, and they’d resolved their dispute the way all soldiers did: by buying each other a few rounds. Just finding the drinks the previous night should have been quite a feat in itself. Alcohol consumption was strictly forbidden for U.S. soldiers stationed in Iraq, but while regular soldiers might have had trouble acquiring liquor, SF operators had no such difficulties, just as they had no problem getting Ethan Allen furniture for their safe houses and fully loaded Land Rovers for their daily excursions.

  “Thought I’d find you out here,” Owen said. “We just got a call from our friends in Damascus. Everything’s on schedule, and there’s a bonus.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Al-Douri has someone with him. A guy called al-Tikriti. You know the name?”

  Kealey nodded. Tahir Jalil Habbush al-Tikriti, the former director of the Iraqi Intelligence Service, was currently number sixteen on the U.S. most-wanted list. It didn’t surprise Kealey at all that the two men were traveling together; when the Baathists were still in power, al-Douri’s considerable ties to the IIS had been confirmed on several occasions by high-ranking defectors, as well as in documents passed on by friendly services such as MI6 and the Israeli Mossad.