Andrew Britton Bundle
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Tynes carried on, more sure now of what he was about to say: “The reason I ask, sir…I think he saw what happened to her. When we found him, he was turned over on his stomach. The bullet went in about four-and-a-half inches right of his navel, and the wound was…”
“Was what?” Jonathan didn’t feel good about this particular line of inquiry.
“…leaking a lot faster than it would have been if he’d been lying on his back.” Another long pause. “And he had a cell phone, sir, but he didn’t call anyone. Do you see what I’m saying?”
Harper felt cold, despite the relative warmth of his bedroom. “Oh, no…Jesus.”
The longest pause yet, what seemed like minutes on end. Tynes maintained a respectful silence, waiting for the deputy director to continue.
“I’ll be there in three hours,” he finally said.
Harper put the phone down and looked at his wife.
“What?” she asked.
The storm lingered over Cape Elizabeth for a very long time, raging from Portsmouth to Bangor, although those two cities did not define the outer limits of its wrath. The perimeter of this particular hell was not marked by geographic features or the opinions of overpaid meteorologists.
When it was done, many hours later, there were estimates of more than 130 million dollars in total damages, although some of those figures were padded in anticipation of the forthcoming inquiries from the insurance companies.
As always, it was the oceanfront properties that sustained the worst damage.
There were exceptions, of course. Some structures managed to remain largely unscathed due to the quality of their building materials, or to their particular placement on the erratic coastal landscape. One such home belonged to Richard and Brenda Cregan, a retired couple who had moved north after selling their modestly successful landscaping company in the Boston area four years earlier.
The house was everything they had been looking for: quiet, secluded, comfortable but not lavish at four bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths. It was smaller than most of the other homes in the area, but the vast quantity of land that came with the property more than made up for the lack of square footage. The Cregans were avid outdoorsmen, and the trails leading back through the heavily wooded lot behind their home had factored heavily into their decision to purchase the property.
An argument could be made that the trees were more important than the trails, as they served as a natural buffer between the house and the destructive power of the ocean.
The Cregans loved the trails, though, as they made for an easy quarter-mile walk through the heavy woods that came to an abrupt halt just 15 feet over the lapping surface of the Atlantic. In a mild squall, the waves sometimes made it more than two-thirds of the way up the rocky precipice. The cliffs were considerably closer to sea level than those of Cape Elizabeth, which could be found less than a half mile to the north.
In this particular storm, however, the ocean merged seamlessly with the land, as though the 15-foot barrier had never existed to begin with.
The Cregans were not disturbed by the wind and rain that pummeled their home, or by the sudden drop in temperature that had accompanied the elements; after more than four years on the coast, they had already seen more nor’easters than they could remember. They knew, with the same hard hearts of the natives, that there was little they could do, other than to wait it out and assess the damage in the morning. They also reminded themselves that they were not in any danger from the trees surrounding the house, as most of the towering pines within several hundred feet had been cleared the previous year.
Reassured that the sturdy walls of their home represented safe refuge, they were not concerned when the phone lines went dead and they lost power. It was a commonplace occurrence in such weather, and though they had access to a powerful generator, they chose instead to make an early night of it, and headed off for bed.
They slept lightly, but they did sleep. Their house was surprisingly well insulated from the crashing sound of the storm by heavy brick and mortar, and expensive windows whose stout wooden frames had been well installed by local contractors.
As midnight approached, the trees farthest from their home seemed to grow out of the ocean. The writhing limbs bowed and swayed with the force of the wind and the water pounding against and swirling about their trunks.
The trails also emerged from the gray depths. As they moved farther inland, they began to take on more distinct shapes. Some of them were lined by fence posts, but all were marked to some extent by their previous travelers.
Smaller prints, such as those left by deer and some of the forest’s smaller occupants, were soon washed away by the pounding rain.
Others lasted longer, such as the deep tracks left by the considerable weight of Richard Cregan, and the lighter, distinctive tread of Brenda Cregan’s Timberland hiking boots.
There was a third trail that would have confused them had they seen it. It was a trail marked by uneven footprints of varying depths. Strange dragging marks followed each solid mark in the mud.
They were spaced in unusual increments, and each varied widely in depth and integrity. The differences were obvious, but the combined marks in the earth left no doubt as to the injured man’s destination.
The footprints cut a straight path, leading directly from the tortured swells of the Atlantic to the calm, darkened exterior of the house that Richard and Brenda Cregan shared.
They were unaware as the storm raged on.
They slept lightly, and they did not dream.
THE ASSASSIN
ALSO BY ANDREW BRITTON
The American
THE ASSASSIN
ANDREW BRITTON
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
For my sister, Roxanne,
and my cousins in Camlough, Yasmin Gene and
Leah Madeline Britton
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Kristine Murphy at Wood TV in Grand Rapids, Michigan, for answering all my questions about live reporting (with a detailed written report, no less). To Pete Pagano and everybody at Tir Na Nog Irish Pub in Raleigh, NC, for putting together a great publicity party in March 2006. To the Raleigh-based Irish community at large, for throwing their support behind my work. To D.G. Martin at UNC-TV’s Bookwatch, for including me on his excellent show. To Paddy Gibney, an outstanding musician and a great guy in general, for putting me in touch with all the right people. Be sure to check out his website (www.paddygibneymusic.com).
Special thanks go to Officer Jack Libby of the Raleigh Police Department, for taking time out of his busy schedule to show me the ins and outs of police work. To Brad Thor and Stephen Frey, two extremely talented authors who took time from their own writing to read The American and offer some praise; I’m indebted to both of them. To Carol Fitzgerald and her extraordinary team at www.bookreporter.com, for setting up an outstanding website and supporting my work in general.
As always, thanks to the talented team at Kensington: Steven Zacharius, Laurie Parkin, Joan Schulhafer, Maureen Cuddy, Robin E. Cook, and Meryl Earl in particular, for the amazing work she’s done with foreign rights to The American. Also, sincere thanks to my exceptionally patient, hardworking editor, Audrey LaFehr. It’s a privilege to work with such a dedicated group of individuals.
And to my literary agent, Nancy Coffey, for her unwavering support and encouragement; I couldn’t have done it without you.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
BAGHDAD
CHAPTER 1
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 2
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 3
FALLUJAH
CHAPTER 4
LONDON
CHAPTER 5
FALLUJAH
CHAPTER 6
FALLUJAH
CHAPTER 7
SYRIA
CHAPTER 8
LONDON
CHAPTER 9
&
nbsp; ALEPPO • LONDON
CHAPTER 10
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA • IRAQ
CHAPTER 11
LATTAKIA
CHAPTER 12
WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 13
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 14
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 15
PARIS • ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 16
PARIS • LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 17
PARIS
CHAPTER 18
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 19
DORDOGNE, FRANCE
CHAPTER 20
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 21
FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 22
WASHINGTON, D.C. • PARIS
CHAPTER 23
WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA • PARIS
CHAPTER 24
WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 25
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 26
CALAIS • WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 27
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 28
CALAIS
CHAPTER 29
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 30
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 31
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 32
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 33
LONDON
CHAPTER 34
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 35
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 36
POTSDAM, GERMANY
CHAPTER 37
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 38
BERLIN
CHAPTER 39
BERLIN
CHAPTER 40
BERLIN
CHAPTER 41
BERLIN
CHAPTER 42
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 43
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 44
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 45
WASHINGTON, D.C. • FORT ERIE, CANADA
CHAPTER 46
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CHAPTER 47
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 48
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 49
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 50
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 51
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 52
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 53
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 54
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 55
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 56
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 57
LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 58
LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 59
AL ANBAR PROVINCE, IRAQ
CHAPTER 60
WASHINGTON, D.C.
PROLOGUE
BAGHDAD
Anita Zaid folded her arms as she glared across the cavernous lobby of the Babylon Hotel. Not for the first time, she found herself hoping that the target of her righteous anger would suddenly come down with some sort of exotic fever, something specific to overly glamorous, thunder-stealing network reporters. Better yet, maybe her menacing stare could somehow infect the woman with subconscious doubt, leading to an irrepressible stutter whenever she stepped in front of the cameras. Anita momentarily brightened with this notion but knew it was asking a lot; unfortunately, Penelope Marshall had a reputation for handling the crushing pressure of televised journalism with the skill of a seasoned pro, despite her relative youth.
It should have been perfect. Anita was fortunate enough to have the best source possible, a cousin assigned to the Ministry of Defense. The man’s access was incredible and well worth a generous stipend, which her employer would have gladly paid. In this respect, however, she was lucky again. All her cousin’s assistance cost her was the occasional visit to his modest home on the outskirts of Baghdad, where he was given to bad cooking and good-natured but endless complaints about the Americans, much to the dismay of his long-suffering wife. His latest tip had arrived just forty minutes earlier, and for once, Anita was in the perfect position to act on it, bored senseless and lounging over cold coffee in a Green Zone café with Tim Hoffman, her American cameraman. Twenty minutes and a couple of irritating stops at various checkpoints had seen her out of the zone and into the leafy streets of the Jadriya residential district, the unlikely site of the Babylon Hotel.
As she looked for a hole in the building crowd, Anita brushed her hair back from her face and sighed in mounting frustration. She had worked for London-based Independent Television for five years now and was beginning to wonder how much longer she could put up with the long hours and low pay. Her position as ITV’s Middle East correspondent was a natural fit, as she’d been born and raised in Mosul before immigrating to England at the age of seventeen, where she’d earned a BA with honors in English at Cambridge. Intellectually speaking, she knew she was too young to be burned out—she had just turned thirty-six, after all—but at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel that she might be missing out on better-paying, less-demanding opportunities. The desire to move on to something better had grown stronger in recent months, and days like today definitely didn’t help.
The trouble had started soon after they’d arrived at the hotel. Spotting the bulky black cases in Hoffman’s hands, the manager had stopped them as soon as they’d walked in, insisting that Zaid pay for “a room” if she intended to set up camp in his lobby. What the man really wanted was glaringly obvious and not at all surprising. Anita was very familiar with the way things had worked before the American invasion, when bribes had been the rule rather than the exception. In the months leading up to the war, Saddam’s Information Ministry had strictly controlled the movements and access of every Western journalist, and she had quickly learned to adapt, though not before enduring several heated arguments with the tightfisted accountants at ITV.
Unfortunately, the Babylon’s manager had demanded immediate payment in cash, which Anita didn’t have on hand, and the delay had given somebody time to send word up to Marshall’s room. Penny Marshall was CNN’s latest and brightest star, a twenty-something blonde from New Zealand. After hearing the news, the young woman had somehow managed to hustle downstairs in the space of three minutes, looking like she’d just stepped out of make-up. As it turned out, her presence at the hotel was pure coincidence. Her cameramen—she had two of them, Anita noticed, with a twinge of jealousy—had followed her down a few minutes later, shabbily dressed men with identical beer bellies. On arrival, they’d staked their claim in loud and spectacular fashion, which was exactly what Anita had hoped to avoid. The presence of both camera crews had opened the floodgates, and now every journalist in the city seemed to be aware of the man’s imminent arrival. Zaid had clearly suffered the most; what had started as a respectable shot was now obscured by a rectangular lens hood and the heavily teased hair of the regional correspondent for CBS News.
“Anita, we’ve got to find something better,” Hoffman finally said, poking his bearded face out from behind his camera. “From this position, I’ll have him on-screen for less than five seconds, and that’s a best-case scenario. The interview’s out, you know. He won’t hear one word over this bloody lot.”
She turned away, rolling her eyes in exasperation. Despite having been born and raised in New Hampshire, Hoffman had been adopting British speech patterns for as long as she’d known him. At first, she had shrugged it off, thinking it was a joke, but then, less than two weeks into their partnership, she’d been disheartened to learn just how seriously he took his British “heritage.” Anita had coached him against the annoying habit on several occasions, but this time she let it slide and began weighing her options, tryi
ng to visualize the shot from various locations. The second-floor balcony was no good; from where she was standing, she could see that the angle was all wrong, and besides, there seemed to be a number of security men blocking the stairs. At the same time, pulling back wouldn’t help in the least; in fact, it would put her on the outskirts, where her separation from the crowd, ironically, would be too great. Viewers wanted a sense of excitement, a sense of being in the thick of things, but they also wanted exclusive material. A good compromise was nearly impossible to find, and Hoffman wasn’t helping at all.
“You know, I’d be surprised if the man even shows up,” he remarked in a languid drawl. “Once he finds out the press is here, he’ll probably stay in the zone. Besides, if he was coming, he would have been here an hour ago.”
“He’ll come,” Anita said, trying to push down her own rising doubts. Although the Sunni-dominated insurgency had been surprisingly quiet of late, the number of attacks had been increasing steadily since 2003, rising at a rate of approximately 14 percent per year. In accordance with the growing threat, Baghdad’s major hotels—especially those that catered primarily to Westerners—had substantially enhanced their collective security measures, but the danger was still very real. “This place is like a fortress, Tim. Didn’t you see the gates outside? Besides, the man has bodyguards, police escorts…He’ll come. You’ll see.”