Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “I hear you, but—”

  “I know exactly how it would have played out, Bob. The dollars would have skyrocketed, but we wouldn’t have seen a dime. Everything would have gone to Homeland Security or the NCTC, and rightfully so. The oversight committees would have been screaming for blood.” And you would have been out of a job, Harper didn’t add.

  He paused and looked away, trying to rein in his emotions. “Kealey is the only reason we managed to avoid all of that. He didn’t ask for a damn thing in return, except for a full-time place in the Agency. I’m not inclined to take that away from him because of a minor spat with the FBI, and I don’t give a shit about what they’re saying on al-Jazeera. The man deserves our support.”

  “I don’t think you can discount the Bureau’s position that easily,” Ford began heatedly. “They have a right to—”

  “No,” Andrews said, cutting her off. “John’s right on this.” Realizing she was on the losing end of this argument, Ford sat back in her chair and glared at her subordinate.

  “Kealey does deserve our support,” the DCI continued. “Still, I think you know that something’s wrong with him, John. He wanted to stay busy after what happened last year. He wanted back in, and I signed off on it. Against my better judgment, I might add. Your recommendation had a lot to do with that.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “That’s debatable, but irrelevant. In any case, it boils down to a simple question. Is he operating at the necessary level?”

  The DCI paused to let the rhetorical question sink in. Somewhere along the line, Harper reflected, Andrews had mastered the art of making his words—however inflammatory—seem reasonable. “You’ve known him a long time, John. What is it now? Seven years? Eight? I have a hard time believing he could have lasted that long in his current state.”

  Harper pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded reluctantly, deciding it was best to defuse the situation. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Temporarily satisfied, Andrews gave a little nod and exhaled slowly, as though relieved.

  “And the laptop?” Harper asked.

  Andrews waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll talk to Davidson myself to get the ball rolling, but I’d be surprised if it comes to anything. More importantly, I’d be very reluctant to let Kealey take the lead on any new information. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  The DCI lifted his heavy frame out of the chair, ending the meeting with an abrupt handshake. Ford didn’t move from her seat. There was no Glenlivet on offer this time, Harper noted wryly as he stepped toward the door, and he definitely could have used the drink.

  “She’s got it in for you in a big way.”

  Kealey had used the time at Headquarters to shower and find some clean clothes. He’d also removed his thick beard. The result shaved years off his appearance, though it also revealed his hollowed-out cheeks, a clear indication of the weight he’d lost in recent months. The Suburban they were riding in was currently mired in traffic, stuck on the Key Bridge. Harper had used the time to fill him in on what had gone down at the meeting.

  “I don’t get it with this woman,” Kealey replied, a hint of anger coming through. “Where is she coming from?”

  Harper shrugged. “Ford was confirmed while you were in the field. Her connections got her the job, but she’s an outsider. She has this idea that the operations directorate is slowly but steadily destroying the whole organization. She pounces on our every mistake. Unfortunately, now she seems to be focusing on you.”

  “For what? I’ve never even met her, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Come on, Ryan. You can only milk your previous successes for so long.” Harper paused and looked away. The words felt wrong, but they would help Kealey in the end. That was how he rationalized it; that was how he justified his callous tone. “That crap you pulled in Fallujah was completely against protocol, and what you did in Alexandria won’t help. By straying outside the lines, you’re just giving her what she needs to bring you down.”

  The younger man flared. “I had to do something, John. If I hadn’t intervened, we would have lost our only lead. Hell, we probably still did. Doesn’t it all seem a little too convenient for you?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it does. But that won’t work as an excuse if the Bureau decides to make it an issue.”

  Kealey fell silent, knowing that the other man was right. He didn’t bring up the thing that bothered him most: the look he’d seen on Mason’s face just before Foster’s rounds punched into his chest. It had been a look of pure recognition, Kealey thought, but if he was right, it brought up an interesting question: who had Mason been looking at? If Foster really was nothing more than a gopher—and he was too young to be anything else—then it had to be Crane.

  It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Perhaps she’d been involved in one of his prior arrests. Maybe Kealey had mis-interpreted the look altogether. Still, it bothered him, as did the timing of the raid itself.

  The traffic had started to clear. The driver merged onto US-29 North, then took a slight right onto K Street. From there, it was just a few minutes to Harper’s brownstone on Q Street, just off Dupont Circle. As the heavy truck pulled up to the curb, Harper gave instructions to his driver, pushed open the door, and stepped out. Then he turned back to Kealey. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Talk to Kharmai if you find time. And Ryan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Try to keep your head down, okay? For one night, at least.”

  Rachel Ford sat behind her rosewood desk, head down. Her elbows were propped on the polished surface, her fingers, with their short, functional nails, doing little spirals at her temples. The room was dark except for the weak light of a freestanding lamp in the corner. She had just taken a double dose of Maxalt and was anxiously waiting for the medication to kick in; hopefully, it would relieve what felt like the first pounding beats of an earth-shattering migraine. She was tired and annoyed, and sorry that she, of all people, appeared to be the only person on the seventh floor with any balls whatsoever. The director had caved under Harper’s intense defense of his protégé. She knew she should have expected it, but she was furious nonetheless. She winced as her head thumped, the pain drilling up from the base of her neck, and wondered what else she could do to convince Andrews that Ryan Kealey was nothing more than a hindrance to the Agency.

  There was a time when she wouldn’t have interfered. During her two terms as the ranking member on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, Ford, along with twenty of her peers, had been responsible for overseeing seventeen of the nation’s most visible entities, including the Departments of State and Defense, the National Security Agency, and, of course, the CIA. During her tenure, she had rarely been given the entire picture by the officials who were called to testify before her panel. She had pushed on occasion, when she thought it was necessary, but for the most part, she had cut those officials a great deal of slack. Because of her prominent position on the committee, her leniency had set the tone for many of those proceedings.

  The reason for her latitude was simple; first and foremost, Rachel Ford considered herself to be a patriot, and as such, she regarded the various U.S. intelligence agencies as the nation’s first line of defense. Admittedly, it put her in an awkward position; personally, she wanted to give them the leeway needed to get the job done, but at the same time, she was responsible for setting and enforcing limits on what those agencies could and could not do. It was an unusual dilemma, but somehow, she had managed to balance her conflicting interests.

  In recent months, however, her views had changed dramatically. Since her nomination to the second-highest post in the CIA, she had witnessed, with growing concern, the apathy and ineptitude of the Agency’s rank and file. She could almost understand the apathy; the CIA was by and large a bureaucracy, after all. On the lowest rungs of the ladder, even a certain degree of ineptitude was forgivable. What she could not abide was the astonishing lack of operational
discipline in places like Iraq and Afghanistan.

  In an effort to bring herself up to speed, she had pored over any document she could find that related to the Special Activities Division. Everything she read was a revelation; she had almost no previous knowledge of the group’s “activities.” During the course of her research, she was shocked to learn just how many hastily trained paramilitary specialists were given access to huge sums of government money, then turned loose in the field with little or no oversight. When these so-called “specialists” screwed up, which they seemed to do on a fairly regular basis, the Agency suffered on every level. Relations with other nations were frequently damaged, sometimes beyond repair, and while these incidents were never good, they were especially damning when it came time to submit the yearly secret budget to Congress. It was why she had suggested the removal of Arshad Kassem: not to protect Ryan Kealey, but rather, to insulate the Agency itself from further harm.

  Kealey. Ford lowered her arms to the desk and flipped open the file, an involuntary scowl spreading over her face. Despite her misgivings, she had to admit that the man’s record was remarkable. He had separated from the army as a major in 2001, but not before being awarded a Bronze Star, then repeating the feat twice more. He had also earned a pair of Purple Hearts, the Legion of Merit with one Oak Leaf Cluster, and a Distinguished Service Cross, one of the highest commendations a soldier could receive. What really caught her attention, however, were the awards conferred by the CIA. Kealey had been awarded the Intelligence Star in a secret ceremony three years earlier, but even that was secondary. For his subsequent role in preventing the assassination of President David Brenneman, he had received the Distinguished Intelligence Cross—the Agency’s most prestigious and coveted award.

  He was educated, as well. He’d done his undergraduate work at the University of Chicago before earning an MBA from Duke in 1994. By that time, he was already a first lieutenant fresh out of Special Forces Assessment and Selection. Kealey’s extensive academic credentials did not surprise her in the least; she knew that many officers in the U.S. military held advanced degrees in their respective fields. It was a moot point, though, because Kealey was no longer a soldier. Now he was just an undisciplined, uncontrollable field operative. The directorate of operations was full of them. Nearly all of the Agency’s public disasters could be attributed to the DO, and for this, she held Jonathan Harper personally responsible.

  Ford let out a sharp breath through pursed lips and closed the file. The meeting had not gone as expected. She had been whispering in the director’s ear ever since she’d learned of Kealey’s involvement in the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem, but she had yet to completely sway his opinion. Apparently, Andrews thought quite highly of the young operative. Ford would get rid of them all if she could, Jonathan Harper being first on her list. To her way of thinking, his entire directorate was a thing of the past. Men on the ground were useful to a point, but the future lay in technology, satellite reconnaissance, and signal intercepts. Harper, in particular, was nothing more than a relic, an antiquated symbol of everything the Agency used to be. Unfortunately, he was also well connected. It would be nearly impossible to unseat him, but Ford was willing to try. In fact, she was almost relishing the challenge.

  Kealey was another matter entirely. Thinking about it, she suddenly realized that she might be working too hard. Given time, it was very possible that he’d do something to ensure his own demise, something so unforgivable that not even his record could save him. Even as she acknowledged this possibility, her impatience carried more weight than her logic. If the man didn’t self-destruct soon, Ford decided she would have to step things up a notch. It wouldn’t be hard; Kealey was well beneath her on the food chain, and that, she knew, made all the difference.

  As she left her office and slid her key into the director’s elevator, two concurrent thoughts cut into her pain-addled mind. Things are going to change around here.

  And I’m going to change them.

  CHAPTER 17

  PARIS

  The woman’s vehicle was a silver Mercedes ML500, parked 100 meters behind his own, facing north. Vanderveen looked for a rental sticker as they approached from the rear and, not seeing one, decided that the SUV had probably been provided by her local contacts. It could also be hers, in which case she was probably based out of the city. Paris was as good a place as any to hide, he thought as he moved to the passenger-side door. The city was home to a rapidly expanding Muslim population, as was the rest of Western Europe, where the number of Arab Muslims had more than doubled over the past two decades. The person sitting next to him would blend right in.

  She introduced herself as soon as they pulled into traffic, apparently unaware that he’d already been given the basics. Yasmin Raseen was about forty, not that it was easy to tell; only the fine lines around her eyes and the slight crease on either side of her strong nose prevented her from passing as a much younger woman. Her mouth was wide and perfectly shaped, and her face was slightly squared off, the full cheek-bones framed by an unruly mass of black-brown hair. She was perhaps five feet four, judging from the way she’d stood next to the car, and about 130 pounds, her healthy curves concealed by snug slacks and a loose-fitting blouse.

  She could feel his attention—that much was obvious. Her discomfort could be seen in her iron grip on the steering wheel and the way her dark eyes flickered between him and the road, as well as the rearview mirror. He made no attempt to avert his gaze, pleased to see that his presence disturbed her. Perhaps Raseen had been told a thing or two about him as well, but he was annoyed with himself, and that was why he didn’t mind watching her squirm. She had easily out-maneuvered him at the café, and that had never happened before. Mindful of the lack of concealment in the area, he’d gone out of the way to acquire the taxi for the afternoon. He might have been just another driver on his afternoon break, and yet she’d seen right through the ruse.

  Her appearance could be a problem; he could see that much already. She was beautiful—far too alluring for this line of work. Her skin was surprisingly pale, not much darker than the average Westerner’s summer tan, and bore no distinguishing marks that he could see. But that didn’t matter, because all it would take was one picture, one current photograph sent out through Interpol, and her face would be fixed in the mind of every male law-enforcement officer in the world. He was reminded of what he’d been told in Tartus. Before he’d left, Tahir al-Tikriti had filled him in on Raseen’s background—not too much, just a tease, just enough to establish her value. What had really caught Vanderveen’s attention, however, was the reverence and care with which the intelligence chief had chosen his words.

  She is known to the West. Not her name, of course, and certainly not her face, but her existence is not a secret. It is a rare thing, you understand, to encounter a woman capable of such terrible things. A woman like this defies the cultural norms in most countries, but especially in the United States. As you well know, the Americans are taught their roles from birth, inundated with the idea of what a woman should be. I can tell you now, Yasmin Raseen fits very few of their criteria. For Raseen, killing is a simple task, as natural as drawing breath. In this respect, she is far ahead of our time. Ahead of yours, even…

  Her resume was short but very encouraging. In particular, her connections to the Parisian underground had proved extremely useful. According to the former head of the IIS, she’d been based in the city for the past several weeks, arranging the details. If she’d done even half of what al-Tikriti had promised, he would have to find a way to use her in New York, assuming the meet went forward. He would know in the next few days, but there was plenty to do in that time frame.

  After thirty minutes of seemingly random turns, the woman abruptly pulled in to the curb, expertly nestling the small SUV between a Honda motorcycle and a black Citroën. She got out first and motioned with a curled forefinger for Vanderveen to follow, gliding through the afternoon crowds with practiced ease, making her way towar
d a small boulangerie. They’d done a complete circle, he saw; they were back in the 8th Arrondissement, not far from where he’d left the Renault.

  The bakery was cramped, too warm after the frigid street, the air laced with the scents of sugar and yeast. Vanderveen was starting to wonder what they were doing there when he caught sight of the woman behind the counter. Dark hair, white cardigan…the same woman he’d seen at the café.

  Raseen turned and followed his gaze, then smiled. “She’s a friend,” she whispered in heavily accented French. “Not to me, exactly. A friend to us.”

  Vanderveen nodded and followed her up a narrow flight of wooden stairs, the sense of unease growing worse. He was completely out of his element here, despite his intricate knowledge of the city and the language. He didn’t know the people he was dealing with, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage. They passed through an open door, the sounds of the busy shop fading as they climbed yet another staircase, emerging on the third floor.

  “Close the door,” Raseen commanded. He obliged as she walked over to shut the sole window, blocking out the steady rumble of afternoon traffic on the rue Tronchet. She turned and crossed to an intricately carved armoire. Opening the heavy oak door, she ducked down and leaned into the cavernous opening, her body disappearing from the waist up.

  As she gathered her materials, Vanderveen looked around. It was set up as a loft-style apartment, a chipped Formica table occupying the center, cabinets and a sink against the west wall, a white wooden door leading into a tiny bathroom. The bed was away from the window, tucked against the back of the armoire. Stepping into the kitchen, he ran his hand over the counter, leaving marks in the dust. He opened the fridge and saw that it contained only the necessities. It was clear that the room was used infrequently, which was a good thing. Different faces tramping through every week would be more likely to raise suspicion than a new face every few months.