Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  Raseen emerged from the stand-alone closet, easing the door shut with her foot, a stack of papers and photographs in her hands. She placed the pile on the table and gestured toward a chair.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Vanderveen, please. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  He looked at her for a very long moment. With the use of his name, she was making it clear that al-Tikriti had passed information in both directions. More importantly, though, the discomfort she’d shown in the car had vanished without a trace. She met his even gaze without a hint of anxiety. He was oddly pleased; her new behavior meshed with what he’d been told, but he sensed something more, something that appealed to him on many levels: her true nature. Vanderveen guessed that she was much more capable—and dangerous—than her masters knew.

  “If we’re going to work together,” he said, “we’ll have to get past the formalities.” He smiled at her, wondering just how much she really knew. “Call me Will.”

  She gazed back at him, intractable, unshakable. She didn’t return the smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched, and her eyes flickered with amusement. She knew; he could read it in her little gestures. She knew exactly what he was, and it didn’t bother her in the least.

  “Very well,” she said, acknowledging his offer. “Now please, sit down. We have little time, Will, and there is much to do.”

  They worked for two hours straight. Raseen had taken meticulous notes, but didn’t seem to need them. She relayed the information in a low but confident voice, everything from the target’s personal habits to his schedule and security measures. From his discussion with al-Tikriti in Tartus, Vanderveen knew the information had come from a highly placed source in the Iraqi legislature.

  She also told him about the men who would carry out the actual assassination. It was Vanderveen’s greatest concern, so he listened intently as she skimmed over their backgrounds. They had the requisite nationalities and a shared history of violence, but their operational experience was all but nonexistent, limited to a few shootings and the bombing of a Shiite mosque in Basra. According to Raseen, they were part of the swell of foreign insurgents that had crossed the border into Iraq shortly after the fall of the regime. They had cut their teeth taking potshots at American soldiers on the streets of Kirkuk; for some inexplicable reason, they assumed this gave them the necessary skills to move into freelance work.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Argenteuil. I had many to choose from. Unfortunately, few were qualified.”

  Vanderveen nodded, not in the least surprised. Argenteuil, a crumbling housing estate located south of the city, was a hotbed of antigovernment sentiment. The vast majority of the suburb’s residents were impoverished Muslims, and as such, they harbored considerable disdain for French authority, a near-tangible hostility that extended to the security forces. For Iranians who’d entered the country illegally, Argenteuil would be the perfect place to seek shelter.

  “I assume they agreed to your plan,” he said.

  Raseen nodded abruptly. “Obviously, they didn’t have access to my information, so they were forced to let me pick the time and place. It did not matter to them; money was their only concern, and they’ve been well paid. I supplied the weapons as well. The fourth stop on the schedule offers the best line of sight, which is why I selected it. I hope you agree.”

  He nodded once. The assassination would take place on the Right Bank, a short distance from the Champs-Elysées, just outside Le Meridien Etoile. In twelve hours time, the hotel was scheduled to begin hosting a two-day economic development conference, sponsored by the International Chamber of Commerce. Some of the world’s most prominent economists would be in attendance, as would a number of foreign business leaders and politicians. Representing Iraq’s National Assembly was Dr. Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, a prominent Sunni politician and a man who was respected on both sides of the Sunni-Shia divide. His efforts to unify the Iraqi government had not gone unnoticed by the U.S. president. Unfortunately for the London-trained physician, his work had not gone unnoticed by Izzat al-Douri, either.

  “What time is he scheduled to leave the conference?” Vanderveen asked.

  “Seven o’clock in the evening. He has a meeting right after that at the Palais des Congrès, which is directly across the street. It works very well for us. Based on my surveillance, traffic will be heavy enough at that time to slow the police response, but not so heavy as to prevent our escape. The second vehicle will be parked three minutes away. I’ve driven the route a number of times, and that’s the average: three minutes.”

  “Tell me about the location of the second vehicle.”

  “It will be parked in an underground garage on the rue Guersant. It’s used primarily by the staff of a financial group across the street. They arrive early and leave late, so with any luck, the garage will be empty when we arrive. More importantly, there are no cameras. The woman from the café will leave the second vehicle by herself.”

  Vanderveen shifted uneasily; it was yet another complication. “I assume you trust her.”

  “With my life,” Raseen replied evenly. “She has served us well. I only hope she will not be implicated when it’s over.”

  Vanderveen shook his head absently, thinking it through. What he had to accomplish the next day was the only thing on his mind; the safety of the woman downstairs was the very least of his concerns.

  He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly. “Grab your keys.”

  Raseen looked up from her notes. “Why?”

  “I want to look at the hotel and get a feel for the area. I also want you to show me where the backup car will be parked.” He glanced at his watch. “Then we’re going to take a drive.”

  A small, unreadable furrow appeared between her eyes. “Where are we going?”

  His gaze moved to the black plastic case at the foot of the bed. “We’re going hiking.”

  CHAPTER 18

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The trip from Harper’s home on Q Street to the hotel passed relatively quickly, for which Kealey was grateful. He had considered stopping in for a drink or two, and he knew that he would have been more than welcome. Julie Harper was, after all, as much a friend to him as Jonathan was, but he knew where the conversation would lead, and he was too tired—both emotionally and physically—to deal with the past. After an exhausting ten-hour flight and the raid on Duke Street, he wanted nothing more than to get some sleep.

  The driver dropped him at 15th and Pennsylvania, a stone’s throw from the White House. As he entered the eleven-story building and walked through the newly renovated lobby, Kealey could not help but admire the beautifully appointed interior of the Hotel Washington. It could not have been more different from the surroundings he’d grown accustomed to over the past six months, and it was definitely an improvement.

  Harper had given him a key card in advance, so there was no need to check in. He reached the elevators and punched a button for the fifth floor. As he was waiting, a familiar voice called out from behind.

  He turned to find Naomi Kharmai standing a few feet away. She was watching him with a strange expression, almost as if she didn’t recognize the man standing before her.

  “Hey,” he said, breaking the strained silence. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too,” she replied, crossing the distance between them. “How have you been?”

  “Not bad.”

  For her part, Naomi could see that this wasn’t true. For one thing, he’d lost weight, a good deal of weight. His face was gaunt, the cheekbones razor sharp beneath tanned, taut skin, and his eyes were smudged with dark circles. His hair was far too long, and he looked incredibly tired, as though he hadn’t slept in months. It was a shocking transformation from the man she remembered, but despite the obvious changes, her attention was fixed on a much smaller detail: the fact that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

  Naomi wasn’t sure what to make of the missing ring, but she did think it strange that he
hadn’t gone through with it. She knew all too well how much he cared about the other woman, and Ryan didn’t seem like the type to draw an engagement out over the months and years. From the way he had once described it, it sounded as if they had the perfect relationship, and Naomi couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to change all that.

  The question kept popping up in her mind, but she didn’t have time to consider it further, as he was saying something, returning her inquiry.

  “Oh, I’ve been okay, I guess.” Trying to conceal her initial reaction, she smiled and tilted her head. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  He looked her over quickly. Her glossy black hair was cut short, falling just to her shoulders, and she was wearing a featherweight sweater the color of raspberries, low-slung jeans, and blocky heels. He’d forgotten how young she looked, like a teenaged girl who’d been pushed kicking and screaming into womanhood. It was hard to believe she was in her thirties.

  “Harper told me you were here.”

  “Oh.” She paused uncomfortably, then nodded toward a pair of double doors in carved walnut. “I was going to get a drink. Want to join me?”

  Kealey could barely keep his eyes open, but not wanting to hurt her feelings, he nodded and they went inside. The Two Continents Lobby Restaurant was large and warmly lit, Charlie Parker’s “April in Paris” playing softly over hidden speakers. Despite the relatively early hour, the room was nearly empty. An elderly couple sat at the end of the polished bar, sipping martinis, and a young woman with squinty eyes and silky brown hair was slumped over the counter a few seats down, her body all but consumed by an oversized sweatshirt. Taking in the slightly pathetic scene, Kealey was struck by an absurd desire to laugh; he’d nearly been killed a few hours earlier, and now he was standing in a bar and listening to jazz as though nothing had happened. Strangely enough, it actually felt that way; it was almost as if his mind had already filed away the day’s events, along with the relevant emotions.

  They took their drinks to a corner table and sat across from each other in awkward silence, Naomi intricately involved in the task of picking a loose cotton thread from the sleeve of her sweater.

  “So,” he finally began. “I heard you’re working on al-Umari’s bank accounts.”

  Naomi couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment; they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and the first thing out of his mouth was work related.

  She sighed and said, “That’s right. It’s tough going, though. Most of the banks stand to lose a great deal of business by cooperating, so the first thing I did was place a call to the FATF. They have a way of getting things done, but it still takes some time.”

  Kealey nodded and lifted his glass. The Financial Action Task Force was widely respected for its unique ability to extract information from banks and government agencies alike. Although it consisted of less than a dozen people working out of a Paris apartment, the small group had reliable ties to more than twenty-eight countries, including the United States, a charter member.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “we’ve already come up with something interesting. Rashid al-Umari recently sold off the Muthanna Division of the Southern Iraqi Oil Company, which includes a small refinery just east of Samawah.”

  “Who did he sell it to?”

  “That’s the interesting part.” She leaned forward in her seat, her green eyes sparkling. “How much do you know about real estate transactions in Iraq?”

  His blank expression made the answer clear.

  “Well, to break it down for you, buying real estate in Iraq is very, very difficult,” she said, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Everything is run out of the Real Estate Registration Department, which is part of the Ministry of Justice. When an agreement is reached between buyer and seller, both parties are required to make an appearance at the local RERD office, where their identities are verified, as well as their nationalities. Currently, only Iraqi-born citizens can legally purchase land in Iraq.”

  “To avoid forgery, right? I heard that people were making their own title deeds during the war.”

  “That’s right.” She seemed impressed, and Kealey felt vaguely insulted. He may not have known the specifics, but he did know a little something about the country in which he’d spent the last six months.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “as it turns out, the Muthanna refinery was sold to a conglomerate of twenty-five Iraqi Sunnis, all of whom are active in mosques that have come to our attention for one reason or another, mostly for suspected recruitment of suicide bombers. Six have connections to known terrorist organizations, including Ansar al-Islam, but listen to this: at least three of those men can be directly tied to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

  Kealey was stunned by the reference to the Iranian president. “How the hell was that approved? I mean, if they had to turn up at the RERD—”

  “We don’t think they did,” Naomi said. “It’s starting to look as if some money might have changed hands to, well, expedite the process. You see, the first appearance is just the start of it. If an application for sale is cleared by the RERD, it’s forwarded to the Civil Affairs Department. There, the identities of both parties are double-checked, after which the Monitoring Committee is brought in to confirm both the type and value of the property being sold. Finally, the sale has to be approved by the General Taxes Department, after which the application is filed at the PRER, the Permanent Real Estate Registry. It’s very complicated, and as you said, it never would have been approved if it had gone through the proper channels. A bribe to certain high-level officials would also explain why we didn’t pick up on this earlier…Once the paperwork is filed away, it pretty much disappears.”

  “But we know that the sale was illegal under Iraqi law, right? Doesn’t that negate the transaction?”

  She shook her head and traced the rim of her wineglass with a slender forefinger. “It’s just a suspicion, Ryan. We can’t prove it, but even if we could, we’d have to turn over our findings to the Ministry of Justice. It would be up to them to act on it, and there’s no guarantee when it comes to someone like Rashid al-Umari. I mean, he’s connected to everyone, and he has the money to make things happen.”

  “So in other words, twenty-five Islamic extremists legally purchased an oil refinery in southern Iraq, and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  “Well, we don’t know for a fact that they’re all extremists, but it’s starting to look that way. And there’s something else. According to records, the refinery and the land were valued at more than one hundred forty million dollars, but only sold for half that amount.”

  Kealey thought about that for a second. “I’m guessing al-Umari needed cash in a hurry. Most of his net worth is probably tied up in land and infrastructure.”

  She nodded her agreement. “That would make sense. Anyway, we’re still working with the FATF to track those funds. Of course, the Agency is playing a more direct role in the hunt for the man himself.”

  “I take it you haven’t found a connection between Kassem and al-Umari.”

  “Not yet, but it’s still early.”

  “There’s something there,” Kealey muttered. “I’d stake my life on it.”

  Unfortunately, Harper wasn’t going to allocate resources based on a hunch, which left them with just one lead: Anthony Mason’s laptop. Kealey told her about it, as well as about what had transpired in Alexandria.

  Her eyes were wide when he finished the story. “You’re right. That is a huge coincidence. How did the Bureau suddenly get his location? And why were they so eager to storm the building?”

  “I don’t know,” Kealey answered, “but I plan on finding out.” He drank a little more of his beer and sat quietly for a moment, his gaze drifting around the room. The old couple had left, their empty glasses lined up in a neat row. The bartender appeared to have lost all interest. The young woman in the oversized sweatshirt was working on a huge glass of clear liquid that couldn’t possibly be vodk
a, though she was starting to look a little unsteady….

  He turned back to Kharmai. “Listen, where did they put you?”

  She shrugged. “Nowhere in particular, but I was planning on working out of the CTC tomorrow.”

  “Davidson has the laptop,” Kealey said, referring to the head analyst at the DST. “Do me a favor and check it out, will you? I really need to know if anything’s on there.”

  “Sure. I’ll look at it first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” he said distractedly. He looked at his beer and seemed surprised to find it had hardly been touched. Watching this, Naomi couldn’t help but wonder again what was going on with him. He was the same in so many ways—the same neat movements, the same slightly distant personality that others might mistake for arrogance—but something was definitely wrong. Whatever it was, she didn’t have long to figure it out. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to wait another day for the answer, but he was clearly exhausted and ready to call it a night.

  “So…what else have you been up to?” she asked.

  He seemed to hesitate, then cast her a wary glance. “How much did Harper tell you?”

  “Everything.”

  With her one-word response, some of the tension dropped from his face, as though they had narrowly avoided some dangerous topic. Still, she noticed that he remained on edge, as though he expected her to say something more. Once again, she felt herself wondering….

  “What’s it like over there?”

  “Iraq?” He shrugged in a way that suggested he didn’t want to discuss it. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Do you have to go back?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” Kealey didn’t expand on this, but the truth was that a return to Iraq would be extremely dangerous for him. If the leaders of the insurgency were to learn of his involvement in the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem, they would stop at nothing to get their hands on him. From a broader perspective, things could much worse; if it ever came out that the CIA had been directly involved in the death of a leading Sunni cleric, Kassem would suddenly look like a saint on both sides of the Atlantic.