“Right.” When their eyes met, she offered a neutral smile instead of a broad grin. She had already gotten her way, and she knew rubbing it in wouldn’t help. “Well, there’s a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.”
The Hotel Victoria, located just off the Quai du Commerce, was a charmless, two-story structure of grey stone situated in the heart of Calais. The fourteen-room hotel was marked only by two small, flickering signs in bright blue and orange; otherwise, it could have been any other building on the block, and no better for it.
It was this very anonymity that had pulled Vanderveen in when they arrived in town late that evening, nearly four hours after Tabrizi’s death in Paris. They were met at the door by a bleary-eyed woman in her late fifties, who managed to greet them graciously, despite the late hour. They presented their passports and signed the registry as she searched for a free room. Handing over the keys, she smiled again and sent them up to the second floor.
The accommodations were adequate at best; the carpet was frayed, the furnishings scratched from years of use and lack of polish. The tile in the bathroom was cracked and stained, the wallpaper above the sink speckled with some unknown substance. The smell of antiseptic was overpowering. None of it mattered to Vanderveen; he had spent months, even years on end in places far worse. After pulling the curtains closed, he went into the bathroom and stripped down, then showered quickly. When he emerged ten minutes later, the room was dark, but he could see Raseen’s still form on the bed. She was still fully clothed, curled into a tight ball on top of the covers, her right side rising and falling with each shallow breath. He studied her for a minute, dispassionately picking out what was visible in the low light: the line of her square jaw, the gentle curve of her right shoulder, and the slope of her slender neck, which led up to a tangled nest of black-brown hair.
Watching her, he was reminded of her demonstration in the field near Dordogne, as well as the remarkable poise she had shown outside the hotel in Paris. She had witnessed and participated in a number of atrocities over the past few days, and yet she slept without stirring, her face serene in a sliver of moonlight. He thought this trait—the ability to sleep soundly after what she had seen and done—said more about her nature than any words he had been offered in Tartus. In this respect, he knew, they were much the same. With this realization, this acknowledgment, he felt something he had not felt in many years: affection for another human being. It was a strange, unnerving sensation, and for a moment, it left him confused and vaguely annoyed.
Shrugging off the momentary lapse, he closed the drapes with a swift tug, the clean white light blinking out in an instant; then he crossed to the door and slipped out quietly. He went down the narrow, musty flight of stairs and stepped into the street a moment later. Then he turned left and began walking south on the rue de Madrid.
Calais, a town of approximately 80,000, is located on the northern coast of France, overlooking the choppy gray waters of the English Channel. On a clear day, the white chalk cliffs of Dover can be seen from the shore with the naked eye; closer still is the fleet of ferries and commercial vessels that make the daily crossing. Although it has its charms, 90 percent of the town’s infrastructure was destroyed during World War II. As a result, there is little history to be found in the narrow streets of Calais, and even fewer architectural achievements. In fact, Calais is nothing more than a stopping point for most of the tourists entering France, as evidenced by the vast array of transportation options at hand. Vanderveen knew the Eurotunnel Terminal was located just southwest of the town, and there were a number of bus stations scattered about in convenient locations. Those facilities would become useful soon enough, but for now, Calais would suffice. It was as good a place as any to drop off the radar for a few days before moving again.
The pale quarter-moon slid behind a bank of clouds as he crossed the rue Mollien, making his way past the ornate redbrick façade of the train station. He entered the Parc Saint-Pierre a few minutes later, the Town Hall lit up to his left. The building’s 75-foot belfry towered over the trees and Auguste Rodin’s famous bronze, The Burghers of Calais.
Vanderveen stopped and appraised the work. He was well aware of its history. Completed in 1888, the sculpture was commissioned to commemorate an event that occurred during the Hundred Years’ War. According to documents dating from that period, the burghers were recognized as the city’s leaders, and, as such, were responsible for the defense of Calais. When Edward III laid siege to the city in 1347, Phillip VI of France commanded them to hold out indefinitely. When support failed to arrive, however, they were eventually forced to surrender, trading their lives and the keys to the city in exchange for the lives of the city’s inhabitants. Although the burghers were eventually spared by the English, it was this image of them—leaving the gates of Calais in utter defeat, each with a noose tied round his neck—that Rodin had immortalized in bronze more than a hundred years earlier.
Vanderveen stood before the figures for several minutes, listening intently, then walked in a wide circle to view the sculpture from a number of angles. While his interest in the piece was genuine—there was something about those pained expressions that he found intensely appealing—he was far more concerned with what was happening across the boulevard Jacquard. He’d passed the Church of Notre Dame nearly fifteen minutes earlier, and ever since then he’d felt uneasy. It was nothing he could see, which meant it was almost certainly his imagination, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
The footpath wound its way through the park, bordered on both sides by misshapen trees, black silhouettes in the low ambient light. Vanderveen crossed the boulevard and continued on, making his way past a wartime telephone exchange. At some point, the unremarkable concrete structure had been converted to a museum; twin flagpoles stood outside the single entrance, the trees giving way to rows of dark green hedges. A sudden noise to his left caught his attention: the bray of a young man’s drunken laughter, followed immediately by a burst of profanity and a shouted rebuke.
Vanderveen felt a sudden spark of concern. He knew about the darker side of Calais, the side that could not be found in any guidebook, no matter how honest the author. Because of its proximity to England, the city was a gathering place for asylum seekers from all over the Near and Middle East, including some of the globe’s most troublesome regions: Sudan, Afghanistan, and the Palestinian territories. The hopeful masses had once congregated in the sweeping square next to the Parc Richelieu but moved around constantly to avoid the gendarmes, the local police. Vanderveen knew that by and large, the locals thought of these “asylum seekers” as nothing more than human waste, criminals forced from their native lands. Ironically, most of the criminal activity that stemmed from the immigrants’ presence was propagated by French nationals, blue-collar men who were quick to exhibit their frustration over the ongoing problem.
In his current persona, Vanderveen could hardly be mistaken for one of the refugees, but that was a small comfort. Ethnicity aside, he had no desire to confront a nationalistic dockworker on the tail end of a daylong drinking binge. Pushing his right hand into his jacket pocket, he felt for the handle of the 4-inch Benchmade knife he was carrying. He had no doubt that he could extricate himself from any situation, but he would prefer to stay on in Calais until it was time to move. An unexpected confrontation could quickly ruin his plans, especially if he was forced to leave a body behind.
By skirting the shadows, it was easy enough to avoid the source of the laughter, and soon after leaving the park, he found what he was looking for on the rue Aristide Briand. He’d passed half a dozen public telephones since leaving the hotel, but he’d wanted to walk, craving the exercise after the lengthy drive north from Paris. It had little to do with spotting surveillance; if they were being watched, the authorities would have moved in by now, but the tingling sensation at the back of his neck was only getting worse. Still, he had to make the call. He’d put it off for too long already.
&nb
sp; He’d purchased a French Telecom smart card shortly after arriving in Paris. Slipping it into the card reader, he punched in a thirteen-digit number and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Yes?”
“It’s Taylor,” Vanderveen said, using the prearranged code. “What do you have for me?”
When the response came, the soft, familiar voice was tight with irritation and concern. “I was expecting your call yesterday. There’s a problem. The meeting did not go as planned.”
“Explain.”
“We had a couple of uninvited guests show up in Alexandria. They were both from the Agency, and one of them managed to get hold of our friend’s laptop after he died. There was some politics involved—some sparring on the top floors—but we should have it back in a matter of hours. Unfortunately, we don’t know what’s on it. The man in the north may be compromised.”
Rühmann. Vanderveen’s grip on the phone was firm, but his words were calm and measured. “When will you know for sure?”
A slight hesitation, then, “Twenty-four hours, max.”
“That’s too long. He has to go if they’re onto him.”
“He has to go either way. You need to understand, there is no way I can bury this…If the hard drive contains usable information, the Bureau will find it and act on it. I can only control so much.”
“I understand,” was Vanderveen’s terse reply. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Has the package changed hands?”
“Not yet. There are a few details to work out, but I’ll finish the transaction soon enough.”
“When exactly?”
The brief, uneasy silence that followed the question was answer enough, but Vanderveen voiced the words anyway. “That is not your concern. Just keep me updated. I need to know what’s on the computer. Mason may have known more than we thought.”
“Fine. Is there anything else?”
He was about to respond in the negative, but something sparked in the back of his mind. “The men from the Agency…I don’t suppose you caught their names?”
“The senior man called himself Jonathan Harper. He showed up at the NCTC earlier in the day, looking for information. His ID said he was with the Office of General Counsel, but something about it didn’t seem right to me. For one thing, I’ve never heard of an Agency lawyer showing up at a Bureau raid. There was no reason for an OGC rep to be there.”
Vanderveen considered for a moment, then said, “I want to know more about him. Do you have access to that kind of information? It could prove useful.”
“Possibly.”
“Good. Do what you can. What about the subordinate? He’s the one who took the laptop, right?”
“Yes. His name is Kealey, Ryan Kealey.”
Vanderveen closed his eyes and replaced the receiver. He remained in that position for nearly a full minute, then opened his eyes slowly and lifted the phone once more. This time, the number he dialed put him through to a very different part of the world.
When the receiver was picked up on the other end, he simply said, “It’s me. I’m afraid we may have a small problem.”
CHAPTER 28
CALAIS
After concluding the second call, Vanderveen left the glass booth and walked back toward the path leading into the park. Sounds emerged from a brightly lit restaurant across the avenue: the tinkle of a woman’s laughter, the clinking of glasses, and dozens of meshed conversations in a multitude of languages. The rich smells wafting out of the open doors served as a stabbing reminder that he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, but for the most part, his mind was consumed by what he had just learned.
Kealey. Vanderveen shook his head in delayed disbelief. At the same time, he wondered why he was so surprised. The man’s involvement was all but inevitable; he was, after all, one of the Agency’s most experienced field men, particularly when it came to the Middle East. Still, the unfortunate development raised uncomfortable doubts, forcing him to question some of his earlier choices. It seemed as though the shot he had taken on that sweltering Syrian hilltop eight years earlier had haunted him ever since. Rightly, Ryan Kealey should have died that day. Vanderveen could understand the need for revenge after that kind of betrayal, but the truth was that the man’s motivations ran far beyond the near-fatal wound he had suffered in Syria, far beyond the loss of his fellow soldiers. With this personal admission, Vanderveen once again found himself wondering: Had killing the woman in Maine been a mistake?
Yes, said the insistent voice inside, the same voice that had guided him since adolescence. He had been asking himself that specific question for months on end, and now he had his answer. It was a mistake, an act carried out in a moment of black rage. Better to have killed the man and been done with it. By sparing Kealey and taking his woman instead, Vanderveen had given him all the motivation he would ever need to track her killer to the end of the earth.
Despite the recriminations, despite the uncomfortable examination of his past decisions, Vanderveen was comforted by one truth he had learned over the years, which was this: opportunities are rarely lost, only delayed. The trick lay in recognizing a second chance when it presented itself, and it went both ways. After all, fate had given Ryan Kealey his fair share of opportunities, all of which he had squandered. He had missed his target in Syria after losing nearly half of his detachment to Vanderveen’s aimed fire, and he’d failed to finish the job on that frigid night in Maine nearly one year earlier, counting instead on nature’s fury to finish the work he had started.
Now the tables were turned once more, and this time, Vanderveen knew he could not fail. In fact, he suddenly realized there might be an opportunity here, a chance to remedy two problems at once. There was no doubt in his mind that Kealey would do everything in his power to track down Thomas Rühmann. In this respect, Vanderveen had the advantage, as he already knew exactly where the Austrian arms broker was holed up. All he had to do was get there first. He would also need the proper materials.
A frown crossed his face with this realization. The second person he’d called had promised to fill Vanderveen’s order, but he was reluctant to place his faith in the distant voice. His own contacts, while abundant in the Middle East, were extremely limited in Western Europe. On the other hand, if the insurgency’s agent in England failed to come through, there was a chance—a good chance, even—that Yasmin Raseen could get hold of the right people. According to al-Tikriti’s veiled speech, she had operated extensively on European soil, a fact she had already demonstrated with consummate skill during their time in France.
As Vanderveen made his way through the park, the lights of the belfry drawing ever closer, he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a woman’s scream. The indignant cry was cut off in the middle, as though a hand had suddenly clamped over an open mouth. In the intense silence that followed, a burst of drunken laughter cut through the trees, followed immediately by a sound he could not quite place, a shuffling, grunting noise, which carried clearly in the brisk night air.
He did not hesitate; his stride was unbroken. In fact, he quickened his pace, hoping to get clear of the park before the police were alerted. The station was nearby, he knew, on the eastern side of the Town Hall. Whatever was happening—a rape, a robbery—was not his concern. His continued freedom precluded his intervention in such matters, but it was his utter indifference that sealed the decision to walk away, which was made unconsciously. The next sound he heard, however, caused him to freeze in his tracks and breathe a soft curse.
The woman had cried out again, apparently breaking free of the hand that silenced her. This time, the scream was accompanied by a flurry of pointed obscenities, which were not uttered in French, but in Arabic.
The park beyond the footpath was reasonably open, which worked both for and against him. The grass beneath his feet was close clipped, damp from the earlier rain, and the trees and hedges were neatly pruned, giving him a clear view of what lay ahead, or at least as much as the diffused light would reveal. Fortuna
tely, the vegetation surrounding the war museum was less well kept, as though the men and women who maintained the exhibits had no time or concern for the aesthetics of the building itself.
It was from that copse of tangled trees that the woman’s scream had originated, and now, drawing closer, he heard yet another muffled cry. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman was Yasmin Raseen; what he didn’t understand was why she had followed him. He was struck by a sudden flash of anger; he had watched his trail carefully, and yet she’d somehow managed to track him for nearly an hour without giving herself away. She had operated in this capacity for much longer than he had, he knew, but knowing her capabilities didn’t slow the rising anger, which threatened to overwhelm him.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he forced himself to clear his mind and focus on the approach. He moved in a crouch, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Judging by the drunken sound of the laughter he’d heard a moment ago, Raseen’s assailants were in no state to offer a serious challenge. For this reason, Vanderveen left the knife in his pocket. Whatever happened next, he was determined to keep things simple, and that meant leaving them alive if at all possible.
There. The trees gave way, and he took in the scene with a practiced eye: two bodies were intertwined, grappling on the ground, the larger figure on top. There was a second shape several feet to the right, a still form on a bed of crushed leaves. The figure was lying on its back, not moving, arms outstretched.
For a split second, he considered leaving her. It would be better if he did not have to explain her death, but some things couldn’t be helped. On the other hand, Vanderveen realized that she could be carrying some kind of identification. If so, she would quickly be traced back to the hotel on the rue de Madrid. Once the police learned that Raseen had not checked in alone, they would seek out her traveling companion for questioning. Once the companion failed to materialize, he would become the prime suspect. To complicate matters, the woman at the desk still had his passport, which he’d been asked to leave when they checked in. The passport contained a false name, and his appearance was subtly altered in the photograph, but it was still evidence. He had no desire to leave it behind.
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