Finally, a short phrase drifted up to the balcony. It carried a note of finality, but the words made no sense to him. Kealey was fluent in four languages, but German, unfortunately, was not among them. The door slammed shut a moment later, and everything was quiet again.
As carefully as possible, he slid over the iron and looked down to the chancery grounds. The security guard was nowhere in sight. Plugging the earpiece back into the radio, he reached Kharmai and repeated the phrase he had heard to the best of his ability. When he was done, there were a few seconds of silence while she translated.
“I think you heard him correctly,” she said. “He told the other guard there was no sign of tampering. They think one of the boards went bad, that it was just a nuisance alarm. It sounds like you’re in the clear.”
“Good. I’ll let you know once I’m inside the building.”
“You remember the code?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Less than a minute later, Kealey was back on the ground, standing in front of the service door. He had changed his shoes to avoid trailing mud through the building. He had also stripped off the Petzl harness, replacing it with a waist holster containing his Beretta 9mm. There was no way he could use the gun, but he was not used to working without it. Just having it on him made him feel better about the whole scenario. The climbing rope was back in the pack, along with the rest of his equipment. He’d taken care of the cameras, but the pressure was still on. It should have been easier. Thanks to the ORACLE source, they had the computer passwords, cipher lock combinations, alarm codes—even the names of the guards on duty. Everything but the key to this door.
He examined the lock carefully. It was just as the file promised, a Schlage pin tumbler housed within a Securitron dual alarm/door unit. He was not surprised to see a small red light protruding from the steel plate, which indicated the system was armed. This was perhaps the riskiest part, as the cylinder had to be picked twice: once, to deactivate the alarm, and again to unlock the solenoid bolt. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing how the switches were wired. He might turn the cylinder clockwise to unlock the door and end up triggering the alarm. Normally, he would just remove the cover to get a look at the wiring, but in this case, the plate was held in place by tamper-proof screws. He had no choice but to pick the lock and hope for the best. The odds of getting it right the first time were fifty-fifty, which didn’t inspire a great deal of confidence.
The red filter was already in place, covering the lens of the Maglite. Holding the light in place, Kealey looked at the keyway. For most pin tumbler locks, a lock-pick gun was the most expedient choice. Unfortunately, it was also the noisiest method, and in this case, the Securitron switch precluded its use. Besides, having already drawn attention to this door by disabling the cameras, Kealey was unwilling to further provoke the guards. Shrugging off the pack once more, he reached inside and withdrew a small nylon case. Inside were a number of picks and rakes, all of which had been legally acquired through ESP Lock Products, a company based out of Leominster, Massachusetts.
Selecting a standard diamond pick and a dual-tension wrench, he clamped the Maglite between his teeth and set to work on the lock, applying torque with the wrench as he felt for the pins, manipulating the pick with his thumb and forefinger. After a short while, he’d pushed all of the pins past the shear line, allowing the cylinder to turn to the right. Moving the wrench to the opposite side, he repeated the process, and the cylinder turned to the left. Holding his breath, he pulled open the door. Nothing happened. Stepping inside, he found the backup alarm, a keypad placed next to the door. He punched in the four-digit code, praying it would work, knowing it probably wouldn’t. The source had been out of the picture for months. During that time, people had been hired, fired, promoted, sent back to Europe…The code would not be the same.
But it was. The alarm stopped beeping, and he moved forward into the building.
CHAPTER 30
WASHINGTON, D.C.
For Ryan Kealey, embassies were not a place of sanctuary. At no time in the past had that fact been more apparent. During his years with the Agency, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d operated with official cover, which would have afforded him the safety net of diplomatic immunity. He had, however, visited dozens of embassies over the course of his short career. As such, he would have had a good idea of what he was walking into, even without the ORACLE source. Owing to their relatively small size, most U.S. embassies and consulates were monitored from a single room, known as Post One, which could usually be found right inside the front door, for the purpose of intimidating the few guests whose intentions were less than honorable. It was from this small space that the entire building was monitored, everything from the grounds to the fire doors to the CCTV cameras and the exterior lighting. In U.S. embassies, Post One was manned during the workday by a specially trained team of marine security guards, while after-hours exterior security, in an oft-overlooked display of diplomacy, was usually provided by contract guards from the host country.
In this building, exterior security was limited to the gatehouse on Reservoir Road. Post One was represented by the security booth on the south side of the chancery, staffed at this early hour by just two men. The guards were not capable of monitoring the whole building, at least not effectively, but Kealey still felt on edge as he moved through the darkened halls, following Naomi’s instructions over the radio. He had already realized that her help was invaluable; without her guidance, his progress would have been slowed substantially. She directed him through a maze of offices and conference rooms on the ground floor, keeping him as far from the booth as possible. Soon he was in the stairwell, making his way up to the third floor, the home of the administrative department.
The passenger seat of the Taurus was strewn with paper and diagrams depicting the chancery’s layout. Naomi was doing her best to arrange the unruly pile when Kealey’s next transmission came over the radio. She pressed her earpiece more firmly into position, but she wasn’t quite fast enough, and she missed part of the message.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Say it again.”
“I need to get through a cipher lock. Room 304.”
She grabbed a handful of paper and flipped through it as quickly as possible. She wasn’t expecting a miracle, but when a page slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor, she snatched it up and saw it was the right one. “It’s on the list. The code is seven, four, one, three.”
“Okay.” There was a pause as he punched it in. “I’m in.”
“Right, the next thing you’ll need is the administrator password.” She was rifling through the loose pages. “If you’ll give me a second, I have it right here—”
“I remember it,” he said, cutting her off. She heard distant tapping over the line, then, “Okay, I just logged on. I’m bringing up the file now.”
She waited as long as she could, but the silence was too much. “Ryan, did it work? What came up?”
“Just a minute…Yeah, it worked. Everything’s here. Fitness reports, commendations, reprimands, even a forwarding address. He’s in Germany, Naomi. The bastard’s in Berlin.”
She breathed a prolonged sigh of relief. She was slightly amazed it had worked. Raiding the chancery had been a long shot from the very start, but now, against all odds, they had what they needed. “Okay, let me know when you…oh, my God.”
There was a short, uncertain pause, then, “Naomi? Naomi, what happened? What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t respond; she couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was in her throat, her eyes wide and locked to the rearview mirror.
A D.C. Metro police car had slowed to a stop directly behind her vehicle. As she watched with rising panic, the officer behind the wheel stepped out of the cruiser, adjusted his belt, and started toward the Taurus.
On the third floor of the chancery, Kealey had seated himself at one of the desks and was working the keys as fast as he could. He was struck by ho
w easy everything had turned out once he was inside the building. The computer had readily accepted the password contained in the ORACLE file, giving him access to the entire database. There was a wealth of information at his fingertips. Normally, he would have taken the time to copy everything to a high-capacity zip disk, but given the circumstances, he wasn’t interested in learning which members of the German diplomatic community were actually professional intelligence officers. All he cared about was finding Thomas Rühmann.
Using an integrated search engine, he narrowed the parameters to the two years that the Austrian arms broker had worked at the embassy. He was waiting for the computer to kick up the results when Naomi’s faint voice came over the radio. It was clear she was speaking to herself, but the edge to her voice was unmistakable.
At first, he thought she had come across something unusual in the file, but when the radio stayed silent, he knew something was wrong. He immediately pressed the TRANSMIT button and asked her what was happening.
“Ryan…” The single word was nearly inaudible, arriving as a strained wheeze over the line. She sounded like she was in the throes of an asthma attack. “There’s a police car behind me. I can see the officer through the windshield. I think he’s running the tags right now.”
“What?” His mind raced to find a solution, but he was stuck on the fact that she had the ORACLE file in the car. No matter what happened, they could not let that folder out of their hands. “You have to get out of there. Right now. You can’t let him—”
“Where am I supposed to go?” she asked frantically. “I can’t lose him. It’s too early. There’s no traffic. Oh, shit, he’s getting out of the car. What do I do? Ryan, what do I do?”
“Naomi, listen to me. You have to…Naomi? Naomi!”
She was gone. He couldn’t hear anything over the radio. Even static would have been preferable to that terrible silence.
Breathing a soft curse, he exited the program with a few keystrokes, then deleted the history. Standing, he reached for his pack, slung it over his shoulders, and turned toward the door. Only then did he realize he was not alone in the room. Two men were blocking his path. Both were wearing the austere blue uniform of the embassy security detail, and both had 9mm pistols leveled at his chest.
CHAPTER 31
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“2054, D.C. I need you to run a tag for me.”
Officer First Class Steve Lowe ran a hand over his fleshy, clean-shaven face and peered through the windshield, eyes locked to the car parked in front of his cruiser. The call had come in a few minutes earlier, and as one of just 8 beat officers in PSA (Police Service Area) 205 in the 2nd District, he’d had little choice but to respond. Two of the other cars were responding to an 11-6—shots fired—which left Lowe to deal with this minor incident.
Suspicious vehicle reported in Senate Heights…He shook his head wearily. Like 90 percent of these calls, it was probably nothing: somebody locked out and waiting for spare keys to arrive, or a spurned lover parked outside her ex’s house, hoping to beg for a second chance. Everyone had a story, of course, but over the years, Lowe had learned how to tell the truth from the bullshit. He’d also learned how to interpret a scene on sight. The car he was looking at now—a late-model Ford Taurus—was not setting off his internal alarm. From what he could see, there was just one person inside, and it looked like a woman, as the call had suggested. This was something he could handle alone, which was a good thing. His partner was out sick, along with half of the force. Normally he would have picked up a spare man for the shift, but the flu had decimated the department’s ranks. Lowe didn’t mind in the least. Frankly, he preferred to ride alone. He despised his partner, and the feeling was mutual. In fact, he was barely on speaking terms with just about every officer in the 2nd District.
It had started a year earlier. The first whispers cropped up when several officers in his squad had been called into the lieutenant’s office to answer for minor infractions. Lowe had been present when each incident took place, which made him the only possible source of the leaks. The rumors had never been verified, but they had earned him the worst kind of reputation a cop could have: that of a man willing to narc out his fellow officers. Worse still, it appeared he was willing to betray them for nothing more than a chance to advance his career. The irony was that he had been angling for assignment to Internal Affairs all along. His aspirations were well known within the department, and they only reinforced the prevailing rumors.
Lowe didn’t care what they thought of him; he had the right pedigree, the right education, and the right connections, all of it hard earned. Nothing else mattered: not the disgusted look on the face of the lieutenant, which she’d worn even as she’d mouthed the appropriate words, commending him for doing the right thing; not the rejection of the so-called blue brotherhood, that supposedly upstanding group of ignorant, narrow-minded assholes; and certainly not this bitch of a dispatcher, who seemed to have made it her life’s mission to send his calls to the bottom of the list.
Irritated by the delay, he snatched up his radio and repeated the call. “2054, D.C. Can you run these tags or what?”
The woman’s voice, completely neutral, came back after a lengthy pause. “Go ahead, 2054.”
“I’m on Hoban Road in Senate Heights, just off the two thousand block of Reservoir Road. The car is a blue Ford Taurus, Virginia tag, Victor-Paul-David 7376.”
Half a minute passed, then, “2054, that vehicle comes back to James Dobson. It’s registered to an address in Richmond. No 29.”
Lowe nodded to himself. “No 29” meant that the vehicle had not been reported stolen. It was another reassuring sign. A woman alone in a car…She was probably just lost. This would be easy to handle. “D.C., I’m going to check it out.”
He got out of his car and adjusted his belt, tucking it under his paunch. Then he checked to make sure his radio was on the primary channel. As he started toward the Taurus, he heard the officers responding to the 11-6 clearing the call. He briefly considered requesting a second unit—“contact and cover,” which required two people, was SOP when approaching a vehicle—but decided against it. They would take forever to show up anyway. From where he was standing, he could see the woman’s face in the side mirror. She looked a little nervous, but that wasn’t unusual. Maybe she’d never been approached by a police officer. Lowe smirked to himself. He knew that some people couldn’t differentiate between being approached and being arrested. Maybe she thought she was going to jail for no reason at all.
He reached the driver’s side window and tapped the glass. The car wasn’t running, but the window slid down, so the key was in the ignition. He took note of that fact as the driver offered a strained smile and said, “Hi, Officer. What can I do for you?”
Lowe caught the accent right away. That voice was something all by itself, but she was a good-looking woman, too: in her midtwenties, he guessed, with shoulder-length black hair, green eyes, and a cute little nose. He unconsciously smoothed his thinning blond hair and smiled broadly, revealing crooked teeth and more than a scrap of his evening meal.
“Good evening, ma’am. Or morning, I should say.”
She looked at her watch and laughed, but there was something forced about it. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“Can I ask what you’re doing out here?”
“My car clunked out on me,” she said, sounding exasperated. “As luck would have it, I just lapsed on my AAA, too.” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed again. “Just one of those days, I guess.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Richmond,” she replied, without hesitation. “I’m going to visit my mother. Or at least I was.”
“Did you manage to get hold of a tow truck?”
“Yes, I did. Mike’s Towing. I got the name from directory assistance. They should be here shortly.”
Lowe nodded politely. “And where does your mother live, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“…
Baltimore. Just outside of Baltimore, I mean.”
He couldn’t help but take note of the pause. It could be the truth, but it seemed a little strange; even the least capable traveler could hardly stray this far off course, engine trouble or not. He checked the woman’s hands for the second time; they were still in her lap, one clasped over the other. Good. Scanning the passenger seat, he saw a hooded pullover resting on the cushion. He couldn’t see what might be beneath the article of clothing, but he remembered seeing a blur of motion when he’d first flashed his lights, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the sweater might be covering. His curiosity was piqued by the loose papers scattered over the floor. All of a sudden, he had the feeling that something wasn’t right here.
“Well, I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you, ma’am,” he said tonelessly. “May I see your license and registration, please?”
She didn’t reply right away, her mouth working silently. “Is that really necessary? I mean, I was just sitting here—”
“I’m afraid it is. You see, we received a complaint about your vehicle, so we have to be thorough.”
“Well, I don’t have it on me, actually. In fact, I don’t have any ID at all.”
“What about the registration?”
“I, umm…” She made a show of looking in the glove compartment. “I don’t have that either. Listen, Officer, I—”
“Whose car is this?”
“It belongs to my boyfriend.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step out of the car. You can take the keys with you.”
“Officer, I really don’t think—”
“Step out of the car, please. Right now.”
He’d added a note of authority that time, and she complied right away, pushing the door out toward him. He stepped back to let her out, then said, “Move to the front of the vehicle, please, and put your hands on the hood. Are you carrying anything I need to know about? A weapon of any kind, needles, anything like that?”
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