“I know how much she meant to you, but you’ve suffered enough. You’ve made mistakes in the past…I understand that, but everyone makes mistakes, and you’ve made up for yours a thousand times over. How many lives did you save last year? How many times have you saved my life?” She reached up and touched his face, her expression softening. “You’ve never let me down, and I know you never will. I trust you completely.”
She looked away and let her hand fall to her side. Suddenly, she felt very self-conscious. “I don’t know if that means anything to you, but—”
“Of course it means something, Naomi.” She lifted her gaze and saw that something had changed in his face. “It means more than you probably know.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, the tension building steadily. Then she found herself shifting forward. Her body seemed to be moving of its own accord as she rested a hand on his bare chest, her heart thumping wildly. He put his hand over hers as their lips met, his left arm sliding around her waist. She moved forward and straddled his hips, kissing him harder, digging her fingers into his chest. Naomi knew she was being too aggressive, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She had wanted this for so long, and now it was finally happening.
She forced herself to slow down, to prolong the moment. She brushed her fingertips over his bare skin, careful to avoid the closed wound on the left side of his abdomen. Ryan sat up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her lips to his, aware of him rising beneath her. He lifted the T-shirt over her head, easing the fabric over the bandages on her left shoulder. She closed her eyes as his hands drifted down to her lean waist, moving around to the curves of her back. She sucked in her breath as his head dipped to her small, firm breasts, his left hand touching her inner thigh, his right sliding under her hair, stroking the base of her neck.
They finished undressing each other. Naomi lay back and closed her eyes, lost in the moment. She let out a long, low moan when he entered her, lifting her hips to his body. It was the first time in a long time for both of them, and it couldn’t last; they came quickly and in unison, their limbs intertwined, fingers wrapped in each other’s hair. When it was over, she rested her head on his shoulder and let out a slow, shaky sigh. She was pleasantly out of breath. She had never felt happier, more content, but as the minutes passed, her brain kicked back into gear. She couldn’t help but wonder what was coming next. Like it or not, everything had just gotten a lot more complicated.
As if reading her thoughts, Ryan said, “This could be tricky.”
“Mmm.” She was still trying to catch her breath. “I always…”
“What?”
“Wondered if you had an interest,” she finished lamely.
By way of response, he lifted her chin and kissed her softly. She responded immediately, and they made love for the second time, their bodies moving in slow, simple harmony. The act carried less urgency than it had the first time, but no less desire. Twenty minutes after they started, Naomi couldn’t hold on any longer. She cried out, then caught herself and tried to restrain her passion, aware of the thin walls that surrounded them. When they were done, they were both too tired to consider things further. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, and for the moment, the trials that awaited them the following day were forgotten entirely.
At that same moment, a light rain was drifting over the Peace Bridge between Buffalo, New York, and Fort Erie, Canada, so named to commemorate one hundred years of peace between the two neighboring countries. Despite the temperature, which was hovering near 45 degrees, Tom Logan was relatively warm in his booth on the Canadian side of the Niagara River, a small electric space heater resting on the floor behind his stool. Logan, a twenty-six-year-old Buffalo native, had just started his third year with U.S. Customs & Border Protection, otherwise known as CBP. He didn’t think much of the work, but it seemed to pay the bills, and he’d never really aspired to more than that. As he reached for the second half of the turkey sandwich he’d brought in for dinner, a truck rolled up to his window, having approached unseen on the Queen Elizabeth Way while Logan was digging for his food.
Logan sighed and dropped the sandwich back in the bag, then slid open the window. He hoped the driver’s paperwork was in order; otherwise, the man would be stuck in Canada for at least another four hours. The Commercial Vehicle Processing Centre had closed at midnight; if the computer indicated the need to contact the carrier’s U.S. broker or conduct a physical inspection of the cargo, it would just have to wait, and Logan would probably be in for an argument, the same argument he endured dozens of times each day. Most drivers did not appreciate the delay that secondary inspection entailed, even though it was usually their fault to begin with.
The driver’s window came down. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Good enough,” Logan replied languidly, looking the man over. He was near forty, he guessed, with shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, and an unshaven face. The collar of his checked flannel shirt was turned up. He looked weary, but nearly every driver coming through Primary looked like that. Driving for a living obviously took a toll on the human body. Knowing this made Logan appreciate his job a little bit more, but not much.
“Got your paperwork?”
The driver handed over two documents. Logan accepted them, checked them quickly, and nodded his approval. The carrier—like every other company seeking to import commercial goods into the United States—subscribed to the Pre-Arrival Processing System, otherwise known as PAPS. The advantage to the relatively new system was a quick turnaround on paperwork, which resulted in fewer delays on the bridge. Before the CVPC was finished in ’99, more than seven hundred vehicles a day were referred to Secondary in order to complete missing paperwork. Since nearly four thousand vehicles made the crossing daily, the delays had made the Peace Bridge nearly impassable. The introduction of PAPS and the CVPC in recent years had smoothed things out considerably.
The first document was Customs Form 7533, the cargo manifest. The PAPS bar code was affixed in column one. The second document was the commercial invoice, which wasn’t strictly necessary, though most drivers handed it over as a matter of course. Logan scanned the CF7533 quickly, looking at his monitor. The label itself meant nothing; any carrier registered with customs could get the labels; in fact, the carrier could print them off themselves. Once the label was affixed to the manifest, the carrier was required to send the manifest to a U.S. broker, who would then forward the document on to customs for prerelease. If none of that had transpired, the monitor would instruct Logan to direct the truck to Secondary, which would result in a long wait for the driver.
In this case, however, it looked like the man was well prepared. The words “No Exam” came up on the monitor, indicating that the truck was allowed to pass. Like 82 percent of the commercial vehicles that came through daily, this one would proceed unhindered into the United States.
“Looks like you’re good to go,” Logan said, handing the driver his paperwork. He glanced at the manifest one last time before releasing the document. “That’s a heavy load.”
The driver grinned. “We got a deal on the boiler from one of our clients in Montreal. It’s actually for us…The old one gave out in our terminal in Ithaca a week ago.”
Logan laughed. “I feel sorry for the poor bastards working in that building. Ain’t it hard to believe it’s only September? The guys on the night shift must be freezing their asses off.”
“Well, if I wasn’t here, I’d be one of them. This is one of the few times I’m glad to be on the road.”
Logan grunted his amusement. “Well, drive safe, and welcome to the United States.”
Will Vanderveen dropped the truck into gear and smiled out the window. “Thanks. It’s good to be back.”
CHAPTER 46
WASHINGTON, D.C.
In the second-floor bedroom on Q Street, Kealey woke with a start and sat up, his eyes moving to the bedside clock. It was just after 5:30 in the morning. He looked to his left,
expecting to see Naomi’s sleeping form, but he was surprised to find the other side of the bed empty. His gaze moved to the adjacent bathroom. There was no light under the door, so he assumed she must have gone back to her room while he had been sleeping. He couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. Did she regret what had happened? Or was she just uneasy sharing his bed in this particular setting?
Kealey stood and moved to the window. It was still dark, the street shining beneath the sidewalk lamps, sodden leaves piled up at the curbs. As he stared out at the calm, silent scene, he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was strange, but he felt more at peace than he had in months, and he thought he knew why: after months and months of black despair, the shadow caused by Katie’s death was finally starting to lift. He knew that no one would ever replace her, but for the first time since that terrible night in Maine, he thought there might be room in his life for somebody else.
He knew that the guilt would never entirely fade, just as he knew that his memories would haunt him forever. Still, now he thought he saw a way to build some new memories. Some good ones. He shook his head, realizing his thoughts might be a little presumptuous, or at least premature. He and Naomi obviously still had a lot to talk about, but that conversation would just have to wait. Hopefully, she wanted the same thing he did, to build on what they had started.
He turned away from the window and went into the bathroom, flipping on the light. He shaved and brushed his teeth, then turned on the shower. Twenty minutes later he was dressed for the day in jeans, a black, long-sleeve layering T-shirt, and Columbia hiking boots.
He left the room and started down to the other end of the hall. Before he hit the stairs, he heard Harper talking on the other side of the office door, as well as the sound of a television set at low volume. He tapped lightly and heard the other man call him in.
When Kealey stepped in the room, he was slightly shocked at the DDO’s appearance. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt, and he was still dressed in the same clothes. Obviously, he had stayed up all night, giving orders and chasing down additional information. From the look on his face, it was clear that he had news to impart.
“All hell has broken loose in Iraq,” he said, gesturing to the television.
“What happened?”
“Mortar attack on the Green Zone from across the river,” Harper replied wearily. “Just after midnight. Six people were killed outright, another dozen injured, most of them critically. Two hours later, a Huey carrying the 25th Infantry Division’s deputy commander was shot down near Kirkuk. The crew was killed in the crash, along with the ADC’s aide, a full colonel. The general is still missing, presumed dead.”
“Jesus.” Kealey knew that this was big. To date, the highest ranking officer killed in Iraq since 2003 was a colonel in the National Guard. “How did they—”
“Looks like a portable missile launcher. Stinger, maybe. We’re looking into it.” Harper shook it off and held up a handful of paper. “This just came in. You might want to read it.”
Kealey accepted the paperwork and sank into one of the leather club chairs. “What is it?”
“A list of people involved with the investigation at Al Qaqaa, following the theft of the explosives in March of 2003. The investigation involved the multinational force and the Iraq Survey Group. I assume you know what I’m talking about.”
Kealey did. From the start of the war until January 2005, the ISG had been tasked with finding Saddam Hussein’s phantom WMDs. The group consisted of more than 1,000 nuclear, chemical, and biological experts, as well as private security contractors and military officers. Although the ISG never completed its main objective, it was one of the war’s most cohesive, efficient units, losing only a handful of people to accidents and enemy fire over a two-year period. At the same time, it managed to dispose of hundreds of tons of conventional munitions.
“The ISG was divided into three Sector Control Points: North, Baghdad, and South,” Harper continued. “The Baghdad SCP was responsible for Al Qaqaa, so I narrowed the search to that group of people. What you have there is the name of everybody who, at some point or another, was involved with the investigation.”
Kealey scanned the list quickly, but nothing jumped out. He forced himself to reread it carefully. There were nearly three hundred names on five sheets of paper. He was halfway through the fourth page when he stopped and said, “Jesus, I don’t believe it.”
Harper had been watching the television, which was tuned to CNN. “What do you have?”
“I know this guy, John. Owen…Paul Owen. He’s a lieutenant colonel with Delta. He used to be my CO at Bragg.”
“Hold on, wasn’t he—”
“Yeah,” Kealey cut in, anticipating the question. “He and his boys were with me in Fallujah when I went after Arshad Kassem.”
“So he can either prove or disprove that BLU-82s were being stored at Al Qaqaa,” Harper said. A shadow crossed his face. “As I recall, he wasn’t too happy with you after what happened with Kassem.”
“That’s true, but the brotherhood is a strange thing, John. You never served, so you don’t really know, but what happened in Fallujah is over and done with. I’ll explain the situation, and he’ll tell us what we need to know. I guarantee it.”
Harper didn’t reply for a long moment, sizing up the younger man’s statement. Finally, he seemed to take it at face value. “You can call him on the way to the airport.”
“It might not be easy to track him down,” Kealey pointed out. “Last I heard, he was at Camp Fallujah, but that might have changed by now. Guys like Owen never stay in one place for long.”
“I’ll get you a telephone number before we leave. In the meantime, there’s something else you need to know about. I called my guy in Los Angeles and asked him to lean on that agent in New York. You know, the one who wasn’t buying into Rudaki’s story.”
“This is how we got Rudaki’s name in the first place, right?”
“Exactly. Anyway, as it turns out, he’s been meeting with Samantha Crane at a Bureau safe house. Apparently he didn’t want to show his face at the field office, which isn’t really surprising, considering the sensitive nature of what he was passing on. Lies or no lies, he wouldn’t want to be seen schmoozing with agents in a federal building. Supposedly, the safe house is in the Bronx. The agent thinks it might be on Vyse Avenue—the street popped up once in conversation—but he doesn’t know the address, and he’s not in a position to ask for it.”
The younger man thought it through. “That’s interesting,” he finally said. “If something is going down today, Rudaki will want to be sure he’s free and clear of any involvement. A Bureau safe house would be a good place to be, especially if he’s surrounded by agents and nowhere near the UN. You couldn’t ask for a better alibi.”
“That’s makes sense, but without the address, the information isn’t much good.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to think about it, but this meeting at the field office isn’t much good, either. Even Naomi knows there’s no way Rudaki will tell her the truth. She doesn’t have any leverage. We have to get Rudaki alone, and I have to do it myself.”
Harper hesitated. “What if he’s telling the truth, Ryan? What if the Iranians really are behind the Babylon Hotel and Tabrizi’s death in Paris?”
“We both know that’s not the case, John. The Iranians have more to lose by interfering in Iraq than they have to gain. Ahmadinejad is a crazy bastard, but not that crazy. He won’t risk sharing Saddam’s fate by killing that many people on U.S. soil. Vanderveen may be the man on the ground, but ultimately, someone else is behind this, and it’s not the regime in Tehran. Hakim Rudaki is feeding the Bureau lies, and so is Samantha Crane.”
“So what will you do?”
Kealey thought for a moment. “I’m going to see if I can find out where this safe house is. Naomi can go to the FO and sit in on the interview as planned. If Rudaki doesn’t want to be seen in a federal building, he won’t want to da
wdle. Maybe I’ll catch him coming in or out.”
The DDO shook his head. “Do you have any idea how that sounds? You’re basically hoping for a miracle.”
“Well, that’s what we’re left with, isn’t it?”
Kealey made his way downstairs a few minutes later. Despite the early hour, he found Naomi in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, still in her bedclothes, eating a bowl of cereal. Her jet-black hair was mussed, her green eyes shining with some inner light. She smiled when she saw him, but there was some hesitation behind it. Kealey didn’t understand why at first, but then it hit him. She was probably having the same thoughts he was, namely, wondering if he wanted more than what they had shared the previous night.
Julie Harper was busying herself with coffee at the counter. She turned when he entered and smiled. “Good morning, Ryan. Did you sleep well?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Naomi’s face turn red. She suddenly became much more interested in her cereal, pausing to shovel a huge spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.
“Great, thanks,” he said, responding to Julie’s question. “It definitely beats a cot in Kabul. Or a tent in the Bekaa, for that matter.”
She laughed and turned back to the coffee. Kealey waited until Naomi had swallowed her cereal, then took the opportunity to lean down and kiss her. When he pulled away, her smile was so radiant that he couldn’t help but grin himself. He immediately realized that his fears were completely unfounded: judging by the happy look on her face, she didn’t regret what had happened at all. He took a seat at the table as Julie walked over with a mug of coffee, which he accepted gratefully.
“Well, you look better, anyway. Much better, in fact.” She shot a suspicious but not unfriendly look at Naomi, who managed to look reasonably innocent. “What time are you heading out?”
“Less than an hour. Our plane leaves at nine.”
“Well, we had you for one night, at least. You won’t leave it so long next time, will you? I don’t want to wait a year to hear from you again.”
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