Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “Four? I thought we were looking for one.”

  “Two of the bombs were located at a warehouse outside Karbala a month after they were taken, and the third was picked up a month after that. It was discovered in the back of a dump truck at the Iranian border. The fourth was never recovered.”

  Best leaned back in his seat, dropped the pen, and studied her plaintively. “So again the Iranians come into it. The information you’ve given us so far is shot full of holes, Ms. Kharmai, but Vanderveen’s part in this seems to be the biggest leap of all. I don’t appreciate your trying to confuse the issue by bringing his name into it.”

  “Sir, we know that he was involved with Rühmann, and we know he took part in the bombing of the Babylon Hotel in Baghdad.”

  “But you can’t prove he was in Berlin, and you can’t prove he’s here in New York.”

  Naomi lifted her hands in exasperation, then instantly regretted the gesture. This man was just a couple steps below the FBI director himself, and he wouldn’t appreciate a show of insubordination. “Sir…okay, I’ll give you that. But even if we assume that he doesn’t have a part in this, it doesn’t change the fact that this bomb is almost certainly here in the U.S., as evidenced by the documentation found in Rühmann’s car and the statement given by the owner of the storage facility in Montreal. Given everything that’s happened in Iraq over the past few weeks, and the fact that half the Iraqi Parliament is scheduled to be at the UN this afternoon, I think we have ample cause for concern.”

  “‘Half the Iraqi Parliament’ is quite an exaggeration,” Best pointed out. “But security couldn’t be tighter, and frankly, I don’t know what else we can do. Fifty of my agents are there, along with the entire Manhattan Traffic Task Force and a good part of the Manhattan South Patrol Borough. Everything east of Second Avenue is completely closed off to traffic, along with the through streets between Forty-first and Fifty-first. It’s easy to stop vehicles, though. The pedestrians are where it gets tricky.”

  Naomi nodded. She’d caught part of the news that morning, and she knew that a massive antiwar demonstration was scheduled to take place at the corner of Fifty-first and First. The protesters had requested a permit to march past the UN complex. Predictably, the request was denied by city officials, but that hadn’t deterred the organizers of the event. By the time she and Kealey had left for Dulles, 20,000 people had already arrived at the police barricades on Fifty-first Street, the crowd stretching up to Fifty-fourth. Unfortunately, that was just the beginning. More than 100,000 people were expected to show up by the time the General Assembly convened, and Naomi knew that the NYPD would have its hands full with crowd control. Nearly every street surrounding the UN enclave would be completely packed by day’s end.

  She hadn’t considered it before, but now she realized that the huge crowds would be just as good a target as the UN itself. The thought brought on a fresh wave of nausea, but she managed to push it down before Best noticed anything wrong.

  “So,” he said, jolting her out of her reverie. “How exactly do you think Hakim Rudaki fits into this, ah, rather cryptic scenario?”

  “Sir, we haven’t been able to link Rudaki to any of this, but the fact remains that there is a huge discrepancy between what he’s been telling you and what we’ve dug up on our own. Most of what we have is pointing toward an Iraqi mastermind, probably someone associated with the insurgency. Rudaki, however, has insisted all along that the Iranians were behind the bombing of the Babylon Hotel and the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi.”

  Best nodded slowly, but instead of addressing her point, he made one of his own. “As far as I’m concerned, Ms. Kharmai, the question is not the veracity of what Rudaki’s been telling us, but how you even know who he is. His identity was tightly held within this office.”

  Naomi knew that this was not a time to step back. “Sir, this is a big place, and people talk. To be honest, I’m not privy to that information, but either way, it doesn’t really matter how we know. What matters is whether or not he’s telling the truth.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to ask him.” They looked at each steadily, neither giving an inch.

  Finally, Best leaned forward in his seat and rested his arms on top of his desk. “Ms. Kharmai, do you know why you’re here?”

  The question caught her off-guard. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re here because the director of Central Intelligence called my boss in Washington and asked for a favor. To be honest, we don’t want anything to do with you people after what happened with Anthony Mason in Alexandria, but the director does not want to bring the president into another interagency spat. We’re taking this information seriously—we can’t afford not to—but we don’t appreciate your interference, particularly when it comes to our confidential informants.”

  Naomi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Sir, this isn’t about credit or some stupid rivalry. This is about stopping a major terrorist attack on U.S. soil.”

  Best clenched his jaw, his face turning purple. “I’m aware of that, Ms. Kharmai, and I don’t appreciate being lectured in my own office. I don’t know how they do things at the Agency, but—”

  His tirade was cut short by a firm knock at the door. Easing back into his chair, Best shot her a menacing glare and spoke in a loud voice aimed at the door. “What is it?”

  Matt Foster poked his head in. “Sir, Crane just called in. She’s held up at the minute, but she said she’ll be back by two.”

  Best looked annoyed. “What’s the holdup? She’s with Rudaki, right?”

  Foster shot a curious look at Naomi, obviously wondering why Best would use the informant’s name in her presence. “That’s right, sir. By the way, I’m out of here.”

  “Why, what’s happening?”

  “We got a lead on one of those carriers. The company is run by an Iranian right here in Manhattan. According to our records, he was naturalized back in ’86. He has an SCAC, he’s listed with customs, and one of his trucks came in from Canada carrying a heavy load last night. It looks like a solid lead. I’m gonna run over and check it out.”

  Best looked at his watch and said, “Take somebody with you. O’Farrell.”

  “O’Farrell isn’t here, sir, but I’ll find someone on the way out.”

  “Fine.”

  Naomi had listened to the conversation with interest, each sentence sparking a different emotion. She was annoyed that Rudaki wasn’t going to arrive until 2:00 p.m., which was nearly three hours away, but she was thrilled that he was with Crane, which probably meant they were at the safe house on Vyse Avenue. Ryan might still have a shot at getting to them. Above all, she wanted to know more about this possible lead. Iranian owner, SCAC, heavy load… It sounded promising. But again, with the Iranians…Despite herself, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt. Maybe they’d gotten it wrong all along.

  Before the young agent had closed the door, she called out for him to stop. He poked his head back in and shot her a curious glance. Best looked equally perplexed.

  Naomi addressed the older man. “Sir, I was told I’d be able to see Rudaki immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I’m sure there’s a good reason for the delay.”

  “Good reason or not, I don’t want to sit around for three hours waiting on him. With your permission, I’d like to tag along with Agent Foster.”

  Best laughed. “Absolutely not.”

  The smug look on his face pushed her over the edge. She shot him the hardest look she had and said, “Sir, you said you wanted to avoid an interagency spat, right? Well, my superiors are behind me a hundred percent on this, so if you jerk me around here, I’ll be forced to call them and say we’re not getting the cooperation we were promised. I don’t know about you, but I could see word getting to the president pretty fast after that, and I don’t think he’d be too happy…especially if it turns out that we were right and you were wrong.”


  Best stared at her incredulously. From the corner of her eye, Naomi could see that Foster was also completely stunned.

  “Kharmai, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you have some fucking nerve, coming in here and—”

  “Sir, there’s no harm in it,” Foster said, recovering quickly. The two men shared a meaningful look, and Best sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. Naomi suddenly got the impression that the ADIC was a man with a quick temper who relied on his subordinates to help him keep it in check. “As long as she’s not armed.”

  Best looked at her. “Are you?”

  “No.” She decided it was time to back down a little. “Sir, I don’t want to cause any problems. Just let me tag along with your agent here until Rudaki gets back.” She looked at Foster. “It won’t take too long, will it?”

  He shook his head. “We only need to make a few stops. I want to talk with the Iranian and two others. I don’t have to cross the bridge. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

  Naomi turned back to Best expectantly. Finally, he nodded slowly. “If it gets you out of here, I guess I don’t see the harm.”

  “Good. And thank you.” She grabbed her purse and avoided his angry gaze as she followed Foster out the door. The confrontation had left her drained, and suddenly, she couldn’t wait to be out of the building. When the door closed behind them, Foster gave her a look that fell somewhere between disbelief and admiration.

  “You have some guts. I don’t think anyone’s ever talked like that to him in his life.”

  She shrugged like it was nothing, but in truth, she was feeling quite proud of herself. “Well, I think he was asking for it.”

  He looked at her for a moment longer, shaking his head in amusement. Then he nodded toward the exit. “You ready?”

  “Yep. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 50

  NEW YORK CITY

  On Vyse Avenue in the South Bronx, Kealey sat behind the wheel of his rented Accord, his whole body taut, his eyes alert and watchful. The vehicle was parked just north of 173rd Street, directly behind a rusting, paint-stripped Camry covered in peeling bumper stickers. In front of the Camry was the blue Crown Victoria. The street was completely empty, but after a few minutes, he looked up at his rearview mirror and saw what he’d been waiting for. The three Latino teenagers that had confronted him earlier were approaching from the south, walking side by side like something out of a bad gangster movie.

  The proposition Kealey had put to them was simple: for fifty dollars each, all they had to do was carry out a minor act of vandalism. He couldn’t trust them, of course, so he’d gotten the leader—the only one of them old enough to drive—to hand over his license. Kealey checked it quickly and decided it was authentic. Then he handed it back with a promise: if they backed out of the agreement, he’d pay Miguel Morales a very painful visit. Morales, he assured them, would be more than happy to point out where the other two lived, and they could expect the same. Kealey didn’t enjoy making threats of this nature—they were just kids, after all—but he needed their help, and he needed to get his point across. They had agreed without hesitation, so he’d given them the location of the vehicle, then the money. Now it looked like they were about to come through.

  Kealey unconsciously felt for his Beretta as the three youths passed his passenger-side window. A few seconds later they stopped beside the Crown Vic. Morales was holding an aluminum baseball bat. As Kealey watched, he used it to knock off the Ford’s passenger-side mirror. Then, as the others cheered him on, he let loose with a wild swing, which caved in part of the front windshield.

  Kealey heard the dull crunch and the ringing sound of the bat, but he wasn’t watching the action. His attention was focused on the housing units beyond the iron fence, and after a few seconds, his patience was rewarded. One of the doors flew open, and a tall, lanky man in a dark suit came running down the sidewalk, swearing at the top of his lungs. The three youths instantly scattered in what was clearly a prearranged fashion; by moving in different directions, they were virtually assured of escape. The man in the suit started to chase one of them, then stopped, realizing the futility of his actions. He walked at a fast pace back to the mangled car. Kealey could see him swearing and shaking his head as he assessed the damage.

  This was his guy. With his neat hair, striped red tie, and bulge beneath the jacket, the man had agent written all over him. Kealey made sure his weapon was covered by his T-shirt, then got out of the Accord and walked around to the sidewalk, doing his best to avoid his target’s peripheral vision. The agent was already making his way back down the short path to the safe house. During his sprint from the building, he’d left the front door wide open. He was still swearing viciously, and Kealey silently urged him to keep going, as the noise helped cover the sound of his approach.

  He silently closed the last few feet. As the agent put one hand on the door and prepared to step inside, Kealey lifted his shirt with his left hand and drew the Beretta with his right. Raising his arm, he brought the butt crashing down on the back of the agent’s neck. It was a bad angle; the man was much taller than he was, and he didn’t have good leverage, but the blow had the intended effect. The man let out a strange croak and dropped to the ground. He instantly tried to get up, but Kealey hit him again. This time he connected solidly, the blow sending a shiver along his forearm. He immediately raised the gun, ready for someone to come through the door.

  Nothing. Kealey grabbed the back of the man’s shirt collar and pulled him inside, then closed the door. He took in the scene instinctively: a few worn couches, a beat-up recliner, a Samsung TV on a cheap wooden stand. Only the necessities. There were no prints on the walls, no rugs on the floor. He listened carefully. There was no noise coming from the kitchen, but he heard voices drifting down from the stairwell. Moving back to the unconscious agent, he checked the man’s coat pockets with practiced speed and skill. He found the gun first, then a leather billfold. He flipped it open. Inside were credentials identifying the fallen man as Special Agent Nicholas Mackie of the FBI.

  “Nick?”

  Kealey’s head shot up. He raised his Beretta instinctively, but then he realized the voice was coming from upstairs. “Nick, what’s going on down there?”

  Kealey was thinking as fast as he could. He couldn’t risk moving the agent; if Samantha Crane caught him in the act, she’d have the drop on him. At the same time, he didn’t relish the idea of climbing the stairs. It was too exposed; besides, she had the elevated position, and it would be too easy for her to duck out of view and get to her gun.

  Still, there wasn’t much choice. The recliner was in the middle of the room, positioned next to an overstuffed couch. As he passed it, he shoved Mackie’s 9mm down between the cushions. Then, holding his Beretta in a modified Weaver stance, he approached the stairs in a crouch and looked up to the second floor, ready to fire.

  The landing was empty. He moved up the stairs two at a time, painfully aware of the wood creaking beneath his feet. When he reached the last few steps, he paused. There was bare drywall to his right, the second-floor rooms beyond. Moving slightly to the left, he could see part of the room in front of him, but not the people inside.

  There wasn’t much of a choice; he’d just have to risk it. Before he could move, though, he heard the sound of approaching feet. The sound sent a jolt of electricity running through his body, but he didn’t have time to react. Without warning, Crane appeared in the doorway in front of him. Her eyes opened wide, and there was a moment when everything froze. Then he advanced quickly, grabbed her by the shirt, and put the gun to her head.

  “Don’t move. Who else is up here?”

  She didn’t respond. He slammed her against the opposite wall and repeated the question. Her mouth was working silently. Finally, she managed to find her voice. “What are you doing here? What—”

  “Who else is up here?”

  “No one! Where’s Nick? What did you do to him?”

  “He�
��s sleeping.” Kealey stepped back, but he kept the gun at arm’s length, aimed at her forehead. “Where’s your weapon?”

  “My right hip.”

  “Show it to me.”

  She was wearing a black merino sweater over a white cotton blouse. Slowly, she lowered her right hand and lifted both layers. A Glock 10mm was tucked into her DeSantis holster.

  “Take it out very slowly, and drop it.”

  She did as he asked, her lips slightly parted, her eyes fixed on the muzzle in front of her face. When she dropped her weapon, it clattered away. Suddenly, Kealey sensed movement to his right and turned to look. Hakim Rudaki was standing in the doorway. The Iranian was of average height, with narrow, intelligent features. He was dressed in jeans and a Columbia University T-shirt, and appeared stunned by the scene unfolding before him.

  “I thought you said no one was up here,” Kealey snapped. He grabbed her and turned her around roughly, jamming the muzzle of the Beretta into her lower back. Leaning down quickly, he picked up her gun and, using only his left hand, ejected the magazine. He positioned the upper receiver against his thigh and pushed forward, shucking out the remaining round. Then he dropped the useless weapon and pushed her into the room at the back of the house. Over her shoulder, he spoke to Rudaki. “You, get back in there. Hands where I can see them.”

  A few seconds later, he had them sitting side by side on the bed. He could see that Rudaki’s mind was already working, trying to figure a way out of the situation. Crane, on the other hand, looked furious. Her face was flushed, her blond hair sticking out at crazy angles. “Kealey, I don’t know how the hell you found this place, but you’re going to—”

  “Stop talking, Crane. There’s nothing you can say…I know what you did. Your only option now is to cooperate. If you do exactly what I tell you, I might even let you live. Until then, keep your mouth shut.” He turned the gun on Rudaki. “You’re the reason I’m here.”