Foster lifted the phone and punched in a number.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Foster said, struggling to keep his voice level and calm. He didn’t know the other man well—they had only met in person a few times—but he suspected that Vanderveen would not react favorably to panic. “I have a passenger, and we have a small problem.” He put emphasis on the “I” and the “we.” “Open the door. I’m heading your way.”
“Not possible,” Vanderveen said instantly. “This wasn’t part of the plan, Foster.”
“I realize that, but it can’t be helped. Listen, it’s the Kharmai woman, the one you missed in Berlin. She might prove useful.”
There was a long pause. “What happened? Why do you need to bring her here?”
Foster swore under his breath. He didn’t want to relay the bad news over the phone, but he didn’t have a choice. He explained quickly.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Kealey? Yes. I told him to keep the field office out of it, or I’d kill the woman.”
“He’ll come anyway. How far is the safe house from West Thirty-seventh?”
“Twenty minutes or so, but it’s the middle of the day, and the roads are busy as hell. Besides, he’ll need to call Langley to pin Nazeri down. We probably have about half an hour.”
“And where are you?”
“A few streets down. I can be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Where’s the woman now?”
Foster looked out the passenger-side window. Naomi Kharmai was just walking out of the Starbucks on the corner, holding a cup in each hand, nodding at the man who’d held the door for her. “She’s walking back to the car.”
Another long pause. “Okay, bring her in. The door will be up, and I’ll be waiting. We’ll figure it out when you get here.”
The phone went dead. Foster slipped it into his pocket as Kharmai placed the cups on the roof and opened the door. He thanked her as she handed one in, then took her seat with the other. Once the door was closed, he pulled back into traffic.
Naomi took a sip of her tea and flinched as the hot liquid touched her lips. “Ouch…too soon.” She looked around for a cup holder. Not finding one, she held the container gingerly on her knee and turned to face him. “Matt, I was thinking we should head back to your office. Rudaki’s probably already there, or at least on the way.”
“Actually, I just called. It’ll be another half hour or so. In the meantime, we have one more stop to make.”
She looked at her watch and frowned. “Will it take long?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He smiled reassuringly. “Not long at all.”
CHAPTER 52
NEW YORK CITY
As the Bureau Crown Vic turned left onto West Thirty-seventh Street, Naomi looked at her watch again, then scowled out the window. She no longer cared if her impatience was obvious. This was taking much longer than she’d expected, and she really wanted to talk to Rudaki. They were running out of time, but then again, she thought the delay might be a good thing. If Ryan had gotten to Rudaki already, that would explain why the informant had yet to show up at the New York FO. On the other hand, it seemed like if that had transpired, Ryan would have called to let her know. With this thought, she realized that she hadn’t checked her phone in a while. Her purse was down by her feet. Leaning down, she rooted around for a minute but didn’t find it.
“Agent Foster, did you see what I did with my phone?”
“Oh, shit,” he said, digging into his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it over. “Sorry…Some guy named Kealey called while you were getting the coffee. He asked me to tell you that he struck out.”
“Damn it,” she muttered. “Is that all he said?”
“That’s it.”
She looked at her phone, thought about calling him, then decided against it. If he’d struck out with the safe house, he wouldn’t want to hear that the New York FO had been wasting her time for the better part of an hour. The first person they’d visited had been a naturalized Iranian just west of the Brooklyn Bridge, the owner of a small freight company. He had been adamant in his denials of wrongdoing, and there had been something about his manner that convinced her immediately. Then they’d moved on to a Saudi immigrant in the financial district. That interview proved equally fruitless, ending with the man screaming obscenities at them in Arabic as they’d hurried back to the car. In short, the whole trip had been pointless, making her wish she had just stayed in the Javits Building. Unfortunately, it was a little late for that now.
Without warning, Foster swung the car to the right. They bumped over a little concrete lip, passing beneath a worn wooden sign. The car slowed to a halt in the middle of a large parking area, a brick warehouse off to the right.
Naomi turned to her left, confusion spreading over her face. She was about to ask what they were doing there when she saw the gun in his hand. She froze, unsure of what was happening. For a split second, she thought it was some kind of sick joke. Then she was aware of the metal door sliding down behind the car, blocking the view of the street. Before Foster could say anything—before she could even ask what was happening—her door was pulled open. She turned instinctively and looked up into a face she had only ever seen on her computer screen and in distant surveillance shots: the face of William Vanderveen.
She tried to speak, but no words came out. Vanderveen seemed to realize the effect he was having on her. He smiled, revealing two rows of very even, very white teeth. “You must be Naomi. It’s nice to meet you. Would you mind dropping that phone and stepping out of the car?”
She took note of his voice: flat, calm, devoid of emotion. There was no hint of his native South African dialect, but that wasn’t surprising; according to the files she had read on countless occasions, he had not returned to his homeland in many years. She felt like this must be a dream; in the year since she had learned of his existence, she had almost convinced herself that he wasn’t real, that he was nothing more than a figment of their collective imaginations. But now, sitting before him, she could see he was definitely real. Just like the gun in his right hand.
Seeing no other option, she dropped the phone on the floor, got out of the car, and shut the door. She looked around quickly as Foster got out of the driver’s seat and moved around the car. Aside from the roll-down vehicular door, there was also a pedestrian gate set in the 10-foot metal wall that separated the parking area from the street. A short, heavyset man with glasses and dark features was standing next to the door he had just pulled down. To her right was the warehouse; she could see an incongruous set of glass doors directly behind the back of a large Isuzu box truck. The doors were propped open with red clay pots, but it was the truck that held her attention. She knew instinctively that it contained the BLU-82, even though she could not see the contents from where she was standing.
Vanderveen looked to Foster and said, “Bring her inside and secure her.”
“We should just—”
“We will,” Vanderveen said. “But not yet. Just do as I say.”
Foster grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the glass doors of the warehouse. Naomi was still too stunned at this turn of events to think it through properly, but she forced herself to concentrate. It was now clear that Foster had been feeding Vanderveen information all along, but the question remained, how did he get it in the first place? Did Samantha Crane still have a part in it? Ryan had been so sure about that, and it still seemed like the only possible explanation.
Only now did she remember what he had told her in the bar at the Hotel Washington, that Foster had taken part in the raid in Alexandria. That was why the name had seemed so familiar, but Ryan had mentioned him only in passing, which explained why it had slipped her mind.
She cursed herself silently, bitterly, realizing she had probably made the last mistake of her life. Even though Vanderveen had cut off Foster’s last sentence, it had been all too clear what he was about to say: We should just kill her. She kn
ew what was coming, but she couldn’t dwell on it. If she hesitated, or if she froze completely, she would lose any chance of survival. She forced herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
They entered the warehouse. Foster grabbed her arm and seemed to hesitate, then pushed her toward a large piece of machinery, a freestanding commercial lathe. Vanderveen walked in behind them, the gun held loosely in his right hand. Seeing that the other man had Naomi covered, Foster set down his service weapon on a nearby stack of broken wooden pallets. Then he produced a pair of handcuffs and pulled her over toward the lathe. She resisted slightly, so he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back sharply. Tears sprang to her eyes with the pain, but she refused to cry out.
“Put your hands around that bar,” Foster hissed. “Do it.”
The stinging sensation at the back of her head was unbearable, and she knew it wouldn’t help to struggle. She put her hands on either side of a horizontal bar that ran the length of the lathe, and he snapped the cuffs tightly around her wrists, securing her in place.
“Step away,” Vanderveen said. Foster hesitated, then did as he was told. The former U.S. soldier walked over and stood very close, eyeing her steadily. There was a smile on his handsome face, but the look in his eyes revealed his true intentions and etched away at whatever self-control she had left. She could tell he was deciding how best to hurt her before taking her life.
“Naomi…You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” She didn’t reply, knowing it wouldn’t matter what she said. “As you can see, you’re in a very bad situation here. I’m afraid you used up all your luck in Berlin.”
Naomi closed her eyes. “So you were there.”
“Of course.” He paused and looked at her carefully, then reached out and touched her cheek. She recoiled instantly, but he merely smiled.
“Tell me, how long have you worked for the CIA?”
“I don’t work for them at all.” She did her best to sound defiant. “They fired me.”
“Really?” He looked amused. “I’m impressed. And how long have you known Ryan?”
She set her jaw and looked away. He stared at her for about twenty seconds, as if gauging her conviction. Then he nodded once and walked off toward the office, disappearing from sight. Naomi heard a door bang, the rattle of blinds against glass panes, and then he returned, carrying a green metal toolbox. Setting it down on the smooth cement floor, he opened it and started perusing the contents. As he rummaged, he spoke to her without raising his eyes.
“You know, Naomi, this is the last time we’re going to talk. Make no mistake, you’re going to die very soon, but before you do, I thought we might have a civilized discussion.” He straightened, holding a pair of needle-nose pliers. “Of course, it doesn’t have to be civilized. That’s up to you.”
Foster, standing nearby, shifted uneasily. “We don’t have time for this. Kealey will be here any—”
“We have plenty of time,” Vanderveen said quietly. Foster shifted again, but didn’t push the issue. “Go outside and watch the gate.”
Foster muttered something under his breath, then retrieved his weapon and made his way to the glass doors. At the same time, Nazeri hurried forward and seized Vanderveen’s arm. He was sweating profusely, and his brown eyes were wide, amplified by his thick glasses. In Farsi, he said, “What is this woman doing here, Erich? You have to get rid of her.”
“Relax, Amir. Times Square isn’t going anywhere.”
Naomi spoke four languages, including Farsi. She struggled to keep her face blank, not wanting to reveal what she’d heard, but Vanderveen’s words were hitting her hard. Times Square? Why would they choose that particular spot? Maybe it was just an alternate target, she decided. Maybe they had decided the UN was too well protected.
“She’ll be gone soon enough,” Vanderveen added gently, pulling himself free. He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Just focus on what you have to do. I’ll take care of the rest, okay? Go outside and wait for me. This will all be over soon.”
The Iranian looked distraught, but he did as he was told. Vanderveen turned back to Naomi. He was still holding the pliers. He couldn’t help but notice the hopeful expression on her face.
“Oh, that’s right. What did Agent Foster say?” Vanderveen made a show of trying to remember. “Kealey will be here any…what? Any second? Any minute?” He smiled broadly, clearly enjoying the moment. “Either way, it won’t be in time to do you any good. I only wish I could stick around to see his face when he finds what’s left of you.”
He paused thoughtfully, examining the steel prongs of the pliers. “Tell me…Is your relationship with Ryan purely professional? Or is it something more? Because if you have any insights, I’d very much like to hear them. Has it been difficult for him, coming to terms with what happened in Maine? Have you helped fill the void, so to speak?”
He studied her dispassionately, then said, “You’re quite beautiful…I can’t imagine he would be able to resist you for long. I know I wouldn’t be able to.” He leaned close, touching the tip of the pliers to her cheek. As the cold metal brushed against her skin, Naomi nearly lost it, but she pushed down her terror with one last tremendous effort.
“Naomi, Naomi…” He repeated her name in a singsong kind of way, then shook his head in amusement. “I can see that there’s something between you two. It couldn’t be more obvious. Do you think you can replace his dead fiancée? Answer me.”
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Do you want to?”
She didn’t reply, and he let it go. He leaned down to the toolbox and replaced the pliers, then came up with a retractable utility knife. Extending the blade with his thumb, he examined the edge, then tossed it back in the box. “That won’t work. Plastic surgeons can work miracles with clean cuts these days. Let’s see if we can’t find something a little more…interesting.”
She didn’t want to ask it, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What are you doing?”
“Well, it’s simple,” he said, still digging around in the toolbox. “Killing you outright would be too easy and, frankly, a little boring. I think I’ll make you suffer first.”
He looked up to catch her reaction, and when he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact. “You really shouldn’t have interfered in what I’m trying to do here. In your case, I could almost put it down to ignorance, but Ryan should have known better. Unfortunately, he’s not around to take his share of the blame, which leaves only you.” He dug around for a minute more, then produced a fixed-blade scoring knife. He held it up so she could see the hooked edge. “This is better.” He smiled gently. “Now, let’s see what we can do with that pretty face, shall we?”
As he advanced, Naomi pulled away as far as she could, aware of a low moan building deep in her throat. The steel cuffs were digging into her wrists, tearing the skin, but the pain didn’t register; all she could think about was getting away from the knife.
It was no good; there was nowhere to go. She felt flailing panic in her chest, felt her legs giving way as he pinned her painfully against the lathe. She could hear herself saying no and repeating the single word over and over as the jagged parts of the lathe dug into the lean muscles of her back. She was intensely aware of what this man had done to Katie Donovan a year earlier, and knew that she was about to suffer much, much worse. Her arms were pulled to the right, her left pinned between his body and hers. Naomi was wedged in place as he grabbed her throat with his left hand, pushing her head back, bringing the knife to her face with his right. She closed her eyes as tightly as she could and waited for the tearing pain to begin, praying it wouldn’t last too long.
But it never came. There was a sudden noise at the entrance, and Vanderveen stopped, looking left. Foster was standing inside the glass doors, about 20 feet away. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said uneasily. “Nazeri has to get moving. Right now.”
“In a minute,” V
anderveen replied. “This won’t take long.”
“Will…”
Vanderveen looked from Naomi’s terrified face to the door, then back again. He was clearly torn, but finally, he released her. Her strength failed her, and she slumped to the floor, only stopping when the cuffs pulled her arms taut over her head.
“Okay, I’m coming.” He looked back at Naomi, who had buried her face in her right shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”
At that same moment, Ryan Kealey’s rented Accord was racing south on FDR Drive, having just crossed the Triborough Bridge over the Harlem River. As soon as they’d left the safe house on Vyse Avenue, he had placed a direct call to Jonathan Harper at Langley, requesting a check on the name Nazeri in the New York area. Fortunately, the search yielded only a small number of results, and through the process of elimination, they were able to narrow it down to one probable address.
It was indeed that of Bridgeline Transport Inc., a freight company with terminals in Montreal and Ithaca, was owned by a man named Amir Nazeri, who’d emigrated from Tehran in the early eighties. The company also owned a vending service based on West Thirty-seventh Street, which was their current destination. Harper had demanded to know what was happening, but Kealey had cut him off in mid-sentence, not wanting to tie up the line. Repeated calls to Kharmai’s cell phone had gone unanswered, and he knew they were running out of time.
Up ahead, brake lights flashed as vehicles slowed to a halt. So far, they had managed to avoid most of the traffic, but it couldn’t last. He swore and slammed his hand against the wheel. Samantha Crane didn’t move an inch. She was sitting in the passenger seat. Over the past ten minutes, she had recovered slightly from Hakim Rudaki’s revelation. Now, she appeared neither drained nor angry. Her body was unnaturally still, her mouth set in a straight, tight line. Her eyes were unreadable, but Kealey knew exactly what she was feeling. He’d felt the same depth of betrayal when Will Vanderveen had shot him in Syria eight years earlier, right after killing 5 of his fellow soldiers. But that was in the past, and at the moment, all Kealey could think about was Naomi.
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