The American

by Andrew Britton

  In that paralyzing moment, fear was an iron fist around her heart. She was gasping for breath, her eyes welded shut. She could hear the whine of the bullets as they slammed into the drywall inches above her head. The downed operators were screaming in pain until one of the terrorists filled the hallway with another magazine full of 7.62mm rounds.

  The two surviving agents finally pulled it together, one providing cover as the other tossed a flashbang through a gaping hole in the shattered door. Naomi, with her eyes closed, didn’t see the blinding light that spilled out into the hallway, but the grenade’s concussion left her senseless as the door crashed inward and the operators disappeared from view.

  Sitting on the Honda at the side of the road, Vanderveen watched the traffic pass. His face was blank, but his mind was churning.

  It was time to walk away. Despite the woman’s words, he knew she would overlook something; it was inevitable. After all, they had somehow managed to track her down. He had a second set of documents that she had no knowledge of, a set that he kept on his body at all times. He had used them already, and needed them for the 26th, but they could serve him now in a different way. National Airport was just across the bridge, not more than a few miles to the south. From there, he could connect to an international hub and be out of the country in less than two hours.

  But then what? There were certain truths he had to consider here. There would be no place for him in the organization if he walked away now, that much was certain. The Iranians were the bigger threat. They might give him the benefit of the doubt, but more likely, they would assume he had blown the woman’s cover. Either way, his own future was now inexorably linked to the outcome of the operation.

  More important than any of this, however, was his own personal desire to see it through. For many years he had delighted in the perverse irony that the country he hated was giving him the tools of its own destruction. It had not been easy to feign his loyalty, especially in the beginning, when he was required to live in the squalid barracks and forced to take meals with his supposed peers. When he had finally revealed himself in Syria, it was with one end goal in mind: to inflict his pain on as many of them as was humanly possible. What waited in the barn on Chamberlayne Road would, in a few short days, advance this goal considerably. He could not, would not waste it now.

  He was dimly aware of a rising rage. He had to push it down; it would not serve him here, but the question remained: how could this have happened in the first place? They clearly didn’t have his bank account, the one he had used for the house and the van, otherwise they would have moved on him in Virginia. It had to be an outside source… Shakib? If he had been given the location of the safe house, it was certainly possible. But he’d never know because Shakib was dead, blown apart in the Kennedy-Warren, with Ryan Kealey waiting in the street below.

  Nothing changed in Vanderveen’s face with this recollection. Kealey. There was no doubt in his mind that his former commanding officer had something to do with this unfortunate development. It was bad enough that the man had the audacity to survive what should have been a kill shot in Syria. Now he was really pushing his luck.

  Something sparked behind his eyes. If Kealey wanted to be involved, then so be it. Vanderveen started the Honda and eased back into traffic.

  When she came back to herself, Naomi was alone in the hallway. Standing up, she checked herself for injuries, afraid of what she would find. Miraculously, her body seemed to be intact. She walked on shaky legs toward the wrecked apartment. As she reached the doorway, the two remaining operators pushed out, oblivious to her presence, talking quickly but calmly into their lip mics.

  “TOC, this is Alpha 4, I have four agents down. I need EMTs now.”

  Naomi stepped into the devastation, slipping her pistol back into its holster. The cheap furnishings had been nearly destroyed, the carpet littered with splinters of wood and shards of shattered glass. One of the terrorists was lying spread-eagled on the floor. She felt bile rise in her throat when she saw what was left of the man’s face. She looked away quickly and forced a few shallow breaths, briefly catching the voices behind her in the process: “TOC, make that five down. I repeat, five down. Two tangos out of play. Confirm ambulances en route.”

  Passing into one of the bedrooms, she was aware of distant sirens. The room was sparsely furnished, its most notable feature a desk that had been smashed by bullets, and what looked like the remains of a laptop computer.

  Fatima Darabi was sitting against the wall where she had fallen. Her body was ruined, but her mind was still intact and all she knew was pain. She opened her mouth to breathe. When nothing happened, she realized that she had only a few seconds left. Through the rapidly encroaching darkness, Darabi watched as the dazed-looking woman wandered into the room.

  Darabi’s fading brown eyes flickered to the handgun lying next to her. One of the agents had kicked it out of reach just after he fired a half dozen rounds into her chest. It was a stretch, but she would try for it anyway. Her body was dying, but the hatred that drove her was as strong as ever.

  As Naomi examined the contents of the desk, she sensed something move behind her. She turned to stare at the body propped up against the wall, thinking she must have imagined the sound — until the eyes moved. Then, to her disbelief, the woman’s hand was reaching out for the Makarov that lay a few feet to her right. The operators had obviously assumed, in their haste to get back to their fallen team members, that the subject was dead. But she wasn’t dead, at least not yet, and the gun was in her hand and rising as Naomi frantically groped for her own pistol…

  Naomi was far too late. The dying terrorist leveled her weapon and squeezed the trigger.

  The pay phone was on the far edge of the lot, shielded from the storefront by a row of dilapidated vehicles, climbing out of a small mountain of refuse and cigarette butts. The metal casing was dented and scarred, and the telephone book absent, having been ripped away from its metal wire a long time ago.

  Vanderveen didn’t need the book, as the number was already seared into his mind. It was the last thing he needed to do in the city. He could not make the call from his cell phone or from his rented home in Virginia. Nor could he have done it from the waterfront, despite the slim chance that it would be traced back to that location. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the U.S. Army Rangers Association. This is Pam speaking, how may I help you?”

  “Hi, Pam. My name is Ryan Kealey. I’m a member of your organization and I receive your newsletter, the ‘Ranger Register.’ I haven’t been getting it lately, though… I recently moved, and I was wondering if you have my new address on file.”

  There was only a minor risk in this approach. She might ask for his Social Security number, former address, date of birth… any number of things, none of which he could answer. If she asked, he would simply hang up and look for another way.

  “What is your new address, Mr. Kealey?”

  He breathed a soft sigh of relief. “It’s 1662 Manor Drive, Springfield, Illinois.” He gave her the zip code. “I wasn’t sure if I sent it or not… Is that what you have?”

  He could hear the distant sounds of a computer keyboard over the line. “No, sir, I have 1334 Village Creek Road, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. I’ll go ahead and change that for you now.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  Vanderveen looked up in annoyance before answering. Several ambulances were racing past him on the Dwight D. Eisenhower Freeway, and he could barely hear the woman over the scream of their sirens. “No. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a good day, sir.”

  Vanderveen hung up and walked back to the Honda. He remembered Kealey as a man with incomparable devotion to the units in which he served. Since he had served in a number of units, it had taken a number of calls. A lot of calls, in fact. Vanderveen had almost given up when it fin
ally came to him.

  In that glorious moment of epiphany, he remembered that Kealey had once gone to the commanding general at Bragg with a fund-raising idea for the Ranger Memorial Foundation. This recollection had then led him to the USARA, one of the leading organizations chaired by former Army Rangers.

  Vanderveen felt a twinge of satisfaction as he crossed the Francis Case Memorial Bridge and left the darkening Washington skyline far behind. He had come to a decision. He was going forward with it. He had come too far, worked too hard to throw it all away now. To assume the woman had taken her own life before talking required a tremendous leap of faith on his part, but he was prepared to take that leap. There was too much to lose if he didn’t.

  It had been a productive day, and Vanderveen allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction at the knowledge that he once more held the power of life and death over a man whose fate should have been sealed on a Syrian hilltop seven years earlier.

  After the late-night dash from the Hay-Adams, Kealey had traded down to a far more modest hotel on the outskirts of Alexandria. He had paid cash in advance before learning that the Elgin story was already dead, thinking that if the reporters managed to track him down, they had probably earned themselves a story. He was drained — physically from the long hours and the constant stress, and emotionally from the protracted argument with Harper that had not managed to resolve itself.

  Ryan had no illusions that his career would continue at the Agency, but he respected Harper, counted him as a friend, and it bothered him that he had walked out of Langley without trying to repair the rift between them.

  He brought the BMW to a halt in the dying light of the hotel’s parking lot. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, allowing himself, just for a moment, a glimpse at what life might hold when it was all said and done. The teaching at Orono wasn’t bad; it was boring, but he could live with that. Maybe he’d get more involved, take on some extra classes. Maybe they would move, find a place closer to the city. Katie had suggested it recently, but he wasn’t sure if she had been serious or not.

  They could go anywhere. Ryan had a great deal of money, mostly inherited from his grandfather on his mother’s side. He tried not to flaunt it… There was the car and the fancy hotels, but the house on Cape Elizabeth, while comfortable, was nothing overly extravagant for the area, and retirement was still nothing more than a distant possibility. The engagement ring had been his biggest purchase by far of the past year.

  At the same time, he wasn’t cheap, and there were so many places they could go…

  He got out of the car and walked toward their room. Maybe, for a while at least, it would be good to get away. He wondered what she would think of a ceremony at sunset on a beach on the Mediterranean, and a smile touched his face at the thought of her reaction. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to ask her.

  Unlocking the door, he was greeted only by silence when he pushed into the room. “Katie?” No answer.

  Looking around, his eyes moved to the bed. Her luggage was sitting on the bedspread, her clothes spilling out of it. Just then she emerged from the bathroom and, seeing him, stopped dead in her tracks. The look on her face said it all.

  It’s your fault, Ryan, a little voice inside told him. You’ve been ignoring her for weeks. You should have expected this.

  Still, he had to ask it. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

  There was a long silence as she summoned up her resolve. When she did, her words hit him like a slap in the face: “I’m leaving, Ryan. I’m going back to Maine.”

  He had seen it coming, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Why?” She didn’t answer, instead moving forward to cram the rest of her clothes in the bag. “Katie, please, just… Will you stop for a second?”

  Her movements slowed until she stopped completely and looked up at him. Even from across the room, he could see that she was trying hard not to cry.

  “Why are you leaving?”

  “‘Why?’” She was incredulous, staring at him with a strange combination of anger, disappointment, and hurt on her face. “Are you seriously asking me that? Ryan, I’ve hardly seen you in the past few days, and all I can think about is what you’re doing and whether you’re okay or not. Do you have any idea how hard that is? Do you even remember why I came down here in the first place?”

  “Yes, I do know. I told you—”

  “You’re such a liar,” she interrupted bitterly. The look in her eyes reflected the pain she was feeling. “You don’t understand at all. If you did, even a little bit, you wouldn’t be putting me through this. You would know how much it hurts.”

  He was beginning to realize how serious this actually was. “Katie, I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I swear…”

  She was still staring at him. The disappointment had given way to a gaze of distrust, which was somehow far worse. “I love you, Ryan,” she finally said. “I do. But I can’t be here while this is going on, I just can’t. Being here, so close but not knowing what’s happening, wondering if someone’s going to knock on the door in the middle of the night and tell me that you—” She broke off abruptly, unable or unwilling to verbalize the thought. “It’s just too much for me.”

  A horn sounded outside. Katie swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and picked up her bag. “That’s for me,” she whispered. “I called a taxi. My ticket is waiting at the airport.”

  Ryan didn’t know what to do. For all the anguish he was feeling, the worst part was seeing her in pain. He thought about reaching out for her, trying to hold her back, but sensed that that would only make things worse. He was fighting for words. How often does everything come down to a few sentences? What could he offer that might limit the distance between them? Say something.

  “Katie?” She turned at the door but refused to lift her gaze. “I hope you understand that what I said before, about needing you… I meant that, you know? I can’t think of anything else, or say anything else that would be more true.”

  She let go of what might have been a choked sob, but she still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Don’t call me, Ryan.”

  “What?” The panic started to rise inside. He took a step toward her. “Katie, listen—”

  “No!” She held up a wavering hand to stop him. “Just… don’t, okay? Not for a while. I need some time.”

  “Katie!” She was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

  He stared after her in disbelief, wanting to follow but unable to move, trying desperately to figure out what the hell had just happened. Looking around, he was vaguely aware of sterile prints and stock furniture. This would be life without her, he knew. Flat surroundings and still air.

  He couldn’t go back to that, not after what she had given him. He needed time, time to think about it, time to figure out how to get her back, but something was piercing his thoughts. He looked around, dazed, still trying to get his mind around the disaster that had just transpired. His cell phone was sitting on the dresser where he had tossed it earlier. After staring at it for a good twenty seconds, he finally realized that it was ringing.

  Ryan was running back out to the car less than thirty seconds later. The tires on his BMW left a 6-foot strip of rubber behind as he peeled out into the night, back toward the city lights, back toward Washington. He had taken his jacket and his phone. For the moment, decisions about Katie would just have to wait.

  CHAPTER 27

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  When Naomi woke, her return to the world was a gradual process. First she had a sense of shadows spread across the ceiling, separated only by fine threads of yellow light. As she gained a sense of her surroundings — a hospital? — the light seemed to bleed into the dark patches, so that she soon became aware of the faces staring down at her. She read them carefully as her vision cleared. When she saw concern and not dread in their eyes, she felt relief wash through her body.

  Ryan took her hand as Harper went to look for a nurse. “Naomi, can you hear me
?”

  She tried to speak, but her throat was dry and she wasn’t altogether there yet. “Mmmm.”

  “You’re going to be fine,” he assured her. “You took two rounds, but the vest caught both of them. I wouldn’t move around for a little while, though. It’s going to hurt.”

  Sure enough, she felt a crushing pain in her chest when she tried to sit up. Ryan eased her head back onto the pillow and smoothed her hair. “Jesus, I just told you not to move,” he said in quiet exasperation. “I don’t believe you sometimes. If I told you not to run into traffic, you’d probably do it just to spite me.”

  She smiled weakly. “How long have I been out?”

  “About three hours. How do you feel?”

  She tested her limbs and winced. “Sore. Can I have some water?”

  As Ryan went to fill a cup from the sink, she said, “When can I go home?”

  “We’re waiting to see,” he replied gently. He handed her the cup. “Try to get some rest.” He squeezed her hand as she drank. Harper reentered the room, followed soon thereafter by a harried-looking nurse. The young woman proceeded to check Naomi’s vital signs as Ryan pulled the deputy director toward the door.

  Once they were in the hall, he leveled Harper with angry eyes. “What the fuck was she doing on that raid, John?”

  “She’s a grown woman,” Harper responded quietly. “She wanted the chance and I gave it to her. Besides, you’re in no position to question me, Ryan, not after the shit you pulled with Elgin.”

  The younger man looked away and tried to calm himself. Anger wouldn’t help him here, and he knew it. “What was in the apartment?” he finally asked.