The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  The question kept popping up in her mind, but she didn’t have time to consider it further, as he was saying something, returning her inquiry.

  “Oh, I’ve been okay, I guess.” Trying to conceal her initial reaction, she smiled and tilted her head. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  He looked her over quickly. Her glossy black hair was cut short, falling just to her shoulders, and she was wearing a featherweight sweater the color of raspberries, low-slung jeans, and blocky heels. He’d forgotten how young she looked, like a teenaged girl who’d been pushed kicking and screaming into womanhood. It was hard to believe she was in her thirties.

  “Harper told me you were here.”

  “Oh.” She paused uncomfortably, then nodded toward a pair of double doors in carved walnut. “I was going to get a drink. Want to join me?”

  Kealey could barely keep his eyes open, but not wanting to hurt her feelings, he nodded and they went inside. The Two Continents Lobby Restaurant was large and warmly lit, Charlie Parker’s “April in Paris” playing softly over hidden speakers. Despite the relatively early hour, the room was nearly empty. An elderly couple sat at the end of the polished bar, sipping martinis, and a young woman with squinty eyes and silky brown hair was slumped over the counter a few seats down, her body all but consumed by an oversized sweatshirt. Taking in the slightly pathetic scene, Kealey was struck by an absurd desire to laugh; he’d nearly been killed a few hours earlier, and now he was standing in a bar and listening to jazz as though nothing had happened. Strangely enough, it actually felt that way; it was almost as if his mind had already filed away the day’s events, along with the relevant emotions.

  They took their drinks to a corner table and sat across from each other in awkward silence, Naomi intricately involved in the task of picking a loose cotton thread from the sleeve of her sweater.

  “So,” he finally began. “I heard you’re working on al-Umari’s bank accounts.”

  Naomi couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment; they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and the first thing out of his mouth was work related.

  She sighed and said, “That’s right. It’s tough going, though. Most of the banks stand to lose a great deal of business by cooperating, so the first thing I did was place a call to the FATF. They have a way of getting things done, but it still takes some time.”

  Kealey nodded and lifted his glass. The Financial Action Task Force was widely respected for its unique ability to extract information from banks and government agencies alike. Although it consisted of less than a dozen people working out of a Paris apartment, the small group had reliable ties to more than twenty-eight countries, including the United States, a charter member.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “we’ve already come up with something interesting. Rashid al-Umari recently sold off the Muthanna Division of the Southern Iraqi Oil Company, which includes a small refinery just east of Samawah.”

  “Who did he sell it to?”

  “That’s the interesting part.” She leaned forward in her seat, her green eyes sparkling. “How much do you know about real estate transactions in Iraq?”

  His blank expression made the answer clear.

  “Well, to break it down for you, buying real estate in Iraq is very, very difficult,” she said, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Everything is run out of the Real Estate Registration Department, which is part of the Ministry of Justice. When an agreement is reached between buyer and seller, both parties are required to make an appearance at the local RERD office, where their identities are verified, as well as their nationalities. Currently, only Iraqi-born citizens can legally purchase land in Iraq.”

  “To avoid forgery, right? I heard that people were making their own title deeds during the war.”

  “That’s right.” She seemed impressed, and Kealey felt vaguely insulted. He may not have known the specifics, but he did know a little something about the country in which he’d spent the last six months.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “as it turns out, the Muthanna refinery was sold to a conglomerate of twenty-five Iraqi Sunnis, all of whom are active in mosques that have come to our attention for one reason or another, mostly for suspected recruitment of suicide bombers. Six have connections to known terrorist organizations, including Ansar al-Islam, but listen to this: at least three of those men can be directly tied to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

  Kealey was stunned by the reference to the Iranian president. “How the hell was that approved? I mean, if they had to turn up at the RERD—”

  “We don’t think they did,” Naomi said. “It’s starting to look as if some money might have changed hands to, well, expedite the process. You see, the first appearance is just the start of it. If an application for sale is cleared by the RERD, it’s forwarded to the Civil Affairs Department. There, the identities of both parties are double-checked, after which the Monitoring Committee is brought in to confirm both the type and value of the property being sold. Finally, the sale has to be approved by the General Taxes Department, after which the application is filed at the PRER, the Permanent Real Estate Registry. It’s very complicated, and as you said, it never would have been approved if it had gone through the proper channels. A bribe to certain high-level officials would also explain why we didn’t pick up on this earlier… Once the paperwork is filed away, it pretty much disappears.”

  “But we know that the sale was illegal under Iraqi law, right? Doesn’t that negate the transaction?”

  She shook her head and traced the rim of her wineglass with a slender forefinger. “It’s just a suspicion, Ryan. We can’t prove it, but even if we could, we’d have to turn over our findings to the Ministry of Justice. It would be up to them to act on it, and there’s no guarantee when it comes to someone like Rashid al-Umari. I mean, he’s connected to everyone, and he has the money to make things happen.”

  “So in other words, twenty-five Islamic extremists legally purchased an oil refinery in southern Iraq, and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  “Well, we don’t know for a fact that they’re all extremists, but it’s starting to look that way. And there’s something else. According to records, the refinery and the land were valued at more than one hundred forty million dollars, but only sold for half that amount.”

  Kealey thought about that for a second. “I’m guessing al-Umari needed cash in a hurry. Most of his net worth is probably tied up in land and infrastructure.”

  She nodded her agreement. “That would make sense. Anyway, we’re still working with the FATF to track those funds. Of course, the Agency is playing a more direct role in the hunt for the man himself.”

  “I take it you haven’t found a connection between Kassem and al-Umari.”

  “Not yet, but it’s still early.”

  “There’s something there,” Kealey muttered. “I’d stake my life on it.”

  Unfortunately, Harper wasn’t going to allocate resources based on a hunch, which left them with just one lead: Anthony Mason’s laptop. Kealey told her about it, as well as about what had transpired in Alexandria.

  Her eyes were wide when he finished the story. “You’re right. That is a huge coincidence. How did the Bureau suddenly get his location? And why were they so eager to storm the building?”

  “I don’t know,” Kealey answered, “but I plan on finding out.” He drank a little more of his beer and sat quietly for a moment, his gaze drifting around the room. The old couple had left, their empty glasses lined up in a neat row. The bartender appeared to have lost all interest. The young woman in the oversized sweatshirt was working on a huge glass of clear liquid that couldn’t possibly be vodka, though she was starting to look a little unsteady….

  He turned back to Kharmai. “Listen, where did they put you?”

  She shrugged. “Nowhere in particular, but I was planning on working out of the CTC tomorrow.”

  “Davidson has the laptop,” Kealey said, referring to the head analyst at th
e DST. “Do me a favor and check it out, will you? I really need to know if anything’s on there.”

  “Sure. I’ll look at it first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” he said distractedly. He looked at his beer and seemed surprised to find it had hardly been touched. Watching this, Naomi couldn’t help but wonder again what was going on with him. He was the same in so many ways — the same neat movements, the same slightly distant personality that others might mistake for arrogance — but something was definitely wrong. Whatever it was, she didn’t have long to figure it out. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to wait another day for the answer, but he was clearly exhausted and ready to call it a night.

  “So… what else have you been up to?” she asked.

  He seemed to hesitate, then cast her a wary glance. “How much did Harper tell you?”

  “Everything.”

  With her one-word response, some of the tension dropped from his face, as though they had narrowly avoided some dangerous topic. Still, she noticed that he remained on edge, as though he expected her to say something more. Once again, she felt herself wondering….

  “What’s it like over there?”

  “Iraq?” He shrugged in a way that suggested he didn’t want to discuss it. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Do you have to go back?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” Kealey didn’t expand on this, but the truth was that a return to Iraq would be extremely dangerous for him. If the leaders of the insurgency were to learn of his involvement in the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem, they would stop at nothing to get their hands on him. From a broader perspective, things could much worse; if it ever came out that the CIA had been directly involved in the death of a leading Sunni cleric, Kassem would suddenly look like a saint on both sides of the Atlantic.

  “So,” Kealey said, trying to shift the burden of conversation. “What about you? How do you like living in England?”

  She went on for a short while, warmed by the wine, talking about Liz Peterson and the other people she’d grown close to in London, as well as the resurrection of old friendships. It became clear after a few minutes that, despite her love of the city, she was desperate to get back to the States on a more permanent basis. He followed the more interesting things she had to say, nodding along on occasion, nursing his beer in the process.

  After a while his attention wandered, his eyes roving around the bar. Naomi took the opportunity to shoot another quick glance at his bare left hand. Once more she forced the question down, but it kept coming up. She knew it would be completely inappropriate to ask, but she had to know, and there was only one way to find out….

  “So, how’s Katie?”

  She tried to pass it off as a casual question and began to look away, as if the answer was only mildly interesting, but his reaction caught her completely off-guard. His head whipped around, his dark gray eyes finding hers with the first real look he’d given her all night. Taken aback, she only caught part of what happened next: he started to hunch over slightly, as if he’d been kicked in the stomach, and his face contorted in a way that defied the rules of human expression. Belatedly, Naomi realized that she’d missed something important.

  “Ryan, what is it?” Her voice was high and panicked, not her own. “What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer as he got to his feet in one jerky movement, his knee catching the edge of the table. The glasses crashed to the floor, wine and beer spilling everywhere. Naomi was standing a split second later, but rooted in place. She called out after him, but he didn’t respond, and all she could do was watch as he walked away.

  Once he disappeared from view, Naomi looked around in helpless confusion, trying to draw some insight from her spare surroundings. The bartender looked annoyed at the mess, but she barely noticed and cared less, shocked to her core by what had just transpired. Still not seeing it, she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, then punched in the DDO’s direct line. She knew that Harper wouldn’t want to give her any answers over the phone, but she didn’t intend to give him a choice.

  Kealey had only made it as far as the men’s room. The room was otherwise empty as he hunched over the sink, eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping the sides of the basin. He was trying his best to force down another wave of nausea and failing badly.

  He had managed to keep it locked away for so long. Maybe too long. Even after he’d learned that Vanderveen was still alive, he had somehow managed to block out that terrible night, mostly by focusing on the task at hand. None of that mattered, though, because in the end, all it had taken was one innocent question to bring everything crashing back to the surface.

  He straightened slightly and shook his head unconsciously, refusing his own conclusions. None of that was true; he was making excuses, and it wasn’t Naomi’s fault. The truth was that he was tired of fighting it. He was tired of trying to hold it all back, and now, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to think of Katie Donovan.

  Her features sprang to mind on a whim, but they were all peripheral: the way her golden brown hair framed her face, her teasing grin, the way her nose scrunched up when she laughed. It was the way he wanted to remember her, the way she deserved to be seen, but it couldn’t last. The image dissolved without warning, replaced by something else entirely: the expression she’d worn in her last fleeting seconds of life. She had not been able to talk in those final moments, but the look in her panicked blue eyes had said everything. She had begged him for help, begged him to somehow undo what had happened, but he had been helpless. By catching him off-guard, by finding his one true weakness, Will Vanderveen had stripped away everything Kealey had ever cared about: the chance to break free of the things he had seen and done — the chance of a new life with the woman he loved.

  He took a deep, unsteady breath and looked up, staring into his own haunted eyes. For a split second, he was tempted to put a fist through his own reflection. He might have done just that a year earlier, but the rage had started to slip in recent months, replaced by the guilt and despair that comes with prolonged grief and the passage of time.

  He was suddenly aware of a second face in the mirror. Naomi could have been standing there for hours on end; he wouldn’t have known either way. She looked to be on the verge of tears, and for a brief, bitter instant, he wondered if they would be tears of sympathy or embarrassment. Neither would have surprised him.

  “Ryan, I’m so sorry.” She was fumbling for words, her voice little more than a whisper. “Harper just told me. I didn’t know, I swear….”

  “That’s what you said before, Naomi. You said that he told you everything.”

  She hesitated; his voice was too calm. “That’s not what I… I mean—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He turned unexpectedly, and suddenly he was like a different person, his face assuming a tight but neutral expression. “I’m fine, okay? Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She paused again. “Ryan, I’m here. If you want to talk—”

  “I don’t.” He met her gaze; the message was clearly conveyed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Finally, she left reluctantly, the door easing shut behind her, and Kealey returned his gaze to the sink.

  CHAPTER 19

  DORDOGNE, FRANCE

  The Loire Valley passed by in a colorful blur, the scenery enhanced by the onset of fall. The sky was cold and contradictory, a flat, gunmetal gray, but the air inside the Mercedes was almost too warm, the heater going full blast.

  Vanderveen stifled a yawn and lowered the window a few inches, trying to ignore the ache in his back. Only now was he beginning to feel the effects of the constant travel and stress over the past few weeks. He was grateful that the woman’s SUV had comfortable seats and plenty of leg room. Turning his head, he could see that she was still staring absently out the passenger-side window, just as she’d been doing for the last several hours. They had passed through Rocamadour, the cathedral city of Tours, and
Sarlat, a town that had scarcely changed in the eight hundred years since its inception. The views were impressive, but Yasmin Raseen had failed to remark on any of it.

  After leaving the bakery in the 8th Arrondissement, they’d paid a short but informative visit to the boulevard Gouvion Saint-Cyr, a narrow, tree-lined road that ran directly past the main entrance of Le Meridien Etoile. Right away, he could see that she’d chosen well; the sight lines were nearly perfect. From there, a quick stop at an Internet café did much to ease Vanderveen’s concerns; he learned that, besides the central police station, there were only two UPQs (District Police Units) in the 17th Arrondissement, both of which were located on the northeast side. The closest was more than 7 kilometers away from the hotel, and as they drove to the parking garage, he noticed for the first time how light the police presence actually was in the southern half of the district. They stopped for supplies, after which he navigated his way through a warren of narrow streets, finding the D50 a few minutes later. Soon they were out of the city, streaking south into rural France.

  During each stop in the city, the woman had quietly reiterated all the information she had gathered over the past week. The repetition didn’t bother him in the least; in fact, he was reassured by her meticulous nature. There was one thing that kept him on edge. The simple truth was that the men she had hired were complete amateurs. What was required of them wasn’t much, but should they fail, security around the target would become impregnable. Still, he had to admit that Yasmin Raseen had performed exceptionally well. She had acquired everything he needed, from the gunmen to the necessary intelligence to the simple black case that was hidden away in the back of the vehicle.