Harper pointed to a chair and said, “What kept you? Christ, you’re soaked.”
“I felt like walking.”
“From where? McLean?”
Kealey poured some of the tea and looked down at his damp clothes. “I got caught in the downpour.”
There was a slight tap at the door, and the woman reappeared. She smiled demurely and handed him a towel. He was surprised but accepted it gratefully. Harper murmured a few words in Chinese, and the woman departed.
“This is a nice place,” Kealey remarked, working the towel through his hair. “How did you find it?”
“I know the owner. He’s Burmese, a former diplomat. I worked with him when I was attached to the State Department back in ’94. He liked the city so much he decided to stay. He bought this place when he retired. I don’t come here that often, but they seem to remember me.”
“So you weren’t just speaking Chinese?”
Harper shook his head and laughed. “I hope we never need you for anything over there. You’d be dead in a week, with those language skills.”
Kealey offered a slight smile. The DDO set down his fork and bent down to a case by his feet, then straightened and slid two manila folders over the patterned tablecloth. The younger man pulled them across and opened the first. It contained what he’d requested from Harper that very morning: black-and-white photocopies of Samantha Crane’s personnel file. He instantly began flipping through the pages.
“Interesting stuff,” Harper said, digging back into his meal. “I got the files through a friend at the Bureau, my old roommate at Boston College. He’s pretty high up now, a section chief at the Los Angeles field office, and he owed me a favor.”
“Some favor,” Kealey said.
“Yeah, well, he knows about this woman firsthand. Samantha Crane has a reputation of sorts, and it’s not the good kind. She was sworn in as a special agent six years ago. Since then, she’s killed eight people in the line of duty and wounded a dozen more.”
Kealey looked up. “Jesus.”
Harper nodded. “Amazingly, all of the shootings were cleared by the Office of Professional Responsibility, but as you can imagine, it left a bad taste in the Bureau’s mouth. They don’t like that kind of publicity. Fortunately for Crane, she has a guardian angel.”
The waitress returned, bearing more food. As she began unloading the dishes, both men fell silent, but Kealey continued to flip through the file. Samantha Evelyn Crane was born on June 8th, 1978, in Scranton, Pennsylvania. She’d earned a degree in criminal justice from Penn State in 1999, but not before attending the Windward School in Los Angeles from ’90 to ’93.
“She was only a kid when she went to this Windward place. What’s that about?”
“It’s a private school and very prestigious,” Harper replied. “It turns out a lot of promising young actors; in fact, Crane did a fair amount of commercial work as a teenager. You won’t find this in the file, but she was in her second year at the school when she lost her parents. Her father was a full colonel, an army Apache pilot, heavily decorated. He was shot down behind Iraqi lines in ’91, but they never found the body. He’s still listed as MIA.”
“And the mother?”
Harper looked uneasy. “She killed herself. Slit her wrists two months after she was notified of her husband’s disappearance. I had some people check it out, though… Apparently, she was going downhill prior to the incident. Drugs, alcohol abuse, that kind of thing.”
Kealey turned his attention back to the paperwork, but Harper could tell his mind was somewhere else. He knew they were both thinking the same thing: that Samantha Crane’s childhood bore a remarkable similarity to that of William Vanderveen. Major General Francis Vanderveen had also been a heavily decorated officer, only with the South African Defence Force instead of the U.S. military. The elder Vanderveen was killed during the South African invasion of Angola in 1975, and shortly thereafter, his wife, Julienne, committed suicide, leaving Will Vanderveen an orphan at the age of nine. According to the file, Crane had not been much older when she’d endured the same.
The second folder contained info on Matt Foster, the agent who’d fired the shots that killed Anthony Mason. Foster was twenty-five years old, a graduate of Amherst College and Phillips Exeter Academy. Interestingly, he’d never been involved in an on-duty shooting until the raid in Alexandria. Apart from that piece of info, there was little to go on. Disappointed, Kealey set the folders aside and started in on a plate of egg noodles. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he hoped the food might settle his queasy stomach.
Picking up the thread, Kealey said, “So what about Crane? Who’s looking out for her?”
Harper leaned forward, inadvertently shifting the tablecloth. “You’re never going to believe it, Ryan, but as it turns out, her aunt is none other than Rachel Ford.”
Kealey set down his fork and stared across the table. “As in our Rachel Ford? The deputy DCI?”
“One and the same.”
Kealey exhaled slowly, taking it in. “That’s incredible.”
“I know. I couldn’t believe it either.”
“It makes sense, though.”
“What do you mean?”
Kealey told him about the confrontation at the hotel that morning. “She said something strange, John. She was talking about the raid in Alexandria, and the way I knocked her to the ground to get her out of the line of fire. I guess I was a little rough. Anyway, she said, ‘Your little college flashback didn’t stop him from shooting me.’”
“So?”
“So I played cornerback at the University of Chicago. Just two seasons, and I didn’t start, but how the hell could she have known that unless she was checking up on me?”
Harper nodded slowly. “That makes sense. And the only way she could do that is with help from someone high up in the Agency. Someone like Ford.”
“That’s probably how she found out I had the laptop as well.” Kealey’s face tightened in anger. “This Ford woman is really starting to piss me off. Why is she going after me, and why in this way?”
“The accusation carries more weight if it comes from another agency, Ryan. And I already told you why she’s after you — because you keep making it easy for her, and because you’re part of my directorate. It doesn’t matter, though; you’re in the clear on the laptop.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
“The attorney general received a call from Harry Judd this morning. Basically, Judd accused us of interfering in a Bureau investigation and tampering with evidence. He was calling to ask about the possibility of filing charges.”
Kealey closed his eyes and shook his head. Crane must have set things in motion right after she left his room.
“Anyway,” Harper was saying, “the attorney general advised the president of the situation.”
“That probably wasn’t a good idea.”
“It wasn’t,” Harper agreed. “Brenneman already has too much on his plate. The election is coming up. He needs to be campaigning, but instead, he’s dealing with this shit in Iraq. More U.S. soldiers have died in the past week than in the past two months combined. A pissing contest between the Bureau and the CIA is the last thing he needs right now.”
“So he sent word to the respective directors to work it out themselves,” Kealey guessed. “Or face the consequences.”
“I know Andrews got the call, but I can’t say for sure what happened at the Hoover Building. Anyway, you said that Crane instigated this. My guess is that word trickled down from the director’s office. Someone probably told her she was lucky not to have gone the way of the ADIC and to keep her mouth shut.”
Kealey nodded. Craig Harrington, the assistant director in charge of the WFO, had already been placed on administrative leave. The Judiciary Oversight Committee was looking for someone to take the fall for the disastrous raid on Mason’s warehouse, and Harrington was emerging as the most likely candidate.
“The Bureau will still want the compute
r, though,” Kealey pointed out.
Harper nodded. Having cleared his plate, he set his fork aside and said, “Andrews advised me we are obliged to turn over the laptop within twenty-four hours. I guess he struck some kind of deal with Judd. Either way, I can’t postpone it forever, Ryan. I hope Naomi is working fast.”
At that moment, Kharmai was hurrying back to her temporary desk in McLean, holding a half-empty can of Sprite. Over the past two hours, she’d done everything she could think of to generate leads on Mason’s files. She’d entered every name she could find into the NCIC, but so far, no flags had been raised. She’d struck out with Interpol as well. In a final act of desperation, she had placed calls to a number of CIA stations, all of which were located in countries with ports on Mason’s list. She was hoping something might come of her last-ditch effort, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Her phone started to ring when she was halfway across the floor, and she immediately increased her pace.
Sprinting the last few feet, she snatched it up. “Kharmai.”
“Naomi, it’s Bill Staibler.”
Her heart thumped with anticipation. Staibler was a veteran case officer operating out of Cairo. She’d first gotten through to him two hours earlier. During that brief conversation, he’d intimated that his network of agents included a number of dockworkers on the Egyptian coast. That little tidbit made him a star on her sad little list of prospects. “Hi, sir. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem.” He sounded tired. Naomi remembered the time difference and glanced at her watch. It was nearly 7:00 PM in Cairo; Staibler must have been coming off a long day.
“According to your information,” he was saying, “this guy Mason had a container on the Kustatan, a Panamanian vessel which docked in Port Said East on the eighteenth of August. Unfortunately, you don’t have a container number. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. The info I have is fragmented at best.”
“Okay, well, here’s what I can do for you. I can give you a list of all the containers off-loaded that day, as well as the names of the people who collected them. It’s all documented. One of my assets came through for me, but I have to warn you: if Mason’s container was transferred to another ship, you’re shit out of luck. As for what came off the boat, I can tell you what is supposed to be in those containers. That information is listed on the manifests, but as you know, they don’t count for much. You can run the names I’m giving you through the system at Langley, of course, but I’d be surprised if anything comes back.”
He paused, perhaps sensing her disappointment. “I’m sorry, Kharmai, but this is the best I can do.”
She let out a little sigh of frustration before catching herself. She hoped he hadn’t heard it over the line. “I understand, Mr. Staibler. Anyway, thanks for trying. I’d still like to see the log, though, if you don’t mind sending it over.”
“You have a secure fax number?”
She gave it to him and ended the call, then walked over to a bank of fax machines on the east side of the room. A minute later, one of them started to whir. The machine spit out three sheets of paper. Naomi snatched them up and walked back to her desk, where she slumped into her seat and began to read.
Two minutes later, she straightened and her eyes opened wide. Placing the loose pages on her lap, she rapidly brought Mason’s files up on her screen, then scrolled down until she found the appropriate dates. Picking up the phone, she quickly got Staibler back on the line. He sounded slightly annoyed at this second demand on his time, but not unwilling to help.
“Sir, I think I have something here. Is there any way your asset can get me the collection logs from Port Said for two other dates?”
“Possibly. What are they?”
“June twenty-first and July seventeenth.” She continued to read from her screen. “On the date in June, I’m looking for a vessel registered in Italy, the Cala Levante. The vessel that docked in July is Honduran, the Belladonna. I want to know who collected the containers from both of those vessels. A complete list if possible. And, Mr. Staibler, I need this ASAP.”
“You got it. Give me an hour.”
For the next thirty minutes, Kharmai paced steadily behind her desk, the other analysts shooting her little looks of concern or annoyance, depending on their personal inclinations. Lost in thought, she was blind to the attention she was receiving, but eventually, she forced herself to sit down, take a deep breath, and concentrate.
Her feet were aching, so she slipped off her pumps and slid her feet under the desk, massaging one bare foot with the other, then reversing the process. She found this little quirk of hers to be immensely helpful when thinking things through.
First, she considered what she’d found on the collection log from the Egyptian port. Potentially, it was a very important piece of information, but it wasn’t a breakthrough. Even if Staibler could produce verification, it wasn’t going to bring them any closer to finding William Vanderveen, or Rashid al-Umari, for that matter. She needed a workable lead, but where could she find it? The names on the documents in Mason’s computer had seemed so promising, but none had panned out. There had been partially composed letters, faxes, even an invoice or two. She’d run everything through the NCIC and the Pentagon’s database, but nothing had matched. It just didn’t make sense.
Her head snapped up as she realized something. She had never checked the list of vessels through the system, and some of them didn’t sound like ships at all. In fact, some of them sounded very much like first and last names. It might be nothing, she thought, but at this point, anything was worth a try.
The Mercedes was parked perpendicular to the boulevard Gouvion Saint-Cyr. From the backseat, Vanderveen had a clear line of sight down the length of the road. The façade of Le Meridien Etoile, glowing amber in the light of the fading sun, could be seen rising above the boulevard, and in front, a number of hired cars and taxis were lined up to accept and discharge passengers.
Raseen had pointed out the unmarked Peugeot 406 shortly after they’d moved into position. The rear window was heavily tinted, but Vanderveen could make out the vague outlines of two occupants. According to Raseen, both were CRS officers assigned to Tabrizi. The men were almost certainly trained in close-quarter protection. He knew they would react instantly when the first shots were fired; for this reason, his own shots had to be perfectly placed.
As Vanderveen watched through a pair of binoculars, the passenger lifted a phone to his right ear and held it there for approximately fifteen seconds. A number of conference attendees were already beginning to stream out through the steel-and-glass doors, though most were still upstairs, presumably mulling over business opportunities with their peers.
“What’s happening?” Raseen asked impatiently. She was fidgeting behind the wheel, her fingers tapping out a nervous, irregular beat on her thighs.
“It looks like somebody just called one of those officers. I think he’s coming out.”
Raseen looked at the clock in the dashboard, then lifted her phone and speed-dialed a number. When the call was answered on the other end, she simply said, “It’s time. Get moving.”
She kept the phone to her ear, tucked under her hair, as Vanderveen studied the sidewalk outside the hotel. Finally, the target stepped into view, a third bodyguard trailing a half step behind. “I’ve got him. Charcoal suit, yellow tie. Third from the left.”
Raseen repeated the information over the line. As the last word left her mouth, a black Ford sedan pulled up alongside them, then swung a hard left onto the boulevard, tires squealing.
“Idiots,” Vanderveen hissed. “They’re going too fast.”
Raseen was still relaying rapid instructions as she lowered the rear window from her console, each word running into the next. “You have him crossing the road, third from the left, third from the left….”
Vanderveen had the G2 ready, the barrel stabilized on a large pack level with the open window. Cars passing by could see into the Mercedes, could
see the rifle, but it couldn’t be helped. He found the notch for his cheek and positioned his right eye behind the Leupold scope.
Alerted by the fast-moving vehicle, the bodyguard walking with Tabrizi began pulling his principal back toward the hotel. The Ford squealed to a halt in the middle of the road, smoke rising up from the tires. A long burst of automatic fire erupted from the passenger-side window. The first volley was off, tearing into a line of parked cars, then over the sidewalk and into the glass doors of the hotel. A number of people were on the ground, blood spattered over the pavement, screams rising up as panic ensued. Tabrizi was only a few steps from safety when Vanderveen saw him stumble. Then his arms splayed out, his body jerking violently as a number of rounds ripped into his back. The physician dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap. The bodyguard collapsed next to him, but managed to crawl a few feet before being hit with a final burst, his life blitzed away in an instant.
The Ford was already squealing away as the first officer exited the Peugeot and brought his FAMAS to bear. He released a long burst of automatic fire after the departing vehicle, the rear windshield shattering instantly.
Despite the frantic scene unfolding before him, Vanderveen had been breathing slowly and steadily from the moment the Ford first accelerated down the boulevard. Now he found the gaping hole in the rear windshield. Through the scope, he could see that the passenger was slumped over the center console, the driver clearly fighting for control of the car. He centered the crosshairs on the back of the headrest, released the air from his lungs, and squeezed the trigger.
The suppressor dulled the report and the muzzle flash, but even at 270 yards, the effect of the 3-round burst was obvious. The headrest on the driver’s side exploded in a puff of white cotton filler, and the Ford lurched from the road, swiping a number of vehicles before grinding to a halt. The CRS man stopped firing and moved forward cautiously, his back to the Mercedes, as the third officer — one of the two left standing — ran out to assist the wounded, having already called for an ambulance. Apparently, Vanderveen’s shots had gone unnoticed.
The Assassin Page 20
