“Go!” he said to Raseen, placing the rifle down by his feet. “Move!”
He punched the button and the window came up as she started the engine and pulled into traffic. Cars were fishtailing to a halt behind them, but the road ahead appeared to be clear. “Did they get him?” she was saying excitedly. “Was he hit? Was he hit?”
Vanderveen turned to look out the rear window. He could hear distant two-tone sirens but didn’t see anyone following as the Mercedes swung onto the rue Guersant, slipping into the busy traffic. “Slow it down. There’s nobody behind us.”
“Did they get him?”
He thought of Tabrizi’s body crumpling, hitting the pavement. He visualized the second volley punching up his legs and into his back.
“Yeah, they got him. He’s gone.”
CHAPTER 24
WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA
It was just after two in the afternoon when they left the restaurant. The Suburban was waiting at the curb, but Harper crossed to the passenger-side window, leaned in, and dismissed his driver, preferring to walk for a while. The rain had moved on, and the air was beginning to warm, steam rising up from the damp pavement. Overhead, the sun poked out from behind thick gray clouds. They walked south on 6th, skirting a small knot of tourists before taking a left on E Street. As they strolled, Kealey quietly brought Harper up to date on what was happening at the NCTC.
When he was finished, Harper said, “Do you think it’ll come to anything?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kealey paused. “Naomi keeps surprising me, John. I don’t remember her being this capable.”
Harper flicked a sideways glance at the younger man, wondering where this was going. “I don’t know why you would say that, Ryan. Every fitness report she’s ever received has been stellar. Emmett Mills, for one, can’t say enough about her. He desperately wants her back, but I think it’s time to give her a starring role at the CTC. She’s more valuable here than she is in London.”
Kealey nodded and was about to comment when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at the number, and flipped it open. “Yeah?”
It was Kharmai. “Ryan, I’ve got something.” Her voice was tinged with excitement, but there was a crackle of static. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I’ve got you. What did you find?”
She explained about the calls she’d made to the various CIA stations, and then told him about Staibler’s contact in Port Said East. “This guy has access to everything, including collection logs. In other words, he can tell us exactly who arrived at the port to collect containers on a given date. Over a three-month period, the same man signed for containers coming off vessels that Mason was using. I can’t guarantee they’re the same containers, of course, but—”
“Naomi, what was the name?” Kealey asked impatiently.
“Erich Kohl.” She paused for effect. “It’s Vanderveen, Ryan. He was in Egypt on those three dates, collecting consignments. We found the link.”
He stopped in his tracks, and Harper looked at him, questioning. His head was buzzing, but he didn’t know why; when it came to the movement of arms through Anthony Mason, Kealey had suspected that Vanderveen was playing a key role all along.
Still, they had no idea where the man was, and Rashid al-Umari was proving equally elusive. As if reading his thoughts, Naomi continued. “There’s something else. I had a hunch about the vessels Mason was using, so I checked them out, and some never docked on the dates he specified. In fact, some of them don’t exist at all.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I ran the names through the NCIC, and as it turns out, his contacts were listed under the container ships heading. That’s why we couldn’t find them anywhere else… I guess listing them that way was just one of his little security measures. Unfortunately, most of them are black holes. I’ve already contacted MI5, Interpol, Mossad, and come up with nothing. Some are in prison, some have fallen off the radar completely, but one jumped right off the screen. The R.B. Boderon out of Honduras.”
“Why would you run container ships through the NCIC? The database doesn’t—”
“Ryan, just listen, would you?” It was her turn to lose patience. “That ship doesn’t exist. Boderon is an alias used in the past by a man named Thomas Rühmann. He’s an Austrian industrialist and suspected arms broker. He’s quite influential, apparently, but there’s more to it than that. For one thing, he used to work for the UN. As a weapons inspector. In Iraq.”
Kealey paused to take that in. “And where is Rühmann now?”
“Well, that’s the thing. He’s…”
The silence went on. “Naomi? What’s wrong?”
“Hold on. Something’s happening here.”
Inside the Liberty Crossing Building, a strange tension in the air had caught her attention. Naomi stood up from behind her desk and unconsciously pressed the phone to her chest as she surveyed the room. Everyone on the ground floor was wearing an animated expression, and most were typing furiously, while others were relaying urgent messages over the phone. Some were juggling both tasks with varying success.
Her eyes moved up to the second floor, where supervisors were hurriedly walking from room to room, presumably looking for updates. Naomi finally found her answer in the most obvious location, the 70-inch protection screen that hung from the second-floor walkway. The images that confronted her were horrific, bodies strewn across the street in front of a large, pale building with hundreds of windows, dozens of which were shattered. Sitting back down at her desk, she brought up the feed on her screen, then turned up the volume to hear the voice-over:
“…attack occurred at 7:03 PM Paris time. This video was shot by a tourist outside Le Meridien Etoile, the site of a two-day economic conference being held by the International Chamber of Commerce. According to witnesses, a number of conference attendees were exiting the hotel when a black Ford sedan sped down the boulevard, then braked to a halt in front of the main entrance. Automatic gunfire was leveled at the crowd from the passenger-side window. Although French police have yet to release a statement, the attack is believed to have claimed the lives of…”
Naomi listened for thirty seconds more before remembering that Ryan was still on the line. She lifted the phone back to her ear and, in a shaking voice, explained what she’d just heard.
On E Street, Kealey lowered the cell and looked at Jonathan Harper, who was methodically beating his pockets, obviously wondering where his own phone had gone.
Giving up the search, Harper turned to the younger man and said, “Tell me.”
“Two men just attacked a hotel in Paris. At least eight people are dead, including Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, the Iraqi foreign minister.”
“Oh, Christ,” Harper muttered. “This can’t get worse.”
CHAPTER 25
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Naomi Kharmai had never been more nervous; at least, not in the absence of imminent physical danger. Her hands were shaking, and her breath — when she could breathe at all — was coming in quick, short spurts. For the third time in a row, she stood and walked on shaky legs to the room’s only mirror. She checked her reflection with overly critical eyes, smoothing her hair and examining her suit. It was a Donna Karan two-piece in burgundy wool, the best she owned. Oblivious to the admiring gaze of the Secret Service agent standing nearby, she adjusted her skirt and turned to Kealey, who was slumped in a chair next to the door. He was wearing an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit he had borrowed from Harper. “Ryan, are you sure I—”
“Naomi, you look fine, okay? Try to relax.”
She turned back to the mirror in exasperation. He hadn’t even looked. She wondered how he could be so calm; as far as she knew, he had never met the president, either, or even been to the White House.
They were waiting in a dimly lit lobby on the first floor of the West Wing. Brenneman was in a meeting with the DCI, Jonathan Harper, and a number of FBI officials, including Harry Judd. Several hours ea
rlier, Naomi had brought Kealey and the DDO up to speed on everything she had learned since the assassination in Paris. Afterward, Harper had talked to Andrews, asking that Kharmai be allowed to brief the president herself. Naomi had tried to flatly refuse, but Harper had insisted and assuaged her fears. Or at least he had made the effort; now, waiting to be called in, she was once again seized with terror. It didn’t make sense, and she was frustrated with her inexplicable lack of control. She was a professional, and she believed in what she had to say. At the same time, she had never even briefed the DCI, let alone the president of the United States, and she knew she only had one chance to make a convincing argument. She was determined to do so.
Naomi had been working feverishly ever since the attack. Through her contacts at the DGSE, she had learned the identities of the two gunmen. Both were Iranian, which, unfortunately, did not help the case she was about to make to the president. Tehran had yet to make an official statement, though she was confident that the regime would deny having played a part in the incident. For the most part, everything she had managed to dig up pointed in one direction: the Iraqi insurgency. Now, all she had to do was convince the president that she was right. In that respect, she rated her chances as good. What she was going to propose afterwards, however, might not be received as well, even though the DDO and the DCI had both agreed with her assessment.
She heard a door open behind her, and she swung on her heels, her heart leaping into her throat. The aide nodded to her and then to Kealey, who was still seated.
“Ms. Kharmai? Mr. Kealey? They’re ready for you. Follow me, please.”
Naomi stepped past the aide and entered the Roosevelt Room first, her leather briefing folder tucked tightly under her right arm. Kealey followed a few steps behind. Jonathan Harper, the only other person in the room, was waiting for them. He was standing before the fireplace, examining the Nobel Prize on the mantle. Naomi recalled that Theodore Roosevelt had won the prize for his work in ending the Russo-Japanese War, though she couldn’t remember the year. When the door closed behind them, Harper turned and crossed the beige Berber carpet. She immediately saw that his face was set in a grim expression, which didn’t help her nerves at all.
“The director stepped out to make a call,” Harper informed them. “The man himself is about to walk in here, so I’ll make this quick. Judd just railroaded us.”
“What are you talking about?” Kealey asked.
“Apparently, the Bureau has a source with strong ties to the Iranian government. This man predicted the attempt on al-Maliki, as well as the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi. They’ve been feeding this information to the National Security Council for weeks.”
Naomi shook her head, trying to see all the angles. “If they knew, why didn’t they pass the warnings along? Why did the attacks still take place?”
“The information was passed along. The Iraqis just didn’t act on it in time. Both attacks occurred earlier than anticipated, and in different places.”
“Is the president buying this?” Kealey asked doubtfully. “We don’t have much to implicate the Iranians.”
“He wants to. He’s been looking for an excuse to hit Iran ever since Senator Levy was killed last October.”
Both Kharmai and Kealey considered that for a moment. The previous year, the United States had formed an alliance with France and Italy to limit European oil exploration in Iran, the goal being to curtail the funds working their way into the regime’s weapons program. In response, the Iranians had formed a partnership with al-Qaeda to destroy the nascent alliance. They had started by targeting Senator Daniel Levy, the Senate majority leader and Iran’s most vocal opponent on the Hill. Levy had been a close friend of the president and one of his most ardent supporters. While the Iranian regime was never concretely linked with that attack — or those that followed — it was widely believed that the new hard-line regime had played a decisive role.
“So where do we stand?” Naomi asked. “Am I still doing the briefing?”
Harper opened his mouth to answer the question, but never got the chance. The door to the right of the fireplace swung open, and Director Andrews walked in, followed immediately by President David Brenneman.
The president walked over to Kealey first and extended a hand. “Ryan, it’s good to see you again. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”
“I feel the same way, sir, but we’ll find who was responsible.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that we will.”
Listening to this strangely familiar exchange, Naomi was stunned. Here was yet another surprise: Ryan had met the president at least once before. But when? Her mind began ticking off the possibilities, but David Brenneman was already crossing the carpet toward her. He looked older in person, she thought, although it might just have been the strain of the past few weeks. He was tall — at least six feet four — and trim, with neat silver-brown hair and strong, handsome features. Despite the anger clouding his face, he looked presidential. She felt her mouth go dry as he offered a hand. She accepted it, painfully aware of how damp her own palms were.
“Naomi, I’m pleased to meet you. It should have happened before now… I know you played an important role in last year’s events. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, young lady.”
“Thank you, sir,” she managed. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”
She instantly wished she’d limited her response to a polite nod, but the president didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. He gestured to the table and said, “Let’s get started, shall we?” They all took the appropriate seats, Brenneman at the head of the table. “Ms. Kharmai, I understand you’ve stumbled onto… excuse me, discovered, some interesting information regarding today’s attack in Paris.”
“Yes, sir.” She started to rise, but Brenneman waved her back into the seat.
“Unless you need the screen, we can do this in comfort,” he said. “Please proceed.”
“Of course, Mr. President.” Naomi flipped open her briefing folder, took a deep breath, and did her best to steady her jangling nerves. “Sir, let me start from the beginning. You see, the story does not begin with the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, but rather with the shipment of weapons through Anthony Mason to ports in the Middle East, where they were collected by none other than Will Vanderveen. At that time, he was using the name Erich Kohl. Over the next six months…”
She spoke for twenty minutes, detailing the links between Rashid al-Umari, Arshad Kassem, Anthony Mason, and Vanderveen. She also addressed the possible Iranian connection. Watching her from across the table, Kealey could not help but admire her poise and the way she managed to tie everything together. It was strange to listen to her speak to this audience; for the first time, he was acutely aware of her East Midlands accent, which had never seemed more out of place than it did in this room.
Naomi concluded by referencing Thomas Rühmann. “He’s actually an Austrian national, but accommodations have been made for him by some of his friends in the German federal cabinet. Though he’s listed on the boards of some of Germany’s most reputable companies, we’ve long suspected him of dealing arms to a number of governments and rebel groups. Needless to say, most of his customers are not people we want to see armed. The German government lets him get away with it because he’s done some work for them as well, but he’s also something of an embarrassment. They keep a close eye on him.”
Brenneman nodded and said, “What do you mean by that? They protect him directly?”
“In a way, sir. Let me give you an example. Three years ago, the State Department discovered that Rühmann was involved in the sale of two hundred Starburst man-portable missiles to Adnan al-Ghoul, a senior Hamas official. Incidentally, al-Ghoul has since been killed. Shortly after the sale came to light, State requested a formal audience through the appropriate channels. They expected full cooperation from the Germans, but the door was slammed shut in their faces. And that was then. Apparently, Rühmann has since enlarged his circle of i
nfluential friends, which makes getting access to him even more difficult.”
“Why the wall? Why would they go to that length to protect him, and what did you mean about him being an embarrassment?”
Kealey straightened in his seat and fielded the president’s questions. “Sir, do you remember the incident at Al Qaqaa in 2003?”
Brenneman considered for a moment. “Vaguely. Refresh my memory.”
“Al Qaqaa is a weapons storage facility located about twenty miles south of Baghdad. In 2003, it was reported that more than three hundred eighty tons of explosives, including HMX and RDX, had gone missing from the stockpile. That amounts to about forty truckloads. The New York Times was the first to break the story. Predictably, everyone started pointing fingers. The IAEA said that the material was accounted for in January of that year, and that U.S. troops were responsible for safeguarding the facility. The Pentagon turned the accusation around, but no one ever really took the blame. Some of the explosives later turned up, used in attacks on our troops, but most of it simply vanished. There was a lot of dispute afterward about what else might have been stored at Al Qaqaa.”
“How does Rühmann fit in?”
“Thomas Rühmann was in Iraq at the time, sir,” Naomi said. “In fact, he was the UN representative in charge of the last inspection at Al Qaqaa. That is, the last inspection before the explosives disappeared. Questions were asked, of course, but he resigned his post with the UN before his name came up, and his connections have since kept him out of the spotlight. Frankly, the Germans just want to forget the whole thing.”
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