She did as he asked. Following Kealey’s lead, she opened the other. It contained a field-stripped Beretta Tomcat. She stared at the pieces for a long moment, trying to remember the weaponry course she’d taken at Camp Peary five years earlier. It took her two minutes longer than necessary, but she finally managed to put the .32 caliber pistol together. Dry firing it once, she heard a satisfying click. Then she slipped a 7-round magazine into the butt and chambered a round.
The other case contained a Sig P229, the standard-issue weapon of the U.S. Secret Service. This one happened to be chambered for 9mm rounds. Kharmai paused to watch Kealey put the weapon together. She had handed him a case at random, and she couldn’t help but wonder what his reaction would have been if he had ended up with the smaller gun. She didn’t think he’d care that much, but she knew that men could be surprisingly superficial about such things.
Bennett looked uneasy. “You know, I’m not supposed to have those weapons in-country. They’re not registered with the embassy. If anything happens—”
“I don’t think we’ll need them,” Kealey cut in. “But I’m not going in there unarmed.”
“You’ll try to keep this clean?”
“If I can. It’s up to Rühmann.”
“Well, that’s the other thing.” Bennett shot him a curious look. “How do you plan on handling this?”
“I assume Harper briefed you over the phone.”
“He did.”
“Then you know why I’m here. All I want is Vanderveen’s location.”
“And the weapons,” Naomi reminded him. “We need to know who was ultimately taking possession at those ports in the Middle East.”
“Right,” Bennett said. “But then what? You can’t leave him alive. He’ll be on the phone before we leave the building.”
Kealey’s face turned hard. “I realize that. Let’s just get up there and see what he has to say. I’ll figure out what to do after that.”
Bennett shook his head, but he pushed open the door and stepped into the rain. Kealey and Kharmai concealed their weapons and followed his lead. They moved at a quick pace down the flooded sidewalk, reaching the entrance to Reichstagufer 19 a moment later. Bennett punched a button at random, and a voice came over the intercom. “Yes?”
Bennett looked at a loss. Kharmai pushed him aside, scanned the list, and hit the same button. In rapid, exasperated German, she said, “Delivery for 4B. I’m not getting an answer, and I have other stops to make. Do you mind?”
A few seconds later, the door sprung open, and they stepped inside.
On the other side of the road, 20 meters west of the doorway, Yasmin Raseen watched them enter the building. She was sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, the engine on, the heater running at full capacity. She was clearly visible to cars passing by in the road, but that was intentional; she wanted to appear like she was waiting for someone. A magazine was sitting on the passenger seat, the German edition of Vogue. She pushed it aside to reveal the Motorola radio, then pressed the TRANSMIT button. The earpiece was already in position, the wire concealed beneath her hair. “They’re here. Two men and a woman. They just entered the building.”
At that moment, Vanderveen was on the north side of the river, lying prone on the gravel roof of a four-story apartment building. The shooting mat was tucked beneath his body, the olive drab poncho draped over his back. The rain was beating against his back so hard it nearly hurt, and the cold had numbed his exposed skin hours earlier. The weapon that lay before him, the barrel propped up by an integral folding bipod, was a Steyr Scout Tactical with a 5-round box magazine. Through the preinstalled Kahles ZF95 mil-dot scope, he had an excellent view of Rühmann’s brightly lit office, which was not more than 100 meters away, on the far bank of the Spree. As soon as Raseen’s transmission came over the radio, he lowered the stock and returned the call.
“Give it a minute; then get inside.” Raseen had taken the caretaker’s key; she wouldn’t need to be buzzed in. “Stay in the foyer until I give you the word.”
There was a brief crackle of static, and then she acknowledged his words. Vanderveen lifted the rifle back to his shoulder and looked over the river with his naked eye. Under normal conditions, the Steyr Scout was a highly accurate weapon. In this case, however, it was practically useless, and it wasn’t because of the rain. He had picked up the weapon that same afternoon, which meant that he didn’t have time to acquire a zero. The dealer in Dresden had assured him the weapon was sighted in, but that didn’t mean a thing; zeros were different for each shooter.
Even with time to sight in, though, he would have needed to break the Steyr back down to get it up on the roof, as he couldn’t exactly be seen walking around with a fully assembled rifle. Either way, the weapon was less accurate than it was supposed to be, which explained why he wasn’t going to try to take Kealey on the street. He had considered the option, but 5 rounds didn’t leave much room for error, and Kealey was a world-class marksman in his own right. And there was another, more important factor at play: he had brought at least one other person along, the woman named Kharmai.
Vanderveen smiled to himself beneath the poncho. He had anticipated this possibility; in fact, he had anticipated everything. He was satisfied with his preparations, but there was something else, an undercurrent of pure adrenaline, that he couldn’t ignore. It seemed as though everything since Maine had led up to this moment, his chance to finish the work he’d started eight years earlier.
What was waiting for Kealey in Rühmann’s office was simple in concept and design, but extremely lethal in practice. The improvised device he had created was modeled after the M18A1 Claymore antipersonnel mine. Both cans were filled with hundreds of steel ball bearings, the open ends sealed with duct tape. Beneath the ball bearings were thick layers of cardboard, which would act as a buffer, and then the half-pound blocks of Semtex. Vanderveen had punched a hole in the bottom of each can, through which he’d routed the electrical blasting caps. The caps, in turn, were wired to separate 6-volt batteries, and from there to the clothespins.
The clothespins served as improvised detonators. Preparing them had been the trickiest part. He’d glued metal contact plates to each prong, then soldered the free ends of the wire to the plates. The prongs were now separated by nothing more than the glass panes of the windows in Rühmann’s office. All it would take was one round from the Steyr. The window would shatter, causing the prongs to close. This, in turn, would complete the circuit, firing the Semtex. The pressure wave would shatter every window in the room, setting off the second device and filling the office with nearly two thousand quarter-inch ball bearings, each moving at a speed in excess of 500 feet per second.
The design was less than perfect, owing in part to the time crunch. The angle left much to be desired — the shape of the cans would limit the dispersion of the projectiles — and the trap was largely dependent on the ricochet effect the brick walls would provide. Still, he felt sure it would work. Raseen would see that the ground floor was impassable; if Kealey and Kharmai weren’t shredded in Rühmann’s office, they’d burn on the stairs. As far as Vanderveen was concerned, both were acceptable outcomes.
There was nothing to do now but wait. Vanderveen adjusted the stock of the Steyr, pulling it into his shoulder. His right eye was an inch behind the glass, his finger tapping the trigger guard lightly.
Nothing to do but wait.
CHAPTER 40
BERLIN
Kealey was the first through the door. He took in the scene quickly: a cramped, dirty foyer; a bare bulb hanging overhead; the elevator on the far wall. Turning left, he spotted the staircase. He went up the stairs quickly, Kharmai behind him, Bennett taking up the rear. It took less than thirty seconds to make it up to the fourth-floor landing, where they were confronted with the first real obstacle.
The door was simple enough; what caught Kealey’s attention was the self-contained keyless entry system housed on the wall to the right. He examined it closely, then
turned and looked up to the opposite wall, near the ceiling. A small Sony camera was mounted in the corner, aimed toward the door.
He turned to Bennett. “What do you think?”
The other man shrugged. “This isn’t my forte. I have no idea how you’re going to get in without the code.”
Kealey swore and looked back at the door, thinking it through. His lock picks were buried in Kharmai’s suitcase, but he didn’t see how they’d help much in this situation. Then something came to him. “There’s an elevator on the ground floor. Check it out, will you? See if we can get up that way.”
Bennett nodded and went down the stairs. Kharmai moved to examine the keypad. After a moment she looked up and smiled. “No problem.”
He looked at her incredulously. “What are you talking about?”
“Come here.” He leaned close as she pointed to some of the keys. “These aren’t strictly ‘keys,’ Ryan, because they’re not independent of each other. The whole thing is a single pad, with circuitry underneath. The problem with this kind of system is that the same buttons are heavily used, and that makes them distinctive. You see? The numbers on these three are starting to wear.”
Kealey followed her finger. On closer inspection, he saw what she was talking about. The 3, 7, and 9 keys were all worn down, the numbers starting to fade.
“They’re also darker than the others. That’s because of the oil on the user’s fingers. It takes a long time, but eventually, it leaves a kind of signature.”
“I won’t ask how you know that,” he said, shaking his head. “Where does this leave us?”
“Simple. I recognize this keypad… We had ones just like it on the interior doors at Grosvenor Square. It’s a four-digit code, but only three of the buttons are worn. In other words, one number is used twice.”
“Which number?”
She looked closely, her face barely an inch from the keypad. After a minute had passed, she said, “Nine. The 9 key looks a little darker then the other two.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head in frustration. “I’m not sure at all. But it’s my best guess, and that’s all I can give you.”
“So if you’re right, that leaves us with ten possible combinations.”
“Sounds right. No, wait… Make that twelve combinations.”
Kealey looked up at the camera. “That helps, but I think we’ve lost our biggest advantage. Rühmann already knows we’re here.”
“Maybe not. I don’t see any wires or conduit. Everything is behind the walls. That camera could be activated by the keypad, and we haven’t touched it yet.” She frowned. “Which could be a problem, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked worried. “This keypad is designed to deny access after three incorrect entries. If we get it wrong, we’ll never get in.”
Kealey paused to consider that. Bennett turned on the staircase a few seconds later, looking grim. “I checked the elevator,” he said. “Somebody broke the key off in the lock for the fifth floor.”
Kealey glanced at Naomi. He didn’t speak, but he knew they were thinking the same thing: somebody else had gotten to Rühmann first.
“I went outside to check the list again. The caretaker lives on the first floor, so I banged on her door. I was going to feed her some bullshit story, thinking maybe she’d give us the code, but no one answered.”
“She wouldn’t have known it, anyway,” Naomi muttered. “She’s just there for the residents.”
They all fell silent. Finally, Kealey said, “Fuck it. Let’s give it a shot.”
“Ryan, I don’t think—”
“Come on, Naomi. The odds are one in four. The numbers are three, seven, and nine. Give me your best guess.”
She took a deep breath. “Three, seven, nine, nine.”
He punched it in, but nothing happened. The light on the unit stayed red. She shot him a pleading look, begging him to spare her the responsibility, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “Try again,” he said.
“Three, nine, seven, nine.”
Nothing.
“Last try,” Kealey said. His voice was completely neutral. “Make it count.”
“Umm… nine, seven, nine, three.” He moved to punch it in, but she grabbed his arm. “No, wait.” She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead, as though she could somehow draw the code out with her mind. “Nine, seven, three, nine.”
He entered the numbers. There was an aching pause, and then the light flashed green. Kealey flashed a rare smile at Naomi, who had slumped against the wooden railing, looking as if she’d just run a marathon. “We’re in.”
They came to the second door. Naomi released an audible groan, but Kealey stepped forward and turned the knob. The door opened instantly. He pushed it forward carefully, listening for anything amiss. When the gap was large enough, he slipped into the entrance hall, followed by Bennett and Kharmai.
Kealey drew his Sig, and the others followed suit. He waved Bennett down a narrow hall, then gestured for Kharmai to stay close. She looked ready to argue, but he held a finger to his lips and moved before she had the chance. They turned left and started to clear the apartment.
The long, dimly lit hall led into a kitchen. The whole place seemed eerily quiet. They passed through to a dining room: wood-paneled walls, gilt-framed landscapes, elaborate chairs clustered around a mahogany table. The polished surface shone beneath a sterling silver chandelier. Kealey pointed to the kitchen, gesturing for Kharmai to hold back, but she ignored him and moved to the doorway of the office. The room was open and brightly lit, light playing over the mosscolored walls. There was a desk to the left. As she leaned in and examined the scene, her eyes went wide. She tugged on Kealey’s sleeve and pointed. Leaning his head round the corner, he saw an overturned chair. A single leg was hiked over the upended piece of furniture.
“Is it him?” Naomi whispered. “I can’t see his face.”
“It’s him.” Kealey leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. It was over. He felt a sinking weight in his chest; he had come this far for nothing at all.
Kharmai was shaking his arm, but he pushed her away. She tried again. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and straightened, turning to follow her gaze. Bennett was at the other door, moving into the office. Kharmai was still caught up in the moment, so she followed his lead. Kealey trailed reluctantly. He knew it was pointless; whoever had killed the Austrian would have thoroughly sanitized the apartment. There was nowhere to go; in losing Rühmann, they had lost their only lead.
Kharmai joined Bennett, who was standing over the Austrian’s body. Kealey stepped into the room and started rifling through the desk. There wasn’t a single scrap of paper to be found. Opening the computer, he punched the POWER button, but all that came up was an error message. He caught sight of the burn bags scattered over the floor. Picking one up, he looked inside and was greeted by the faint odor of smoke. It was just as he’d feared; they were far too late.
Bennett had walked over to the windows. Now he stretched his arms and stared over the river. “I can’t believe it,” he finally said. His voice was filled with regret and embarrassment. “I’m sorry about this, guys. I should have had people watching the building.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kharmai said, staring down at the bloodied, distorted face of Thomas Rühmann. It was strange, but the sight didn’t seem to affect her at all. It didn’t make sense; losing her job had brought her to tears, but this terrible image meant nothing to her. It made her wonder if she had seen too much in her few years with the Agency, if she had lost something fundamental. “We were just too late. We should have been here a week ago.”
“Maybe you’re right, but still…” Something caught Bennett’s attention, and he shifted the draperies aside. “Hey, what the hell is this?”
Kealey, looking at the other man, caught sight of something wrong, something flashing silver in the bright light of the room. He reached
for Naomi’s arm and screamed, “GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!”
Bennett turned instantly, his eyes opening wide, but Kealey didn’t see the other man’s final expression. All he could think about was getting back to the dining room. He dove to the floor, pulling Naomi down with him. She was shouting a question, probably demanding an explanation, but Kealey couldn’t hear a thing. The roar came behind him, the whistle of hundreds of projectiles, the sound of instant death.
Then everything turned black.
Vanderveen swore as he watched the scene unravel. His vantage point was less than ideal, he’d known that from the start, but the options were few. All he could see was the big man, the one who’d come in from the hall. He knew Kealey and the woman had entered from the dining room, because the big man had turned to his left, and his mouth was moving in conversation. But then he’d reached for the draperies, and Vanderveen was left with no choice but to fire.
At 100 meters, there was no need to compensate. He lined up the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger gently.
The explosion was drowned out by a sudden boom of thunder, which somehow minimized the effect. Lightning flashed overhead as the fifth-floor windows exploded outward, glass raining down to the river. The lights blinked out in the office, even as the lights came up on the floors underneath. Vanderveen didn’t wait to see if his plan had worked. Instead, he grabbed for the radio lying next to his side, under the poncho.
“They’re up on the fifth,” he shouted over the storm. “Get in there. Now!”
Yasmin Raseen flung open the door of the Mercedes and ran through the torrential rain to the door of the building. In her left hand she carried a pack filled with half a dozen 2-liter containers of liquid propane. She’d collected the fuel from a service station on the Müllerstrasse two hours earlier. She slipped the caretaker’s key into the lock, then entered the foyer.
The Assassin Page 37
