“You supplied the weapons,” Vanderveen remarked quietly. “You had some idea where they were going. What do you think?”
Rühmann didn’t seem to hear. “I should have stayed out of this,” he muttered. “It’s too big. I’ll never be able to move again.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Raseen said. “You took the money. You can’t back out now.”
“They’ll trace the device to me.” The Austrian arms broker looked sick. “Thousands will die. They’ll never stop looking.”
“They can’t prove a thing,” Vanderveen lied. He knew that Rühmann was the primary suspect with respect to the theft at Al Qaqaa in 2003. It was never intended that the Americans should learn of the Austrian’s involvement in the upcoming attack, but since he had been tied to Mason, the connection would eventually be made; it was all but inevitable. Still, the situation could be fixed easily enough. All Vanderveen had to do was pass additional instructions to the informant in New York. The informant, in turn, would suggest to his FBI handlers that Rühmann was working for the Iranians, which would further muddy the waters.
“We’ve taken many precautions, Mr. Rühmann.” Raseen’s voice was low and strangely seductive. “Your continued well-being is very important to us.”
“I see,” Rühmann replied. He was clearly skeptical. “You have an interesting way of showing your gratitude. You come here to warn me of danger, yet the first thing you do is show me your guns.”
Raseen smiled gently, shooting a quick look at Vanderveen. He had already discovered a number of pertinent documents, which he’d stacked neatly on top of the desk. “Well, we didn’t know if you’d see it our way, Mr. Rühmann. You did have a gun of your own, after all.”
“Right.” He looked over at Vanderveen, an annoyed expression crossing his face. “If you want my help, you can start by getting away from my desk.” He motioned to the Beretta in Raseen’s hand. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head. “Go right ahead.”
The Austrian stood warily and moved to the desk. Vanderveen stepped aside as the older man started pulling paperwork out of the drawers. The frustration was clearly taking hold, and he finally let it out in a bitter tirade. “This is ridiculous,” he spat, accidentally knocking a sheath of paperwork to the floor. “I don’t know how you found me, and I don’t care why you’re here. This kind of intrusion is completely unprofessional. I’ll never work with you people again, no matter how this—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Raseen said, interrupting him calmly. “Our business relationship is very profitable for you. If you have any sense at all, you won’t throw it away over some hurt feelings.”
Rühmann did not reply, his anger fading as he shot a curious glance to the door. Vanderveen was examining the frame, running his fingers over the lacquered wood. He walked the length of the wall, bouncing his knuckles against the velvet-covered surface. After a moment, he looked back to the Austrian.
“What’s behind this wallpaper? Plaster?”
Rühmann frowned. He seemed annoyed at the suggestion that his exquisite surroundings could be constructed of something so crude. “It was exposed brick when I bought the place. I had it covered with plaster to hold the wallpaper. Why?”
Vanderveen frowned in turn. Ignoring the question, he walked back to the windows, his gaze fixed on the flat roofs of the buildings across the river. Realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer, the Austrian turned to a painting behind the desk, a large Turner landscape. He lifted it gently from the wall, revealing a safe.
“Stop,” Raseen commanded. Vanderveen turned instantly, alarmed by the sharp note in her voice, but she waved him away.
Walking over, she gestured for Rühmann to step aside. “What’s the combination?”
He gave it to her, and she opened the safe. Inside, there were a number of burn bags and a small pile of numbered folders. No weapon. She gestured for him to continue. He pulled out the folders and started to push them into the bags, along with the documents stacked on the desk.
It took less than five minutes to fill all the bags. Raseen used the time to unscrew a small panel on the bottom of Rühmann’s Hewlett-Packard laptop. Once she had the hard drive out, she slipped it into her pocket. Rühmann pulled the tabs on the burn bags, destroying the contents. All that emerged was a thin whisper of smoke. Vanderveen watched everything from his spot by the windows. His face was neutral, the gun resting on the ledge by his hand. He had dropped the backpack by his feet, and on several occasions he’d caught Rühmann staring at it with interest.
The Austrian fell into the seat behind his desk and sighed wearily. “So, that’s it. When is this American supposed to arrive?”
“Sometime tonight,” Vanderveen said. Kneeling, he unzipped the pack and started removing items. Some of the equipment had been supplied by the man in Dresden; the rest he had picked up himself at an electrical supply store. He pulled out the Semtex first, two half-pound blocks of grayish white material wrapped in green polyurethane.
Rühmann, leaning over his desk, recognized what he was looking at immediately. His eyes went wide. “What the hell are you doing with that?”
Vanderveen did not reply. Setting the plastic explosive aside, he reached into the pack and produced a bundle of electrical blasting caps, a bulky roll of insulated copper wire, wire strippers, a handful of clothespins, and a pair of 6-volt batteries. Finally, he removed a soldering iron and a plastic bag filled with hundreds of steel ball bearings.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rühmann repeated.
Vanderveen looked up, but he didn’t offer an explanation. “Tell me something, Herr Rühmann. The door in the entrance hall…Does that lead to the stairwell?”
This was information that had not been contained in the file. “Yes,” Rühmann said, obviously struggling to see the relevance. “It opens to a brief flight of stairs; then there’s another secure door on the fourth-floor landing. You need a code to get through.”
“Is there an alarm?”
“Yes, but it only activates my security monitors.”
“Give me the code.”
The Austrian recited four digits from memory.
“Good.” Turning to Raseen, Vanderveen switched to Arabic. “I’m going to need some type of metal containers. Can you find me something like that? Coffee cans, for example? Look in the kitchen.”
She went out as the Austrian looked on in utter confusion. Vanderveen was busy stripping the ends of a 20-foot length of wire when Raseen returned a minute later, bearing two large silver cans.
“What are you doing with those?” Rühmann asked, still standing behind his desk. His gaze swung between them rapidly. Receiving no reply, he elevated his tone. “I asked you a question, Kohl. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Without looking up, Vanderveen murmured a few words in Arabic.
Rühmann looked to Raseen. “What does that mean? What’s he saying?”
She didn’t reply. Her arm swung up, and she fired into the Austrian’s face from a distance of 2 feet. The three shots came in rapid succession, so close together they sounded like one. Rühmann was already slumping when she fired the last round, his ruined face slack, his eyes and mouth open in a final expression of pure astonishment. He fell into his seat at an angle, flipping it over, coming to rest on the floor with one leg strewn over the upended chair.
Raseen lowered the gun and took a seat on a nearby couch. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes.
Twenty minutes later, she was in the kitchen making coffee when Vanderveen walked in. “I’m finished. Are you ready to go?”
She nodded. “I walked down to the door on the fourth floor. The code works fine. If someone really wants to get in that way, they’ll be able to do it.”
“Good.”
After an extensive search for any paperwork they might have missed, they walked back to the entrance hall and entered the elevator. Vanderveen had dragged Lang’s body out of sight, but Rühmann was still in the offic
e, lying exactly where he’d fallen. The doors closed, and Vanderveen punched the appropriate button. As the doors slid open on the ground floor, he snapped off the key in the lock. Anyone trying to reach the penthouse suite would be forced to take the stairs.
They stepped into the dingy, empty foyer. There was just one apartment on the ground floor, that of the caretaker. Her number was posted on the buzzer outside the building. Raseen rapped on the door lightly as Vanderveen stood off to the side, out of view of the peephole. After a few seconds, they heard a muffled “Ja? Was benötigst sie?”
“Frau Hesser?” Raseen called lightly. “I’m Sara, Herr Rühmann’s new assistant. He sent me down to ask you a favor. Do you have a minute?”
There was a long pause. Finally, the door cracked open. Raseen offered a friendly, appealing smile, and the door opened all the way, light spilling into the foyer. Vanderveen, standing off to the side, only saw part of what happened next. Raseen pushed her way into the caretaker’s apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. Stepping forward, Vanderveen heard a brief scream, followed by two dull thuds. Then the door swung open, and Raseen reappeared. She didn’t need to speak; a brief nod said it all.
They left the building and turned west. It was just after 6:00 p.m. Night had drifted over the city, and it started to rain as they walked, thunder booming in the near distance. They reached the Mercedes five minutes later. Vanderveen started the engine as Raseen climbed into the passenger seat. Soon they joined the light traffic moving north on the Friedrichstrasse. As they crossed the river, Raseen lifted the pack out of the backseat, where Vanderveen had tossed it before starting the car. Opening the main compartment, she extracted a pair of two-way radios. Like the rest of their equipment, the Motorola radios had been supplied by the man in Dresden. She turned each unit to the appropriate channel, then plugged in the headsets.
Vanderveen turned onto a narrow street running along the river, trying to gauge his position. As he looked to his left, a gap appeared between the buildings, and he saw a flash of Rühmann’s building on the other side of the Spree. Vanderveen eased his foot off the accelerator. The curb was choked with cars, so he stopped in the road and flicked on the hazard lights. Fortunately, there was no traffic behind them.
“Here,” Raseen said, handing over the pack. One of the radios was still inside, along with several bottles of water, a shooting mat, and a large poncho. Getting out of the car, Vanderveen slung the pack over his shoulder. There was one other pack in the backseat, but he ignored it and walked to the back of the car. He retrieved a black plastic case from the trunk as Raseen slid into the driver’s seat.
She lowered the window as he approached. “Do you think it will work?” she asked, looking up at the surrounding buildings.
“I think so.” Vanderveen was wearing an anorak over a thick sweater, and he pulled the hood over his head as he turned to follow her gaze. “I just need to find a good vantage point. It shouldn’t take long. We can expect our friends in a few hours.”
“Fine. I’ll let you know when they arrive. I’ll be in front of the building.”
“Make sure you keep some distance. They won’t be expecting us, but it’s best to be safe.”
“Right. See you later.” She dropped the car into gear and accelerated quickly, the tires kicking up a spray of rainwater. Vanderveen crossed the road, black case in hand, and melted into the side streets bordering the river.
CHAPTER 39
BERLIN
By the time Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai stepped out of the terminal building of Berlin International Airport at Tegel, 8 kilometers from the city center, the rain was coming down in great windblown sheets. White and beige Mercedes taxis were lined up at the curb, waiting for passengers, as were a few limousines and a number of dark SUVs. Lights on the façade of the terminal shone down like miniature moons, indistinct in the deluge, and although they were surrounded by groups of people engaged in conversation, their voices could barely be heard over the sound of the rain pounding onto the overhead canopy.
From her brief discussion with Ryan on the plane, Naomi knew they were going to be met by a man named Bennett. According to Jonathan Harper, Bennett was a CIA operations officer based out of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin, an Air Force veteran who’d seen combat in Panama and the Gulf. More importantly, he had worked directly under Harper in the past. The DDO had gone out of his way to help them one last time. He had placed a call before they left Upperville that morning, securing Bennett’s assistance for their impromptu visit. Despite Harper’s assurances, Naomi wasn’t sure what to expect; Bennett might not enjoy the idea of operating without the approval of his immediate superiors. She would have discussed this possibility with Ryan, but he didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so she hadn’t pushed it.
At first, it had been difficult to keep quiet on the plane. She had so many questions. What did he hope to get out of Rühmann? Did he really think the Austrian would lead them to Vanderveen? Mainly, she wanted to know why he had asked her to come along. She suspected it was mostly guilt, but she hoped that wasn’t the case. After all, it had been her decision to join him in raiding the German Embassy. He had tried to talk her out of it, but she had insisted, and it wasn’t his fault it turned out badly. She much preferred to think she was there because she had earned the right, because she had proved her value. Because she had a stake in how it all played out. Either way, she was glad for the chance. This was an immediate task, a way to take her mind off the fact that she’d just lost the only job she’d ever really loved. With little else to do, she had spent hours on the plane trying to figure out a way to redeem herself. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure how she could make up for violating a direct order from the president. If anything constituted a firing offense, that was it.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice that a Range Rover had braked to a halt in front of them, the black paint glistening beneath a sheen of rainwater. The man who jumped out of the driver’s seat was short and built like a bull. His blue eyes were small and bright in his square face, his upper lip completely obscured by a thick brown mustache. He came around the vehicle a little too quickly, almost as if he were about to pick a fight. Naomi resisted the temptation to take a step back as he marched up and extended a hand.
“Shane Bennett,” he said in a low rumble. “You’re Kharmai, right?”
Naomi nodded, hoping she didn’t look as intimidated as she felt. “Yes, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” He offered a warm smile, and she felt herself relax a little.
Bennett turned to Kealey and shook his hand. “And you’re Kealey. Good to meet you.”
Kealey returned the sentiment, but Bennett frowned as though he were trying to place the other man’s face. Suddenly, recognition sparked in his eyes, and his mouth dropped open. “Holy shit, I know you. You were in the Shahikot, weren’t you?”
Kealey looked uncomfortable. “That’s right. I remember you, too. Mako 31. You were the combat controller.”
“That’s it.” Bennett grinned broadly. “Never thought I’d see you again. Anyway, I don’t mean to hold you up. You have everything you need?”
Kealey looked down at Naomi’s bag. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Naomi scowled, catching the sarcasm. Ryan’s only luggage was a tiny black grip, which was slung over his right shoulder. She didn’t know how he could travel so light, and she felt a certain satisfaction when Bennett lifted her large suitcase with one arm and tossed it easily into the back of the Range Rover.
Ryan moved to the front, so she climbed into the backseat. As soon as the doors were closed, a shrill noise penetrated the warm, still air inside the vehicle. Bennett lifted a satellite phone from between the seats and answered. Listening quietly for a few seconds, he handed it over to Kealey. “It’s Harper.”
Kealey accepted the phone and got out of the truck, closing the door behind him. He moved off immediately, getting some distance between himself and the people standing o
utside the glass doors of the terminal. Kharmai and Bennett were left to sit in uncomfortable silence.
“So,” he finally said, turning slightly in his seat. “How long you been with the Agency?”
“About five years,” she replied, thinking it best not to mention the fact that she’d just been fired. “What about you?”
“Less than a year,” Bennett said, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Director Harper brought me in personally. I did some work with his people when I was still with the Air Force.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I think of people moving from the military into the CIA, the Air Force doesn’t exactly spring to mind. Except for pilots, that is, and you don’t seem to fit the profile.”
He emitted a short, barking laugh. “Can’t argue with that. You’ve got a sharp eye, missy.”
Missy? She looked out the rain-streaked window, shrugging it off. She didn’t think he was being intentionally condescending, and she didn’t want to get off to a bad start. She decided to change the subject. “So what were you saying about the Shahikot? Where is that, anyway?”
“Afghanistan,” Bennett replied. He lifted a cup of coffee from between the seats and showed it to her, raising his eyebrows. She shook her head. He shrugged and peeled off the lid, taking a long sip.
“When were you there?” Naomi pressed.
“In 2002. You remember Operation Anaconda?”
“Vaguely. That was a while ago.” She hesitated. “You said Ryan was there?”
Bennett nodded and laughed without turning around. “Yeah, and it’s a good thing he was, too. The man saved our asses.”
She leaned forward in her seat, suddenly interested. “What happened?”
He turned to face her. “Well, you have to know a little about what was happening at the time. It was less than a year after 9/11, four months after the fall of the Taliban. Six weeks after we missed bin Laden in Tora Bora, the decision was made to sweep into the Shahikot Valley in eastern Afghanistan. Our intelligence indicated a large number of al-Qaeda fighters were holed up in the area, including a number of HVTs.”
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