Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “Don’t, Ryan.” She fixed him with a steady gaze, hoping to convey her sincerity. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t make me get on that plane, just like you didn’t make me help you in Washington. I wanted to do those things. I wanted to be part of it, and I don’t regret it.”

  “What about your career? And don’t tell me it doesn’t matter, because I know it does.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, it matters. I didn’t want to lose my job…I mean, who does, right? But it’s done, and that’s that. Besides, some things are more important.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like helping the people you care about.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, each trying to figure out what to say next. The moment was shattered by a knock at the door. A woman with feline features and short auburn hair poked her head in, her gaze instantly moving to Kealey’s bare chest. Naomi recognized her as Fichtner’s aide. She spoke between loud smacks of the gum she was chewing. “Ryan, Mr. Fichtner would like to see you in his office.”

  “Okay,” Kealey said. He reached for his shirt, which was still slightly damp. “Thanks, Becky.”

  “No problem.” The woman beamed at him for a few seconds, then turned to Naomi, the smile fading. “You’re Kharmai, right? You have a telephone call. You can take it in the next room.”

  Naomi was bewildered. “Did they say who they were?”

  “Her last name is Peterson,” the aide said, sliding her gaze back to Kealey. “Apparently, she called Langley looking for you, and Mr. Harper had it routed through to our switchboard.”

  “Okay,” Naomi said. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The woman didn’t move, and Naomi repeated herself loudly. Finally, the aide left reluctantly, the door closing behind her.

  “You have a fan there,” she said wryly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, right.” Naomi shook her head as she stood and walked to the door. “Like you didn’t notice.”

  She followed the aide down a narrow hall. They came to the secure phone, which was housed in a small, windowless office. The aide gestured in a bored, dismissive kind of way, then went back the way she had come. Naomi glared at the retreating woman as she reached for the phone and punched the HOLD button. “Kharmai.”

  “Naomi, it’s Liz. How are you?”

  At the sound of the other woman’s voice, she couldn’t help but smile, her spirits lifting. At the same time, she felt a tinge of self-pity. She didn’t miss much about London, but Peterson definitely qualified.

  “Could be better,” she replied honestly. They exchanged pleasantries for a minute; then Naomi related the events of the previous night, leaving out the fact that she was no longer officially with the Agency. Peterson was slightly stunned when she finished, and Naomi had to prompt her to get back to why she’d called in the first place.

  “Well, it has to do with the name we pulled off the tape. Jason March, aka William Vanderveen.”

  Naomi instantly perked up. “What do you have?”

  Peterson explained quickly about Samir al-Askari, the Jordanian banker, and his untimely end on the Strand. “Two of our best watchers were tracking this guy, Naomi. One was taking photographs from across the street. When we went back and digitally enhanced the shots, two faces kept popping up in the background, a man and a woman. We ran a check through our facial recognition software, looking for nodes. Vanderveen came up; the match was ninety-five percent.”

  Kharmai interpreted quickly. Nodal points were visual markers on the human face. The markers could be nearly anything distinctive: the width of the mouth, the distance between the eyes, the spacing of the cheekbones. The human face contained eighty nodal points, but for the software to make a match, only fourteen to twenty-two points were needed, with twenty-two rated at 100 percent. Ninety-five percent was encouraging; it meant that twenty-one nodal points had linked the file photograph of Will Vanderveen to the shots taken in London. “And this was when? Two days ago?”

  “Al-Askari died two days ago, but we didn’t get the match until yesterday.”

  “Huh.” Naomi thought about it, unsure of how this information could help. They didn’t have any hard evidence, but Ryan was certain that Vanderveen had set the trap for them in Rühmann’s apartment, and Naomi agreed. London was old news.

  Then something hit her. “Wait, you said there were two faces?”

  “That’s right,” Peterson replied. “The second is a woman, but she didn’t come up on the database. We have no idea who she is, but she was definitely moving with Vanderveen. They’re close together in all the shots, and in one, you can see that she’s holding his arm. According to the report, al-Askari entered the Savoy and stayed inside for approximately thirty minutes. We don’t have shots of Vanderveen entering the hotel, but we managed to get hold of some footage from the Savoy’s CCTV cameras. He was there, and the woman was with him inside the hotel as well.”

  Naomi instantly thought back to the night before. She’d been dazed shortly after the explosion, but she could remember the thick smoke rising up from the ground floor. If Vanderveen was shooting from across the river, who had started the fire? It seemed strange that she hadn’t considered it earlier.

  “Liz, do me a favor and send me those shots through Langley. We’ll run them through our own database and see if we can’t come up with something more.”

  “Already done,” the other woman said. “When I called looking for you, I was put through to a man named Harper. He has the photographs, and you’ll have the security tape from the hotel tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you in person.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Don’t mention it. When are you coming back?”

  Naomi sighed, thinking about her recent dismissal. The States didn’t feel much like home at the moment, and London definitely had its perks. She was a British citizen, after all, and MI5 was always looking for experienced people. Maybe Peterson could pull some strings.

  “I don’t know,” she finally replied. “But I’ll be in touch. Don’t forget about me, okay?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Naomi was ushered into the chief of station’s office a few minutes later. Ryan was already there, seated in front of the other man’s desk and looking decidedly unhappy. Ken Fichtner was shouting into the phone, his face blotchy, his tie loose and stained with some unknown substance. He looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. He scowled at Naomi as she walked in, then turned back to the single window behind his desk. Naomi took a seat next to Ryan and pulled her chair close to his. In a low voice, she relayed what Liz Peterson had just told her.

  Kealey nodded thoughtfully when she was done. “You’re right…There must have been somebody else to start that fire on the ground floor.”

  “He couldn’t have done it himself?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve been thinking about this, Naomi. That IED in Rühmann’s office was very sloppy. We were barely out of the office when it went off. It should have killed us both. Then there’s the fact that he missed us on the roof. That probably means he didn’t have a night scope, or maybe it means he didn’t have time to sight in. Either way, we shouldn’t be here right now.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “The point is, I don’t think he was well prepared. I think we caught him off-guard. He picked an electrical gate because it was the only thing he had time for. Because he could set it off with a rifle. In other words, he didn’t have time to rig something more sophisticated for the stairs. Certainly not something he could trigger remotely.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She paused. “Of course, there’s always the question of how he knew we were coming in the first place.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Kealey said, remembering Samantha Crane’s unexpected visit to his room at the Hotel Washington.

  “Any ideas?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “What do you think about the woman? Do you think
we’ll have a record on her?”

  “I doubt it,” Kealey murmured, aware of Fichtner’s building irritation. “MI5 has a huge database. If they don’t know who she is, I doubt we can do better.”

  Fichtner suddenly slammed down the phone and turned to them without warning. “Okay, you two. You don’t deserve to know this, but since you’re here, I’ll fill you in. According to the preliminary coroner’s report, Thomas Rühmann died of multiple gunshot wounds to the head. The gun used was a.22. The body of his assistant, a man named Karl Lang, was discovered in the master bath. He also sustained gunshot wounds, two to the chest, but the gun that killed him was different than the one used on Rühmann.”

  “Well, sir, that fits into what I just—”

  “Don’t interrupt me!” Fichtner shouted, slamming a hand onto his desk. Naomi shrank back into her chair, and he continued, his voice turning dangerously low. “You two cost me one of my best officers. I don’t give a shit what you have to say.” He shifted his gaze. “And I don’t care about your theories, Kealey. You can’t prove that Will Vanderveen killed Rühmann, just as you can’t prove that he set the trap in the office. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing but cause problems since you landed on German soil. You’re lucky it isn’t up to me. Frankly, I’d like nothing more than to call the local police and let them know about your little part in last night’s disaster.”

  He paused to catch his breath, then said, “You know what was found in the apartment? You know what you got for your trouble? Nothing. Not a damn thing. No incriminating papers, no hard drive…nothing. In a matter of hours, the Germans are going to figure out who Shane Bennett really was. When that happens, the shit is going to hit the fan, and it won’t help to have you two hanging around. Jonathan Harper wants you back in the States. You’re already booked on a flight to D.C. The plane leaves in two hours.”

  Kealey and Kharmai nodded in unison; they hadn’t expected anything less.

  Fichtner shuffled some papers on his desk. “A car will pick you up downstairs in ten minutes. They already have your baggage and passports.” He reached for the phone, ready to tackle the next problem. “Now get the fuck out of here. I’m done with both of you.”

  It was raining when they stepped outside a few minutes later, though the weather had calmed substantially since the previous night. The vehicle was already waiting for them, a black Chevy Suburban. Kealey went up and knocked on the passenger-side window. When it came down with a light whir, he leaned in and said, “You’re here for us?”

  The driver nodded. The frown on his face seemed to indicate that he knew they were no longer welcome in Germany. “Your stuff’s in the back. Got everything you need?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  They climbed in, and the vehicle started to move. They passed through a number of checkpoints on the Neustädtische Kirchstrasse before leaving the embassy district. Before long they were racing north on the A111. The driver flicked through the channels on the radio incessantly, finally settling on the latest teenage pop sensation. He hummed along tunelessly as the wipers flicked light rain from the windshield. In the back, Naomi stared out the opaque window, her mind going in a thousand different directions at once. It was hard to believe that they had come this far for nothing, but she felt as though she was missing something, something Bennett had said the day before. She tried to clear her thoughts, knowing it wouldn’t come if she tried too hard, but it didn’t hit her until they reached the airport.

  The driver pulled up behind a fleet of vehicles outside the main terminal. He didn’t get out and offer to help with their bags. Instead, all he said was, “Your tickets are at the counter. Have a good flight.”

  Kealey went to the back and pulled out his light grip, then reached in for Kharmai’s larger bag. When he had the bags on the wet cement, he saw that Naomi’s gaze was fixed on something in the near distance. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

  “That car,” she said slowly. “It’s pretty nice.”

  He followed her gaze and found himself looking at a late-model Mercedes coupe, shining silver in the lights on the building’s façade. A middle-aged man in a suit was leaning against the rear fender, smoking a cigarette. “A CLK. What about it?”

  She turned to meet his eyes. “What did Bennett say last night when you asked him about surveillance? He said that Rühmann had a CLK registered under the name Schäuble.”

  “So?”

  “So we never checked the car, Ryan. It’s probably sitting right outside his apartment.”

  Kealey shut the rear cargo doors of the Suburban, then banged on the window twice. The vehicle had disappeared into traffic before he addressed her words. “Why would we check the car, Naomi? It doesn’t seem like a good place to store documents, especially documents relating to illegal arms sales.”

  She caught the sarcasm and was instantly annoyed. “I realize that,” she said as she snatched up her suitcase and extended the handle with more force than necessary. She winced as the movement jarred her injured shoulder. “But it’s worth checking, isn’t it? I mean, what do we have to lose?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he replied at length. The glass doors slid open as they approached the terminal. “I need to talk to Harper anyway. I’ll ask him to call the embassy directly…That’s the only way Fichtner will make the effort.”

  She shivered slightly as they entered the warm building. “Do you think Harper will even do it? I mean, he can’t be too happy with us right now.”

  “Maybe not, but that won’t stop him from making the call. He’ll save the rest for when we’re on the ground in Washington.”

  She didn’t reply as they stepped up to the counter. They displayed their passports and picked up their tickets. Kharmai checked her bag, and then they walked through to security. Once they had passed through, they followed signs up to the third floor. Naomi headed off to a place called Miller’s Bar while Kealey found a telephone. He dialed the appropriate number and asked for Harper. The DDO came on the line almost immediately.

  “Ryan, where the hell are you?”

  Kealey immediately took note of the other man’s tone. He didn’t sound angry, which was surprising enough, but there was an undercurrent of urgency there that Kealey recognized immediately. He knew it meant they had a break in the case. “We’re at the airport. Fichtner couldn’t get rid of us fast enough. We’re about to catch a plane to Washington.”

  “What the hell happened? Why did—”

  “I’ll explain everything once we get back. Right now I need you to do something for me.” He explained quickly about Rühmann’s car, using as few words as possible. “I know it’s a long shot, but we have to check everything.”

  “It’s way beyond a long shot, but I’ll make the call.”

  “Thanks.” Kealey paused, then said what was on his mind. “John, Vanderveen was there. Don’t ask me how I know—I didn’t see him—but he was definitely there. He set the trap in Rühmann’s office. He knew we were coming. Someone tipped him off.”

  “Well, I might be able to shed some light on that, but we’ll wait and see. I want you to look at the evidence. In any case, a lot has been happening here. You need to get back as soon as possible.”

  Kealey was tempted to ask, but he knew that Harper wouldn’t say anything more on an open line. He glanced at his watch, which strangely enough had survived the events of the previous night. “We’ll be there in eight hours.”

  Two hours after Kealey and Kharmai boarded a United flight bound for Dulles International, a number of dazed tenants were clustered around the entrance of the apartment building on the Reichstagufer, watching from a distance as police officers and firefighters went about their business, salvaging what they could of the ruined apartments. The bodies—those of three men and two women, including the caretaker—had been removed hours earlier. The injuries sustained in the fire were minor: a few cases of smoke inhalation, a couple of first-degree burns. The onlookers now gathered on
the cold, rainy street were primarily concerned with the state of their homes. No one seemed to notice when an unmarked sedan slowed to a gentle halt on the road behind them.

  The passenger door swung open, and a man stepped into the road. He was in his mid-thirties, lean, with brown hair, a thin mustache, and plain features. In short, his appearance was completely unremarkable, a trait befitting a four-year veteran of the Central Intelligence Agency. He quickly scanned the line of cars parked in front of the building. Spotting the one he was looking for, he crossed the road at a brisk pace, his head swiveling slowly. No one was watching him. When he reached Thomas Rühmann’s black Mercedes, he stood close to the passenger-side door and let a thin strip of metal slide from his sleeve. In less than twenty seconds, he’d popped the lock.

  The alarm went off immediately, but he ignored it and scoured the vehicle. He found a small pile of paperwork on the passenger seat immediately, then checked the rest of the car: the glove compartment, under the seats, the trunk. Finding nothing else, he walked back to the sedan, the paperwork tucked under his arm. The alarm on Rühmann’s CLK had been blaring for less than thirty seconds. A few of the onlookers had turned in curiosity; finally, someone brought the matter to the attention of a harried police officer. The officer disentangled himself and started forward to investigate, but the sedan was already gone, almost as if it had never been there.

  CHAPTER 42

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  As it turned out, their plane didn’t arrive until 7:00 PM eastern time, owing to a delayed connection at Heathrow and bad weather on the ground at Dulles. By the time Kealey and Kharmai had collected the checked bag, they were both exhausted and ready to drop in their tracks. As they left baggage claim, a man in a neat blue suit approached them, looking uncertain. Kealey didn’t recognize him but took a chance and assumed he was with Harper. It turned out he was right. They followed the driver out the glass doors, stepping into the cool air. There was a black Suburban waiting at the curb. Kealey threw their bags in the back, then joined Naomi in the backseat. As the vehicle pulled into traffic, Jonathan Harper shut off his cell phone and turned to appraise them both. His first words were hardly surprising.