Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “And money?”

  “I have that as well. I’ll call you once I’m in position.”

  “Good.” Vanderveen paused. “We’ll meet again this evening, and then we’ll discuss how we’re going to get out of the country.”

  “Fine.” She hesitated. “Will, do you remember what you told me in Germany? About Jonathan Harper?”

  He nodded. During the brief trip from Potsdam to Berlin, he had relayed everything he had been told by his Bureau contact over the phone in the Luisenplatz, right down to the identity of the CIA’s deputy director of operations.

  “Do you think we’ll get the chance to take care of that?”

  “Possibly.” It was a tremendous opportunity, Vanderveen knew. The identity of the DDO was highly classified. Now, thanks to his Bureau contact, they had not only the man’s name, but an approximate address, a brownstone on General’s Row in Washington, D.C. “If the opportunity presents itself, we’ll pay him a visit. For now, we have enough to worry about.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She crossed the open cement, walking to the gate leading out to the street. Vanderveen followed. He unlocked the gate, then pulled it open. She stepped onto the street and turned to face him. There was an awkward pause while they each considered some kind of affectionate gesture, but then the moment was gone.

  “I’ll be in touch.” Before he could reply, she turned and walked off, heading east toward Eighth Avenue. Vanderveen watched her go for nearly a minute, wondering if he would ever see her again. Then he shut the gate, locked it, and headed back to the warehouse.

  CHAPTER 48

  NEW YORK CITY

  As the taxi she’d taken from LaGuardia Airport left Brooklyn and sped over the Williamsburg Bridge, Naomi Kharmai gazed out at the East River. The bridge offered an incredible view of FDR Drive and the Lower East Side, the Manhattan skyline beyond, but she was too distracted to appreciate the view. Her mind was wrapped up in the meeting she was about to attend, as well as the events of the previous night.

  Naomi could still scarcely believe what had happened with Ryan, but she didn’t regret it at all. It had been everything she’d hoped for and more. The only reason she’d gone back to her room was to avoid a potentially embarrassing scene in the morning. After collapsing onto her bed, she had stared at the ceiling for hours, worried that if she fell asleep, she’d wake to find it had never happened, or—worse yet—that he regretted the encounter. It was a strange dichotomy; it had been one of the best and worst nights of her life, a bewildering mixture of lingering happiness and dread for what the morning would bring. She needn’t have worried; all of her fears had melted away with the kiss he’d given her over the breakfast table. She felt sure that, everything else aside, it was the start of something incredible. Part of her just wanted to get the day over with so they could talk about it properly. At the same time, she knew she couldn’t afford to let what had happened distract her. She did her best to push it aside as the taxi turned onto Kenmare Street, then swung a left onto Lafayette Street.

  Naomi still didn’t know how she was going to handle the interview with Hakim Rudaki. She felt sure that Ryan was right—that he was stringing the Bureau along with false information. Judging by the information that Harper had managed to dig up on the Iranian informant, Naomi knew he wouldn’t break easily. He was an intelligent man: a Harvard graduate, a respected member of the academic community. She wasn’t intimidated by this—she had reached comparable heights at Stanford, after all—but she knew she couldn’t discount his academic achievements. At the very least, it meant that he would not succumb to crude psychological manipulation. This realization left her deeply concerned. She had faith in her abilities, but she wasn’t a trained interrogator, and she just couldn’t conceive of a way to get him to confess his true role in the recent events. All she could do was play it by ear and hope that Ryan had more luck in the South Bronx.

  They had separated after their plane landed at LaGuardia. His destination was Vyse Avenue, where he was going to try and track down the Bureau safe house. Privately, Naomi didn’t think he would have much luck. The ADIC had assured the DDO that Rudaki would be present when Naomi arrived at 26 Federal Plaza, which meant that Ryan would find himself with no one to question, even if—by some miracle—he did manage to find the safe house. It would all come down to her.

  It was strange; the full implication of this thought took a long time to sink in, but when it did, it hit her like a ton of bricks. If Vanderveen was planning to use a daisy cutter in the city that same afternoon, the only way they could stop him was by breaking Rudaki.

  And that fell to her. No one else.

  Her mouth went instantly dry. The thought made her feel dizzy and sick to her stomach…How could she not have seen this before? If they were right about Vanderveen’s intentions—and she felt sure that they were—the lives of thousands of people rested in her hands. The thought was so overwhelming that she didn’t notice they had reached their destination until the driver turned in his seat to scream at her in Spanish, trying to get her attention.

  She handed over the money with shaking hands, then stumbled out onto Lafayette Street. The Civic Center was a block to the south, and for a minute, she wondered why the driver hadn’t continued. Then she realized that the roads surrounding the Bureau’s building were probably blocked off to vehicular traffic. She walked on weak legs down the sidewalk, following the crowds. The people around her were engaged in their daily routines, oblivious to the looming disaster. She couldn’t look at them. Her realization of a moment ago had left her numb…It was so unfair. How could the deputy director have put this on her shoulders? Maybe even he didn’t realize what he’d pushed her into, but she didn’t think that was the case. She felt a bitter anger join the piercing ache in her chest…Jonathan Harper was a lot of things, but he wasn’t naïve. He’d known exactly what he was doing.

  She reached Duane Street and turned right, passing a series of concrete barriers and a small guard shack. The U.S. Customs House was on her right, and past that, the east entrance of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building. She went up the brief flight of stairs, pulled open the glass door, and stepped inside. There were a number of turnstiles off to the right, but they were reserved for building employees with government-issued smart cards. Since she was technically no longer with the Agency, Naomi had only her British passport and her driver’s license. She was forced to wait in line with a group of sullen immigrants and their screaming children, all of whom were destined for the INS offices on the fourth floor. When it was her turn, she passed through the metal detector and endured a brief search of her purse. Then she explained to the security guard her reason for visiting. He placed a call and gestured for her to take a seat on a nearby bench.

  Five minutes later she was approached by a man with dark, wavy hair; broad shoulders; and square, chiseled features. He was handsome enough, with one exception: his nose had been badly broken at some point in the past. It was pinched at the bridge and shaped like an hourglass. Naomi made an effort not to stare at it as she stood up and accepted the proffered hand.

  “Ms. Kharmai? Or is it Agent Kharmai?” The man grinned. “Sorry, but I still haven’t figured that out. As you can probably imagine, I don’t have a lot of interaction with you people.”

  She tried to return the smile, but it wasn’t easy, given her recent epiphany. It felt like the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. “You can call me Naomi.”

  “I’m Special Agent Foster, but call me Matt. Sorry you had to wait.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I got here only a minute ago.”

  They started toward the elevator. Matt Foster. Something about the name seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Where had she heard it before? She was still thinking about it as the elevator stopped on the twenty-third floor and the doors slid open. They stepped into a reception area. There was a desk near the far wall, the FBI seal displayed prominently behind the secretary’s blond head.
Trailing behind, Naomi couldn’t see Foster’s face as they passed the desk, but he must have done something, because the secretary blushed and looked away. For some reason, the harmless flirting annoyed her deeply. She no longer felt like wasting a second; all she wanted was to find and stop Will Vanderveen, and that meant getting the truth out of Hakim Rudaki.

  The bullpen was incredibly noisy, the open space filled with agents talking on phones and working on computers. Crossing the room, they came to a glass-enclosed office. The door was open, so Foster tapped on the frame and was told to enter. Aware that she was probably about to have a very unpleasant conversation, Naomi tried to adopt her most stoic expression. She wanted to appear unflappable, which was a lot to aspire to, given the situation. She took a deep breath and felt some of the fear and apprehension slip away. Then she stepped through the door.

  CHAPTER 49

  NEW YORK CITY

  Vyse Avenue, between East 173rd and East 176th Street, was symptomatic of the cheap, surface-deep changes that greedy developers had forced upon the South Bronx community in recent years. During the seventies, the city, in a disastrous policy move, opted to relocate a large number of welfare households to the area between 152nd and the Cross-Bronx Expressway. The results were predictable: crime shot up, working-class families moved out, and the neighborhood was left worse off than it had been to start with. In truth, not much had changed since then, despite successive mayoral claims of extensive urban renewal. According to statistics compiled in the 2000 census, the South Bronx belonged to one of the poorest congressional districts in the nation.

  In short, it was just about the last place one would expect to find an FBI safe house. As Ryan Kealey moved down the irregular sidewalk on foot, his attention was not focused on the redbrick housing units wedged tightly against the road, but on the few cars lined up at the curb. He’d rented a Honda Accord at the airport, and he’d used it to check the length of Vyse Avenue before proceeding on foot. While he was slightly impressed with the Bureau’s decision to keep this safe house in such an unlikely area, he didn’t think the New York ADIC would go so far as to purchase vehicles that blended into the neighborhood. That kind of thing just wasn’t in the budget. Government vehicles were typically easy to spot, and he’d already come up with a likely candidate. Now he wanted to see it close up, which explained why he was moving on foot.

  The car was a dark blue Crown Victoria, a typical Bureau vehicle. He checked the license plate first. They weren’t government tags, but that wasn’t surprising; even the FBI—one of the government’s more arrogant agencies—knew how to keep a low profile when circumstances dictated. Next, he looked in through the window. The interior was abnormally clean, at least, abnormally clean for this neighborhood. He checked the front. He didn’t see any type of radio, but again, that wasn’t really surprising. The Bureau didn’t use vehicle-mounted radios to the same extent that local law enforcement did. There wasn’t a light bar in the back window, either. He still couldn’t be sure—it could be an NYPD detective’s unmarked car—but if Harper’s contact at the Bureau was right about the location of the safe house, this was probably his best bet.

  Kealey turned away from the car and checked his surroundings. The street was strangely empty. He’d parked the Accord a few blocks away, and during the brief walk, he’d only passed a few kids playing baseball in the middle of the road. The housing units on either side of Vyse Avenue were three-story duplexes: redbrick façades on the first floor, cheap vinyl siding above that. The buildings looked innocuous enough, but a closer inspection revealed bars on the first-story windows, and the short driveways were blocked off by black-iron fences that rose to chest height. There was very little vegetation, a scrap of grass here and there, a few scraggly trees rising out of the sidewalk. A few empty lots were filled with nothing but bare soil, rubble, litter, and milk-weed.

  He turned and walked back the way he had come, thinking about it. Even if he was right about the car, the problem was obvious: he had no way of knowing which unit was being used by the Bureau. More to the point, he had no way of getting inside. If Samantha Crane was in one of these buildings with Rudaki, she would probably have at least one other agent with her. If Kealey tried to force his way inside, he would quickly find himself at a disadvantage.

  He was still thinking about it when he reached the Accord a minute later. A few Latino teenagers in baggy clothes were standing nearby. One was drinking from a bottle wrapped in a paper sack; another was sitting on the hood of the rental car. Kealey thought he knew why; aside from the Crown Vic, the Accord was easily the nicest vehicle in a four-block radius. They were probably just looking for someone to fuck with. As Kealey approached, one of the youths standing said something to the one sitting on the car. The teenager grinned and waited; he seemed to be relishing the upcoming confrontation.

  Kealey stopped and studied them each in turn. Finally, the kid perched on the hood said, “This yours, man?”

  Kealey nodded. “Yeah.”

  “It’s nice. Wouldn’t mind a ride like this myself. Could use some twenties, though.” The kid bounced up and down once, testing the shocks. Then he kicked his heels against the front fender, leaving a mark. “Maybe some new paint. White people always go for the same old shit.”

  The others snickered; clearly, they were waiting for him to react. Instead of protesting, Kealey walked a few steps closer, stopping about 5 feet away from the nearest youth. He looked them over quickly. He didn’t think they had anything larger than a knife between them, but he had to be sure.

  The guy on the car looked to be the oldest and, therefore, the de facto leader, but the teenagers standing nearby were the greater threat. Turning to the one who had both hands free, Kealey said, “I’m going to show you something, and I don’t want you to panic, okay?”

  They laughed again, but it was slightly forced, and he knew he had their attention. Dropping his gaze to their hands, he lifted the right side of his long-sleeve T-shirt, revealing the Beretta 92FS holstered on his right hip. He didn’t look up, but he could tell that seeing the gun had sobered them up. The youth on the car slid off and backed up immediately, muttering something in Spanish. Kealey assumed they thought he was a cop or something similar, since he wasn’t brandishing the weapon like a maniac.

  Still watching their hands, he said, “I want you all to do something for me. Lift your shirts slowly. Come on, you too.”

  They did as he asked. Just as he’d expected, they didn’t appear to be carrying. “Turn around,” he ordered. “Keep your shirts up.”

  Still nothing. Relaxing slightly, Kealey said, “Okay, drop ’em and face me.” When they turned back around, he finally looked at their faces. He could see that the two younger men were nervous, but the leader appeared unfazed. Kealey knew he had guessed right from the start. These young men were far from hardened criminals, but they weren’t exactly Boy Scouts, either. In short, they were exactly what he was looking for.

  He lowered his shirt back over the butt of the Beretta. Then he smiled and showed them his open hands.

  “You guys feel like making some money?”

  Terry Best, the assistant director in charge of the New York field office, was fifty-three years old, a large man with ruddy features, heavy jowls, and a fringe of coppery hair. When Naomi followed Matt Foster into the room, Best half-stood and shook her hand perfunctorily, then waved her into a seat. She looked around the office quickly, unimpressed with what she saw. For a man in charge of the largest FO in the country, Best didn’t seem to have a great deal of space to himself. Then again, she reflected, that might be intentional. It was rare, but sometimes men in Best’s position actually preferred to play down their authority. Normally, Naomi would have considered Jonathan Harper such a man and meant it as a compliment, but she still wasn’t feeling very charitable toward him, given the current situation.

  The ADIC looked to Foster and said, “Thanks, Matt. That’ll be all for now. How are we doing on those carriers?”


  “We just got the list back from customs, sir. Apparently, use of the Pre-Arrival Processing System became mandatory for land-based carriers back in 2002. In order to qualify, a U.S. carrier needs a Standard Carrier Alpha Code.”

  Best gestured for the younger man to explain.

  “It’s a two-to-four letter code that customs uses to identify individual carriers. We’re cross-checking all the carriers in the state against the information Langley sent us this morning.”

  “Good. Keep me up to date,” Best said. Foster shot Naomi a little grin and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “As you can see,” Best continued, “we’re taking the information you people sent us very seriously. Even though you don’t seem to have any hard evidence that this…What do you call it?”

  “A BLU-82, sir.” She was annoyed by his show of ignorance; she knew he’d spent half the morning on the phone with Harper, who would have sent pictures and specifications. “Also known as a daisy cutter.”

  “Yes. Despite the fact that you can’t prove this ‘daisy cutter’ is even in the country.”

  Naomi straightened in her seat. “Sir, the evidence may be sketchy, but it’s there.”

  “By which you mean this storage facility in Canada, right?”

  “That’s right, sir. The unit was leased by Thomas Rühmann. He was in Al Qaqaa when the explosives went missing in 2003. He was killed two nights ago in Berlin, almost certainly by William Vanderveen. I’m sure you’re familiar with the name.”

  Best nodded to show that he was. He picked up a ballpoint pen and began to twirl it clumsily in his fingers. “Is there any proof that BLU-82s were being stored at Al Qaqaa? That Rühmann would even have access to one?”

  “Actually, there is. This morning we managed to get in touch with a man named Paul Owen, a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army. He was involved with the unit responsible for investigating the theft. Colonel Owen told us that in addition to three hundred and eighty tons of convention explosives, four BLU-82s were taken from the facility at Al Qaqaa. That fact was never admitted by the U.S. government.”