Her eyes shot up, along with Foster’s gun, but Vanderveen didn’t come running into the warehouse. Instead, it was a woman—blond hair, black sweater, gun in hand. Her features were instantly recognizable; Naomi had never seen Samantha Crane in person, but she’d seen a number of photographs, and she knew who this was.
Suddenly, everything Ryan had said about Crane came back in a hot, fierce rush: It had to be her. No one else knew about Berlin. No one else knew….
Crane’s weapon was up and traversing the room. Suddenly, it was swinging right toward the office.
Right toward her.
Naomi squeezed the trigger once, saw she had missed, and squeezed it again. Crane stopped dead in her tracks, her head snapping back. As the gun slipped out of her grasp, she lifted a hand to her face, pressing it hard against the hole in her cheek. Her eyes opened wide, and she let out a choked cry. Then her gaze went blank and she dropped to the floor, almost as if the life had been pulled right out of her body.
At that moment, Ryan Kealey entered the warehouse. Naomi snapped Foster’s gun toward him and barely managed to avoid squeezing the trigger again. From that point on, everything happened in slow motion. She saw him stare at her, his gaze drifting down to the gun in her hand. Then he looked from the gun to Samantha Crane. Finally, their eyes met, and from the stunned look on his face, Naomi knew she had just made a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER 54
NEW YORK CITY
In the small parking lot across from the warehouse, Will Vanderveen lifted his phone and dialed a number. Yasmin Raseen picked up on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?” Vanderveen asked.
“I just left the hotel,” she replied. “The lobby is full of security officers. I think most of the delegates must still be inside.”
“Good. Does it look like they’re getting ready to leave?”
“No. I don’t see any cars outside the building. At least not the right kind of cars.”
Vanderveen knew what she meant. The members of the UIA scheduled to attend the General Assembly meeting in less than three hours would be protected not only by their own security teams, but also by sworn agents with the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service. The vehicles that would eventually come to collect the delegates would be Lincoln Town Cars or something similar, undoubtedly bearing diplomatic or government plates. The official vehicles would be easy to spot, especially since they’d be surrounded by NYPD escort cars and motorcycles.
“So we’re on track.”
“I believe so,” she replied. “Is it time for me to leave?”
“Yes.” Vanderveen shot a glance at his watch. “In fact, you need to move fast…Nazeri left nearly two minutes ago. You don’t have time to get to the subway, not from where you are now, so grab a taxi and try to get some buildings between you and the hotel. Otherwise, you’re still in the blast radius.”
“Understood.”
Her voice was unnaturally calm, given the gravity of the moment. Vanderveen smiled and shook his head, quietly impressed. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”
He hung up and leaned back in the driver’s seat of the Sable, studying the pedestrian gate on the other side of the street. Kealey and the woman had been inside the warehouse for less than a minute, and he couldn’t help but wonder what they had found. He hadn’t heard any gunfire, but he knew that didn’t mean a thing; the sound wouldn’t carry beyond the thick walls of the warehouse. It was a strange feeling, knowing that people were dying a few feet away and not being able to see them meet their end. A rather disappointing feeling.
He waited, wondering who would emerge in the end.
Inside the warehouse, Kealey moved forward instantly, dropping to one knee by Crane’s body. Naomi watched him move from a distance, aware of a rising dread, a building fear. After a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he looked up and stared at her in disbelief. “Jesus, Naomi, what did you do?”
“Wait,” she heard herself say. The gun was still in her hands, held down by her waist, but she couldn’t feel it; she couldn’t feel anything. She was still trying to figure out what was happening here. “I don’t understand.”
“Why the hell did you shoot her?”
“What are you talking about? She had a gun, Ryan. I—”
“She wasn’t part of this.” Kealey checked Crane’s pulse but looked up a moment later, shaking his head. “She’s gone. Jesus Christ, you killed her.”
“No, I…” Naomi felt a terrible pain swelling up in her chest, rising into her throat. She shook her head in an effort to deny what was happening. “She’s with Foster. She was working with Vanderveen. You said it yourself. She was working against us.”
She stopped when she saw the grim look on his face. “It wasn’t Crane, Naomi. It was Foster. Just Foster, the whole time. Rudaki confirmed it less than an hour ago.”
“That’s not possible.” She could hear her voice rising, climbing into hysteria. There was no way she had just killed an innocent person. It had to be some kind of nightmare, some kind of horrible illusion. An out-of-body experience, maybe. There was just no other explanation. “That’s just not possible.”
Kealey got to his feet but didn’t look at her. “Naomi, she wasn’t involved—”
“Don’t say that, Ryan.” She backed up a couple feet, shaking her head wildly. “Don’t tell me that!” Still holding Foster’s gun, she clamped her free hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and disbelieving. She didn’t move for about twenty seconds. Then, as his words started to sink in, her legs gave way and she half-fell, half-sat on the smooth concrete floor, just outside the open office door.
Lowering her hand from her mouth, she stared into space for what seemed like a very long time, shaking her head slowly. Then it all seemed to hit her at once. Kealey saw the change sweep over her face as the guilt, grief, and regret took hold, squeezing away any lingering hope that this might be a dream. From personal experience, he knew that what he was seeing was only the start. It was painful to watch, but he also knew there was worse to come. Much worse.
He looked away, struggling with several emotions of his own. He was relieved beyond measure to find her alive and unharmed, but he was furious with her for what she had done, for what she had brought on herself. With one impulsive act, she had made a mistake that would haunt her forever. A mistake she could never take back.
He looked down at Samantha Crane. Her soft brown eyes were open, her lips slightly parted. In death, her face was strangely serene. It was hard to believe she was gone; just a moment ago she had been so alive, so vital and real. The small hole in her right cheek was barely noticeable, but as Kealey watched, a thin trickle of blood ran down from the wound to the floor. Gazing into her lifeless face, he was tempted to follow Naomi’s example: to sit down, let the exhaustion take over, and wait for the police to show up. But that just wasn’t an option; Vanderveen and Nazeri were still out there somewhere, and time was running out.
Snapping out of it, he went over and kneeled by her side, shaking her arm to get her attention. “Naomi, did you talk to Vanderveen? Did he mention anything about the bomb?”
She was still in denial, or maybe shock; it was hard to tell. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Come on, did he tell you anything? Where are they taking it?”
“He said…something about Times Square.”
“Times Square? You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“When did Vanderveen leave?”
“Five minutes ago. Right before you got here. Nazeri is driving the truck.”
“Is Vanderveen with him?”
“I…I don’t know.”
Kealey closed his eyes, shaking his head. It didn’t make sense; Times Square was only five minutes away, to begin with. They should have felt the blast already. He flipped open his phone and dialed Harper’s number at Langley. “What kind of truck was it?”
“White,” she said in a daze. “With a box on the
back. An Isuzu, I think.”
When Harper answered, Kealey said, “John, I need you to check something for me right now, no questions asked. The delegates with the UIA…Where are they staying in the city?”
“Jesus, Ryan, I have no idea—”
“Then find out,” he snapped. “And call me back.”
“I’m on it.”
Kealey snapped the phone shut without responding, thinking furiously. There wasn’t much he could do until the DDO came up with an answer, so he moved onto the next problem: what to do about Naomi. He still hadn’t heard any sirens, probably because the gunshots weren’t audible on the street. Maybe the traffic served to drown out the sound. Either way, it gave him a little time to figure things out.
He looked down and saw that she had started to cry softly. For the first time, he noticed the handcuffs around her wrists. He touched her shoulder, and she looked up through her tears.
“Naomi, did you shoot Foster, or was it Crane?”
“It was me. But I had to. He was trying to—”
“I know, I know. Did you use the same gun on both of them?”
She shook her head, tears rolling down her face. “No, I found a gun in Nazeri’s desk, and I used it on…Foster. But I fired all six, and then I saw his gun, so I picked it up. I thought Vanderveen was coming back for me. After that, everything just kind of…happened.”
She broke off, tucked her knees up to her chest, and buried her head in her arms. Kealey was already on the move. First, he went to Foster’s body and grabbed the back of his shirt, turning him so he was facing the opposite direction, away from the office. Then he moved back to Naomi, lifting Foster’s gun out of her lap. She didn’t seem to realize what was happening. He lifted the lower half of his T-shirt and used the material to wipe down the gun as fast as possible, doing his best to erase any sign of her fingerprints. When he was satisfied, he kneeled next to Foster’s right hand and let the gun slip from his shirt to the floor.
At that very moment, his phone rang. He flipped it open immediately.
“It’s the Renaissance Hotel,” Harper said. He sounded amazed and angry. “Forty-eighth and Seventh. Thirty-five members of the Iraqi National Assembly in one fucking place. I don’t know who thought that one up, but I’m going to—”
“Okay, thanks.” Kealey flipped the phone shut without waiting for a response. It didn’t make sense; he didn’t know why the bomb was still intact, but it didn’t really matter. If he could just get there in time, he might still have a chance to stop it.
He touched Kharmai’s shoulder again to get her attention. “Naomi, I have to leave you here. I don’t know if what I’ve done will hold up, but you have to get a grip on yourself and come up with a story, okay? Foster shot Crane; then you shot him. You need to fill in the blanks before the cops get here. Understand?”
“Ryan, I can’t do that. I deserve whatever—”
“Don’t say that,” he said in a hard voice, cutting her off. He softened his tone and kneeled beside her. “It was a mistake, it’s done, and spending the next few years of your life in prison won’t fix it. You have to get it together, okay?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Good.”
He glanced at his watch as he ran for the doors. Sanitizing the scene had taken a full minute, a minute he couldn’t afford to spare. Before he got outside, he thought of something and went back to Foster’s body. He found the keys to the Crown Vic in the man’s left jacket pocket, along with FBI credentials in a flip-style billfold. He grabbed both items. Less than a minute later, he had the roll-down vehicular door up and was pulling out onto West Thirty-seventh Street, heading for Eighth Avenue. He accelerated immediately, racing against the one-way traffic, laying his hand on the horn. In his rush to beat Nazeri to the hotel, he didn’t notice the man in the Sable across the street, who watched him go with a mixed expression of rage and curiosity.
As Kealey raced north toward the Renaissance Hotel, Vanderveen crossed the street quickly, heading back to the warehouse, wondering what he would find inside.
CHAPTER 55
NEW YORK CITY
Amir Nazeri wiped a film of sweat from his forehead and stared down at his hands, which were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel of the Isuzu box truck. They were steady, but only because they were welded around the wheel; the rest of his body was trembling violently. He willed his limbs to relax but knew that it wouldn’t make a difference. Looking up, he stared blankly through the windshield at the traffic passing a few feet in front of him, then turned to his right, absently watching the crowds sweeping past on the sidewalk. He wondered what these people would think if they knew what was going through his mind. Would any of them understand? Somehow, he didn’t think so. Only one person had ever really understood him, and she was gone, stripped away by the same government that had given him the chance to prosper in a new and foreign land. The irony of this—that America could give with one hand and take away with the other—had never occurred to him, but he wouldn’t have cared to consider it.
The Isuzu had passed through the western half of the theater district and was now idling at the intersection of West Fifty-second and Tenth. He had missed the right turn onto West Forty-eighth several minutes earlier. At first, he told himself it was just because he’d seen a police car make the same turn. But then he’d come up with a similar excuse for the next eastbound street, the street after that, and the street after that. At this rate, he would never reach his destination, but suddenly—inexplicably—he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He wiped his face again as the light turned green. He hesitated, but instead of turning right onto West Fifty-second, he kept going straight. Nazeri shook his head unconsciously, aware of the pressure building inside his chest. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. When Kohl had first put forth this proposition, everything had seemed so clear. In killing Fatima Darabi, the U.S. government had stripped away the only thing that had ever mattered to him. When he’d learned what had happened to her, the bitterness had threatened to overwhelm him completely. Nothing had changed since then, so why was he hesitating? Why was he finding it so hard to make the turn?
Suddenly, he was overcome with deep, piercing shame. How could he be so weak? He still didn’t know exactly what Fatima had done for the mullahs in Tehran, but he knew that she’d come to the United States to risk her life for her country. She had sacrificed everything for what she’d believed in, and while Amir did not share those beliefs, he did respect them. More to the point, he respected her courage. In life, she had possessed a certain strength, an inner vitality he could never aspire to, only admire from afar. But now she was gone, and it was his turn to be strong. If he failed her now, he would never again have the chance to avenge her death, at least not to the extent she deserved.
As this realization sunk in, her face appeared, unbidden. When she came, he saw her at ten years of age, splashing in the fountains at the Sheik Lotfallah mosque in Isfahan, a giddy smile on her face, whooping as the water rained down in a silvery cloud.
It was the best memory of his life.
Horns blared behind him, pulling him out of his reverie. As he came back to reality, he wished so much that he could go back to that time, a time when anything seemed possible. A time when they still had the chance to make the right choices. He felt something warm running over his cheeks and realized that he was crying.
When he hit the light at West Fifty-sixth Street, he swung the wheel to the right. The hotel was less than five minutes away, and he knew now what he had to do.
All doubt was gone.
In the warehouse on West Thirty-seventh, Naomi Kharmai was still sitting on the smooth cement floor. For the moment, she was lost to the world, mired in her own private hell. She couldn’t seem to settle on any one emotion: the guilt would start to take hold, only to be replaced by a surge of self-pity. These twin tenets of misery were propped up by anger: anger at Harper, fo
r letting her have her way; anger at Ryan, for not walking in first. If Crane had been the second person through the door, Naomi never would have pulled the trigger. But it just hadn’t worked out that way, and now an innocent person was gone forever.
She still couldn’t believe it. Through the tears in her eyes, she stared at Crane’s body in the near distance, silently begging the other woman to stand up and shake it off. It just didn’t seem possible. She had taken a life. An innocent life. It was the one word she just couldn’t shake from her tortured conscience. It was also a word that didn’t apply to Matt Foster, and for this reason, Naomi didn’t regret shooting him at all. Samantha Crane was the only victim here, but if Crane was innocent, what did that make her? The answer was incredibly simple, yet so hard to accept.
She was guilty. Guilty of the worst possible crime. Naomi just couldn’t see a way past this mistake. Even if Ryan somehow managed to stop Nazeri, how was she supposed to live with herself? To come to terms with what she had done?
The thought brought on a fresh wave of bitter, scalding tears. They were flowing steadily now that the shock had worn off, but she knew this was only the start; the shock might have faded, but reality had yet to set in. As sorrow welled up in her chest, she heard a noise at the doors and looked up. Suddenly, her grief was replaced by something even worse. As she stared, openmouthed, at the man standing before her, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of divine punishment for what she had just done. If so, the punishment was fully befitting her crime.
Will Vanderveen was standing there, holding a gun in his hand. Her gaze instantly moved to the gun near Foster’s hand—the one Ryan had cleaned of her fingerprints—but Vanderveen seemed to sense her thoughts.
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