Andrew Britton - The Assassin

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.

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 vehiclemounted 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 facades on the first floor, cheap vinyl siding above that. The buildings looked innocuous enough, but a closer inspection revealed bars on the firststory 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 milkweed.

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.”