Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Crane shook her head slowly; she was still trying to get her mind around what she had just learned. This was just too much to handle. “How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know, but he said if we call the FO, he’ll kill her.” Kealey leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of Rudaki’s low moans in the next room. He felt numb. Finally, he opened his eyes and started for the stairs. Crane followed, and as they bounded to the ground floor, he spoke to her over his shoulder. “I have to get in touch with Langley. They’ll give us an address for this Nazeri guy, and I’ll just…” He shook his head, unsure of how it had come to this. “I’ll just have to go in alone.”

“Not a chance,” Crane said. Her voice was imbued with sudden determination. They hit the bottom of the stairs and moved for the door. Special Agent Mackie was still lying where Kealey had dragged him earlier. Behind him, he heard Crane ask, “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” Kealey said. They reached the Accord. Kealey thought it said a lot about the neighborhood that no one had come to investigate the shot he’d fired into Rudaki’s leg, but there were sirens on the horizon as he unlocked the door and looked over the roof at Samantha Crane.

“I don’t think you should be part of this,” he said. “I have a habit of wrecking people’s careers, including my own.”

“At this point, that’s the last thing I’m worried about.” She hesitated. “He may have your friend, Ryan, but he betrayed my trust, and he betrayed the Bureau. I can’t let that go. I’m coming with you, and that’s final.”

He nodded; he couldn’t argue with anything she’d said. “Fine. Let’s go.”

On the corner of Thirty-fourth and Eighth, Special Agent Matt Foster disconnected the call, aware that he’d cut Kealey off in mid-sentence. He stared out the windshield for a few seconds, wondering how it had come to this. All he’d wanted to do was keep Kharmai busy until the bomb reached its target, but somehow, Kealey had managed to find Crane and Rudaki. His arrangement with Will Vanderveen had made him an extraordinarily wealthy man, but even in his wildest dreams, he’d never thought he would need the money so soon. With this development, he had no choice; he’d have to leave the country immediately.

He cursed under his breath. He was completely unprepared. At the very least, he would need a false passport, but getting one would take time, time he didn’t have. In a matter of hours, he would become one of the most wanted men in the world. Given the situation, there was only one option left to him.

Foster lifted the phone and punched in a number.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” Foster said, struggling to keep his voice level and calm. He didn’t know the other man well — they had only met in person a few times — but he suspected that Vanderveen would not react favorably to panic. “I have a passenger, and we have a small problem.” He put emphasis on the “I” and the “we.” “Open the door. I’m heading your way.”

“Not possible,” Vanderveen said instantly. “This wasn’t part of the plan, Foster.”

“I realize that, but it can’t be helped. Listen, it’s the Kharmai woman, the one you missed in Berlin. She might prove useful.”

There was a long pause. “What happened? Why do you need to bring her here?”

Foster swore under his breath. He didn’t want to relay the bad news over the phone, but he didn’t have a choice. He explained quickly.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Kealey? Yes. I told him to keep the field office out of it, or I’d kill the woman.”

“He’ll come anyway. How far is the safe house from West Thirty-seventh?”

“Twenty minutes or so, but it’s the middle of the day, and the roads are busy as hell. Besides, he’ll need to call Langley to pin Nazeri down. We probably have about half an hour.”

“And where are you?”

“A few streets down. I can be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Where’s the woman now?”

Foster looked out the passenger-side window. Naomi Kharmai was just walking out of the Starbucks on the corner, holding a cup in each hand, nodding at the man who’d held the door for her. “She’s walking back to the car.”

Another long pause. “Okay, bring her in. The door will be up, and I’ll be waiting. We’ll figure it out when you get here.”

The phone went dead. Foster slipped it into his pocket as Kharmai placed the cups on the roof and opened the door. He thanked her as she handed one in, then took her seat with the other. Once the door was closed, he pulled back into traffic.

Naomi took a sip of her tea and flinched as the hot liquid touched her lips. “Ouch… too soon.” She looked around for a cup holder. Not finding one, she held the container gingerly on her knee and turned to face him. “Matt, I was thinking we should head back to your office. Rudaki’s probably already there, or at least on the way.”

“Actually, I just called. It’ll be another half hour or so. In the meantime, we have one more stop to make.”

She looked at her watch and frowned. “Will it take long?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He smiled reassuringly. “Not long at all.”

NEW YORK CITY

As the Bureau Crown Vic turned left onto West Thirty-seventh Street, Naomi looked at her watch again, then scowled out the window. She no longer cared if her impatience was obvious. This was taking much longer than she’d expected, and she really wanted to talk to Rudaki. They were running out of time, but then again, she thought the delay might be a good thing. If Ryan had gotten to Rudaki already, that would explain why the informant had yet to show up at the New York FO. On the other hand, it seemed like if that had transpired, Ryan would have called to let her know. With this thought, she realized that she hadn’t checked her phone in a while. Her purse was down by her feet. Leaning down, she rooted around for a minute but didn’t find it.

“Agent Foster, did you see what I did with my phone?”

“Oh, shit,” he said, digging into his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it over. “Sorry… Some guy named Kealey called while you were getting the coffee. He asked me to tell you that he struck out.”

“Damn it,” she muttered. “Is that all he said?”

“That’s it.”

She looked at her phone, thought about calling him, then decided against it. If he’d struck out with the safe house, he wouldn’t want to hear that the New York FO had been wasting her time for the better part of an hour. The first person they’d visited had been a naturalized Iranian just west of the Brooklyn Bridge, the owner of a small freight company. He had been adamant in his denials of wrongdoing, and there had been something about his manner that convinced her immediately. Then they’d moved on to a Saudi immigrant in the financial district. That interview proved equally fruitless, ending with the man screaming obscenities at them in Arabic as they’d hurried back to the car. In short, the whole trip had been pointless, making her wish she had just stayed in the Javits Building. Unfortunately, it was a little late for that now.

Without warning, Foster swung the car to the right. They bumped over a little concrete lip, passing beneath a worn wooden sign. The car slowed to a halt in the middle of a large parking area, a brick warehouse off to the right.

Naomi turned to her left, confusion spreading over her face. She was about to ask what they were doing there when she saw the gun in his hand. She froze, unsure of what was happening. For a split second, she thought it was some kind of sick joke. Then she was aware of the metal door sliding down behind the car, blocking the view of the street. Before Foster could say anything — before she could even ask what was happening — her door was pulled open. She turned instinctively and looked up into a face she had only ever seen on her computer screen and in distant surveillance shots: the face of William Vanderveen.