Andrew Britton - The Assassin

She tried to speak, but no words came out. Vanderveen seemed to realize the effect he was having on her. He smiled, revealing two rows of very even, very white teeth. “You must be Naomi. It’s nice to meet you. Would you mind dropping that phone and stepping out of the car?”

She took note of his voice: flat, calm, devoid of emotion. There was no hint of his native South African dialect, but that wasn’t surprising; according to the files she had read on countless occasions, he had not returned to his homeland in many years. She felt like this must be a dream; in the year since she had learned of his existence, she had almost convinced herself that he wasn’t real, that he was nothing more than a figment of their collective imaginations. But now, sitting before him, she could see he was definitely real. Just like the gun in his right hand.

Seeing no other option, she dropped the phone on the floor, got out of the car, and shut the door. She looked around quickly as Foster got out of the driver’s seat and moved around the car. Aside from the roll-down vehicular door, there was also a pedestrian gate set in the 10-foot metal wall that separated the parking area from the street. A short, heavyset man with glasses and dark features was standing next to the door he had just pulled down. To her right was the warehouse; she could see an incongruous set of glass doors directly behind the back of a large Isuzu box truck. The doors were propped open with red clay pots, but it was the truck that held her attention. She knew instinctively that it contained the BLU-82, even though she could not see the contents from where she was standing.

Vanderveen looked to Foster and said, “Bring her inside and secure her.”

“We should just-”

“We will,” Vanderveen said. “But not yet. Just do as I say.”

Foster grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the glass doors of the warehouse. Naomi was still too stunned at this turn of events to think it through properly, but she forced herself to concentrate. It was now clear that Foster had been feeding Vanderveen information all along, but the question remained, how did he get it in the first place? Did Samantha Crane still have a part in it? Ryan had been so sure about that, and it still seemed like the only possible explanation.

Only now did she remember what he had told her in the bar at the Hotel Washington, that Foster had taken part in the raid in Alexandria. That was why the name had seemed so familiar, but Ryan had mentioned him only in passing, which explained why it had slipped her mind.

She cursed herself silently, bitterly, realizing she had probably made the last mistake of her life. Even though Vanderveen had cut off Foster’s last sentence, it had been all too clear what he was about to say: We should just kill her. She knew what was coming, but she couldn’t dwell on it. If she hesitated, or if she froze completely, she would lose any chance of survival. She forced herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

They entered the warehouse. Foster grabbed her arm and seemed to hesitate, then pushed her toward a large piece of machinery, a freestanding commercial lathe. Vanderveen walked in behind them, the gun held loosely in his right hand. Seeing that the other man had Naomi covered, Foster set down his service weapon on a nearby stack of broken wooden pallets. Then he produced a pair of handcuffs and pulled her over toward the lathe. She resisted slightly, so he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back sharply. Tears sprang to her eyes with the pain, but she refused to cry out.

“Put your hands around that bar,” Foster hissed. “Do it.”

The stinging sensation at the back of her head was unbearable, and she knew it wouldn’t help to struggle. She put her hands on either side of a horizontal bar that ran the length of the lathe, and he snapped the cuffs tightly around her wrists, securing her in place.

“Step away,” Vanderveen said. Foster hesitated, then did as he was told. The former U.S. soldier walked over and stood very close, eyeing her steadily. There was a smile on his handsome face, but the look in his eyes revealed his true intentions and etched away at whatever self-control she had left. She could tell he was deciding how best to hurt her before taking her life.

“Naomi… You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” She didn’t reply, knowing it wouldn’t matter what she said. “As you can see, you’re in a very bad situation here. I’m afraid you used up all your luck in Berlin.”

Naomi closed her eyes. “So you were there.”

“Of course.” He paused and looked at her carefully, then reached out and touched her cheek. She recoiled instantly, but he merely smiled.

“Tell me, how long have you worked for the CIA?”

“I don’t work for them at all.” She did her best to sound defiant. “They fired me.”

“Really?” He looked amused. “I’m impressed. And how long have you known Ryan?”

She set her jaw and looked away. He stared at her for about twenty seconds, as if gauging her conviction. Then he nodded once and walked off toward the office, disappearing from sight. Naomi heard a door bang, the rattle of blinds against glass panes, and then he returned, carrying a green metal toolbox. Setting it down on the smooth cement floor, he opened it and started perusing the contents. As he rummaged, he spoke to her without raising his eyes.

“You know, Naomi, this is the last time we’re going to talk. Make no mistake, you’re going to die very soon, but before you do, I thought we might have a civilized discussion.” He straightened, holding a pair of needle-nose pliers. “Of course, it doesn’t have to be civilized. That’s up to you.”

Foster, standing nearby, shifted uneasily. “We don’t have time for this. Kealey will be here any-”

“We have plenty of time,” Vanderveen said quietly. Foster shifted again, but didn’t push the issue. “Go outside and watch the gate.”

Foster muttered something under his breath, then retrieved his weapon and made his way to the glass doors. At the same time, Nazeri hurried forward and seized Vanderveen’s arm. He was sweating profusely, and his brown eyes were wide, amplified by his thick glasses. In Farsi, he said, “What is this woman doing here, Erich? You have to get rid of her.”

“Relax, Amir. Times Square isn’t going anywhere.”

Naomi spoke four languages, including Farsi. She struggled to keep her face blank, not wanting to reveal what she’d heard, but Vanderveen’s words were hitting her hard. Times Square? Why would they choose that particular spot? Maybe it was just an alternate target, she decided. Maybe they had decided the UN was too well protected.

“She’ll be gone soon enough,” Vanderveen added gently, pulling himself free. He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Just focus on what you have to do. I’ll take care of the rest, okay? Go outside and wait for me. This will all be over soon.”

The Iranian looked distraught, but he did as he was told. Vanderveen turned back to Naomi. He was still holding the pliers. He couldn’t help but notice the hopeful expression on her face.

“Oh, that’s right. What did Agent Foster say?” Vanderveen made a show of trying to remember. “Kealey will be here any… what? Any second? Any minute?” He smiled broadly, clearly enjoying the moment. “Either way, it won’t be in time to do you any good. I only wish I could stick around to see his face when he finds what’s left of you.”

He paused thoughtfully, examining the steel prongs of the pliers. “Tell me… Is your relationship with Ryan purely professional? Or is it something more? Because if you have any insights, I’d very much like to hear them. Has it been difficult for him, coming to terms with what happened in Maine? Have you helped fill the void, so to speak?”