Andrew Britton - The Assassin

JTTF stood for Joint Terrorist Task Force. The acronym referred to a handful of agents in each of the Bureau’s fifty-six national field offices who worked with local law enforcement, as well as nearby ATF and DEA offices, to combat terrorist activity. Kealey wasn’t at all surprised that Crane had been called up from New York to organize the arrest, as the Bureau was much more flexible than local law enforcement when it came to matters of jurisdiction. After the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, agents from half a dozen field offices around the country had been brought in to assist with the investigation. The same thing had transpired at Ruby Ridge, though just about everyone at the Bureau would prefer to forget all about that particular incident.

“So how do you fit in?”

Foster grinned, suddenly looking all of twelve. “Sam needed a gopher, so she asked me to tag along. That about sums up my role in this little drama.”

Kealey nodded again, deciding that he might have judged this young agent a little harshly. Apart from the overly casual references to Samantha Crane, he seemed to know his place. Belatedly, Kealey realized that he might have an ally here.

“Listen, Agent Foster. I’m going to tell you something in the hopes that you’ll pass it along. See this open area here?” He pointed on the diagram to the parking area just south of the warehouse. “The brick wall running next to the road might shield their vehicles on the approach, but once they dismount, the assault teams are going to be completely exposed for at least fifty feet. I’m sure you have sniper support, but-”

Kealey stopped in mid-speech when he saw that the other man was shaking his head. “They’re not going in that way,” Foster explained. He pointed to spots on the map just east and west of the warehouse. “You can’t see it from this layout, but there are chain-link fences just outside the building. The boys from D.C. SWAT cut gaps in the fence last night… All they have to do is push through and hug the face of the building. That way, the shooters across the street can cover the assault teams and the warehouse. Mason has cameras, of course, but we’ve arranged to cut power just before our guys go in. They’ve already set up a hard perimeter, so we should have it covered.”

Kealey nodded. The plan didn’t sound like much, especially coming from Foster, but it was better than the alternative. Still, he knew that the raid carried a great number of risks. First and foremost — at least in his mind — was the danger that Mason might not survive. He was the only link between Arshad Kassem and the Iraqi insurgency, and Kealey wanted to know where the weapons were coming from. The file he’d read a few minutes earlier had cast some serious aspersions on Anthony Mason’s ability to run a successful criminal enterprise, and Kealey was no longer sure that the trail stopped with the American-born arms broker.

Looking around the room once more, his gaze fell on Samantha Crane, whose eyes were fixed on the bank of monitors. She was anxiously chewing on a fingernail, her left arm wrapped around her waist in a curious way.

“Is she going to be all right?”

Foster glanced across the room. “Yeah, she’s good under pressure.”

Kealey nodded again but noticed that the other man’s words didn’t carry the same weight of confidence as they had during the first half of the conversation.

PARIS, ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

It was just after 8:00 PM as the last of the 82 passengers on Lufthansa Flight 1822 trudged into the glass and concrete expanse of Terminal 2F, weighed down by the standard melange of discarded coats, carry-on bags, and sleeping infants. For the most part, the travelers moving toward the main building looked as tired as they felt, which was not surprising, as most had merely connected in Frankfurt. Essentially, their journey had begun eight hours earlier in Istanbul’s Ataturk International, only to end here, on the northeastern fringe of the French capital. As one of two main hubs in the Paris area, Charles de Gaulle International was sometimes referred to as “Roissy Airport” by the abrupt locals, although the second part of this title was occasionally dropped altogether.

The last passenger to step out of the Jetway moved with a studied ease and appeared remarkably well rested, which was ironic, as his journey had been considerably longer than that of the other passengers. After leaving Tartus, Will Vanderveen had driven a Peugeot back to Lattakia, where he’d dumped the vehicle and caught the Qadmous bus to Aleppo, essentially retracing his steps. From there, he’d purchased a bus ticket to Istanbul. While the ticket was remarkably inexpensive, the equivalent of twenty dollars, the modest sum was not the reason for his circuitous route. Of far more importance was the fact that the bus crossed into Turkey via the Bab al-Hawa border station, the most congested — and, therefore, the least demanding in terms of security — of all four border checkpoints. His French passport had been expertly crafted two months earlier by an embittered former department head with the DGSE, the French external security service. The gold-embossed burgundy booklet — which contained the appropriate entry stamp acquired at Damascus Airport — had been enough to satisfy the overworked Turkish officials. From Istanbul, the passport and 1,400 Turkish lira had bought him a seat on Alitalia Flight 386 to Frankfurt, and from there, it was another hour in the air to Paris.

The only luggage he carried was a black Coach messenger bag, which contained a change of clothes and basic toiletries. His numerous false passports were concealed on his person. Stepping into a bathroom, Vanderveen relieved himself and stopped to wash his hands. Looking into the mirror, he was pleased with the face he saw, although it was not his own. As Nicolas Valery, senior lecturer in Greek studies at the Sorbonne, his brown hair was cut short and streaked with gray, as was his three-day growth of stubble. His eyes were still green but were subdued by a pair of clear-vision contacts. He wore a pair of fashionable wire-rimmed spectacles as well as a fawn-colored corduroy sport coat, vintage jeans, and frayed suede loafers. The completed ensemble gave him the air of an aging academic, which suited him fine. His current persona was not entirely random; Vanderveen could discuss the trials of Heracles and Homer’s Iliad for hours if the need arose, although he did not expect that it would.

After passing through the main building, he stepped out into the cool air and joined the taxi queue. He didn’t have to wait long, but he cursed his luck as soon as he climbed into the backseat of the Renault wagon. The driver stank of liquor. As Vanderveen shrugged off his sport coat and set it aside, he caught a quick glimpse of the man’s glassy eyes in the rearview mirror. The vehicle rolled away from the curb, and soon they were streaking south on the A1 toward the city center.

Ten minutes passed in strained silence. Despite the fact that traffic was light, they were driving much too fast, tires squealing on the slightest curves in the road. Glancing at the mirror once more, Vanderveen saw beads of sweat pooling on the driver’s broad forehead, a nose full of broken capillaries over unkempt facial hair… all the telltale signs of a raging, lifelong alcoholic. He thought about the thick bundle of notes tucked into the pages of his false passport, glanced at his watch, and made a decision.

“Monsieur Grenet?”

“Yes?” The man’s bloodshot eyes moved up to the mirror, appraising his passenger. There was a brief, uncertain pause. “How do you…?”

“Il est sur le tableau de bord,” Vanderveen said, responding to the unasked question.

“Yes, of course,” the driver muttered. He glanced down at the dash, where his name was prominently displayed, along with his license number. “I’m sorry. You had a question…?”