Andrew Britton - The Assassin

The Ford was already squealing away as the first officer exited the Peugeot and brought his FAMAS to bear. He released a long burst of automatic fire after the departing vehicle, the rear windshield shattering instantly.

Despite the frantic scene unfolding before him, Vanderveen had been breathing slowly and steadily from the moment the Ford first accelerated down the boulevard. Now he found the gaping hole in the rear windshield. Through the scope, he could see that the passenger was slumped over the center console, the driver clearly fighting for control of the car. He centered the crosshairs on the back of the headrest, released the air from his lungs, and squeezed the trigger.

The suppressor dulled the report and the muzzle flash, but even at 270 yards, the effect of the 3-round burst was obvious. The headrest on the driver’s side exploded in a puff of white cotton filler, and the Ford lurched from the road, swiping a number of vehicles before grinding to a halt. The CRS man stopped firing and moved forward cautiously, his back to the Mercedes, as the third officer — one of the two left standing — ran out to assist the wounded, having already called for an ambulance. Apparently, Vanderveen’s shots had gone unnoticed.

“Go!” he said to Raseen, placing the rifle down by his feet. “Move!”

He punched the button and the window came up as she started the engine and pulled into traffic. Cars were fishtailing to a halt behind them, but the road ahead appeared to be clear. “Did they get him?” she was saying excitedly. “Was he hit? Was he hit?”

Vanderveen turned to look out the rear window. He could hear distant two-tone sirens but didn’t see anyone following as the Mercedes swung onto the rue Guersant, slipping into the busy traffic. “Slow it down. There’s nobody behind us.”

“Did they get him?”

He thought of Tabrizi’s body crumpling, hitting the pavement. He visualized the second volley punching up his legs and into his back.

“Yeah, they got him. He’s gone.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.,VIRGINIA

It was just after two in the afternoon when they left the restaurant. The Suburban was waiting at the curb, but Harper crossed to the passenger-side window, leaned in, and dismissed his driver, preferring to walk for a while. The rain had moved on, and the air was beginning to warm, steam rising up from the damp pavement. Overhead, the sun poked out from behind thick gray clouds. They walked south on 6th, skirting a small knot of tourists before taking a left on E Street. As they strolled, Kealey quietly brought Harper up to date on what was happening at the NCTC.

When he was finished, Harper said, “Do you think it’ll come to anything?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kealey paused. “Naomi keeps surprising me, John. I don’t remember her being this capable.”

Harper flicked a sideways glance at the younger man, wondering where this was going. “I don’t know why you would say that, Ryan. Every fitness report she’s ever received has been stellar. Emmett Mills, for one, can’t say enough about her. He desperately wants her back, but I think it’s time to give her a starring role at the CTC. She’s more valuable here than she is in London.”

Kealey nodded and was about to comment when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at the number, and flipped it open. “Yeah?”

It was Kharmai. “Ryan, I’ve got something.” Her voice was tinged with excitement, but there was a crackle of static. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I’ve got you. What did you find?”

She explained about the calls she’d made to the various CIA stations, and then told him about Staibler’s contact in Port Said East. “This guy has access to everything, including collection logs. In other words, he can tell us exactly who arrived at the port to collect containers on a given date. Over a three-month period, the same man signed for containers coming off vessels that Mason was using. I can’t guarantee they’re the same containers, of course, but-”

“Naomi, what was the name?” Kealey asked impatiently.

“Erich Kohl.” She paused for effect. “It’s Vanderveen, Ryan. He was in Egypt on those three dates, collecting consignments. We found the link.”

He stopped in his tracks, and Harper looked at him, questioning. His head was buzzing, but he didn’t know why; when it came to the movement of arms through Anthony Mason, Kealey had suspected that Vanderveen was playing a key role all along.

Still, they had no idea where the man was, and Rashid al-Umari was proving equally elusive. As if reading his thoughts, Naomi continued. “There’s something else. I had a hunch about the vessels Mason was using, so I checked them out, and some never docked on the dates he specified. In fact, some of them don’t exist at all.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I ran the names through the NCIC, and as it turns out, his contacts were listed under the container ships heading. That’s why we couldn’t find them anywhere else… I guess listing them that way was just one of his little security measures. Unfortunately, most of them are black holes. I’ve already contacted MI5, Interpol, Mossad, and come up with nothing. Some are in prison, some have fallen off the radar completely, but one jumped right off the screen. The R.B. Boderon out of Honduras.”

“Why would you run container ships through the NCIC? The database doesn’t-”

“Ryan, just listen, would you?” It was her turn to lose patience. “That ship doesn’t exist. Boderon is an alias used in the past by a man named Thomas Ruhmann. He’s an Austrian industrialist and suspected arms broker. He’s quite influential, apparently, but there’s more to it than that. For one thing, he used to work for the UN. As a weapons inspector. In Iraq.”

Kealey paused to take that in. “And where is Ruhmann now?”

“Well, that’s the thing. He’s…”

The silence went on. “Naomi? What’s wrong?”

“Hold on. Something’s happening here.”

Inside the Liberty Crossing Building, a strange tension in the air had caught her attention. Naomi stood up from behind her desk and unconsciously pressed the phone to her chest as she surveyed the room. Everyone on the ground floor was wearing an animated expression, and most were typing furiously, while others were relaying urgent messages over the phone. Some were juggling both tasks with varying success.

Her eyes moved up to the second floor, where supervisors were hurriedly walking from room to room, presumably looking for updates. Naomi finally found her answer in the most obvious location, the 70-inch protection screen that hung from the second-floor walkway. The images that confronted her were horrific, bodies strewn across the street in front of a large, pale building with hundreds of windows, dozens of which were shattered. Sitting back down at her desk, she brought up the feed on her screen, then turned up the volume to hear the voice-over:

“…attack occurred at 7:03 PM Paris time. This video was shot by a tourist outside Le Meridien Etoile, the site of a two-day economic conference being held by the International Chamber of Commerce. According to witnesses, a number of conference attendees were exiting the hotel when a black Ford sedan sped down the boulevard, then braked to a halt in front of the main entrance. Automatic gunfire was leveled at the crowd from the passenger-side window. Although French police have yet to release a statement, the attack is believed to have claimed the lives of…”

Naomi listened for thirty seconds more before remembering that Ryan was still on the line. She lifted the phone back to her ear and, in a shaking voice, explained what she’d just heard.

On E Street, Kealey lowered the cell and looked at Jonathan Harper, who was methodically beating his pockets, obviously wondering where his own phone had gone.