Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Giving up the search, Harper turned to the younger man and said, “Tell me.”

“Two men just attacked a hotel in Paris. At least eight people are dead, including Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, the Iraqi foreign minister.”

“Oh, Christ,” Harper muttered. “This can’t get worse.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Naomi Kharmai had never been more nervous; at least, not in the absence of imminent physical danger. Her hands were shaking, and her breath — when she could breathe at all — was coming in quick, short spurts. For the third time in a row, she stood and walked on shaky legs to the room’s only mirror. She checked her reflection with overly critical eyes, smoothing her hair and examining her suit. It was a Donna Karan two-piece in burgundy wool, the best she owned. Oblivious to the admiring gaze of the Secret Service agent standing nearby, she adjusted her skirt and turned to Kealey, who was slumped in a chair next to the door. He was wearing an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit he had borrowed from Harper. “Ryan, are you sure I-”

“Naomi, you look fine, okay? Try to relax.”

She turned back to the mirror in exasperation. He hadn’t even looked. She wondered how he could be so calm; as far as she knew, he had never met the president, either, or even been to the White House.

They were waiting in a dimly lit lobby on the first floor of the West Wing. Brenneman was in a meeting with the DCI, Jonathan Harper, and a number of FBI officials, including Harry Judd. Several hours earlier, Naomi had brought Kealey and the DDO up to speed on everything she had learned since the assassination in Paris. Afterward, Harper had talked to Andrews, asking that Kharmai be allowed to brief the president herself. Naomi had tried to flatly refuse, but Harper had insisted and assuaged her fears. Or at least he had made the effort; now, waiting to be called in, she was once again seized with terror. It didn’t make sense, and she was frustrated with her inexplicable lack of control. She was a professional, and she believed in what she had to say. At the same time, she had never even briefed the DCI, let alone the president of the United States, and she knew she only had one chance to make a convincing argument. She was determined to do so.

Naomi had been working feverishly ever since the attack. Through her contacts at the DGSE, she had learned the identities of the two gunmen. Both were Iranian, which, unfortunately, did not help the case she was about to make to the president. Tehran had yet to make an official statement, though she was confident that the regime would deny having played a part in the incident. For the most part, everything she had managed to dig up pointed in one direction: the Iraqi insurgency. Now, all she had to do was convince the president that she was right. In that respect, she rated her chances as good. What she was going to propose afterwards, however, might not be received as well, even though the DDO and the DCI had both agreed with her assessment.

She heard a door open behind her, and she swung on her heels, her heart leaping into her throat. The aide nodded to her and then to Kealey, who was still seated.

“Ms. Kharmai? Mr. Kealey? They’re ready for you. Follow me, please.”

Naomi stepped past the aide and entered the Roosevelt Room first, her leather briefing folder tucked tightly under her right arm. Kealey followed a few steps behind. Jonathan Harper, the only other person in the room, was waiting for them. He was standing before the fireplace, examining the Nobel Prize on the mantle. Naomi recalled that Theodore Roosevelt had won the prize for his work in ending the Russo-Japanese War, though she couldn’t remember the year. When the door closed behind them, Harper turned and crossed the beige Berber carpet. She immediately saw that his face was set in a grim expression, which didn’t help her nerves at all.

“The director stepped out to make a call,” Harper informed them. “The man himself is about to walk in here, so I’ll make this quick. Judd just railroaded us.”

“What are you talking about?” Kealey asked.

“Apparently, the Bureau has a source with strong ties to the Iranian government. This man predicted the attempt on al-Maliki, as well as the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi. They’ve been feeding this information to the National Security Council for weeks.”

Naomi shook her head, trying to see all the angles. “If they knew, why didn’t they pass the warnings along? Why did the attacks still take place?”

“The information was passed along. The Iraqis just didn’t act on it in time. Both attacks occurred earlier than anticipated, and in different places.”

“Is the president buying this?” Kealey asked doubtfully. “We don’t have much to implicate the Iranians.”

“He wants to. He’s been looking for an excuse to hit Iran ever since Senator Levy was killed last October.”

Both Kharmai and Kealey considered that for a moment. The previous year, the United States had formed an alliance with France and Italy to limit European oil exploration in Iran, the goal being to curtail the funds working their way into the regime’s weapons program. In response, the Iranians had formed a partnership with al-Qaeda to destroy the nascent alliance. They had started by targeting Senator Daniel Levy, the Senate majority leader and Iran’s most vocal opponent on the Hill. Levy had been a close friend of the president and one of his most ardent supporters. While the Iranian regime was never concretely linked with that attack — or those that followed — it was widely believed that the new hard-line regime had played a decisive role.

“So where do we stand?” Naomi asked. “Am I still doing the briefing?”

Harper opened his mouth to answer the question, but never got the chance. The door to the right of the fireplace swung open, and Director Andrews walked in, followed immediately by President David Brenneman.

The president walked over to Kealey first and extended a hand. “Ryan, it’s good to see you again. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

“I feel the same way, sir, but we’ll find who was responsible.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that we will.”

Listening to this strangely familiar exchange, Naomi was stunned. Here was yet another surprise: Ryan had met the president at least once before. But when? Her mind began ticking off the possibilities, but David Brenneman was already crossing the carpet toward her. He looked older in person, she thought, although it might just have been the strain of the past few weeks. He was tall — at least six feet four — and trim, with neat silver-brown hair and strong, handsome features. Despite the anger clouding his face, he looked presidential. She felt her mouth go dry as he offered a hand. She accepted it, painfully aware of how damp her own palms were.

“Naomi, I’m pleased to meet you. It should have happened before now… I know you played an important role in last year’s events. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, young lady.”

“Thank you, sir,” she managed. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

She instantly wished she’d limited her response to a polite nod, but the president didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. He gestured to the table and said, “Let’s get started, shall we?” They all took the appropriate seats, Brenneman at the head of the table. “Ms. Kharmai, I understand you’ve stumbled onto… excuse me, discovered, some interesting information regarding today’s attack in Paris.”

“Yes, sir.” She started to rise, but Brenneman waved her back into the seat.

“Unless you need the screen, we can do this in comfort,” he said. “Please proceed.”

“Of course, Mr. President.” Naomi flipped open her briefing folder, took a deep breath, and did her best to steady her jangling nerves. “Sir, let me start from the beginning. You see, the story does not begin with the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, but rather with the shipment of weapons through Anthony Mason to ports in the Middle East, where they were collected by none other than Will Vanderveen. At that time, he was using the name Erich Kohl. Over the next six months…”