Andrew Britton - The Assassin

She spoke for twenty minutes, detailing the links between Rashid al-Umari, Arshad Kassem, Anthony Mason, and Vanderveen. She also addressed the possible Iranian connection. Watching her from across the table, Kealey could not help but admire her poise and the way she managed to tie everything together. It was strange to listen to her speak to this audience; for the first time, he was acutely aware of her East Midlands accent, which had never seemed more out of place than it did in this room.

Naomi concluded by referencing Thomas Ruhmann. “He’s actually an Austrian national, but accommodations have been made for him by some of his friends in the German federal cabinet. Though he’s listed on the boards of some of Germany’s most reputable companies, we’ve long suspected him of dealing arms to a number of governments and rebel groups. Needless to say, most of his customers are not people we want to see armed. The German government lets him get away with it because he’s done some work for them as well, but he’s also something of an embarrassment. They keep a close eye on him.”

Brenneman nodded and said, “What do you mean by that? They protect him directly?”

“In a way, sir. Let me give you an example. Three years ago, the State Department discovered that Ruhmann was involved in the sale of two hundred Starburst man-portable missiles to Adnan al-Ghoul, a senior Hamas official. Incidentally, al-Ghoul has since been killed. Shortly after the sale came to light, State requested a formal audience through the appropriate channels. They expected full cooperation from the Germans, but the door was slammed shut in their faces. And that was then. Apparently, Ruhmann has since enlarged his circle of influential friends, which makes getting access to him even more difficult.”

“Why the wall? Why would they go to that length to protect him, and what did you mean about him being an embarrassment?”

Kealey straightened in his seat and fielded the president’s questions. “Sir, do you remember the incident at Al Qaqaa in 2003?”

Brenneman considered for a moment. “Vaguely. Refresh my memory.”

“Al Qaqaa is a weapons storage facility located about twenty miles south of Baghdad. In 2003, it was reported that more than three hundred eighty tons of explosives, including HMX and RDX, had gone missing from the stockpile. That amounts to about forty truckloads. The New York Times was the first to break the story. Predictably, everyone started pointing fingers. The IAEA said that the material was accounted for in January of that year, and that U.S. troops were responsible for safeguarding the facility. The Pentagon turned the accusation around, but no one ever really took the blame. Some of the explosives later turned up, used in attacks on our troops, but most of it simply vanished. There was a lot of dispute afterward about what else might have been stored at Al Qaqaa.”

“How does Ruhmann fit in?”

“Thomas Ruhmann was in Iraq at the time, sir,” Naomi said. “In fact, he was the UN representative in charge of the last inspection at Al Qaqaa. That is, the last inspection before the explosives disappeared. Questions were asked, of course, but he resigned his post with the UN before his name came up, and his connections have since kept him out of the spotlight. Frankly, the Germans just want to forget the whole thing.”

“Okay,” the president said. “So to summarize, Ruhmann can be linked, at least indirectly, to al-Umari and Vanderveen, both of whom were responsible for the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister.”

“That’s correct,” Naomi confirmed.

“But none of this can be tied to the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi in Paris, right?”

“Not yet,” she agreed reluctantly. “We’re still looking at that angle, sir.”

“And this is the only lead we have? Apart from the Iranian connection?”

“Unfortunately, that’s all we have at this time.”

“I could call Chancellor Merkel directly,” Brenneman pointed out. “She can hardly refuse the request if I make it myself.”

“Actually, sir, she might very well do just that,” Andrews put in. “At best, she’ll stall, and time is a factor here. The meeting at the UN is scheduled to take place on September sixteenth, coinciding with the opening of the General Assembly’s annual session. As you know, Prime Minister al-Maliki was the only member of the core Shiite group not scheduled to attend, the core being thirty-five key members of the United Iraqi Alliance. Nasir Tabrizi was on the other side, of course, but a moderating factor, nonetheless. From the Agency’s point of view, the fact that these men were specifically targeted is very troubling, and perhaps indicative of a larger attack here on U.S. soil. If the alliance is being targeted, we may be looking at more to come.”

Kealey instantly shot Harper a questioning look that said, What meeting? He didn’t notice that Kharmai had done the same thing, but Harper ignored both of them and turned to the president. “Sir, here is what it comes down to. I understand the Bureau has told you otherwise, but the Iranians have only been loosely implicated in the information we’ve gathered. Everything from our end points to an Iraqi mastermind. We need to talk to Ruhmann, but we have no idea where he is. Nor do we know what name he’s using, and we’ve already checked the obvious.”

“So you need to find him without going through diplomatic channels. I assume you’ve come up with a way to do that,” Brenneman said. He did not need to voice his displeasure that two of the country’s key agencies were at odds over who was responsible for Baghdad and Paris; the look on his face said that much and more.

Naomi cleared her throat gently. “Sir, we know that Ruhmann was stationed here in Washington for two years, beginning in ’98. He worked out of the German Embassy, commuting to the UN when necessary. It’s likely they have a record on him at the embassy, including a point of contact. It would be classified, of course, but we have a way around that little problem.”

“And how do you propose to get this information?” Brenneman asked. His voice was dangerously quiet, as though he were daring them on.

A hush fell over the room. Finally, Naomi took a deep breath and took the plunge.

“We steal it, sir. We break into the German Embassy and steal it.”

CALAIS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The drive from Paris to Calais took just under four hours, delayed by an overturned tractor-trailer on the A26. The second car, a maroon Audi with a slippery clutch, had been waiting in the parking garage on the rue Tronchet, as expected. After collecting it and wiping down the Mercedes, they followed the aptly named boulevard Peripherique around Paris to the A1, which became the A26 near Lille. They pulled off the main road just south of Amiens, following a rural road through a thick forest of black pine. The detour added twenty minutes and five brief stops to the trip, but gave Vanderveen the time needed to break up the G2 assault rifle and hurl the components deep into the trees.

After producing the keys to the Audi in the garage, Raseen had climbed into the driver’s seat without a word. Vanderveen had nearly offered to take the wheel, worried that she was too tightly wound to handle the car with the necessary skill, but one look at her face told him that she needed the activity. She began flicking through the channels as soon as she started the engine, but the first report did not come through until they were twenty minutes outside of the city. The facts were sparse at best, but the Iraqi foreign minister was confirmed dead at the scene, along with a veteran CRS officer and two unidentified gunmen. Unsatisfied, she continued to scan the news channels. They were 40 kilometers outside of Paris when the story took on new depth, stoked by the rising body count and the death of a prominent American businessman.