Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“Can’t you sleep?” he asked.

“No.”

Strange, but the single word was answer enough. They sat in silence for minutes on end. He wondered if she ever experienced remorse for her actions, but he could not ask the question. Nor would he have trusted her answer. Finally, she pressed her lips to his ear and said, “I saw you on the phone, you know. Who were you talking to?”

He hesitated, and she locked on to it immediately. “We’re in this together, Will. You must learn to trust me if we are to succeed.”

Trust. It was a hell of a thing to expect, considering what she had just done. Still, she had a point. He had asked her to join him, not the other way round. If he couldn’t trust her, she had already outlived her usefulness. And yet, for all of her skills, she was beyond his experience and, therefore, beyond his control. It was the one fact he could not set aside. He thought about it for a few minutes more, weighing the options. She remained silent, awaiting his decision. Finally, he began to talk softly.

He told her everything. He started with that day on the Syrian coast, all the way through to his work for Iran and al-Qaeda. He told her about the failed assassination of the U.S. president one year prior. Finally, he told her about Kealey and the threat that the man now posed.

“I brought it on myself,” he said when he was finished. “I killed five of his soldiers, five men he was responsible for. Five of his friends. Then, seven years later, I killed his woman right in front of him. He has every reason to want me dead.”

She shifted against him, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Perhaps so, but that’s in the past and can’t be helped. The question is, what will you do now?”

Vanderveen smiled into the dark. “He’s close to Ruhmann. Once he tracks him down, Kealey will come to Europe himself; he won’t trust anyone else with something of this importance.”

“And we’ll be waiting,” Raseen said.

“Yes,” Vanderveen replied. “We’ll be waiting.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We meet the man our employers have sent. He arrives in London tomorrow afternoon.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The streets of Washington, D.C., were not as empty as Naomi would have expected at 4:00 AM. They had passed a number of vehicles en route to the Palisades, a wealthy residential area that stood out in the city, even amidst the redbrick opulence of Georgetown. Their route had taken them past the closed roads surrounding the White House, through Foggy Bottom and the river mist hanging over the Potomac. Shortly after they entered Arlington County, the lights of the States Naval Observatory appeared in the distance, glistening eerily in the damp morning air.

Naomi took M Street off Pennsylvania, then swung a right onto Wisconsin Avenue, the wheel shimmying slightly beneath her fingers. The car was dark blue, a late-model Taurus with tinted windows, new tires, and Virginia plates. The vehicle looked modest enough, right down to the surface rust, but things were not as they seemed. A standard check through the DMV would lead the police to a crumbling brownstone in downtown Richmond, and the engine compartment contained a block that was far more powerful than the standard 3.0 liter V6.

The car, which had been discreetly pulled from the Agency’s motor pool, was Harper’s final — and most dangerous — contribution to their unauthorized task. With enough work, Kharmai felt sure that the paper pushers at Langley could trace the car back to the DDO, but she was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. With any luck, they’d have it back in the pool before the workday began. She lowered the window slightly and checked the clock in the dashboard, wondering how long they had before sunrise. She was guessing it was at least three hours, which was more than enough time, assuming everything went according to plan. And that, she thought wryly, was a very large assumption.

Kealey had been checking his equipment and murmuring directions since they’d left the hotel. She didn’t need his help, but she was too keyed up, too involved in her own thoughts, to point this out. Her nervousness was a source of lingering irritation, and it didn’t make sense; she’d felt fine when they were poring over the embassy blueprints. Of course, that had been in the safety of a warm, brightly lit hotel room. Now reality was starting to sink in, and for the first time, she realized how much she was actually risking. If anything went wrong, her career at the Agency would almost certainly be over. The thought made her stomach contract into a tight, queasy ball, but she shook her head unconsciously and steeled herself. She’d made her decision, knew it was right, and she’d stand by her choice, regardless of the consequences.

Kealey looked up from what he was doing to issue instructions, but she beat him to it, swinging a sharp left onto Reservoir Road. The Taurus coasted along for a few minutes more, gliding into the suburb of Senate Heights. Naomi pulled off to the side of the road and doused the headlights. The car was completely dark inside; Kealey had already removed the interior bulb.

He opened the door as soon as the vehicle stopped, swinging his legs out to the pavement. At the same time, he hooked the earpiece into its proper position. They’d tested the radios at the hotel earlier. Naomi had driven the Taurus east on Pennsylvania, transmitting periodically back to Kealey’s room on the fifth floor. The Motorola XTS 2500 operated in the same high-frequency range as television and FM radio broadcasts; as a result, she grew tired of driving around the city long before noticing a meaningful drop in the audio quality. She had programmed the radios herself and felt sure they would perform as expected.

Kealey turned back to her as she was slipping her earpiece into position. She met his unflinching gaze and resisted the urge to look away.

“Naomi, this is your last chance. Are you sure you want to do this?”

She was annoyed that he felt it necessary to question her commitment again, but she pushed it down. “I’m sure. Just…”

“What?”

“Just be careful, okay?”

He nodded once and clambered out to the pavement, closing the door softly behind him. She watched through the passenger-side window as he walked down the darkened street at a brisk pace, his hands jammed into his pockets. She followed him with anxious eyes until the night closed in behind him. Then she started the engine and drove on.

The German chancery, the brainchild of famed architect Egon Eiermann, had clearly been designed with diplomacy in mind. Located far from the tumultuous rhythm of downtown Washington, the building was a true aesthetic achievement, a six-story amalgamation of glass, delicate wooden sunshades, and tubular steel support beams. The grounds, which encompassed 9 acres of prime real estate, were as unobtrusive as the building itself, marked only by the occasional poplar or oak. It was this very lack of vegetation that was troubling Kealey as he turned right on Foxhall Road and followed it north, adjacent to the chancery grounds. Garden lights were strewn about the grass, but from where he was standing, the narrow building was nothing more than a dark haze against the blue-black sky. To reach his objective, he would be forced to cross a great deal of open ground.

Kealey turned away from the fence, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and continued walking. A small SUV swept past on the indistinct road, followed by a D.C. Metro police car. At the sight of the cruiser, Kealey made an effort not to visibly react. The vehicle slowed but continued on. Once it faded from view, he breathed an audible sigh of relief. On foot he was vulnerable. His dark clothes and pack, combined with the early hour, made him stand out in this affluent neighborhood, where the heavy police presence was designed to intimidate people just like him, or at least what he appeared to be: a transient of dubious means. He was extremely fortunate the officer had not stopped to investigate further, but given what was at stake, he couldn’t count on that kind of luck; he had to get off the street as soon as possible.