Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Finding the gear had been a challenge in itself. It had taken a number of calls, but he’d finally managed to get through to an instructor at Camp Peary, otherwise known as The Farm, the CIA’s main training facility, near Williamsburg, Virginia. By chance, the instructor had left most of the necessary equipment at Langley a week earlier. Kealey had made the drive to headquarters just after midnight, stopping along the way at a twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart. There, he had collected the rest of what was needed: a battery-operated screwdriver, a Mini Maglite with an assortment of colored filters, and a pair of thick leather gloves. He’d also picked up a Gerber multitool. Favored by military personnel, the Gerber was similar to a Swiss Army knife in form and function. The Maglite remained in the pack, which he left on the balcony. The screwdriver was hooked to his harness, dangling from one of the gear loops, as was the Gerber.

Having secured the shunt to the rope and his harness in turn, he pulled on the pair of thick leather gloves, adjusted his lip mic slightly, and said, “Naomi, I’m about to take care of the cameras. Ready on your end?”

“Yes. I’m making the call now.”

In the Taurus, Kharmai pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. The other end was picked up after the first ring. A brisk voice announced, “German Embassy.”

“Yes, hello?” She was nearly shouting into the phone. “I can hardly… I can’t hear you. Hello?”

“Yes, this is the German Embassy. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Gunter. Is he… Is he there? Sorry, can you hear me? This phone is…”

She allowed herself to trail off and held her breath, waiting for the reply.

“Yes, he’s right here. One moment please…”

Naomi hung up immediately. The file contained the names and positions of nearly everyone who worked at the chancery, including the guards on the night shift. Anything could have changed over the past couple of months, but their luck seemed to be holding. She wasn’t sure if the guard on the phone had bought her act, but it didn’t really matter. There were only two men on duty from 8:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., and she’d just verified their locations. Both were in the security booth, which was on the other end of the building. Ryan would not get a better chance.

She keyed her mic and said, “They’re in the booth. You’re free to move.”

On the second-floor balcony, Kealey acknowledged her transmission and started to move. First, he slipped the rope over the side of the railing and began lowering it carefully. It was going to go too far, he realized; if he descended, he’d overshoot his target and end up in full view of the cameras. Pulling the rope back up, he looped it around the railing a few times, tied a second knot, and lowered it once more. This time, the rope stopped right where he wanted it to.

He performed a quick check of his clothing, looking for anything loose, something that might snare in the shunt’s pulley. Satisfied with his preparations, he climbed over the railing and stood with his heels between the bars, facing out into space.

Inverted rappelling basically amounted to descending a rope face first. It was a dangerous proposition under the best of circumstances, but here in the dark, with the bare minimum of equipment, it was nearly suicidal. Kealey knew this as well as anyone, but he was completely calm as he leaned forward and loosened his grip on the rope. It all came down to timing.

Kneeling, he dropped forward over the railing. He fell with startling speed for the first 10 feet before pulling the rope hard over his chest. At the same time, he pinched the trailing end between his feet. Although he was using every ounce of strength he possessed to slow his fall, he was unable to stop in time. His hands bounced over the knot in the end of the rope, and he slammed to a halt a split second later. Looking up at his harness, he could see that the shunt was jammed into the anchor knot; it was the only thing that had stopped him from tumbling headfirst to the cement footpath.

The heart-stopping descent had left him shaken, but there was no time to waste. Stripping off his gloves, he examined the cameras, both of which were in arm’s reach. Each was covered by a weatherproof plastic housing. The housings were screwed into place; four screws on each, he could see, and beneath that, another four screws to remove the access panels.

He hooked his leg around the rope to stabilize his body, then felt back to his side for the screwdriver, unhooking it from the caribiner. He moved slowly; if he dropped the screwdriver, he would have no choice but to abort. Once the cameras went off-line, one of the guards would surely come to investigate. If he were to find a screwdriver beneath the disabled units, the embassy would be locked down immediately, and reinforcements called in. If, on the other hand, the cameras did not appear to be tampered with, the security guard might simply ensure the door was locked, head back to finish his shift, and report the incident in the morning. Kealey was not sure of any of this, but given the situation, there was no other alternative.

He managed to get both housings off in less than a minute, propping them on the mounts drilled into the walls. The access panels came next. Although the cameras were set to ignore a certain amount of vibration, he was careful to avoid bumping them. He felt sure that the slight vibration generated by the screwdriver would set off the alarm. If that happened, he would not know until the door was opened below; the alarm wired to the cameras was only audible inside the security booth. The process was nerve-wracking, and by the time he was down to the last two screws, his face was bathed in sweat, despite the cool air.

The last one came free. He pinched it between his fingers, but it slipped free, rattling off the front of the camera.

Shit. Kealey looked down to the cement. The screw was clearly visible, impossibly bright in the weak light. There was no way the guard would miss it when he came to investigate. No way.

He swore under his breath, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do now; he just had to carry on in the hope that the guard was too tired or ignorant to notice. Snapping the screwdriver’s fabric loop back into the caribiner, he reached next for the Gerber. Unfolding the wire cutters, he found the appropriate bundle of wires in the exposed circuitry of the first camera. He would have preferred to simply short out the cameras, thereby creating the illusion of an electronic malfunction, but he couldn’t be sure of success. Cutting the wires was the only way to guarantee the feed would go down. He snipped the wires quickly, then did the same to the second unit. The cameras were off-line.

Now there was not a moment to lose; the guard would arrive in less than a minute. Most of the embassy’s security measures were external. Inside the building, the doors were secured by cipher locks, each of which could be opened with a simple four-digit code. The guard would have access to every door on the ground floor, and it wouldn’t take him long to reach the back of the chancery.

Kealey hooked the Gerber back to the harness and retrieved the screwdriver. Ten seconds had elapsed. Moving fast, he slipped the metal covers back into place, covering the access panels, then began screwing them down. Thirty seconds gone.

He reached for the weatherproof housings. One came free right away, but the other started to slide off the opposite side of the mount. Lunging out with his left hand, he caught it at the last possible second, the plastic material pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Breathing hard, he set the housings over the cameras and checked his watch for the third time, lighting up the digital face: forty-five seconds.