Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“Good,” Vanderveen said. His satisfaction was genuine. “At least one of us can move freely. You may need to take on a larger role when we get to New York.”

Khalil nodded slowly. “Everything is working as expected. The Iranian — that is, the informant in New York — has performed admirably. He has convinced even the senior members of the FBI, and they are undoubtedly working to sway the president. Moreover, the meeting at the UN has been finalized. It will take place on the expected date and time. The specifics will be sent to you once you arrive in the city, which will be…”

“In three days’ time,” Vanderveen said. “Barring any unforeseen complications. Are you sure that Ruhmann is still in Berlin? He hasn’t been warned?”

“He’s still there, but he knows you’re coming.”

Vanderveen looked up sharply. “What?”

“I informed him that you wished to discuss the arrangements in person,” Khalil clarified. “Anywhere in Western Europe. He was reluctant, but agreed after I threatened to terminate our business arrangement. As you know, he’s earned a great deal of money through our organization.”

Vanderveen nodded slowly. Using cutouts such as Anthony Mason, Thomas Ruhmann had provided more than fifty tons of small arms to the Sunni insurgency over the past six months. Nearly all of the weapons were currently being stored across the border in Syria. The day before the Iraqi delegation was to be taken out in New York, the weapons would be distributed to Sunni insurgents and Syrian-based members of Hamas and Hezbollah. Appropriate targets in the western provinces of Iraq had already been selected by Izzat al-Douri and members of his senior staff. With the Iraqi Parliament in complete disarray, the wave of attacks would have a profound effect, further devastating the integrity of the government and creating a vacuum of power. At least, this was what al-Douri and his advisors anticipated. Vanderveen had his doubts, but he had his own reasons for going forward with the plan; namely, money and the chance to launch a devastating attack on U.S. soil.

“Ruhmann will meet you tomorrow in Potsdam,” Khalil continued. “Three PM at the Brandenburg Gate. The details are in the envelope, and you’ve already seen the pictures. Needless to say, he can’t be allowed to live. We have more than enough weapons for the upcoming offensive, and Hamas will supply a good deal of their own. At this point, the Austrian is more of a liability than an asset.”

“I understand that,” Vanderveen replied coldly. It had been his suggestion to kill the man in the first place. “What about the other materials I requested?”

“Yes, an interesting list,” Khalil murmured. He could barely be heard over the roar of the television. “A very interesting list. I can understand the handguns, but why do you need a long-range weapon? Why do you need explosives?”

“That is not your concern.” Vanderveen had asked for a quick description of Ruhmann’s residence in Berlin the previous night. The list of items he’d requested was based on what he’d been told. “Can you supply them or not?”

“Yes. There is a man waiting to meet you now. Do you know the city well?”

“Well enough.”

“Take a taxi to the British Museum, then another to Charing Cross. Hold on to the phone, and I’ll call you in ten minutes to give you further instructions. A car is waiting to meet us, but it’s best if we leave here separately. It’s also better to take different routes. Once we reach the final destination, he will supply what you asked for.”

“That doesn’t help at all,” Raseen said. Her unsettling gaze was locked on the courier. “How are we supposed to get the explosives from here to Germany? We can’t exactly take them through customs, you know.”

“I understand that,” Khalil replied. “And so does the supplier.” His voice was tight; clearly, he was sorely tempted to put Raseen in her place. That he could not bring himself to do it said much about the woman’s place in the organization, Vanderveen thought. It was yet another indication of how important she actually was.

“This man has a way to bring the explosives and the weapons into Germany by boat. He’ll explain it to you once you’ve examined the goods. Is that satisfactory?”

There was an edge of sarcasm there, but Vanderveen ignored it, nodding his agreement. “When are we supposed to meet him?”

Khalil looked at his watch. It was a flashy Breitling chronograph, perfect for drawing unwanted attention. “In less than an hour, so we’d better be going. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll just be a minute.”

Khalil walked into the bathroom and shut the door. A few seconds later, they could hear him urinating noisily.

Raseen was out of her chair in an instant. Moving close, she rested a light hand on his chest and whispered urgently into his ear. “The Security Service may have your picture, Will, but they have this man in their sights right now. He knows your name, and he knows about Ruhmann. He knows too much. You have to kill him. It means forfeiting the explosives, I know, but there’s no other choice.”

Vanderveen turned his face into her fragrant hair, lowering his voice to a murmur. “I agree, but losing the gear means changing the plan, and it’s a little bit late in the game for that.”

Her eyes drifted away for a moment, and then she snapped back to reality. “I might be able to get what we need, but I’ll have to place a few calls.”

“You have a supplier in Germany?”

“Yes. I worked with a man in Dresden three years ago. If he’s still active, he should be able to meet our needs.”

He looked at her, questioning. This was the first time she had mentioned another possibility, a contact of her own. The information would have been useful earlier, but there was no point in getting into that now. “Okay. We’ll follow him out, but then I want you to walk away. Don’t go too far, and keep the phone… I’ll call you once it’s done.”

“Very well.” She was about to say something else, but the courier was back in the room, reaching for his suit jacket. He pulled it on, grabbed the black case, and moved to the door. Vanderveen replaced the documents, sealed the envelope, and slipped it under his coat before following them out.

They left the hotel separately, as instructed. Khalil was the first to depart, nodding politely to the doorman as he stepped out into the rain. Raseen followed two minutes later, wearing the bright red anorak. As she approached the doors, she pulled the hood over her head and shot the doorman a little smile, which he eagerly returned. Vanderveen was wearing the black windbreaker, the ball cap pulled low over his blond hair. Raseen took a right after leaving the building, heading back down toward the Embankment, but Vanderveen crossed Savoy Street, poked around a newsstand for half a minute, then walked quickly back down the Strand.

He already knew why the courier had asked them to take a taxi. The British Museum was well out of the way, and the unnecessarily long trip could only mean that he intended to reach Charing Cross on foot. The station was located on the other end of the Strand, and if they had followed his instructions, they would have arrived at roughly the same time. Vanderveen’s suspicions were confirmed after a short while, when he again spotted the dark head of the man named Khalil weaving in and out of the crowd.

At least, it looked like the same man. Vanderveen knew he would have to get closer to make a positive identification, but he had done this kind of thing before, and he trusted his instincts. He was getting ready to close the gap when the courier solved the problem for him, pausing to examine a window display of expensive watches. A little break in the crowd gave Vanderveen a clear view of the other man’s profile. It wasn’t much, but enough to make a solid ID, and there was the last piece of evidence: the black case, dangling loosely from his right hand. The gap suddenly closed, obscuring the view. The street was no less busy now that the lunch hour was over, a great rush of humanity sweeping by on the sidewalk. The rain had started to clear a little as well, a few errant drops angling down from the low gray clouds.