Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“The point I’m trying to make,” Harper was saying, “is that after all of that, Katie meant everything to him, and I do mean everything. She was completely innocent, untouched by all the shit he’d seen in his life. She was a way to start over, a chance at, well, redemption, for lack of a better word, and when she died, all of that died as well.”

Harper looked away, slightly embarrassed. “At least, that’s the best way I can explain it.”

Naomi nodded again. The deputy director was clearly uneasy discussing this. Maybe he thought he’d revealed too much, or maybe he thought it wasn’t his place to tell her the truth. For a moment, she didn’t think he’d continue, but then he surprised her.

“Anyway, I flew down as soon as I got the news, but the doctors didn’t let me see him until the following morning. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but what struck me most was his demeanor. He was strangely unaffected. Dangerously calm, as if it hadn’t sunk in. But it did, and it’s been there the whole time.”

She felt for him, of course, but she was also interested, leaning forward in her seat. “What has?”

“The anger, the grief… all of it. Mostly it’s guilt. He put the hunt for Vanderveen ahead of her, and he thinks that’s what got her killed. He might even be right, but that’s not the point. He can’t let it go.”

Harper set down his coffee and stared absently over the courtyard, remembering. “He came to me a month later, once his wounds were healed and the doctors gave him a relatively clean bill of health. He wanted to come back inside, and I made it happen. Four months in Afghanistan hunting the Taliban with Delta, then a short break, and the next six months in Iraq. I thought it would help him, that staying busy might keep his mind straight.”

“And now?” she asked quietly. “Would you have done it the same way?”

She had definitely crossed the line, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he shrugged and shook his head. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter now, but I’ll tell you what I do know. He’s been taking risks ever since that night, and it’s only getting worse. After Ryan came back from Afghanistan, Special Operations Command made it clear to me that they didn’t want him back on their turf. Strangely enough, his time over there was hugely productive. Delta nabbed a number of key figures, guys who’d bribed their way into what they thought was a safe haven in Pakistan, but it was the way Kealey carried it off that had them worried. They said he was too reckless, not taking the proper precautions. Coming from those guys, that’s saying a lot.”

Her next question came naturally, and while she was afraid of the answer, Naomi knew she would never find Harper this forthcoming again. She had to ask it.

“Sir, is he… trying to get himself killed?”

He seemed to take the question seriously. “Maybe. Maybe not… It’s difficult to tell. I think Vanderveen’s reappearance has given him something to latch on to, at least for the time being. The point is, if you follow him into this, you’ll be completely outside the Agency’s authority.”

“Are you saying I have a choice?”

He smiled but didn’t respond. Draining his cup, he stood and placed a hand on the table in front of her. “Whatever you decide, Naomi, I’ll do what I can for you. You’ve done some amazing work here, and for whatever it’s worth, I won’t forget that. I’ll be staying on for a while, so if you need a reference, be sure to come and see me. Don’t wait too long, though. I’ll be following you out the door soon enough.”

“Thanks for the offer, sir. It means a lot to me.”

He nodded and smiled again, then walked away. He was out of sight by the time Naomi saw what he had placed on the table: a business card of some kind.

She turned it over and read the hastily scrawled note on the back. She recognized Ryan’s handwriting immediately.

Runway at Upperville, 6:00 AM sharp. Bring your passport.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Night was descending over the city as Samantha Crane hurried along D Street, having just left her government car in a parking garage off Massachusetts Avenue. She checked her watch as she came up on 1st, swearing under her breath. She was flushed by the time she reached her destination, despite the slight chill in the air. It had taken her twenty infuriating minutes to find an open garage, which made her wish she’d taken a taxi or even walked. Crane was staying at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill, not more than five blocks to the west. She had almost set out on foot from the start, but in the end, she decided against it. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that her FBI credentials would make a difference if the worst was to happen, and being unarmed, she thought it best to avoid tempting fate. She rarely carried a gun off duty, and tonight was no exception.

She smiled at the doorman and entered the restaurant, shivering involuntarily at the sudden temperature change. She didn’t have a coat to check, so she squeezed through the crowd to the bar. The dining area to the left was packed, but that was to be expected. Established in 1960, the Monocle had quickly become the place to be seen in the District, despite the rather indifferent food. A number of local celebrities could be seen on any given night, and since it was Saturday, more than a few were in attendance. Crane didn’t recognize most of them — she didn’t have much interest in politics — but a few familiar faces stood out. Senator Edward Kennedy was seated in the middle of the room, surrounded by a starry-eyed group of admirers, and someone who looked a lot like Dennis Hastert was sipping a drink at the bar, talking intently to a pair of older men in dark suits.

As she approached, Crane caught sight of her aunt, Rachel Ford, who was sitting two stools down from the House Speaker, a glass of white wine at her right hand. As always, the young FBI agent felt a sudden surge of inadequacy. She’d always thought that Rachel — with her pale, flawless skin and fine-boned features — could have been the queen of some minor country. Her regal posture somehow made that ridiculous bar stool look like a throne, and her clothes — a brown cashmere cardigan over a silk blouse and tan gabardine slacks — fit her slender form to perfection. Just the sight of her made Crane feel like an overfed second-string cheerleader, despite the extra effort she’d put into her appearance. She reluctantly stepped up to the bar, where Ford caught her eye. The older woman got to her feet and gave her niece an affectionate hug. Stepping back, she offered a small, disapproving frown.

“It’s lovely to see you, Samantha. I see you’re stunningly underdressed, as usual.”

Crane looked down at her outfit, then shot a quick, appraising glance around the room. Her chinos were fine, as far as she could tell, but she’d worn a woolen sweater against the brisk night air, and suddenly, the choice didn’t seem that inspired. “Thanks, Aunt Rachel,” she said dryly. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry we couldn’t get together when you first got into town. I’ve been incredibly busy, of course, but so have you, and that’s no excuse. I still don’t understand why you didn’t stay at my place. You know I have plenty of room.”

Crane shrugged uncomfortably. The truth was that her career had benefited from her aunt’s position, but she didn’t like to advertise the fact. A handful of other agents had also been brought into town to act in supporting roles in the Alexandria raid. Some had stayed on to supplement the forensic teams going through the warehouse, including a few techs from the New York office, where Crane was normally based. They were all staying at the Hyatt Regency, and her absence would have been noticed.