Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“Yes, I have a laptop. I’ll have to pull out the hard drive.”

He fell silent for a long moment, studying his hands, thinking it through. Finally, he said, “Where are you planning to use the device?”

Vanderveen looked up to address the question. “You don’t need to know that.”

“Bullshit!” Ruhmann turned to glare at the younger man. “I’m the one the Americans are after. I think I deserve to know.”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

The Austrian didn’t seem to hear, and appeared to wither before their eyes, his face crumpling. “I knew this was a mistake from the start,” he said in a low voice. “It’s too big… It was always too big. Don’t you see? If you use the device in the States, I’m finished. The Americans know I was at Al Qaqaa. They managed to keep the story quiet, but a select few still know what was stolen out of that facility.”

He looked at each of them in turn, finding nothing in their neutral expressions. “This has something to do with Paris, doesn’t it? That Iraqi minister who was killed.” His voice started to rise. “What about the prime minister in Baghdad? Was that part of it, too? Answer me!”

“You supplied the weapons,” Vanderveen remarked quietly. “You had some idea where they were going. What do you think?”

Ruhmann didn’t seem to hear. “I should have stayed out of this,” he muttered. “It’s too big. I’ll never be able to move again.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Raseen said. “You took the money. You can’t back out now.”

“They’ll trace the device to me.” The Austrian arms broker looked sick. “Thousands will die. They’ll never stop looking.”

“They can’t prove a thing,” Vanderveen lied. He knew that Ruhmann was the primary suspect with respect to the theft at Al Qaqaa in 2003. It was never intended that the Americans should learn of the Austrian’s involvement in the upcoming attack, but since he had been tied to Mason, the connection would eventually be made; it was all but inevitable. Still, the situation could be fixed easily enough. All Vanderveen had to do was pass additional instructions to the informant in New York. The informant, in turn, would suggest to his FBI handlers that Ruhmann was working for the Iranians, which would further muddy the waters.

“We’ve taken many precautions, Mr. Ruhmann.” Raseen’s voice was low and strangely seductive. “Your continued well-being is very important to us.”

“I see,” Ruhmann replied. He was clearly skeptical. “You have an interesting way of showing your gratitude. You come here to warn me of danger, yet the first thing you do is show me your guns.”

Raseen smiled gently, shooting a quick look at Vanderveen. He had already discovered a number of pertinent documents, which he’d stacked neatly on top of the desk. “Well, we didn’t know if you’d see it our way, Mr. Ruhmann. You did have a gun of your own, after all.”

“Right.” He looked over at Vanderveen, an annoyed expression crossing his face. “If you want my help, you can start by getting away from my desk.” He motioned to the Beretta in Raseen’s hand. “Do you mind?”

She shook her head. “Go right ahead.”

The Austrian stood warily and moved to the desk. Vanderveen stepped aside as the older man started pulling paperwork out of the drawers. The frustration was clearly taking hold, and he finally let it out in a bitter tirade. “This is ridiculous,” he spat, accidentally knocking a sheath of paperwork to the floor. “I don’t know how you found me, and I don’t care why you’re here. This kind of intrusion is completely unprofessional. I’ll never work with you people again, no matter how this-”

“Don’t be stupid,” Raseen said, interrupting him calmly. “Our business relationship is very profitable for you. If you have any sense at all, you won’t throw it away over some hurt feelings.”

Ruhmann did not reply, his anger fading as he shot a curious glance to the door. Vanderveen was examining the frame, running his fingers over the lacquered wood. He walked the length of the wall, bouncing his knuckles against the velvet-covered surface. After a moment, he looked back to the Austrian.

“What’s behind this wallpaper? Plaster?”

Ruhmann frowned. He seemed annoyed at the suggestion that his exquisite surroundings could be constructed of something so crude. “It was exposed brick when I bought the place. I had it covered with plaster to hold the wallpaper. Why?”

Vanderveen frowned in turn. Ignoring the question, he walked back to the windows, his gaze fixed on the flat roofs of the buildings across the river. Realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer, the Austrian turned to a painting behind the desk, a large Turner landscape. He lifted it gently from the wall, revealing a safe.

“Stop,” Raseen commanded. Vanderveen turned instantly, alarmed by the sharp note in her voice, but she waved him away.

Walking over, she gestured for Ruhmann to step aside. “What’s the combination?”

He gave it to her, and she opened the safe. Inside, there were a number of burn bags and a small pile of numbered folders. No weapon. She gestured for him to continue. He pulled out the folders and started to push them into the bags, along with the documents stacked on the desk.

It took less than five minutes to fill all the bags. Raseen used the time to unscrew a small panel on the bottom of Ruhmann’s Hewlett-Packard laptop. Once she had the hard drive out, she slipped it into her pocket. Ruhmann pulled the tabs on the burn bags, destroying the contents. All that emerged was a thin whisper of smoke. Vanderveen watched everything from his spot by the windows. His face was neutral, the gun resting on the ledge by his hand. He had dropped the backpack by his feet, and on several occasions he’d caught Ruhmann staring at it with interest.

The Austrian fell into the seat behind his desk and sighed wearily. “So, that’s it. When is this American supposed to arrive?”

“Sometime tonight,” Vanderveen said. Kneeling, he unzipped the pack and started removing items. Some of the equipment had been supplied by the man in Dresden; the rest he had picked up himself at an electrical supply store. He pulled out the Semtex first, two half-pound blocks of grayish white material wrapped in green polyurethane.

Ruhmann, leaning over his desk, recognized what he was looking at immediately. His eyes went wide. “What the hell are you doing with that?”

Vanderveen did not reply. Setting the plastic explosive aside, he reached into the pack and produced a bundle of electrical blasting caps, a bulky roll of insulated copper wire, wire strippers, a handful of clothespins, and a pair of 6-volt batteries. Finally, he removed a soldering iron and a plastic bag filled with hundreds of steel ball bearings.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ruhmann repeated.

Vanderveen looked up, but he didn’t offer an explanation. “Tell me something, Herr Ruhmann. The door in the entrance hall… Does that lead to the stairwell?”

This was information that had not been contained in the file. “Yes,” Ruhmann said, obviously struggling to see the relevance. “It opens to a brief flight of stairs; then there’s another secure door on the fourth-floor landing. You need a code to get through.”

“Is there an alarm?”

“Yes, but it only activates my security monitors.”

“Give me the code.”

The Austrian recited four digits from memory.

“Good.” Turning to Raseen, Vanderveen switched to Arabic. “I’m going to need some type of metal containers. Can you find me something like that? Coffee cans, for example? Look in the kitchen.”

She went out as the Austrian looked on in utter confusion. Vanderveen was busy stripping the ends of a 20-foot length of wire when Raseen returned a minute later, bearing two large silver cans.