Andrew Britton - The Assassin

The images on the screen changed, and the newscaster moved on to a different story. Kealey let his mind drift, thinking about the events of the past few weeks. It was hard to see any kind of pattern in the recent escalation of violence, but the truth was that everything seemed to stem from the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister and the murder of Nasir Tabrizi in Paris. Both men were powerful, influential politicians, and that made them natural targets, but there was something else to consider. Nuri al-Maliki and Nasir Tabrizi were also on either side of the most prominent divide in Iraq, that between the Shia and Sunni faith. After the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, the Shiite-controlled Mahdi Army had publicly accused the Sunni insurgency of masterminding the attack. As a result, the violence over the next week seemed to primarily target Sunni businesses and places of worship. But then Tabrizi had died, causing the violence to swing the other way. Shiite places of worship had suffered the brunt of what appeared to be retaliatory strikes, despite the discovery that Tabrizi’s assassins were Iranian nationals.

Given the current situation, Kealey couldn’t see a solution on the horizon, and apparently, he wasn’t the only one. A number of prominent Democrats had already revived an old debate on the floor of the Senate, arguing that U.S. troops were not trained to intervene if the situation dissolved into civil war. A number of retired generals had also weighed in on the issue. Most seemed to believe that the military would not be able to control the situation if the Iraqi government fell into disarray. Privately, Kealey agreed, but it threw the whole situation into a new light, and he couldn’t help but reconsider his earlier thoughts. What if someone wanted to destroy the Iraqi National Assembly? What if someone had retained Vanderveen’s services to that specific end? The former U.S. soldier had definitely participated in the bombing of the Babylon Hotel — that much was fact — but had Vanderveen somehow played a part in the assassination of Tabrizi in Paris? If so, he had covered his tracks remarkably well.

Naomi stirred on the other bunk, and Kealey looked over, his thoughts switching to the previous night. The car from the embassy had arrived less than ten minutes after he made the call. The driver had brought clothes for Kharmai, and once she had changed, they’d driven straight back to the embassy. The chief of station, a florid, portly Texan by the name of Fichtner, had met them at the gates. He had screamed at Kealey for twenty minutes while a doctor removed the shrapnel from Naomi’s arm. Fichtner then made the call to Harper in Washington. Kealey had no idea how Harper had reacted — he had only heard one side of the conversation — but he knew that the DDO would not be pleased with what had transpired. A man he had personally recruited was dead, Ruhmann was gone, and they were no closer to finding William Vanderveen. The whole thing was a complete disaster. For the first time since his dismissal from the Agency, Kealey was starting to feel that he’d earned his walking papers.

Naomi stirred again and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She pulled back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, revealing a white T-shirt that hung like a dress on her slender frame. Kealey could see the bandage beneath the fabric near her left shoulder, but his attention was quickly drawn elsewhere, as the bottom edge of the shirt barely reached the top of her bare thighs. He looked away, embarrassed, but then he felt her eyes on him, and he turned back. She was wearing a slight smile, obviously amused.

“You didn’t seem so shy when you were pulling my clothes off last night,” she said, pulling her hair back from her face.

The comment caught him off-guard. “You were soaking wet, Naomi, and it was freezing out there. I was just trying to-”

“I know, I know. Relax. I was only joking.” She stood and looked around for her jeans. Once she had pulled them on, she sat back down on the edge of the bed. Kealey saw that her smile had disappeared. As if reading his mind, she studied him with a serious expression. “This isn’t good, is it?”

He shook his head, then seemed to hesitate. “I’m sorry I brought you into this. If I’d known it would turn out this way-”

“Don’t, Ryan.” She fixed him with a steady gaze, hoping to convey her sincerity. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t make me get on that plane, just like you didn’t make me help you in Washington. I wanted to do those things. I wanted to be part of it, and I don’t regret it.”

“What about your career? And don’t tell me it doesn’t matter, because I know it does.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, it matters. I didn’t want to lose my job… I mean, who does, right? But it’s done, and that’s that. Besides, some things are more important.”

“Like what?”

“Like helping the people you care about.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, each trying to figure out what to say next. The moment was shattered by a knock at the door. A woman with feline features and short auburn hair poked her head in, her gaze instantly moving to Kealey’s bare chest. Naomi recognized her as Fichtner’s aide. She spoke between loud smacks of the gum she was chewing. “Ryan, Mr. Fichtner would like to see you in his office.”

“Okay,” Kealey said. He reached for his shirt, which was still slightly damp. “Thanks, Becky.”

“No problem.” The woman beamed at him for a few seconds, then turned to Naomi, the smile fading. “You’re Kharmai, right? You have a telephone call. You can take it in the next room.”

Naomi was bewildered. “Did they say who they were?”

“Her last name is Peterson,” the aide said, sliding her gaze back to Kealey. “Apparently, she called Langley looking for you, and Mr. Harper had it routed through to our switchboard.”

“Okay,” Naomi said. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The woman didn’t move, and Naomi repeated herself loudly. Finally, the aide left reluctantly, the door closing behind her.

“You have a fan there,” she said wryly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, right.” Naomi shook her head as she stood and walked to the door. “Like you didn’t notice.”

She followed the aide down a narrow hall. They came to the secure phone, which was housed in a small, windowless office. The aide gestured in a bored, dismissive kind of way, then went back the way she had come. Naomi glared at the retreating woman as she reached for the phone and punched the HOLD button. “Kharmai.”

“Naomi, it’s Liz. How are you?”

At the sound of the other woman’s voice, she couldn’t help but smile, her spirits lifting. At the same time, she felt a tinge of self-pity. She didn’t miss much about London, but Peterson definitely qualified.

“Could be better,” she replied honestly. They exchanged pleasantries for a minute; then Naomi related the events of the previous night, leaving out the fact that she was no longer officially with the Agency. Peterson was slightly stunned when she finished, and Naomi had to prompt her to get back to why she’d called in the first place.

“Well, it has to do with the name we pulled off the tape. Jason March, aka William Vanderveen.”

Naomi instantly perked up. “What do you have?”

Peterson explained quickly about Samir al-Askari, the Jordanian banker, and his untimely end on the Strand. “Two of our best watchers were tracking this guy, Naomi. One was taking photographs from across the street. When we went back and digitally enhanced the shots, two faces kept popping up in the background, a man and a woman. We ran a check through our facial recognition software, looking for nodes. Vanderveen came up; the match was ninety-five percent.”