Andrew Britton - The Assassin

The driver pulled up behind a fleet of vehicles outside the main terminal. He didn’t get out and offer to help with their bags. Instead, all he said was, “Your tickets are at the counter. Have a good flight.”

Kealey went to the back and pulled out his light grip, then reached in for Kharmai’s larger bag. When he had the bags on the wet cement, he saw that Naomi’s gaze was fixed on something in the near distance. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

“That car,” she said slowly. “It’s pretty nice.”

He followed her gaze and found himself looking at a late-model Mercedes coupe, shining silver in the lights on the building’s facade. A middle-aged man in a suit was leaning against the rear fender, smoking a cigarette. “A CLK. What about it?”

She turned to meet his eyes. “What did Bennett say last night when you asked him about surveillance? He said that Ruhmann had a CLK registered under the name Schauble.”

“So?”

“So we never checked the car, Ryan. It’s probably sitting right outside his apartment.”

Kealey shut the rear cargo doors of the Suburban, then banged on the window twice. The vehicle had disappeared into traffic before he addressed her words. “Why would we check the car, Naomi? It doesn’t seem like a good place to store documents, especially documents relating to illegal arms sales.”

She caught the sarcasm and was instantly annoyed. “I realize that,” she said as she snatched up her suitcase and extended the handle with more force than necessary. She winced as the movement jarred her injured shoulder. “But it’s worth checking, isn’t it? I mean, what do we have to lose?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he replied at length. The glass doors slid open as they approached the terminal. “I need to talk to Harper anyway. I’ll ask him to call the embassy directly… That’s the only way Fichtner will make the effort.”

She shivered slightly as they entered the warm building. “Do you think Harper will even do it? I mean, he can’t be too happy with us right now.”

“Maybe not, but that won’t stop him from making the call. He’ll save the rest for when we’re on the ground in Washington.”

She didn’t reply as they stepped up to the counter. They displayed their passports and picked up their tickets. Kharmai checked her bag, and then they walked through to security. Once they had passed through, they followed signs up to the third floor. Naomi headed off to a place called Miller’s Bar while Kealey found a telephone. He dialed the appropriate number and asked for Harper. The DDO came on the line almost immediately.

“Ryan, where the hell are you?”

Kealey immediately took note of the other man’s tone. He didn’t sound angry, which was surprising enough, but there was an undercurrent of urgency there that Kealey recognized immediately. He knew it meant they had a break in the case. “We’re at the airport. Fichtner couldn’t get rid of us fast enough. We’re about to catch a plane to Washington.”

“What the hell happened? Why did-”

“I’ll explain everything once we get back. Right now I need you to do something for me.” He explained quickly about Ruhmann’s car, using as few words as possible. “I know it’s a long shot, but we have to check everything.”

“It’s way beyond a long shot, but I’ll make the call.”

“Thanks.” Kealey paused, then said what was on his mind. “John, Vanderveen was there. Don’t ask me how I know — I didn’t see him — but he was definitely there. He set the trap in Ruhmann’s office. He knew we were coming. Someone tipped him off.”

“Well, I might be able to shed some light on that, but we’ll wait and see. I want you to look at the evidence. In any case, a lot has been happening here. You need to get back as soon as possible.”

Kealey was tempted to ask, but he knew that Harper wouldn’t say anything more on an open line. He glanced at his watch, which strangely enough had survived the events of the previous night. “We’ll be there in eight hours.”

Two hours after Kealey and Kharmai boarded a United flight bound for Dulles International, a number of dazed tenants were clustered around the entrance of the apartment building on the Reichstagufer, watching from a distance as police officers and firefighters went about their business, salvaging what they could of the ruined apartments. The bodies — those of three men and two women, including the caretaker — had been removed hours earlier. The injuries sustained in the fire were minor: a few cases of smoke inhalation, a couple of first-degree burns. The onlookers now gathered on the cold, rainy street were primarily concerned with the state of their homes. No one seemed to notice when an unmarked sedan slowed to a gentle halt on the road behind them.

The passenger door swung open, and a man stepped into the road. He was in his mid-thirties, lean, with brown hair, a thin mustache, and plain features. In short, his appearance was completely unremarkable, a trait befitting a four-year veteran of the Central Intelligence Agency. He quickly scanned the line of cars parked in front of the building. Spotting the one he was looking for, he crossed the road at a brisk pace, his head swiveling slowly. No one was watching him. When he reached Thomas Ruhmann’s black Mercedes, he stood close to the passenger-side door and let a thin strip of metal slide from his sleeve. In less than twenty seconds, he’d popped the lock.

The alarm went off immediately, but he ignored it and scoured the vehicle. He found a small pile of paperwork on the passenger seat immediately, then checked the rest of the car: the glove compartment, under the seats, the trunk. Finding nothing else, he walked back to the sedan, the paperwork tucked under his arm. The alarm on Ruhmann’s CLK had been blaring for less than thirty seconds. A few of the onlookers had turned in curiosity; finally, someone brought the matter to the attention of a harried police officer. The officer disentangled himself and started forward to investigate, but the sedan was already gone, almost as if it had never been there.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

As it turned out, their plane didn’t arrive until 7:00 PM eastern time, owing to a delayed connection at Heathrow and bad weather on the ground at Dulles. By the time Kealey and Kharmai had collected the checked bag, they were both exhausted and ready to drop in their tracks. As they left baggage claim, a man in a neat blue suit approached them, looking uncertain. Kealey didn’t recognize him but took a chance and assumed he was with Harper. It turned out he was right. They followed the driver out the glass doors, stepping into the cool air. There was a black Suburban waiting at the curb. Kealey threw their bags in the back, then joined Naomi in the backseat. As the vehicle pulled into traffic, Jonathan Harper shut off his cell phone and turned to appraise them both. His first words were hardly surprising.

“You two look like hell.”

“Fichtner practically pushed us out of the building,” Kealey said. The truck was a little overheated, so he cracked the window. A light rain was coming down, but it wasn’t enough to slow the traffic. “I haven’t showered in two days.”

“Neither have I,” Naomi chimed in. She suddenly looked embarrassed, as though it had been a personal choice instead of a situation beyond her control. After removing the shrapnel from her shoulder the night before, the doctor had given her a powerful sedative to help her sleep. It was a miracle she’d woken up in time for their flight.

“Well, you’ll get the chance soon enough,” Harper said. “In fact, we-”

“John, I don’t mean to interrupt, but you said this morning that you had something new.”