Andrew Britton - The Assassin

At that same moment, a light rain was drifting over the Peace Bridge between Buffalo, New York, and Fort Erie, Canada, so named to commemorate one hundred years of peace between the two neighboring countries. Despite the temperature, which was hovering near 45 degrees, Tom Logan was relatively warm in his booth on the Canadian side of the Niagara River, a small electric space heater resting on the floor behind his stool. Logan, a twenty-six-year-old Buffalo native, had just started his third year with U.S. Customs amp; Border Protection, otherwise known as CBP. He didn’t think much of the work, but it seemed to pay the bills, and he’d never really aspired to more than that. As he reached for the second half of the turkey sandwich he’d brought in for dinner, a truck rolled up to his window, having approached unseen on the Queen Elizabeth Way while Logan was digging for his food.

Logan sighed and dropped the sandwich back in the bag, then slid open the window. He hoped the driver’s paperwork was in order; otherwise, the man would be stuck in Canada for at least another four hours. The Commercial Vehicle Processing Centre had closed at midnight; if the computer indicated the need to contact the carrier’s U.S. broker or conduct a physical inspection of the cargo, it would just have to wait, and Logan would probably be in for an argument, the same argument he endured dozens of times each day. Most drivers did not appreciate the delay that secondary inspection entailed, even though it was usually their fault to begin with.

The driver’s window came down. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Good enough,” Logan replied languidly, looking the man over. He was near forty, he guessed, with shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, and an unshaven face. The collar of his checked flannel shirt was turned up. He looked weary, but nearly every driver coming through Primary looked like that. Driving for a living obviously took a toll on the human body. Knowing this made Logan appreciate his job a little bit more, but not much.

“Got your paperwork?”

The driver handed over two documents. Logan accepted them, checked them quickly, and nodded his approval. The carrier — like every other company seeking to import commercial goods into the United States — subscribed to the Pre-Arrival Processing System, otherwise known as PAPS. The advantage to the relatively new system was a quick turnaround on paperwork, which resulted in fewer delays on the bridge. Before the CVPC was finished in ’99, more than seven hundred vehicles a day were referred to Secondary in order to complete missing paperwork. Since nearly four thousand vehicles made the crossing daily, the delays had made the Peace Bridge nearly impassable. The introduction of PAPS and the CVPC in recent years had smoothed things out considerably.

The first document was Customs Form 7533, the cargo manifest. The PAPS bar code was affixed in column one. The second document was the commercial invoice, which wasn’t strictly necessary, though most drivers handed it over as a matter of course. Logan scanned the CF7533 quickly, looking at his monitor. The label itself meant nothing; any carrier registered with customs could get the labels; in fact, the carrier could print them off themselves. Once the label was affixed to the manifest, the carrier was required to send the manifest to a U.S. broker, who would then forward the document on to customs for prerelease. If none of that had transpired, the monitor would instruct Logan to direct the truck to Secondary, which would result in a long wait for the driver.

In this case, however, it looked like the man was well prepared. The words “No Exam” came up on the monitor, indicating that the truck was allowed to pass. Like 82 percent of the commercial vehicles that came through daily, this one would proceed unhindered into the United States.

“Looks like you’re good to go,” Logan said, handing the driver his paperwork. He glanced at the manifest one last time before releasing the document. “That’s a heavy load.”

The driver grinned. “We got a deal on the boiler from one of our clients in Montreal. It’s actually for us… The old one gave out in our terminal in Ithaca a week ago.”

Logan laughed. “I feel sorry for the poor bastards working in that building. Ain’t it hard to believe it’s only September? The guys on the night shift must be freezing their asses off.”

“Well, if I wasn’t here, I’d be one of them. This is one of the few times I’m glad to be on the road.”

Logan grunted his amusement. “Well, drive safe, and welcome to the United States.”

Will Vanderveen dropped the truck into gear and smiled out the window. “Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

In the second-floor bedroom on Q Street, Kealey woke with a start and sat up, his eyes moving to the bedside clock. It was just after 5:30 in the morning. He looked to his left, expecting to see Naomi’s sleeping form, but he was surprised to find the other side of the bed empty. His gaze moved to the adjacent bathroom. There was no light under the door, so he assumed she must have gone back to her room while he had been sleeping. He couldn’t help but wonder what that meant. Did she regret what had happened? Or was she just uneasy sharing his bed in this particular setting?

Kealey stood and moved to the window. It was still dark, the street shining beneath the sidewalk lamps, sodden leaves piled up at the curbs. As he stared out at the calm, silent scene, he found that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was strange, but he felt more at peace than he had in months, and he thought he knew why: after months and months of black despair, the shadow caused by Katie’s death was finally starting to lift. He knew that no one would ever replace her, but for the first time since that terrible night in Maine, he thought there might be room in his life for somebody else.

He knew that the guilt would never entirely fade, just as he knew that his memories would haunt him forever. Still, now he thought he saw a way to build some new memories. Some good ones. He shook his head, realizing his thoughts might be a little presumptuous, or at least premature. He and Naomi obviously still had a lot to talk about, but that conversation would just have to wait. Hopefully, she wanted the same thing he did, to build on what they had started.

He turned away from the window and went into the bathroom, flipping on the light. He shaved and brushed his teeth, then turned on the shower. Twenty minutes later he was dressed for the day in jeans, a black, long-sleeve layering T-shirt, and Columbia hiking boots.

He left the room and started down to the other end of the hall. Before he hit the stairs, he heard Harper talking on the other side of the office door, as well as the sound of a television set at low volume. He tapped lightly and heard the other man call him in.

When Kealey stepped in the room, he was slightly shocked at the DDO’s appearance. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt, and he was still dressed in the same clothes. Obviously, he had stayed up all night, giving orders and chasing down additional information. From the look on his face, it was clear that he had news to impart.

“All hell has broken loose in Iraq,” he said, gesturing to the television.

“What happened?”

“Mortar attack on the Green Zone from across the river,” Harper replied wearily. “Just after midnight. Six people were killed outright, another dozen injured, most of them critically. Two hours later, a Huey carrying the 25th Infantry Division’s deputy commander was shot down near Kirkuk. The crew was killed in the crash, along with the ADC’s aide, a full colonel. The general is still missing, presumed dead.”