Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“Jesus.” Kealey knew that this was big. To date, the highest ranking officer killed in Iraq since 2003 was a colonel in the National Guard. “How did they-”

“Looks like a portable missile launcher. Stinger, maybe. We’re looking into it.” Harper shook it off and held up a handful of paper. “This just came in. You might want to read it.”

Kealey accepted the paperwork and sank into one of the leather club chairs. “What is it?”

“A list of people involved with the investigation at Al Qaqaa, following the theft of the explosives in March of 2003. The investigation involved the multinational force and the Iraq Survey Group. I assume you know what I’m talking about.”

Kealey did. From the start of the war until January 2005, the ISG had been tasked with finding Saddam Hussein’s phantom WMDs. The group consisted of more than 1,000 nuclear, chemical, and biological experts, as well as private security contractors and military officers. Although the ISG never completed its main objective, it was one of the war’s most cohesive, efficient units, losing only a handful of people to accidents and enemy fire over a two-year period. At the same time, it managed to dispose of hundreds of tons of conventional munitions.

“The ISG was divided into three Sector Control Points: North, Baghdad, and South,” Harper continued. “The Baghdad SCP was responsible for Al Qaqaa, so I narrowed the search to that group of people. What you have there is the name of everybody who, at some point or another, was involved with the investigation.”

Kealey scanned the list quickly, but nothing jumped out. He forced himself to reread it carefully. There were nearly three hundred names on five sheets of paper. He was halfway through the fourth page when he stopped and said, “Jesus, I don’t believe it.”

Harper had been watching the television, which was tuned to CNN. “What do you have?”

“I know this guy, John. Owen… Paul Owen. He’s a lieutenant colonel with Delta. He used to be my CO at Bragg.”

“Hold on, wasn’t he-”

“Yeah,” Kealey cut in, anticipating the question. “He and his boys were with me in Fallujah when I went after Arshad Kassem.”

“So he can either prove or disprove that BLU-82s were being stored at Al Qaqaa,” Harper said. A shadow crossed his face. “As I recall, he wasn’t too happy with you after what happened with Kassem.”

“That’s true, but the brotherhood is a strange thing, John. You never served, so you don’t really know, but what happened in Fallujah is over and done with. I’ll explain the situation, and he’ll tell us what we need to know. I guarantee it.”

Harper didn’t reply for a long moment, sizing up the younger man’s statement. Finally, he seemed to take it at face value. “You can call him on the way to the airport.”

“It might not be easy to track him down,” Kealey pointed out. “Last I heard, he was at Camp Fallujah, but that might have changed by now. Guys like Owen never stay in one place for long.”

“I’ll get you a telephone number before we leave. In the meantime, there’s something else you need to know about. I called my guy in Los Angeles and asked him to lean on that agent in New York. You know, the one who wasn’t buying into Rudaki’s story.”

“This is how we got Rudaki’s name in the first place, right?”

“Exactly. Anyway, as it turns out, he’s been meeting with Samantha Crane at a Bureau safe house. Apparently he didn’t want to show his face at the field office, which isn’t really surprising, considering the sensitive nature of what he was passing on. Lies or no lies, he wouldn’t want to be seen schmoozing with agents in a federal building. Supposedly, the safe house is in the Bronx. The agent thinks it might be on Vyse Avenue — the street popped up once in conversation — but he doesn’t know the address, and he’s not in a position to ask for it.”

The younger man thought it through. “That’s interesting,” he finally said. “If something is going down today, Rudaki will want to be sure he’s free and clear of any involvement. A Bureau safe house would be a good place to be, especially if he’s surrounded by agents and nowhere near the UN. You couldn’t ask for a better alibi.”

“That’s makes sense, but without the address, the information isn’t much good.”

“Maybe. I’ll have to think about it, but this meeting at the field office isn’t much good, either. Even Naomi knows there’s no way Rudaki will tell her the truth. She doesn’t have any leverage. We have to get Rudaki alone, and I have to do it myself.”

Harper hesitated. “What if he’s telling the truth, Ryan? What if the Iranians really are behind the Babylon Hotel and Tabrizi’s death in Paris?”

“We both know that’s not the case, John. The Iranians have more to lose by interfering in Iraq than they have to gain. Ahmadinejad is a crazy bastard, but not that crazy. He won’t risk sharing Saddam’s fate by killing that many people on U.S. soil. Vanderveen may be the man on the ground, but ultimately, someone else is behind this, and it’s not the regime in Tehran. Hakim Rudaki is feeding the Bureau lies, and so is Samantha Crane.”

“So what will you do?”

Kealey thought for a moment. “I’m going to see if I can find out where this safe house is. Naomi can go to the FO and sit in on the interview as planned. If Rudaki doesn’t want to be seen in a federal building, he won’t want to dawdle. Maybe I’ll catch him coming in or out.”

The DDO shook his head. “Do you have any idea how that sounds? You’re basically hoping for a miracle.”

“Well, that’s what we’re left with, isn’t it?”

Kealey made his way downstairs a few minutes later. Despite the early hour, he found Naomi in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, still in her bedclothes, eating a bowl of cereal. Her jet-black hair was mussed, her green eyes shining with some inner light. She smiled when she saw him, but there was some hesitation behind it. Kealey didn’t understand why at first, but then it hit him. She was probably having the same thoughts he was, namely, wondering if he wanted more than what they had shared the previous night.

Julie Harper was busying herself with coffee at the counter. She turned when he entered and smiled. “Good morning, Ryan. Did you sleep well?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Naomi’s face turn red. She suddenly became much more interested in her cereal, pausing to shovel a huge spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.

“Great, thanks,” he said, responding to Julie’s question. “It definitely beats a cot in Kabul. Or a tent in the Bekaa, for that matter.”

She laughed and turned back to the coffee. Kealey waited until Naomi had swallowed her cereal, then took the opportunity to lean down and kiss her. When he pulled away, her smile was so radiant that he couldn’t help but grin himself. He immediately realized that his fears were completely unfounded: judging by the happy look on her face, she didn’t regret what had happened at all. He took a seat at the table as Julie walked over with a mug of coffee, which he accepted gratefully.

“Well, you look better, anyway. Much better, in fact.” She shot a suspicious but not unfriendly look at Naomi, who managed to look reasonably innocent. “What time are you heading out?”

“Less than an hour. Our plane leaves at nine.”

“Well, we had you for one night, at least. You won’t leave it so long next time, will you? I don’t want to wait a year to hear from you again.”

“Not a chance. You’ll be sick of me before you know it.”

“Not a chance,” she said, smiling to show she’d intentionally borrowed his words.

Harper walked in from the living room a few minutes later. He accepted a cup from his wife and glanced at his watch, taking in Naomi’s disheveled appearance. “Kharmai, you’d better get moving, or that plane will be leaving without you.”