Andrew Britton - The American

He had become Claude Bidault twice before: once to purchase the Econoline van, and the second time to pick up his registration at the DMV in Richmond. Now it was time for a third and final performance. First, he removed his purchases from the paper bag that rested at his feet, placing them one by one on the counter. He had stopped at four shops during his trip into the city, and had not purchased more than two items from any one store.

The hair coloring was of the semipermanent variety, easily washed out with warm water. He used a small brush with rigid bristles to pull the black tint through his facial hair, and then a larger brush for the rest. When the color had set, he scrutinized the photograph once more before lifting the scissors and beginning to cut. Claude Bidault was a laborer, an independent contractor who had come to America in search of work; it was not fitting that such a man would have an expensive haircut. A struggling immigrant would likely trim his own hair, with unflattering results.

When it was finished, his now black hair was still reasonably long, but the result was undeniably atrocious. The job was done, though, and done well; between himself and the man in the photograph, there was only one obvious discrepancy, easily rectified. When he put on the brown-tinted clear-vision contact lenses, he looked up into the mirror and saw that Will Vanderveen had disappeared without a trace.

The image would be completed by steel-toed boots and the careless dress of a man who spends much of his workday on a building site. According to the passport, Claude Bidault weighed in at just over 200 pounds. In actuality, Vanderveen weighed little more than 170, but was counting on several layers of clothing to effectively hide that fact from view. A jacket over several layers of long-sleeved shirts would not be an uncommon sight on the icy streets of Washington in late November.

He frowned and stared down into the sink, trying hard to think of anything he might have missed. He still had twenty-five pounds of SEMTEX H to dispose of; he would have to think of a good use for that. Shakib’s document would accompany him into the city. It was a risk to travel with it; an unnecessary risk, perhaps, but it might still serve a purpose. He was loath to leave it behind. The leftover hair dye and other materials would be taken into the vast field behind the barn, where they would be burned. The house was leased in the name of Timothy Nichols, the same name he had used to acquire tags for the motorcycle. He would place that identification into the bag as well, to be destroyed behind the barn along with the other materials. The license plate would be removed from the motorcycle and hurled deep into the woods. Such precautions would buy him only a little time if the authorities tracked down the name of Timothy Nichols, but a little time was better than none at all.

It was all he could think of, but there was no hurry. He had plotted his timeline carefully, and it would pay to wait; the longer he was in the city, the greater the chance of discovery. Besides, he still had plenty of work with which to fill the empty hours, and it wouldn’t hurt to catch a little sleep, either. The bed downstairs would suit his needs perfectly.

Heading back out to the barn, Vanderveen carefully surveyed the few remaining contents of his worktable. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. He selected several items and placed them in the worn duffel bag that rested at his feet. Then, swinging the pack over his shoulder, he climbed the gentle hill back up to the house.

He descended into the dark depths of his finished basement less than a minute later. The light, hesitant to follow, touched the back of his head for a fleeting instant before giving way to pitch black.

They had never gotten around to eating lunch, or even dinner, for that matter, settling instead for their share of an endless urn of lukewarm coffee. Ryan was on his fifth cup and feeling the effects. His stomach was churning acid, and his head was pounding from the dull roar that was inevitable when 87 people were crammed into a room designed for 60. The building was overheated and poorly ventilated, which didn’t help matters at all, and the harsh fluorescent lights overhead neatly concealed the fact that midnight was rapidly approaching. The cold winds whipping over the rocky shore of Cape Elizabeth would have come as a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the watch center, but he pushed the thought from his mind when another image intruded on the picturesque scene.

He couldn’t think about her now, no matter how badly he wanted to. There was just too much to be done, and they were running out of time. The president and his guests were scheduled to board the USS Sequoia in less than ten hours.

He rubbed his temples and tried to focus on the blurred text in front of him. After a few minutes, he realized that he hadn’t read a single word. Shaking his head in frustration, he looked over to see if Kharmai was faring any better.

She was hovering over one of the many fax machines, a phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder as she fumbled with the buttons. Ryan watched with vague amusement as she swore and smacked the machine with the palm of her hand.

When he stood up and walked over, she held out a sheet of paper without pausing in her conversation: “Yes, as soon as possible… That’s right, I need everything for the last three months, including photocopies of the driver’s licenses if you have them… What do you mean, ‘It’s too late’? I don’t care what time it is, call him at home if you have to…”

As she was talking, Ryan quickly scanned over the proffered document. When he got down to ‘missing person’s occupation,’ his eyes opened a little bit wider.

Naomi hung up the phone a moment later. Ryan looked into her face and saw that her bright green eyes were sparkling.

“A realtor, huh?” he said. “That’s interesting.”

“It gets better,” she said. “Nicole Milbery specializes in farm properties. Her office is in Ashland. That’s Hanover County, right in between Richmond and Washington. It’s the perfect place for him… Ryan, do you know how to fix this bloody stupid machine?”

He couldn’t help but smile at the way she said it. He examined the unit and punched some buttons to clear out the backlog. “Who were you talking to?”

“The night duty officer at the VSP’s Hanover office. He’s going to call the investigating officer at home right now. As soon as he finds him, we’ll get some more details.”

“Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “It could be nothing.”

Naomi wasn’t going to be deterred that easily. “It could be everything.”

The sergeant on desk duty in Hanover returned the call ten minutes later. Naomi snatched up the phone and listened intently while Ryan looked on, rooted in place by a strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension. For some reason, he knew they were finally on to something.

She pulled the receiver away from her mouth. “Milbery leased a property less than three weeks ago. Just under a hundred acres, three miles east of I-95.” She turned her attention back to the telephone. “Did he leave a — okay, he did. That’s great, I need you to fax that over to me. What was the name again?”

Ryan started to say something but she waved him away. “Okay, that’s fine. Thanks for your help, Sergeant. Can you make your captain available? We’re going to need to talk to him if this adds up to anything… Okay, thanks.”

She hung up and turned to face him. “Timothy Nichols. Does that name mean anything to you?”

He thought for a minute, pushed the names out and together again, mixed up the letters, turned them around. When it came to him, the rest of the room seemed to fall away. “It’s him.”