The American (25 page)

 

Ryan turned the corner toward the exit, cursing inwardly when he saw what awaited him. Naomi Kharmai was arguing in loud tones with Adam North, who was sliding his pistol back into its holster after receiving it in exchange for his pass.

Naomi saw him and turned her fury away from the DEA agent. “What the
hell
are you doing here, Ryan? I was supposed to be part of this, remember? This is
bullshit
! Just you wait until the deputy director finds out…”

She went on and on as Ryan flashed his identification and slapped his pass down on the counter. The deputy who scooped it up was wearing a wide smile, clearly amused by the scene Naomi was making.

Ryan was less enthralled. Seconds from now he knew there would be a sharp crackle of static, followed by an urgent radio transmission. This would result in a second call to the watch commander, who would quickly determine what had transpired.

The door to the parking lot was less than 15 feet away.

“You have to stop, Naomi. Okay?” Ryan grabbed her outstretched wrist and pulled her close, whispering harsh words into her ear. “We need to get out of here
right now
.”

She pulled away, but her face was still only inches from his. She fell silent as he guided her toward the exit. North was already stepping out into the freezing air. He held the door open as they followed him over the threshold.

Ryan was paying attention to everything while he held the door open, Naomi's hand warm in his own, sounds assaulting him from every direction: a distant conversation in the street, a car horn sounded by an angry motorist. The scrape of their shoes as the tile gave way to damp asphalt, and the crackle of the deputy's radio as the door eased shut behind them.

T
he apartment was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a desirable place to live. The space was cramped and sparsely furnished. Tattered white curtains hung over the grimy windows. The counter, when cleared of half-eaten takeout, which was not often, was irreparably stained. The place stank of stale cigarettes and sweat, a smell that had been with her for the past six months. She guessed that most of it drifted up from the rooms below, and the rest emanated from her minder. Now, seated in a worn leather recliner, she could hear him as he moved around in the adjoining room.

Fatima Darabi leaned back in the seat, her dark brown eyes intensely focused on the flickering television in front of her. A cell phone rested on the end table next to her, as did a 9mm Makarov pistol. Both the phone and the gun were never more than a few feet away from her body. Her left hand was propped up beneath her chin. She watched…

It was amazing to Darabi that they would repeatedly show the atrocity on national television. She was even more surprised by the fact that the government allowed it. The collapse of the Kennedy-Warren was by no means a pleasant thing to see, even for someone who hated America as much as she did. Nevertheless, she knew that the footage had come at considerable expense to the networks, and had long ago learned that everything in this country was defined by its monetary value.

It was at times like this that she relished her role. Here she was, in the heart of the nation, with intricate knowledge of the man who had squeezed the trigger at the Kennedy-Warren, and yet the Americans knew nothing of her existence. To have such a privilege…!

The rage that drove her did not begin as her own, but it had been bred in her from the start. When the U.S. Navy cruiser
Vincennes
shot down Iran Air Flight 655 over the Atlantic in July 1988, the admirals in the Pentagon had called it an accident, pleaded their innocence even as U.S. munitions continued to pour into Baghdad. Her brother had been on that flight, returning to American University in Dubai after two weeks at home.

In the years preceding her brother's death, her parents had been peaceful people, warm and caring. They had the capacity to hate, though, and when they discovered the same quality in their daughter, they nurtured it as carefully as they nurtured her body and her mind…

Fatima was pleased by her current assignment. She had been briefed on few specific points, but she was astute, and knew that the money she had dispersed through more than fifty foreign accounts was going to someone important. The name itself could tell her nothing, as it was obviously not his own. The man's voice told her little more; it was not difficult to detect the French lilt on the other end of the line, but she suspected the accent was affected for her benefit. She was not trained in such matters, but it did not matter. It would not pay to delve too deeply. She had received her instructions from the minister himself, a fact that she was quietly proud of. She would not live forever in this hole. Soon, she would be brought back to Tehran to assume her rightful place at Mazaheri's side.

But for now, she was waiting for the next call. When it came, it would be a few clipped sentences, most likely a murmured request for additional funds. The man wasted no time in conversation. It was a character trait that Darabi appreciated.

She stirred in her seat. The cell phone was ringing…

 

The day wore on like it was never going to end, but the long hours in the office were not the source of her mood. They only compounded the problem.

Nicole Milbery pulled her eyes away from the telephone and tried to concentrate on the seller's agreement she was filling out on her computer. She was trying to understand why he hadn't called. She thought that the two hours they had spent in the barn had been incredible, definitely worthy of a follow-up performance, but it was becoming apparent that her most recent client didn't feel the same way.

She felt cheated and humiliated, emotions made worse by the fact that she still wanted him, wanted him to call, wanted again what they had experienced only a few short days ago.

It was not her way to be patient, to let things fall into place.
If he doesn't call by tomorrow,
she decided with finality,
he's going to regret it. No one treats me like this.

She realized she was staring at the phone again. She tried hard to ignore the little pinpricks behind her eyes and went back to angrily punching at the keyboard that rested on her desk.

 

Frank Watters watched with thinly veiled interest as the sole customer moved through the rows of household appliances and electronic gadgets. The man who moved without pause past heavy refrigerators and elaborate stereo systems did not fit in amongst his regulars. At the same time, he wore clothes unmarked by the dirt of a building site, unstained by the remnants of a hurried lunch eaten from the tailgate of a truck.

Watters, the elderly owner, was pleased by his own observations, and did not hesitate in making them; there was very little else to do on a quiet Thursday afternoon.

Located just south of Ashland in Hanover County, Watters's Electrical Supply was a haven for housewives and electricians from three counties in any direction. His business was not hurting for customers, but the store was busy in the early morning hours alone, when his regulars came in to purchase what would be needed for the day's work.

The sole customer had been in the store for almost twenty minutes, absently fiddling with the big-screen televisions, when he finally brought his list to Watters. As the paper was pushed over the counter, the old man noted with a small twinge of satisfaction that his earlier observations had been correct. The tanned knuckles were missing the scrapes and scars that were particular to an electrician or an independent contractor. The fingers were long and slim, but still retained some appearance of masculinity, as did the man's broad shoulders. Watters, with his insatiable curiosity, thought the hands more appropriate to a writer, or a pianist, perhaps…

The customer knew what he wanted, though, and any lingering doubts that Watters might have had concerning the man's expertise were soon dispersed. The order was not unusual, and so the old man was easily able to fill it from his stock: Number 18 AWG copper wire on a 50-foot roll, a single-pole toggle switch with two exposed terminals, wire cutters of good quality, several screwdrivers of various sizes, and electrical tape.

Watters gratefully accepted cash for this small purchase. He had no way of knowing that his only customer of the afternoon would later visit two other supply stores to complete his requirements, nor could he know for what purpose these materials were intended. Any suspicions he might have had were dampened by the man's polite manner and the easy smile that was offered as the customer pushed open the door and stepped outside.

 

In the true heart of the state, far from the bustling cities of Richmond and Norfolk, beyond the comfortable rurality of the Blue Ridge Parkway and the scenic views offered by winding ribbons of road, lies the heavily forested land of rolling hills that remains largely untouched by the time and wallets of transient tourists.

At night, the air is pierced only by the gentle songs of birds and crickets, or the rushing wind as it follows the jet stream and pushes northeast through the uppermost branches of leafless trees.

For November, Virginia is experiencing a certain anomaly. The state has earned a dubious honor by surpassing the prior record for most days with measurable precipitation in any month of the year. It has rained for eighteen days and nineteen nights, and Will Vanderveen, as he sits hard at work in the steeped shelter of the barn behind his modest home, is beginning to understand how Noah must have felt.

When he thinks of the ark lifting in the great flood, he is buoyed as well, but not by the prospect of salvation.

The interior of the barn has undergone no grand revisions in the short time that he has occupied it; in fact, it remains largely the same. There are only a few noticeable differences: A large swath of broken straw has been cleared from the cement, pushed to the sides to make room for the white Ford Econoline van that now dominates the open space. Against the far wall, on the opposite side from the sliding door, a large wooden table has been erected. A myriad of tools and materials can be found on the rough surface, patiently awaiting his ministrations.

In addition to the materials purchased at Watters's Electrical Supply, Vanderveen has managed to find a portable workstation with a lamp and optical magnification, which will be crucial for the more delicate parts of the job. The workstation sits on top of the table next to a soldering gun, rated at 20 watts, accompanied by two ounces of Antex solid wire flux.

Beside the soldering iron rests a digital ammeter and 30 feet of pliable conduit. All of this equipment combined would be useless without the pair of Verizon cell phones that Vanderveen has purchased on the outskirts of Richmond, along with three months of nationwide service. He will not need more than a few weeks from the phones, but to deviate from the plan is to attract notice, to attract attention…

Sitting in his hard wooden chair, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the roof overhead, Vanderveen's mind is far away as his hands move with speed and confidence. Far from the intricacies of solder joints, far from the strained relationships between voltage, current, and resistance through a circuit.

He is troubled by the fact that the money was not routed directly to him. They could have easily routed it through the Caymans instead of their own intermediary. It would have cut out a great deal of unnecessary risk, although the woman has done well so far in making the funds readily accessible.

For the most part, though, his mind is occupied by the other woman, the realtor.

On reflection, he can concede that it was a mistake. Deep inside, a small voice tells him that he is making a great many mistakes these days. A sweaty afternoon spent in the straw of the barn was not worth even the slightest chance of detection. By giving her what she wanted, by easing the quiet desperation, he had granted her access. Access to him, and access to what he is doing. Now, it was not inconceivable that she might choose to stop by unannounced.

He was grateful for the lock on the sliding door. At the same time, he recognized that it was a temporary impediment.

He thought that he was weak because, before Washington and Mashhad, he had spent two weeks with Sadr's advisors in Najaf, and before that, seventeen weeks in the fear-drenched killing grounds of Ramallah. If he had been trusted in those places, he would have been given a woman. As it was, he was tolerated but not accepted. He was only recognized later, when he was gone, when he was no longer a danger to the respective organizations.

After all that time, five months of forced abstinence, the night with the realtor was like salve on an open wound.

And now it was a serious threat to his freedom and his life. Afterward, with her naked form wrapped around him in the soft straw of the barn, she had spoken with undisguised contempt of her husband. He had recognized a need in her, a need that would not be satisfied at home.

If he could satisfy that need, as he had done once before, then the woman was a threat to his freedom and his life.

Vanderveen pushed those thoughts aside. It was done, and he could not change it. If it was a weakness, to need a woman, then it was a weakness he thought he could live with.

The copper wire turned in his hands. Back to the task at hand, he ran through the schematics in his mind. It would begin at the power source, running from the battery to the terminals on the switch. The battery would not be hooked up until the last minute, though. He still had to determine how long the circuit could remain closed before the battery was drained of power and unable to provide the requisite 12 volts. That would come later.

From the switch, the two-cable copper wire would run out to the exposed circuitry of one of the cell phones, and then on to the number 6 blasting caps.

For the moment, the copper wire hung limp over the side of the wooden table.

Vanderveen surveyed his equipment with satisfaction. The crates that had been retrieved from the Norfolk Terminals were well hidden beneath the straw in the barn, but the inquisitive mind of the realtor was always in his thoughts, as was the scheming mind of his former commanding officer.

Kealey…Vanderveen did not often think of him. He had discovered, through a discreet inquiry, that the man had been present at the Kennedy-Warren just before it blew.
How much more convenient it would have been if Kealey had died in the explosion,
he mused. Vanderveen did not think it likely that his old friend posed a serious threat to his plans.

All the same, he knew that the problem of his former commander's involvement would have to be addressed. His work could not be compromised because his work, at any given moment, had the unlimited potential to instill fear, to feed the paranoia that was spreading like a plague throughout the American public.

When the towers crumbled on 9/11, it was as if he had been reborn. The weeks after the attacks had seen blame thrown toward every corner of the globe, but it was bin Laden and his organization that received the brunt of it. And when it was narrowed down, when it was a certainty, only then had Vanderveen sought to expand his own horizons.