The American (26 page)

At the time of greatest danger, when new volunteers were considered with the greatest unease, Vanderveen had slipped effortlessly into the organization, because the hatred that he felt toward his adopted country could not be feigned, and the hatred was not satiated by the death of three thousand Americans.

Ever so gently, he touched the grounded tip of the soldering iron to the mechanical joint on the single-pole switch. In its final state, the two-wire annunciator cable would form a parallel circuit. It would be necessary to check the current moving over each detonator, because he knew that a single cap would require between 2 and 10 amperes to function correctly. The voltage would not be a concern, as that was the only common parameter in the circuit he had devised. He had decided on four detonators; only one cap was actually required, but he would not risk the chance of a misfire.

He worked into the early-morning hours, his hands moving steadily, the device taking shape. Six months ago, it was a dream. Four months ago, the glimmer of an idea. Two months, a working plan. Now it was a certainty. The wire was warm beneath his fingers, running in its predetermined path until Vanderveen decided otherwise. It was his creation, and he had little doubt that it would function as intended. Still, there were days to go, and no limit to what might go wrong.

 

North was the first to leave the parking lot, his mud-spattered 4Runner bouncing out onto Mill Road, followed soon thereafter by a spirited squeal of rubber as he took the sharp right turn onto Eisenhower Avenue. Ryan turned the key in the ignition as soon as Naomi clambered into the passenger seat. Then they were pulling out of the lot in another squeal of tires, Ryan making full use of the car's six gears as the engine roared in approval. First he headed south, navigating his way down Huntington until it merged with Route 1. Then he pushed the vehicle back up to the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway, which he followed for several miles as he threaded his way back into Washington.

“What the hell was that all about, Ryan?” She was turned in her seat to face him, the anger glowing in her eyes and cheeks.

“We needed results, Naomi. The way you had it planned wasn't going to work—”

“How would you know
that
?” she asked, her voice rising again. “You didn't give
my
way a chance, did you?”

“He gave it to me, Naomi. Elgin gave me the name. He took the waybill from the terminal because he wanted something to deal with later, just in case. He didn't know at the time how big this was going to get. The name was insurance, that's it.”

“How did you get him to tell you?”

“That's not important. The second person on that missing waybill was George Saraf. Judging by the surname, I think you'll find it's another identity for Michael Shakib. Not as good as a direct line to Vanderveen, but it's still something.”

“How did you get the name, Ryan?”

A light drizzle had returned to the city, the gentle touch of a storm system that was lingering over central Virginia. There were very few other cars on the highway, and he was glad of the open road as the distinctive white markers of Arlington National Cemetery flashed by in the dark.

Ryan turned to look at her, knowing that she wouldn't stop until he said the words. She would know soon enough anyway. “I beat it out of him, Naomi.”

Her eyes widened, perhaps a millimeter or two, but she did not respond. It was what she had expected to hear.

A lengthy silence ensued. She settled back in her seat, glad of the truth, thinking that the explanation was over. She was startled when he continued speaking, almost as though he hadn't stopped in the first place.

“But he still wouldn't talk, you know? When it's a piece of shit like Elgin, you think it'll be easy, but sometimes they surprise you. Sometimes they surprise themselves…” Ryan told himself to let it go, to spare her the details, but the words kept coming, seemingly of their own accord. “I only had a few minutes, Naomi. We were at a standstill. You know it, and I know it. I have piles of paper at Langley, you have even more, but sitting behind a desk isn't going to get us any closer to Vanderveen.”

There was an edge to his voice. She turned to stare out the window, but he wasn't done. His left hand dug down between his back and the warm leather seat. She didn't see what he was doing until the knife was extended at arm's length, handle first. “You wanted to know, right? You asked the question…This is how, Naomi. This is how I got him to talk.”

She recoiled at first from the proffered weapon, but a strange curiosity took over as she watched her own hand reach out to accept it. She could see that Ryan had dismantled the wooden grip, presumably because the rivets would have set off the metal detectors inside the building. To make it a usable weapon, he had wrapped electrical tape around the exposed handle. The slick black surface was still shiny and damp with sweat.

Turning it over in her hand, the light from the streetlamps caught and illuminated the blade.

She saw a streak of red on her palm.

The knife fell out of her hand and away from her body, the light weapon bouncing once before coming to rest on the floorboard at her feet.

“I had to convince him, Naomi. I had to show him I was serious. It was the only way. Naomi?”

“Take me home, Ryan.” The words were small and pitiful. She
felt
small and pitiful. The blood was sticky and wet on her hand, and she was looking around desperately, but there was nothing in reach with which to remove it.

He couldn't see her hand, or her face in the shadows. He hesitated, unsure of her reaction. “I need you to follow up on this. I'll probably be out of the loop when Harper—”

“I know.” The words were almost inaudible. She was kicking at the weapon with her heel, pushing it back under the seat and out of her sight. “Just take me home.”

 

She lived on a crowded row of town houses on M Street, uninspiring structures with crumbling brick facades and weathered Georgian detail. When the heavy sedan glided up to the curb, she pushed the door open quickly without saying a word. Ryan watched her run through the gentle mist of rain and disappear into the house as a number of emotions fought for room on his face.

Ryan believed that he had shown her something new, and he was not proud of it. It might make her stronger, smarter in the end, but there was a price to be paid for the experience: despite what she knew of his past, she would never again look at him in the same way. Knowing that he was now less in her eyes irritated him, rubbed at his emotions like sandpaper on sunburnt skin, and he wondered why that should be when they had known each other for less than a month.

The anger was a slow burn as he turned the BMW back into the heart of the city. He picked up the cell phone lying on the passenger seat and tapped out a number from memory. Katie answered on the first ring.

“Hello?” For some reason, they did not often use their cell phones to keep in touch. He was not surprised that she didn't recognize his number.

“Katie, it's Ryan.”

“Hey! God, I've been so worried! When are you coming back? I'm starving, so I thought we might—”

“Listen, I need you to get your stuff together and check out of the hotel right now.” The urgency in his voice was hard to miss, but she asked it anyway.

“Why? I have to—”

“Don't ask questions, Katie!
I'll tell you later. Just get your stuff and go, okay? It's important.”

There was a long silence. When she finally spoke again, the words carried a toneless resignation. “Where will you meet me?”

“I can't stop in front of the hotel. Turn left out of the front doors and walk three blocks. Only take what you can carry. I'll replace whatever you leave behind.”

“I don't want you to replace my things, Ryan. I
want
you to tell me what's going on. I've been waiting here all day, and now you just—”

“I'll explain it to you later, I promise. Fifteen minutes, okay?”

He absently snapped the phone shut without waiting for her response, and then cursed under his breath when he realized that he had hung up on her.

Ryan didn't know how bad it would get. The room at the Hay-Adams was reserved under his name, and he knew that once the story got out, reporters would be cold-calling the local hotels to get a sound bite and video for the morning news. He didn't want his name in print
or
his face on television, and he didn't want Katie to suffer those indignities either. Refuge might still be found at Langley, but he wasn't yet ready to face Harper or the man's recriminations. Kealey needed time to frame his words, time to shape an adequate explanation as to why he had nearly killed a prisoner in Federal custody.

The prize was a name, but it was not a guarantee. In this case, he didn't think the prize would be enough to salvage his short-lived career at the Central Intelligence Agency.

That was fine by Ryan; he had made a promise to Katie, and he intended to keep it.

Through the thin veil of rain, the glittering facade of the Hay-Adams appeared in the distance. He hoped that she had managed to find a raincoat in the small store in the lobby, but knew that it wouldn't do him any good either way. Whether she reached the car dry or drenched with rain, he was almost certainly in for another argument.

Without thinking about it, he took the knife out from under the passenger seat and slid it under the floormat beneath his own feet. Naomi Kharmai, as prepared for it as anyone could be, had been exposed to violent death twice in the last month. In the case of Stephen Gray, the death had been one of necessity. Some might have said, and he thought a case could be made, that it was actually one step behind outright murder. If it
was
murder, though, then it was understandable, even justifiable. What could not be rationalized was the random, senseless death she had been forced to confront in the broken remains of the Kennedy-Warren.

Ryan could do nothing for her now; she had touched the cold, sharp edge of reality and would sink or swim in her own time. He thought he recognized in her the strength to set it aside, to push it away and carry on with the task at hand.

If he could have kept it away from her altogether, he would have done so gladly.

It was his strongest desire that Katie should never have to endure the same. It was the reason he wanted her out of the hotel, and it was the reason he pushed the knife under the mat. If he was hard on her, if he told when he should ask, it was done out of fear that she might one day be forced to carry the same burden, year in, year out, until it crushed her spirit and her life with its weight.

Just as he would give anything to have her close, he would give anything to protect her innocence.

He would never have expressed these thoughts to her; it wasn't in his nature and the words would have come out awkward, clumsy, and wrong.

He hoped she knew it, though. He hoped she felt it. To Ryan, only one thing took precedence, and soon, Katie would be everything, the only thing. When that day came, he knew that he would finally be able to put the past to rest.

A
day trip to Washington, to look at the route and consider the options.

It was a fine day for the journey. Away from the clouds that hung over central Virginia, away from the monotonous calculations and mind-numbing work with the soldering iron. He took his most recent acquisition, a four-year-old Honda motorcycle, a VT1100 Shadow, all chrome and glistening metallic paint. He preferred not to use the van until it was absolutely necessary. Had he driven it into the heart of the city and been stopped for a traffic violation, the vehicle would have become useless to him.

He pushed the bike north on I-95, turning onto Exit 170 before racing through the western edge of Alexandria. As he crossed the Potomac, reflections from the river below scattered shards of sunlight over the polished curves of the motorcycle.

I-95 was, for the most part, a seemingly endless stretch of empty road bordered on both sides by towering stands of pine. He had been tempted to open the throttle, to get some fun out of the ride, but the desire was tempered by an unusually heavy police presence and the Virginia State Police Cessna 182s that drifted far overhead. Still, the open air was a huge relief from the confines of the barn, where the locked door and the threat of the realtor seemed to bring the walls closer each day.

He made the turn onto US Route 50, also known as New York Avenue. Vanderveen left Prince George's County at the same time he crossed the Anacostia, pushing west into the southeastern edge of the District. As the Washington Convention Center loomed large in front of him, he turned left onto 7th Street, the Honda's big engine ripping through the calm air and bringing some of the more complacent tourists to life. He grinned at their startled expressions as he crossed Independence going south, turning his head ever so slightly to look down the length of the road.

The sight failed to stir any emotion. The debris had long since been cleared, the burnt-out hulks of the vehicles currently resting in a disused airplane hangar at Dulles, where teams from the FBI's Forensic Unit and the National Transportation Safety Board continued to scrape at the scorched surfaces in vain search of evidence.

Vanderveen's interest was nothing more than that of a curious motorist turning to peer at a roadside wreck. He turned from the scene even before the open space gave way to an endless procession of parked cars and building fronts.

 

The Gangplank Marina stretches from the Francis Case Memorial Bridge to the end of Water Street. Across the channel lies the close-clipped grass and brightly colored flags of the East Potomac Golf Club. The 310-slip marina, which is almost always full, is shadowed, as is the club, by the towering presence of the Washington Monument to the west.

There are boats of all descriptions docked at the marina: 29' Boston Whalers, a diesel-powered Catalina, smaller catamarans, sailboats, and a sleek, 58' fiberglass Fairline Squadron—one of the largest motorboats at the port.

One yacht stands out from the crowd, however, and it was this craft that held Vanderveen's attention as he perused the walkway next to the marina, skirting small groups of tourists while keeping his distance from the slips themselves. The USS
Sequoia
was slightly more than 100' long, with most of the main deck, including the pilothouse, enclosed by teak-and-glass paneling. It was his first look at the boat, but Vanderveen knew its history. He knew that Nixon sailed down the Potomac eighty-eight times on the presidential yacht, and that it was the setting for Eisenhower's meetings with Churchill and Field Marshal Montgomery on the eve of World War II. Vanderveen had also learned that the
Sequoia
was sold into private hands by President Carter in 1977, after which it deteriorated for several years in a shipyard until restoration began in 1984.

Now owned by the Sequoia Presidential Yacht Group, LLC, it is available for charter, but use of the boat by the president or the vice president takes precedence over arrangements made by private citizens.

Will Vanderveen knew all of this, just as he knew that President Brenneman had already reserved, through the White House Office of Public Affairs, use of the
Sequoia
on the 26th day of November.

At first, he knew far less about Brenneman than he did about the yacht, and was confused as to why the president would want to sail the frigid waters so late in the year. It was not until later that he discovered, by browsing microfiche at the Richmond County Library, that Brenneman was an avid sailor and the proud owner of a Thomason ketch, which is docked at his home in Boston Harbor.

Vanderveen guessed that Italian and French leaders would find the cold wind whipping over the Potomac far less enjoyable. He smiled at the mental image that accompanied this thought and studied the
Sequoia
through a pair of Ray-Bans, his face partially hidden beneath a faded baseball cap. At one point he had considered an attack on the presidential yacht itself. The assassinations could have easily been carried out with a single underwater mine such as the Swedish Rockan; he had seen the same device used effectively in the Strait of Hormuz and other places. He knew that the Secret Service had no protocol in place for dealing with such a threat, and that by close-tethering the Rockan's steel case to the
Sequoia
's anchor, he could further reduce its acoustic signature and impede their obsolete countermine equipment.

At the same time, he was leery of the mine's sensitive electronic components, not trusting a remote device to function correctly unless he had devised it by his own hand. The principle, that he was taught so long ago and lived by still, was “simplicity equals success.” By limiting the number of components, by testing the firing system over and over again, only then could he be sure of his work.

The waterfront made him nervous, too. The few roads leading away from the area would be manned by dozens of Secret Service agents, ready to instantly seal off the perimeter in the event of an attack. He couldn't abide the thought of being trapped in a tightening noose of Federal agents, even for the chance to see the
Sequoia
sink to the bottom of the Potomac. Supposing, of course, that he survived the encounter, the ensuing years spent rotting away in a Federal penitentiary would not be worth a few rapturous weeks of national anguish.

No, he much preferred to live through the event. With 3,000 pounds of SEMTEX H strategically placed on the motorcade's route, survival would be a definite possibility, and success all but guaranteed.

Walking back to the Honda, Vanderveen swung onto the leather saddle and turned the key in the ignition. Kicking the bike into gear, he gunned the engine and sped off down 7th, heading north toward Pennsylvania Avenue. There was still a lot to see and do before leaving the city.

 

“I can't fucking believe you, Ryan. Andrews came down on me like a ton of shit for your little escapade in Alexandria. You know what he called it? Untenable. He used that word at least a dozen times. Did you hear me tell you not to leave a mark on him?
Did you?”

Once again, Ryan found himself seated across from Jonathan Harper, and once again, the conversation had taken a turn for the worse.

He decided to go on the offensive. There wasn't a lot to lose either way. “I'll go willingly, John. I already told you I wanted out, but I'm your—”

“What?” A grim smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You're my what? Best shot at getting Vanderveen? Is that what you were going to say? Because the director doesn't believe that anymore, and I'm not so sure of it myself.”

“Nobody else has managed anything—”

“And nobody else has shot dead a well-known businessman on foreign soil, Kealey. Nobody else has assaulted a prisoner in Federal custody. Every time that I tell you to keep things quiet, you turn what should be a simple operation into a fucking spectacle.”

Ryan thought that he had taken it too far this time because Harper was using his last name. It was a rare occurrence. Against his better judgment, he pressed on: “And ninety-two dead on Connecticut Avenue, John? Eight Secret Service agents and a U.S. senator dead? What do you call that?”

“It's because we don't play by their rules, Ryan, that we're better than them—”

“It's because we don't play by their rules that we're
fucking losing
.” The words were spit out, along with the last of his self-restraint.

A long silence ensued as they stared each other down over Harper's desk, each waiting for the anger to dissipate in the other.

“You don't make my job any easier, Ryan.” It was the last jab, and right that it should belong to the deputy director. “Undoubtedly, you're wondering why word of your late-night visit hasn't reached the front page of the
Washington Post
.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“We cut a deal with Elgin. Full immunity, straight from the top.”

Ryan flared, but Harper's hand was up to stop him. “You don't get a say in it, because it was your doing. The A.G. sent the offer directly to Elgin, because the attorney…You've met her?” A brief, angry shake of the head. “Well, the attorney is a high flier. She would have taken the publicity of a scandal over a deal for her client, but Elgin, dumb as he is, knew better. He said he would fire her if she broke the terms, and that would have looked worse for Harris than having her client walk away free and clear.

“In other words, Ryan, we got pretty damn lucky. Harris was the easy part—we're still trying to convince the watch commander that it would be better for all concerned if he just dropped the matter. He doesn't want the publicity either, so that might help us out a little bit. Only—and I want you to pay special attention to this,” he said, jamming his index finger into the top of his desk to make the point clear—“only because we had something on Elgin are you still sitting across from me. Without that card to play, you would have been done, without question. You're making it hard, if not impossible, for me to watch your back. You have a name, fair enough. The name is different from the passport used in Valencia. Once again, fair enough. But you had better hope that this information turns out to be golden.

“Believe me,” Harper said with a scowl, “nothing should be more important to you right now, my friend.”

 

Naomi Kharmai leaned against the back of the third black Suburban, shivering hard despite the pale sun overhead and the thick woolen peacoat that was pulled tight around her. She was extremely pissed off, a fact that had been made abundantly clear to the SAC in the staging area. She had asked Harper if it could be kept in the Agency, had almost resorted to begging him, but he had mumbled something about “pressure for cooperation,” and now she was essentially out of the loop. Despite being one of the first people on the scene, she had been told, in no uncertain terms, that she was now included only as a professional courtesy.

She listened to the banal conversations of the agents around her and the clatter of automatic weapons as the HRT operators pulled gear out of their trucks and shrugged into heavy bulletproof vests.

She was startled by the loud roar of a motorcycle racing down the road next to the parking lot. Turning toward the sound, she was almost blinded by the light reflecting from the bike's chrome pipes and bright blue paintwork. Squinting into the scene, she jumped again when a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“Should be less than twenty minutes,” the man said.

She turned to face Bill Green, the Washington field office replacement for Luke Hendricks. “What, exactly, are you waiting on?”

“Search warrant to come through,” he replied. “I just got off the phone with one of my people at the courthouse. Evidently, the judge wasn't too happy about how you dug up the information. She had a long talk with Alex Harris, and that helped out a little bit—”

“You think she's dragging it out on purpose?”

“That would be my guess. We don't really have a choice either way, so we wait here until we get the word.”

“Hey, boss.” They both turned as another agent approached. It was one of Green's fawning aides, a tall, well-dressed prep-school type. He handed the SAC a thin manila folder. “This just came back from the courthouse.”

Naomi waited impatiently as Green perused the contents. “Well?”

He glanced up and flashed her a smile full of straight white teeth. “It's a go.” Before she could respond, he was running toward the lead vehicle, shouting orders at the HRT commander, and then back at her over his shoulder: “Pick out a vehicle. You can wait on the sideline, Kharmai, but the teams are full. You stay
off
the field, understood?”

He didn't wait for an answer. She glared at his back as he climbed into the passenger seat of the first vehicle, which pulled fast out of the parking lot.

She found what passed for room in the last vehicle, smashed in between two sweaty operators and their piles of gear. The Suburban swung from 7th onto D Street, racing east as the retractable stock of an MP-5A3 banged painfully into her knee for the third time. She gritted her teeth and, as she had done so many times in the past few weeks, silently cursed Ryan Kealey for putting her into this situation.