The American (31 page)

Vanderveen turned away from the open rear doors of the van and sat back down at his worktable, gingerly stretching his hands out across the smooth wooden surface. His fingers were sore from the strain of packing the SEMTEX H into the steel compartments, but he ignored the pain and opened Shakib's document to page 117. As he scanned the compact lines of text and accompanying diagrams, Will thought that whoever had laid out the security plans for this event had made some serious errors in judgment, errors he was more than happy to take advantage of.

He settled back in his chair and took a long sip of coffee, enjoying the gentle draft of cool air that found its way through the ancient crevices of the timber walls. There were things still to be done, but he had time.

He had all the time in the world.

L
ooking up from the exhaustive piles of paperwork covering his temporary desk, Kealey gazed over the limited space of the CT watch center. It was packed wall-to-wall by more than 80 people who, if being judged only by their frantic gesticulations and elevated voices, might have been traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange following a merger between Microsoft and IBM.

He wanted to smile at the mental image that arrived with that thought, but was too tired and worried to see any humor in the comparison. They had been going nonstop for three days straight, but their efforts had yielded almost nothing in the way of new information. Seeking to narrow the search parameters even further, Ryan had argued that they should cut out Washington, D.C., itself, on the basis that it was too confined an area for Vanderveen to safely complete his preparations. Emily Susskind, the deputy director of the FBI, had shot down the idea without a moment's hesitation.

Naomi had had a little more luck when she suggested that a general description of William Vanderveen should be released to the state police in Virginia and Maryland. The idea had been waved away at first: Director Landrieu argued that disclosure of another terrorist threat without definitive proof would only incite more panic, something that the president desperately wanted to avoid. Susskind had agreed with him, but Joshua McCabe had sided with Harper in support of the idea. Since the National Special Security Event designation gave the Secret Service overall control for the upcoming event, the decision was made to release the description, along with a carefully worded request for assistance in which the word
terrorist
did not appear once.

Nevertheless, the telephones and fax machines in the watch center had been going nonstop ever since, leads pouring in from the Area 17 office in Augusta, Division Four Headquarters in Wytheville, and the Maryland Barracks in Forestville, College Park, Easton, and Rockville. The tension in the overcrowded room increased in accordance with the workload, and as Kharmai watched yet another stack of paperwork gather in the receiving tray, she began to seriously question her own decision to involve the state troopers.

She felt a presence at her shoulder and looked up to see that Ryan was standing next to her. “Anything worth looking at?”

She shook her head and showed him the crumpled sheets of fax paper in her hands. “This stuff is worthless. If a Caucasian male between the ages of twenty and forty-five did anything to attract police attention on the eastern seaboard in the last three months, I probably have a file on him,” she said, gesturing at the pile of stacked reports. “You'd think they would know better than to waste our time with this kind of garbage.”

Kealey shrugged and said, “It's not every day that the state police gets a request for assistance from the TTIC. We were careful with the wording in the description we sent out, but they know where it's coming from. They're going to assume there's a terrorist threat, which makes their assistance valuable when the time comes to submit their budgets for the following year. They're looking to help themselves first, Naomi.”

“Yeah, well, it would be nice if they could help
us
out a little bit in the process,” she mumbled.

Ryan grinned and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Come on, I'll help you look at it. If this stuff is as useless as you say it is, we'll be done by twelve, and I'll treat you to lunch. Sound good?”

A smile brightened her face for the first time that day. “It's a deal.”

 

“What is
this
shit?”

Sergeant Richard Pittman looked up from the newest stack of paperwork on his desk and surveyed the room. “Where the hell did this come from? Jimmy?”

“Hell no, Sarge. That came straight from the lieutenant.”

“Yeah, straight to
your
desk,” Pittman grumbled. “Come on, man. Are you sure some of this isn't yours?”

The other officer shook his head and grinned as he lumbered toward the open door. “I don't see why you're complaining anyway, Pitts. We got a two-hour briefing this afternoon that you get to miss out on. Everyone else is already over there. Whoever dropped that shit on your desk probably did you a favor.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Pittman mumbled. He was the only person left in the room, which he was grateful for, as it gave him the opportunity to issue a long string of profanities as he picked up the heavy stack of files and dumped them next to the fax machine. After eight years with the Virginia State Police, Rick Pittman had thought, on more than one occasion, that he was finally past these kinds of monotonous chores.

He flipped through the separate sheets of paper and saw that they all seemed to be going to the same place.
I guess that's something,
he thought.
There must be seventy-five different reports here. At least I won't have to enter a different phone number for each one.

Pittman punched in the number listed at the top of the first page and began feeding the sheets of paper into the fax machine. Forty-five minutes and two cups of coffee later, he pushed through a Missing Person Report for NCIC Record Entry.

The report had been filed by Jack Milbery, whose wife, in roughly fifteen minutes, would have been missing for exactly three days.

 

As the fax machine whirred on the receiving end in Tyson's Corner, Will Vanderveen turned the Honda down his narrow driveway off Chamberlayne Road, leaving a spray of gravel in his wake. The day had been spent in Richmond, where he had picked up a few last-minute things. Small, inexpensive items, but items that were absolutely critical to his success. He had made the exact same purchases nearly three weeks earlier, but had exhausted his supply on two other occasions.

He had watched his speedometer carefully on the short trip south and back, but his brief sojourn into the city had passed without incident, and now most of the danger was behind him. When the time came for him to leave the farm again, regardless of what happened from that point forward, he would not be returning.

He parked the motorcycle behind the barn. There were several upturned flowerpots next to the exterior wall. Vanderveen lifted the third from the left, revealing a bulky object concealed in a carefully folded dish towel. After he collected the HK .40 caliber USP Compact, he took his time clearing the barn and the house before carrying his purchases up to the kitchen. He had learned from the unfortunate incident with the realtor. He would not be so careless again.

In the harsh light of the only bathroom, he propped his last remaining passport up against the cracked tile and stared deep into the face of Claude Bidault, and then up to his own reflection in the mirror.

His face, without cosmetic aids, was surprisingly youthful despite the fact that he was closing in on forty. He noticed for the first time that fine lines were beginning to appear around his eyes, but otherwise, he looked much the same as he had twenty years earlier. The subtle effects of aging did not bother him in the least. Like all people blessed with perfect aesthetics, Vanderveen had the luxury of indifference when it came to his own appearance.

Although his preference was to go clean-shaven, he had allowed his beard to grow untrimmed for the past two weeks, and it had filled in considerably. The blond hair on his jaw was a sharp contrast against his naturally tanned skin. His hair had been returned to its original gold with the aid of a chemical shampoo. Dyeing his hair brown had been the only cosmetic change he had made on his return to the States; in the first few weeks there was too much that had to be done, too much that required his undivided attention for him to deal with the added burden of a cumbersome disguise.

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.