The Assassin (23 page)

She reached the body and kneeled, presumably checking for signs of life. From 250 yards, it was difficult to see exactly what was happening, but Vanderveen checked off the list in his head, unaware that she was doing the same as she went through the motions: searching the man’s pockets for shells, removing the first empty cartridge, then lifting the body into a sitting position, a considerable chore for a woman of her slight stature. Once she’d elevated the body, just one task remained. She took four paces away from the half-slumped form, then turned and lifted the weapon.

Vanderveen saw what was left of the Frenchman’s head explode through the falling rain. The sound of the shotgun followed instantly, a hollow boom spreading over the field, the noise lifting dozens of birds in a flurry of feathers. Then he watched in fascination as Raseen began to adjust the body’s position. She was clearly taking her time in getting it right, stopping occasionally to view the scene from a number of angles. When she was finally satisfied, she carefully placed the shotgun several feet from the corpse and tramped back over the field.

Vanderveen studied her face as she approached. She’d been too close for the last part; the right side of her white nylon jacket was covered in a fine red mist, which was running down with the rain. If she’d noticed, though, it didn’t register in her even expression. When she reached him, she handed over the empty cartridge. The cold air had lent a pink glow to her cheeks, but her face was otherwise unreadable.

They pulled down the shredded targets and collected the brass from the FAMAS, stuffing it all into the backpack, along with Raseen’s soiled jacket. On the return trip, they stopped in Castillon-la-Bataille, on the stone bridge over the Dordogne. After weighing the pack down with an armful of abandoned bricks, Vanderveen dropped it into the water and watched as it spiraled into the murky depths.

They reached Paris just after midnight.

CHAPTER 20

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Kealey’s eyes cracked open against their will, fighting the gray, drizzling dawn that was pushing its way through the half-closed drapes. Over a cluster of rumpled sheets, he could see through the window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. A constant hiss was coming from somewhere, and it confused him until his brain cut through the haze and connected his eyes and ears; it was just a light rain beating against the glass.

He rolled over and put his face in the pillow, conscious of the empty bottles strewn across the floor. He’d raided the minibar the night before. He didn’t need to see the evidence to know it; he felt his mistake in the pounding headache that was just beginning to ruin his morning as well as the foul taste in his mouth. And then, wondering what had brought this on, he was struck by the memory of what Naomi had said, and all that accompanied those misspoken words.

Abruptly pushing the thought out of his mind, he rose and made his way unsteadily to the bathroom, his right foot banging painfully against a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s. Looking down, he briefly wondered where the full-size bottle had come from; as far as he knew, the small refrigerator in the corner contained only miniatures. He filled a plastic cup with tap water and knocked it back, then repeated the process. He was filling it up for a third time when someone began pounding on the door to his room.

“Go away,” he yelled. The banging resumed, and he repeated the phrase, only louder.

“Kealey, is that you?” More banging. “Open the door!”

He paused, trying to place the voice. When it came to him, he muttered a low curse and crossed to the door.

Samantha Crane was standing there when he pulled it open, hands on her hips, an angry expression spread over her face. She was dressed in baggy gray warm-ups, New Balance running shoes, and a navy Penn State sweatshirt, which, if she’d been born and raised in that state, might have explained the slight accent he’d noticed before. Her long blond hair was dripping wet, errant strands plastered against her cheeks. She’d clearly been caught in the rain on the way over.

He gestured to her outfit and said, “Were you out running, or is this pretty much standard attire for FBI agents these days?”

The question caught her off-guard, but she collected herself and snapped, “That’s none of your business. I want the…”

She momentarily lost track of her words as her gaze moved down to his lean, muscular torso, her brown eyes widening slightly. Kealey was suddenly conscious of the prominent scar on his lower abdomen, as well as the older scar on the left side of his chest. He wished he’d thought to pull on a T-shirt.

“I want the computer,” she hurriedly finished, snapping her steely gaze back to his face. “Mason kept a personal laptop at the warehouse. You took it, and I want it back. Right now.”

“How did you find me? The room isn’t registered under my name—”

“That’s not important!” Her voice was too loud; she was nearly shouting. “Now where is it? You gave it to Langley, didn’t you?”

He held up his hands and said, “Back up a minute. What makes you think he had a computer?”

She sighed in exasperation; clearly, she wasn’t buying his act. “We picked that up from the witness I told you about. The laptop was first on our list, so we sealed off the warehouse and sent in an Evidence Recovery Team. Obviously, they came up empty,” she added sarcastically. “Then we had the techs check the tower in Mason’s office. It didn’t take them long to decide that it was only used to display the feeds from the security cameras.”

“So?”

“So that doesn’t add up, because he would have needed some way to keep track of clients and shipments. He did that using a laptop computer, the laptop you
stole
from my crime scene. I want it back, Ryan, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m running out of patience.”

He shrugged and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam.” He caught himself reciprocating, using her first name to draw a response. Then he wondered why he had done it, deciding it was probably the combination of his pounding hangover and her goading, elevated tone.

Whatever the reason, it worked. Her face darkened, and she poked a finger into his chest. “Don’t fuck with me. If you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to go and talk to the assistant director at the WFO and have him call the attorney general. The oversight committee will be tearing you and your employer apart by the end of the workday. That’s how long I’m giving you to hand it over. After that, all bets are off.”

Kealey just looked her square in the eye and said, “When were you going to get round to thanking me?”

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him in disbelief. “
Thanking
you? For what?”

“For saving your life. Last I saw, Mason had the drop on you.”

“Until you tackled me, you mean?” She scowled and rubbed her left arm, as though the pain accompanied the memory. “That really hurt, by the way, and it’s not like it did any good. Your little college flashback didn’t stop him from shooting me.”

Something about what she’d just said struck a chord with him, but he stored it away and said, “It couldn’t have been that bad. You’re walking around, aren’t you?”

“It was just a nick, but that’s not really the point, is it?” She looked at him suspiciously. “Why didn’t you just shoot him, anyway?”

“That would have been bad for both of us,” Kealey pointed out. “Besides, I told you I needed to talk to him. I would have been able to do that if you’d just taken my advice in the first place. Not to mention the fact that seven of your fellow agents would still be alive.”

That seemed to get to her. She fell silent and averted her gaze.

“Listen,” Kealey continued, “I didn’t take the laptop. I can’t give you something I don’t have.”

Her eyes flashed, and she straightened her shoulders. “Then I guess I’ll be making some calls,” she snapped. “You should probably start thinking about a new career, Kealey. Like maybe in fast food, because that’s all you’ll be qualified for by the time I’m through with you.”

And with that, she spun on her heels and stormed off down the hall, her damp sneakers squishing over the expensive carpet.

Kealey closed the door and moved into the room, considering her words as he glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Despite what she’d said, he knew that Crane’s offer was less than sincere. If he were to hand over the laptop, she would probably hit him with charges of tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice. However, her unexpected appearance did serve one purpose: she had tipped her hand, and Kealey knew he didn’t have long to gather the necessary information.

Scooping his jeans off the floor, he searched the pockets for the secure cell that Harper had given him. Once he found it, he called Naomi, who answered sleepily. After bringing her up to speed, he placed a second quick call to Harper. Then he cut the connection and headed back to the bathroom, where he showered quickly and brushed his teeth. As Kealey finished getting dressed twenty minutes later, he was still thinking about Samantha Crane. Something about that woman just didn’t fit.

CHAPTER 21

FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA

The Liberty Crossing Building in McLean, Virginia, serves as the logistical hub of the NCTC, which was founded in August of 2004 under Executive Order 13354. The main floor is cubicle free and littered with pale, wood-topped modular desks bearing flat-screen monitors, while the second floor is home to glass-enclosed offices, from which supervisors representing fourteen different agencies are able to keep a watchful eye on the worker bees below. Just after 11:00 in the morning, Naomi Kharmai was working at a free desk on the lower level, surrounded by forty fellow analysts, when she saw Kealey push through the glass doors on the other side of the room.

Remembering her careless words of the previous night, she was tempted to crawl under her borrowed desk and hide. Instead, she just swung her gaze back to the screen and pretended to be engrossed in her work as he started across the floor toward her.

Naomi had lain awake nearly all night thinking about what Harper had told her over the phone. It explained everything, from Ryan’s drastic change in appearance to his reluctance to talk about the past ten months. Her first reaction had been anger. She couldn’t believe that Harper had sent her into that situation without giving her all the facts. Moreover, she now had a pretty good idea of why she’d been transferred to London in the first place. After all, she had played a major role in the events of the past year, and the senior leadership couldn’t very well have her sitting around asking questions about something they were trying to cover up.

The fact that they had pushed her aside was infuriating, but at the same time, Naomi knew her place. Stubborn as she was, she wasn’t about to go off on the CIA’s deputy director of operations, and since their brief conversation the night before, her anger had faded considerably. Instead, her thoughts had turned to Ryan. All she could think about was what he must have felt that night and what he had endured since.

It was clear that he had been damaged by the whole affair, but Naomi could not have said to what extent. He was one of those men whose training and inherent nature caused them to keep it all inside, but all that did was delay the inevitable. Eventually, no matter how strong the individual, the combination of rage, pain, and guilt always found an outlet; it was simply unavoidable, the end result of any similar tragedy. The harsh truth of this was evident in the escalating suicide rate among soldiers who’d seen combat in the Middle East. Naomi just couldn’t see Ryan breaking to that extent, but the relatives of those dead soldiers might well have said the same thing in the weeks and months leading up to their loss.

Naomi had been exposed to her fair share of pain and suffering in her short career, but she had never experienced that kind of guilt or sorrow, and now, as she thought about what Ryan had endured, she prayed that she never would.

She shook off her morbid thoughts as Kealey crossed the last few feet. He gave her a little nod and said, “Hey.”

“Hi,” she replied, attempting a hesitant smile. “You’re late.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to have something this fast.” She’d called him at Langley thirty minutes earlier. “I drove straight over.”

“I didn’t think Director Landrieu would let you get past security.”

Kealey scowled at the man’s name. “Is he around?”

“I haven’t seen him.” The smile faltered, and she looked away. “Listen, Ryan, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to apologize for what I said last night. Harper let me walk in there without any—”

“It’s fine, Naomi.” She looked at his face quickly, but there wasn’t a trace of what she had seen the night before.

“Really, it’s not your fault,” he continued, “and I’m sorry for snapping at you. You couldn’t have known, but let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Okay.” She blew out the breath she’d been holding and turned to business, tapping a few keys on her keyboard. A list of names and dates instantly appeared on her screen. “The contents of Anthony Mason’s hard drive, as requested.”

Kealey was stunned. “How did you do this?” he asked.

“Simple, really. I booted from a standard Windows XP CD and used this to create a new administrator password.” She held up a 3.5-inch disk between her fingers. “The software was developed at Stanford a few years ago. Basically, it takes advantage of an existing loophole by disguising decryption code as a driver. Once installed, it allows the user to bypass the SYSKEY utility in the SAM.”

Kealey shook his head slowly. “I have no idea what that means.”

“SAM stands for Security Accounts Manager,” she explained. “It’s a database in the registry where user passwords are stored in Windows NT.”

“I thought you said he was running XP.”

Naomi waved her hand dismissively. “XP is just a commercialized version of NT 4.0. But as I was saying, the SAM is fairly difficult to crack because passwords in NT are protected with a hash function. A hash is an algorithm that rewrites data as a series of apparently random numbers and letters. The hash is complicated enough, but you can’t even begin to contend with that until you break through SYSKEY, which encrypts the hash in turn. It’s like a firewall on top of a firewall.”