The Assassin (40 page)

It had been Harper’s decision to keep her out of the briefing, based on Kealey’s request. He had called in every favor he could to keep Science and Technology out of the loop, as Roger Davidson, the head of the directorate, was one of Ford’s staunchest supporters. Harper had then persuaded Andrews to go along with the idea, based on the fact that somebody had slipped the Bureau information about the laptop’s whereabouts. Harper had pointed out Ford’s relationship to Samantha Crane, the FBI agent tasked with the raid in Alexandria, and the subsequent accusations she had leveled at Kealey. This evidence, while extremely circumstantial, was enough to convince the director to keep Ford out of the way, at least temporarily. It now appeared Andrews had changed his mind; otherwise, the deputy DCI would not be present.

Harper took the proffered chair and ignored Rachel Ford’s unwavering stare. Instead, he looked past the large mahogany desk as the DCI arranged a few loose papers. It was midday; through the large, soundproof windows, pale sunlight flitted over the tops of the trees. It was a pleasant scene, but hardly fitting. An autumn gale would have been more appropriate to the dark, strained mood that enveloped the room.

Finally, Andrews looked up and appraised his guest. “So, have you seen him yet?”

The opening question was not what Harper expected, but he recovered quickly. “Yes, I saw him this morning.”

“And how bad is the wound?”

“Not bad, but painful… You can tell just from looking at it. The bullet scraped a rib and left a nasty gouge. He’s lucky as hell. A few inches to the right and he never would have made it out of the building.”

“And this situation would be much worse,” Andrews added, running a tired hand over his face. He leaned back in his chair. “Of course, it’s already a complete disaster. Worse would be… well,
unthinkable
. What happened out there?”

Harper cleared his throat, bracing himself for the coming storm. “I can’t say for sure. What I
do
know is that we have a location for Thomas Rühmann. He’s living in Berlin under the name Walter Schäuble. If we move quickly—”

“Let me stop you right there.” Andrews jerked forward in his chair and planted his feet beneath the desk, his face tightening. Ford was shaking her head in disgust. “We’re not going to talk about the one good thing that came out of this fucking mess,” the DCI continued, “because we can’t act on that piece of information. So let’s talk about
reality
, okay? At 4:45 this morning, a security guard from the German Embassy was admitted to University Hospital in Georgetown with a gunshot wound to the upper arm. Ten minutes later, a D.C. Metro police officer was brought in with a Grade V concussion and severe lacerations to the face and neck. In case you didn’t know,” he continued in a strained tone, “a Grade I concussion is the least severe. Grade V is the worst, with a period of unconsciousness lasting more than ten minutes. In this case, the officer did not regain consciousness for nearly five hours.”

Andrews stopped to arrange his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was taut and barely controlled. “Thirty minutes after the police officer was brought in, a blue Ford Taurus — a car from
our
motor pool, I might add — arrived at the gate off Dolley Madison Boulevard. The driver was none other than Ryan Kealey. He had no credentials, nothing to identify himself. He was made to wait while they called through and verified his status. Then they called in a doctor, but not before Kealey managed to bleed all over the floor of the gatehouse.” The DCI smiled tightly. “It’s a tile floor… lots of cracks, you know? I hear they’re still trying to clean it up.”

Andrews rested his arms on the desk and interlaced his fingers. “I have to tell you, John, it pisses me off that you knew about this before I did. Of course, we both know it’s more than that, don’t we?” The director’s gaze was probing. “After all, you supported the embassy raid from the start.”

“Bob, if you’re suggesting that I signed off on what happened last night—”

“I’m not ‘suggesting’ anything. I’m
telling
you that I know what you did. How else would Kealey get access to a car from the motor pool? I know he’s done a lot for us, but he’s only been here four years. He doesn’t know the procedure, and he doesn’t have the authority. You covered your tracks well, John, but I don’t have the time or the patience to beat around the bush. What were you trying to accomplish? Rühmann’s ties to the attacks in Baghdad and Paris are sketchy at best. Do you really think his location is worth the kind of fallout that we’re about to endure?”

“Sir, we managed to link Rühmann to Kassem, Vanderveen,
and
al-Umari—”

“Maybe so, but it wasn’t enough to convince the president, was it? And when the break-in comes back to us, what happens then?”

Before Harper could answer, the telephone chirped softly. Andrews snatched it up and spoke a few harsh, dismissive words. He replaced the receiver, but Ford stepped in before he could pick up the thread. “Well?”

Harper ignored her. “Bob, the Germans can search every database they have, and so can the FBI. They’re never going to find a record of Kealey’s fingerprints. They might have his blood, but they have nothing to match it to. I talked to him. I know he disabled the cameras before he went in. There is no feasible way this can be traced back to us. People were hurt… okay. So what? That happens occasionally in this business. No one was killed. This will all be forgotten in a matter of weeks, and because of Ryan’s efforts, we are now in a position to move forward.”

Ford scowled. “Jonathan, I don’t think you fully appreciate the severity of this situation. If anyone even
hints
at our involvement, our diplomatic relations with Germany will be damaged beyond repair.”

“This is not the State Department,” Harper shot back. “And you’re not on the oversight committee anymore. We are not charged with maintaining diplomatic relations. Will Vanderveen has murdered U.S. soldiers and citizens. He has attacked this country on several occasions. In my opinion, the chance to track him down is worth a few hurt feelings on the international front and a damn sight more.”

It was the unvarnished truth, or at least the way he saw it. Harper fully expected his little speech to make things worse, but while Ford’s face turned a deep shade of scarlet, the DCI merely nodded plaintively.

“What about a career, John? Would you say that finding him is worth the career of, say, a talented young CTC analyst? One of our best and brightest?”

Harper tensed involuntarily. “Kharmai?”

“Exactly.”

“What are you talking about? She wasn’t even there.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ford announced. Turning to her right, she said, “You can’t possibly believe that. He knew damn well where she was last night, because he sent them both.”

Andrews frowned. Harper could see him wavering, but finally, he seemed to accept the denial at face value. “I don’t know where Kealey left her — she didn’t come back to Langley with him — but she was definitely at the embassy,” the director said. “The Metro police cruisers all have dash-mounted cameras.”

“You saw the tape?”

“No. I didn’t need to. The officer woke up this morning and gave his statement, which we got hold of shortly thereafter. The name the woman gave him was Sara Brown. Not real, of course, and not particularly original, but that’s beside the point. His description matched Kharmai to a T, right down to the accent.

“The dots connect themselves,” Andrews continued, his voice dropping to a more reasonable level. “People are going to figure this out, John. It might come out of this building, or it might come out of the White House, but the point is, it
will
come out. She’s got to go. Kealey too. Their days at the Agency are numbered. It’s that simple.”

Harper nodded stiffly, vaguely aware of Ford’s triumphant smile. “When?”

“They’re suspended without pay, effective immediately. We’ll ease them out by the end of the month. I’ll let you deal with Kealey; frankly, I’d be happy to never see him again. You’ve known him for a long time, and he’s done a lot for us. That’s the only reason he’s not facing charges. The same for Kharmai, and she has my word on that: she’s free and clear if she goes quietly. I want to talk to her face-to-face. We can bring her up now, if you like. Or you can break the news to her first. It’s up to you.”

“There’s no point in drawing it out,” Harper decided at length. “She’ll be expecting it anyway.”

“Fine.” Andrews lifted the receiver and punched a button. “Diane, ask Naomi Kharmai to report to my office, please. You should find her in Science and Technology. If she’s not there, try McLean.”

He replaced the receiver, leaned back in his chair, and appraised his guest. After a time, he turned to Ford and said, “Rachel, would you mind excusing us for a moment?”

She didn’t look happy, but she’d gotten her way, and for the moment, that seemed to be enough. She nodded curtly, stood, and walked out.

Andrews looked at his desk for a long time, a number of emotions passing over his ruddy features. Clearly, the whole situation was not sitting well with him, and it wasn’t just anger at the way things had turned out.

“John, what happened here?” he finally asked. “How many times have I looked to you for advice since I was nominated? How many times have you pulled my ass out of the fire? You’re probably the smartest man in the building. It doesn’t make sense.”

Harper shook his head wearily. “I looked at the facts, and I made a decision. What else can I say?”

“You didn’t ‘make a decision.’ You violated a direct order from the
president
, for Christ’s sake. What the hell were you thinking?”

“The president is wrong,” Harper replied flatly. “I don’t know what kind of bullshit the Bureau is feeding him, but the Iranians were not involved in Baghdad or Paris. This all comes down to somebody in the insurgency. Vanderveen can tell us who that is, and the only way to find
him
is through Rühmann. It was the right call, and I’d do it again.”

Andrews shook his head in disbelief. He had worked in bureaucracies all his life. He believed in the rules, and on the rare occasion he decided to break one, the decision did not come easily. Harper’s unapologetic attitude was beyond his experience. “Well, Kealey and Kharmai are your people, and you know how it works. Unfortunately, their sacrifice is not enough.”

The DDO nodded once. His chest tightened, even though he had expected as much. “So, how do we handle it? Is it a minor health issue, or do I suddenly feel the need to spend more time with my wife?”

“Neither,” was the surprising response. “I spoke to Brenneman this morning, John. He’s not happy, to say the least, but he can’t afford to lose you right now.” Catching the look on the other man’s face, he hastened to add, “He’s not doing this out of personal loyalty, so don’t get comfortable. It’s politics, like everything else. With the election coming up, he can’t afford to lose any more public support, especially over something he can actually control. So for now, we keep the status quo.”

Harper was too surprised to react right away. He couldn’t suppress the wave of relief that swept over him, although it was quickly followed by guilt. Two of his best people, after all, were about to lose their jobs. He could have done more to dissuade Kealey, and he definitely could have done more to stop Kharmai from getting involved. Before he could speak, the director’s intercom came to life. “Sir, Ms. Kharmai has arrived.”

“Okay, Diane. Send her in.”

Andrews stood, adopted a sober expression, and straightened his tie as the door swung open. Getting to his feet, Harper took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself. This was going to be painful, to say the least.

It was perhaps ten minutes later that Naomi found herself in the cafeteria on the ground floor. She looked around in a daze, only dimly aware of the tacky plum-colored walls and industrial seating. A few employees breaking for an early lunch were scattered around the room, spaced well apart in the way people do when they have a choice in the matter.

With little else to do, she walked up to the counter and purchased a large cup of coffee, momentarily forgetting that she hated the stuff. A liberal amount of sugar and cream made it bearable, and she carried the lukewarm beverage back to a seat. She took a small sip and squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to lay her head on the table and let it all out.

She had known this could happen, of course, but nothing compared to the reality. Worst of all was the speed with which she had been dispatched. It had been so
quick
; the director had cut her loose in a matter of minutes, barely giving her time to wrap her mind around the idea that her career with the CIA was essentially over. His words had been rattling around in her head since the moment she’d stepped out of his office.
I’m sorry, Naomi, but you’ve given me no choice… blatant disregard for authority… clear violation of standing orders… administrative leave pending further inquiries.

The words, as well as what they meant for her future, had left her numb, at least for the first few minutes. Now that the shock was starting to pass, reality was settling in. She would still be able to get a job — her academic credentials would see to that — but that wasn’t the point. She loved her work; it was that simple, and after everything she had done at the Agency, she knew that nothing else would ever be able to hold her interest. It was awful to know that she had reached the peak of her career at thirty-one years of age, and with that thought, it became too much. She put her head on her arms and did her best to hold back the tears.

A shadow crossed the table, and she looked up, startled. Jonathan Harper was standing there, holding a cup of coffee. There was a subdued expression on his face. “Mind if I join you?”

“No,” she said miserably, quickly wiping a hand across her eyes. It was beyond embarrassing to be seen this way, but she hadn’t expected him. She waved at the opposite seat. “Be my guest.”

He took the proffered chair and waited as she composed herself hurriedly. “How are you doing?” he asked.