The Assassin (41 page)

“I’ll be fine, sir. It’s just that…” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been here five years, and now it’s over. It’s just a little hard to believe.”

Harper nodded sympathetically. Even though she was doing her best to hide it, she was clearly devastated by her dismissal. He was tempted to remind her that she wasn’t supposed to have played the role she did, that she couldn’t blame anyone but herself for the mess she was in, but the last thing she needed at this point was a lecture. She’d be telling herself the same thing anyway.

“The funny thing,” she continued slowly, “is that I would probably do it again.” There was a strange wonderment in her voice, as though she could scarcely believe her own words. “Ryan couldn’t have done it by himself, after all, and I happen to think he’s right.”

“About Vanderveen?”

She nodded. “Sir, when it comes to that man, we can’t afford to wait for ironclad proof. By going forward with the meeting at the UN, the president is virtually daring him on. I’d be shocked if he
didn’t
make a play in New York, and the only way to stop it is to find him first.”

“I happen to agree,” Harper said quietly. “But you’re out of it, so I don’t suppose there’s much you can do, is there?”

It was a blunt, brutal thing to say, but she absorbed the words silently. “I suppose you’re right.”

“What will you do now?”

She tried to hide her sudden curiosity; it was almost as if he was measuring her up for something. “To be honest, I don’t really know. Maybe I’ll take some time off, see what turns up. It’s just not fair, though… We managed to track Rühmann down, and the Agency isn’t going to do a damn thing about it.”

“What’s your point?”

She straightened and shot him a hard look. “My point is that I’m involved as well, sir. I was involved from the start. I want to finish this.”

“With Ryan.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “If anyone has earned—” She stopped herself. “That’s not the right word. If anyone
deserves
the chance to go after Vanderveen, it’s him.”

“So if he wanted your help, you would be willing to offer it.”

“Yes, but I’d want to know what I’m dealing with.” She hesitated again; she knew the two men were good friends, and there was a limit to what she could ask. “I’d need to know if he’s…”

“Stable enough? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Sir, I don’t—”

“Relax, Naomi. It’s a reasonable question, considering what you’ve given up for him.”

Harper fell silent. She stayed quiet, letting him think it through. Finally, he got to his feet abruptly.

“Come on, let’s take a walk.”

They made their way up to the ground floor and passed through the turnstiles, stepping out into a small courtyard. The open area was positioned between the OHB and the New Headquarters Building, the cement littered with black plastic picnic tables. The sun was out, and the air was agreeably warm. A few people had taken advantage of the weather to eat lunch outside, but most of the tables were free. Harper picked one apart from the others, which gave them a little privacy. Once they were seated, he leaned back and stared morosely into his coffee. His brow was furrowed, as if he was deciding where to begin, or whether to talk at all. Naomi remained silent, trying not to appear too anxious. She desperately wanted to hear what he had to say, but she knew he would only talk if he wanted to.

Finally, he said, “How much do you know? About what happened in Maine, I mean?”

“Only what you told me over the phone, sir.”

Harper nodded. “Well, I’ll try to fill in the blanks, but don’t get the wrong idea. I know this is the first time you’ve seen him in nearly a year, and I’m guessing you’ve made the natural assumption: that it all comes down to what happened that night. But that’s not the case. Ryan was on the edge of things a long time before he lost Katie Donovan. You have to remember, he’s served in some of the worst places on earth, and he’s seen a lot of terrible things.”

Naomi nodded slowly, remembering a story she’d heard the previous year. There had been a Muslim girl in Bosnia who’d fallen hard for the young Special Forces lieutenant. Kealey had gone out of his way to be kind to her, talking to her every day on patrol, accepting her little tokens of chocolate and flowers, much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers. Then tragedy struck. The Serbian militia found out she was talking to the Americans. The girl disappeared, and two days later, her badly beaten body was discovered on the bank of the Miljacka River by a passing army patrol.

There had been little chance of justice; in a city where dozens of innocent people died each day, a thirteen-year-old girl did not count for much in the larger scheme of things. Kealey had taken matters into his own hands, and three days after her death, her killer — a militia leader by the name of Stojanovic — was found dead in a safe house in Sarajevo, his throat cut from ear to ear. Kealey had nearly been court-martialed, but while rumors abounded, no proof could be found linking him to Stojanovic’s death. Naomi, for one, didn’t need proof; she had seen him in action, and she knew what he was capable of.

“The point I’m trying to make,” Harper was saying, “is that after all of that, Katie meant everything to him, and I do mean everything. She was completely innocent, untouched by all the shit he’d seen in his life. She was a way to start over, a chance at, well,
redemption
, for lack of a better word, and when she died, all of that died as well.”

Harper looked away, slightly embarrassed. “At least, that’s the best way I can explain it.”

Naomi nodded again. The deputy director was clearly uneasy discussing this. Maybe he thought he’d revealed too much, or maybe he thought it wasn’t his place to tell her the truth. For a moment, she didn’t think he’d continue, but then he surprised her.

“Anyway, I flew down as soon as I got the news, but the doctors didn’t let me see him until the following morning. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but what struck me most was his demeanor. He was strangely unaffected. Dangerously calm, as if it hadn’t sunk in. But it did, and it’s been there the whole time.”

She felt for him, of course, but she was also interested, leaning forward in her seat. “What has?”

“The anger, the grief… all of it. Mostly it’s guilt. He put the hunt for Vanderveen ahead of her, and he thinks that’s what got her killed. He might even be right, but that’s not the point. He can’t let it go.”

Harper set down his coffee and stared absently over the courtyard, remembering. “He came to me a month later, once his wounds were healed and the doctors gave him a relatively clean bill of health. He wanted to come back inside, and I made it happen. Four months in Afghanistan hunting the Taliban with Delta, then a short break, and the next six months in Iraq. I thought it would help him, that staying busy might keep his mind straight.”

“And now?” she asked quietly. “Would you have done it the same way?”

She had definitely crossed the line, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he shrugged and shook his head. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter now, but I’ll tell you what I do know. He’s been taking risks ever since that night, and it’s only getting worse. After Ryan came back from Afghanistan, Special Operations Command made it clear to me that they didn’t want him back on their turf. Strangely enough, his time over there was hugely productive. Delta nabbed a number of key figures, guys who’d bribed their way into what they thought was a safe haven in Pakistan, but it was the way Kealey carried it off that had them worried. They said he was too reckless, not taking the proper precautions. Coming from those guys, that’s saying a lot.”

Her next question came naturally, and while she was afraid of the answer, Naomi knew she would never find Harper this forthcoming again. She had to ask it.

“Sir, is he… trying to get himself killed?”

He seemed to take the question seriously. “Maybe. Maybe not… It’s difficult to tell. I think Vanderveen’s reappearance has given him something to latch on to, at least for the time being. The point is, if you follow him into this, you’ll be completely outside the Agency’s authority.”

“Are you saying I have a choice?”

He smiled but didn’t respond. Draining his cup, he stood and placed a hand on the table in front of her. “Whatever you decide, Naomi, I’ll do what I can for you. You’ve done some amazing work here, and for whatever it’s worth, I won’t forget that. I’ll be staying on for a while, so if you need a reference, be sure to come and see me. Don’t wait too long, though. I’ll be following you out the door soon enough.”

“Thanks for the offer, sir. It means a lot to me.”

He nodded and smiled again, then walked away. He was out of sight by the time Naomi saw what he had placed on the table: a business card of some kind.

She turned it over and read the hastily scrawled note on the back. She recognized Ryan’s handwriting immediately.

Runway at Upperville, 6:00 AM sharp. Bring your passport.

CHAPTER 35

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Night was descending over the city as Samantha Crane hurried along D Street, having just left her government car in a parking garage off Massachusetts Avenue. She checked her watch as she came up on 1st, swearing under her breath. She was flushed by the time she reached her destination, despite the slight chill in the air. It had taken her twenty infuriating minutes to find an open garage, which made her wish she’d taken a taxi or even walked. Crane was staying at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill, not more than five blocks to the west. She had almost set out on foot from the start, but in the end, she decided against it. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that her FBI credentials would make a difference if the worst was to happen, and being unarmed, she thought it best to avoid tempting fate. She rarely carried a gun off duty, and tonight was no exception.

She smiled at the doorman and entered the restaurant, shivering involuntarily at the sudden temperature change. She didn’t have a coat to check, so she squeezed through the crowd to the bar. The dining area to the left was packed, but that was to be expected. Established in 1960, the Monocle had quickly become the place to be seen in the District, despite the rather indifferent food. A number of local celebrities could be seen on any given night, and since it was Saturday, more than a few were in attendance. Crane didn’t recognize most of them — she didn’t have much interest in politics — but a few familiar faces stood out. Senator Edward Kennedy was seated in the middle of the room, surrounded by a starry-eyed group of admirers, and someone who looked a lot like Dennis Hastert was sipping a drink at the bar, talking intently to a pair of older men in dark suits.

As she approached, Crane caught sight of her aunt, Rachel Ford, who was sitting two stools down from the House Speaker, a glass of white wine at her right hand. As always, the young FBI agent felt a sudden surge of inadequacy. She’d always thought that Rachel — with her pale, flawless skin and fine-boned features — could have been the queen of some minor country. Her regal posture somehow made that ridiculous bar stool look like a throne, and her clothes — a brown cashmere cardigan over a silk blouse and tan gabardine slacks — fit her slender form to perfection. Just the sight of her made Crane feel like an overfed second-string cheerleader, despite the extra effort she’d put into her appearance. She reluctantly stepped up to the bar, where Ford caught her eye. The older woman got to her feet and gave her niece an affectionate hug. Stepping back, she offered a small, disapproving frown.

“It’s lovely to see you, Samantha. I see you’re stunningly underdressed, as usual.”

Crane looked down at her outfit, then shot a quick, appraising glance around the room. Her chinos were fine, as far as she could tell, but she’d worn a woolen sweater against the brisk night air, and suddenly, the choice didn’t seem that inspired. “Thanks, Aunt Rachel,” she said dryly. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry we couldn’t get together when you first got into town. I’ve been incredibly busy, of course, but so have you, and that’s no excuse. I still don’t understand why you didn’t stay at my place. You know I have plenty of room.”

Crane shrugged uncomfortably. The truth was that her career had benefited from her aunt’s position, but she didn’t like to advertise the fact. A handful of other agents had also been brought into town to act in supporting roles in the Alexandria raid. Some had stayed on to supplement the forensic teams going through the warehouse, including a few techs from the New York office, where Crane was normally based. They were all staying at the Hyatt Regency, and her absence would have been noticed.

Crane was trying to figure out how to explain this without causing offense, but the other woman saved her the trouble, turning instead to summon the bartender. She returned a moment later with a second glass of Chardonnay, which she handed to Crane.

“Is it always like this?” the younger woman asked. “I mean, it’s still pretty early for a Saturday night.”

Ford pointed up at the ceiling. “Somebody’s hosting an event for Hillary upstairs,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Hillary who? Not Clinton.”

“Of course, darling.” Ford was mystified. “Who else?”

“Hillary Clinton?
Here
? You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. She can’t exactly skip out on her own fund-raiser, can she?” Ford raised an eyebrow, taking in her niece’s amazed expression. “Try not to look so impressed, Sam. People are watching, and half the Senate will have stopped in before the night is out. You’re bound to see somebody more important than her.”

Crane nodded and tried some of the wine. Something about the other woman seemed off, and then it became clear; she was getting tipsy. It should have been obvious from the start, but it was so out of character that Crane didn’t catch it right off the bat.

Samantha Crane smiled to herself, feeling a weight lift; this was going to be easier than she’d thought. After days of gentle prodding over the phone, she was finally going to get the answers she needed.