《The American》
作者：[美] Andrew Britton 【完结】
Synopsis (英文书籍文案)
The Senate Majority leader brazenly assassinated in the nation’s capital. A high-rise apartment complex brought down by a suicide bomber. The most feared terrorist network aided by the most surprising — and deadly — of enemies. A dangerous new world needs a whole new set of players. Welcome to The American. In this powerful debut thriller from one of the freshest new voices in international suspense, Andrew Britton has crafted a bold novel that crackles with a high-stakes, post-9/11 urgency and introduces maverick CIA agent Ryan Kealy.
作者简介
安德鲁·布里顿出生于英国，7岁随家人搬迁至美国定居，先定居明尼苏达州，后迁至北卡罗来纳。他高中毕业后在美国参军，当了两年部队战地工程师后，进入北卡罗来纳大学进修。选修经济学和心理学。目前正在写《美国公敌》一书的续集。
PROLOGUE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
They whispered amongst themselves. For an announcement of lesser magnitude, they said, it
might have been a more suitable venue.
It was natural for them to complain. Nothing less was expected by those who had organized the
event; indeed, the interns who had arranged for the seating and distributed the press passes
would have been stunned by anything approaching a compliment. When the frequent
interruptions led to a substantial delay in the proceedings, few were surprised. Nevertheless,
every effort was made to accommodate them. Additional chairs were brought in for the
latecomers, and the proffered urns of coffee and pitchers of chilled water were refilled at a near
constant rate.
Ornate chandeliers hung high above their heads, providing the requisite amount of
light. The cameramen complained anyway, but to no avail. That the room might have been
graced by natural light was never a consideration. The six massive windows were wired shut for
security purposes, and draped in flowing burgundy curtains that perfectly matched the color of
the carpet. Above the sparkling crystal chandeliers, a forgotten pair of star-shaped balloons
drifted absently across the gilded ceiling. Although the walls were missing the usual procession
of paintings, they were replaced, and perhaps surpassed, by towering marble pillars in the
Corinthian order.
For the most part, they agreed that the usual trappings of power were in evidence. What the
room was clearly lacking, though, was space. They were wedged tightly against one another, and
the shared discomfort was noticed by all. As the hearing progressed, however, the vocal
complaints began to subside. Soon they were scribbling furiously and shooting pointed glares at
those who continued to talk. Finally, the hushed whispers faded away completely, and they
listened with rapt attention to the man who was currently holding court, standing before a
backdrop of his seated peers.
“Today I believe we have reached a consensus among some of the most respected and influential
people in Washington, including those whose input is vital to the president’s decision-making
process. I am fully confident that he will react favorably to many of the conclusions the
committee has reached this afternoon. I’ll take one more question… I see you fidgeting over
there, Susan. Let’s have it.”
A small peel of laughter rippled through the assembled crowd of print and television reporters
as the CNN correspondent blushed slightly and posed her question to the man behind the
podium. “Senator Levy, what do you hope to achieve by delivering this ultimatum to the interim
Iranian government, and do you see this administration going down the same path that led to a
controversial outcome in Iraq?”
The senator frowned at that last addition, a fact not lost on anyone present. “First of all, our
goal here is to make clear to those in power in Tehran that the United States will not sit idly by
while preparations are being put in place to cause direct harm to the people of this nation. We
have not — and I’d like to be very clear on this point — yet considered the possibility of armed
conflict, or even the staging of troops in the region, for that matter.”
Levy paused for a moment, ostensibly to give the impression that he was gathering his thoughts.
In reality, it was just for effect. “At this point, we have concrete evidence that Iran has restarted
the process of refining uranium for use in nuclear weapons, proof that was lacking when the
decision was made to remove Saddam Hussein from power. As it stands, the president has
refused to recognize the new leadership in Tehran, and I — we — support him fully in this
decision. Additionally, we now have tentative commitments from President Chirac of France
and Prime Minister Berlusconi of Italy. Both leaders have assured us that, if some agreement for
partial compensation can be reached, all companies in their respective countries with oil interests
in Iran are prepared to terminate their contracts and pull out of the region at the earliest
available opportunity. Although these implementations are predicated on talks that are
scheduled to take place in late November, this is a huge step toward reinforcing the sanctions
that are already in place. Let me assure you that our efforts to form a united front against Iran’s
nuclear ambitions will not be deterred.”
Levy paused again, the momentary lull inviting a wave of clamorous voices. Ignoring them, he
focused his gaze on the attractive young correspondent in the third row. “In response to the
second part of your question, Susan, I’d like to stress that we’re looking for strong U.N.
participation in this matter. The proof of weapons production that I referred to is currently in
the hands of the Security Council, and once the examination of that evidence is finished early
next month, we expect that there will be a strong resolution and condemnation of the actions
that have been undertaken by the new regime. No, I’m sorry, that’s all,” he said as another storm
of voices erupted in his direction. “Thank you for being here today.”
Senator Daniel Levy stepped down from the dais amidst a flurry of questions that he had no
intention of answering. A four and a half hour hearing was bad enough, but the raised voices of
twenty-six fellow senators and the incessant blinding light of camera bulbs had left him with a
throbbing head and a dull pain in his stomach. Levy was sure that his recently diagnosed ulcer
was a direct result of the trouble brewing once more in the Middle East. The recent death of
Ayatollah Khomeini, the supreme leader of Iran, had resulted in the appointment of an
ultraconservative cleric on decidedly unfriendly terms with the United States. Despite his
comments of a few moments ago, he was fully aware that the possibility of war in the region was
once again looming on the horizon.
He left the Caucus Room and took a sharp right, moving at a brisk stride down two short flights
of marble stairs. As he walked, he was joined by his chief advisor, Kevin Aidan.
“So, we’re about to start this nonsense all over again,” Levy said. He ran a hand through his
thick silver hair and spoke under his breath, ever distrustful of his small but highly efficient
Secret Service detail. Members of Congress were not usually entitled to this level of protection,
but as the Senate Majority Leader and the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee,
special attention was paid to his security, especially in the wake of recent events. “We spent
billions in Iraq so our citizens could be treated to images of their sons and daughters dying on
network television. What the hell did we get in return, Kevin?”
Aidan glanced at the senator out of the corner of his eye. He had to look down slightly, as Levy
was at least a full head shorter than he was. He idly wondered if the senator harbored any
lingering insecurities over his stature. On the other hand, one of the most powerful men in
Washington need not concern himself with such trivialities. After all, Aidan reminded himself,
That’s what I’m here for.
“Sir, the best bet right now is to stick to the party line. Maybe you can try to distance yourself
from this later, but you’re currently seen as Brenneman’s biggest supporter. We’re already
running polls — if public support starts to swing the other way, we’ll see about revising our
stance.”
Levy raised an eyebrow, somewhat amused at this statement. Although he highly valued his
advisor’s input, the senator always considered Aidan’s youth and inexperience when weighing his
opinion. Having just appeared on national television throwing the full weight of his office behind
the president, he could hardly reverse himself at any point in the near future without looking like
a traitor to his party. Besides, he strongly believed that he was doing the right thing, and while he
didn’t mind complaining in private, he knew that he would endure as much political fallout as
was necessary to prevent Iran from taking its place on the nuclear stage.
These thoughts faded from his mind as they passed through the elaborate marble rotunda of the
Russell Senate Office Building. Levy never ceased to be amazed by the beauty of the architecture
and the exquisite craftsmanship that was obviously put into the structure; it continually reminded
him of the importance of his job and how fortunate he was to be in his position. He was
snapped from his reverie by the sound of a Secret Service agent speaking quietly into his sleeve.
The man looked up at Levy.
“Sir, they’re ready to go. We’ll be moving in the second vehicle.” The senator nodded slightly in
response and moved through the entrance to the building. The weather outside was customary
for Washington, D.C., in mid-October; blustery winds forced a light rain to fall at a sharp angle,
threatening to tear away the umbrella that Aidan held over his employer’s head. The agents
escorted the senator quickly to the second of two white Suburbans.
Levy knew that the first vehicle contained four men armed with automatic weapons, and that the
head of the detail would ride in the passenger seat of the second. He vaguely recalled that there
would also be a chase car following at a discrete distance. When he glanced down the street to
his left, however, he could see no evidence of any such vehicle.
When the detail was first assigned to him, the senator had thought that the highly visible
presence of his guardians was both unnecessary and embarrassing. He had said as much to the
president himself, but when the reason behind the changes was made clear to him, the senator
agreed that the threat appeared to justify the additional security.
That didn’t mean that he had to like it, though. Strict limits had been set on his Secret Service
detail; the agents were not permitted to step foot inside his residence except in case of an
emergency, and his daily commute was not to be affected in any way. The twenty-five-minute
drive from his office to his home across the river was one of the few quiet, uninterrupted parts
of his day, and he would not have the placidity of those moments spoiled by sirens and the
blared horns of angry, displaced motorists. Although the lead agent had strenuously objected to
these conditions, Senator Levy was one of the most influential politicians in Washington, and
they weren’t really conditions, anyway; they were demands. In the end, a five-minute telephone
call had settled the dispute.
The watchful agents that comprised his detail were not paid to like the senator, which was a
good thing, as they didn’t. They were responsible for his safety, though, so they were relieved as
always that the seven-second transfer from the Russell Building to the Suburban was uneventful;
it was a maxim in their business that the principal was always most at risk when entering or
leaving a vehicle. In their rush, the experienced agents failed to notice the young, well-dressed
man who had followed them outside. He waited for the small convoy to pull away from the curb
and for the chase car to follow fifteen seconds later before descending the marble steps of the
Russell Building and moving slowly down Constitution Avenue. Along the way, he lifted his own
umbrella against the rain and extracted a slim cellular phone from his coat pocket.
The man who answered the call chose to ignore the tinge of arrogance that accompanied the
expected message. At the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of contempt for the
Congressional staffer whose name he had been given two months earlier, and on whose
information he was now completely reliant.
He waited patiently in the driver’s seat of a rented black Chevy Tahoe on Independence Avenue,
just opposite the James Forrestal Federal Building. The vehicle was legally parked, with sixty
minutes remaining on the meter, and the tint in the windows was not of such a degree to cause
suspicion among any unusually attentive traffic officers. The man had extensive experience in
such matters, and although he recognized the inherent danger of his occupation, he was not one
to leave the elements he could control to chance.
Adhering to this principle, he had carefully selected the place in which to position his vehicle.
From the intersection with L’Enfant Promenade, Independence Avenue ran west for almost 3
miles. From his location, he had a clear view of two traffic lights. The closest was approximately
65 meters away. The second light was at least another 200 meters down the road, which placed it
well beyond the range of his weapon and his ability.
The traffic signals held his interest for only a moment, as his preparations were more reliant on
the rush-hour traffic and the inclement weather than anything else. He couldn’t depend on the
lights to work in his favor, as his proficiency with computers was not so extensive as to allow
him to break into the Department of Transportation’s signal grid undetected. At the same time,
the other two variables were natural occurrences that never failed to bring D.C. traffic to a near
standstill.
His cell phone beeped and he looked down at the numbers. The target was less than two minutes
out.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?”
Megan Lawrence lifted an eyebrow and turned in the seat to look at her partner, Frank Benecelli.
They had been paired together for three months, and she had been getting the feeling that he was
working up the courage to ask her out.
“Why? You have plans for us?” she asked with a grin. Benecelli blushed and muttered something
under his breath. Megan thought it was amusing that an Italian American could be so introverted
