an asset in Washington who will handle the finances. We have few people skilled in that area
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since Zouaydi was taken in Madrid. It is not a question of the money, you understand. It is a
question of trusting you with an operation of this magnitude. Mazaheri will never relinquish total
control… The Iranians have a great deal at stake here. Even if you are successful, we will have
accomplished nothing if they can be directly linked to the assassinations.”
Al-Zawahiri fell silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression passing over his blunt features.
Finally, he said, “You will make contact twice a week from the time you return until the day of
the operation itself. You will be told when to call before you leave. I can negotiate nothing less
than that. You will not be expected to divulge your specific movements, but they must know of
any problems you encounter. This contact will benefit you as well: they will arrange for
additional funds and documents should the worst come to pass.”
Vanderveen knew that was a lie. The Iranians would deny everything if his cover was blown.
They wouldn’t lift a finger to help him if it all went bad, but he needed their help now, and he
needed safe refuge when it was over. He had no choice but to play along.
“Fine. Is Mazaheri’s man in Washington?”
Ayman al-Zawahiri smiled gently. “Who said anything about a man?”
Surprise registered briefly in Vanderveen’s face. It was almost beyond belief that Mazaheri
would entrust something as important as operational funds to a woman.
“She is a valuable asset, and she is trusted,” al-Zawahiri continued. “That is all you need to
know.” The smile faded. “This is not a request. If you fail to call at the specified times, it will not
matter if you succeed. Do you understand?”
Vanderveen nodded once. “I will do as you ask. And I will succeed.”
There was a long, awkward silence. It was difficult for the physician to believe that the American
was willing to commit such an act against his own people, especially for nothing more than a
secure place in the organization. In the end, though, he had no choice but to support the man. It
was the Emir’s wish, and carried no less authority than a command from Allah Himself.
“Good. Tonight, you rest. The helicopter will return in the morning. And then, my friend, it’s up
to you.”
Ryan Kealey had been in Washington for only two hours when he was called back to Virginia to
the director’s office at Langley. He was sore and tired from the long flight, and his anger was
exacerbated by the fact that he wouldn’t be getting back to Katie anytime soon.
Jonathan Harper was already waiting in the spacious room, reclining in one of the chairs
scattered around a low table. The DCI was sitting opposite him, and the two men stopped their
conversation when Kealey stepped through the mahogany doors.
The director stood and extended his hand, a stocky man whose considerable girth was well
concealed by the tailored Ralph Lauren Purple Label suits that he favored. “Bob Andrews,
pleased to meet you.”
Kealey returned the handshake. “Same here, sir.”
For his part, Andrews dubiously eyed the man who stood before him. He’d heard many things
about Kealey, and the man’s appearance seemed to coincide with his reputation. He wore heavy
Columbia hiking boots, dark jeans, and a threadbare crewneck sweater of marled gray cotton.
His face was deeply tanned from the African sun, even more so than usual, and the jet-black hair
was a little wild. Taking all of this in for the first time, the director had to remind himself again
of the man’s achievements.
Andrews gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Take a seat, Ryan. Congratulations on your
results in Africa.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I appreciate your coming in to see me today,” the director said, as though Kealey had had a
choice in the matter. He gestured to the cups resting on the table in front of him. “Coffee?”
Kealey nodded his thanks and moved to pour coffee and dump cream into one of the cups.
Meanwhile, the director had lifted what Ryan thought to be his personnel file and was skimming
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through the contents. “Let’s see… eight years with the army, retired as a major. DFC, three
Bronze Stars, two Purple Hearts. Impressive. Action in Kosovo and the Gulf. Two years in the
1st SFOD…” Andrews looked up from the file with a questioning look. “Delta?”
Ryan nodded as he sipped at his coffee. Andrews lifted an eyebrow and turned his attention
back to the file. “Then you were on the army’s Security Roster, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I signed a waiver when Director Harper recruited me. Otherwise, my 201 would
probably still be buried somewhere at Bragg.” He knew that the DCI would understand what he
meant. Although the army keeps the vast majority of its personnel files at Human Resources
Command in St. Louis, the 1st SFOD-D is given special dispensation to store records pertaining
to its operators in a highly secure facility at Fort Bragg.
Andrews closed the file and tossed it onto his desk. “And an Intelligence Star, to round it all out.
These pages show you’ve racked up quite a few achievements, Kealey,” he said, drumming his
fingers on the closed file. “Unfortunately, this means that I have to take your opinion seriously.”
Ryan looked over to Harper, whose face remained expressionless.
“You brought down a lot of heat for that stunt you pulled with Elgin, you know. That still hasn’t
blown over, but I’m willing to put it aside for now,” the director continued. “You think
Vanderveen’s going after the president. Tell me why.”
Kealey shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then went on to relay his brief conversation with
Stephen Gray, and the man’s final parting words.
“I admit that it sounds worrisome, but is that all you’ve come up with?” Andrews asked, the
skepticism heavy in his voice.
“Sir, we know for a fact that Vanderveen is tied in with the new Iranian regime. He’s been linked
to Al-Qaeda as well. I mean, we have tape of him meeting with some of the highest ranking
people in the organization. It doesn’t get any more ironclad than that. Now, consider these facts:
Senator Levy, Iran’s biggest opponent on the Hill, is assassinated in broad daylight after assuring
the Washington press corps that the weapons program in Tehran will be shut down. Then we
have Michael Shakib, a known Iranian affiliate whose cell phone records show that he placed a
call to a cloned phone less than three minutes before the rocket attack. After the Justice
Department tracks him down, he blows himself up rather than risk being taken alive. Why?”
Andrews glanced at Harper, a perplexed expression moving over his face. “Because that’s what
they do, Kealey. It’s part of the conflict for them. Killing as many people as possible, spreading
fear, and creating terror are their primary goals—”
Ryan held up a hand to stop him. “Maybe so, sir. But think about this: what if Shakib did it, at
least in part, because he couldn’t risk breaking under interrogation?”
Harper shot an inquiring look at Kealey, but Andrews didn’t notice. “You’re saying he passed
on information we don’t know about? Something related to the president?”
Ryan shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s a possibility we should look into. God knows it’s happened
before. Remember that State Department laptop that went missing four years ago? It contained
highly sensitive code-word material, and they never found it. The same thing happens over at
Justice all the time.”
“Jesus,” Andrews breathed. He turned to the deputy director. “John, I think we ought to bring
the Service in on this. We’ll advise them to run an internal audit, see what they can come up
with.”
“I agree,” Harper said, but the expression on his face did not match up with his words.
“Unfortunately, I’m going to be tied down for the next few days with Homeland Security. I can’t
get out of those meetings, John, but I’m going to set up an appointment with you and
Brenneman. I want you there as well, Kealey,” Andrews added as an afterthought. “Maybe you’ll
be able to convince him to cooperate with us on this.”
“It would be a big help, sir. I just hope that I’m wrong.”
“So do I,” was the director’s heartfelt response. “So do I.”
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Less than five minutes later, Harper and Kealey were out of the DCI’s office and heading down
toward the first floor. They walked slowly, speaking in short bursts when the hallway was quiet
and clear of people.
“Jesus, Ryan,” Harper said with a smile on his face. “If you show up at the White House looking
like you do now, I’m going to run out of the building and never look back.”
Ryan laughed and glanced down at his clothes. “I guess I’ll have to invest in a suit.”
“Is that how you dress when you lecture in Orono?”
“My students are even worse than I am, John. It’s all a matter of degree.”
They fell silent as a tall, trim woman with a flowing mane of auburn hair passed them hurriedly in
the hall carrying a stack of files. She flashed Ryan a little smile as she brushed by.
Harper noticed and stuck his elbow in the younger man’s side. “If I got half the attention you do,
my friend, I would die a happy man.”
“Not if Julie overheard you saying that. In fact, she would probably kill you herself.”
Harper smiled at the retort, but soon turned serious again. “That shit you just gave Andrews…
You don’t really believe any of it, do you?”
“No. I guess it is possible that Shakib leaked something other than Senator Levy’s route, but it’s
not likely. Andrews is just new enough to the job to believe something like that, though, and he
never would have listened to me if all I’d had to offer were Gray’s final words. This way, he gets
to throw some accusations at the Secret Service for failing to control their information, and we
get what we want; some real help in tracking Vanderveen down. Unfortunately, now we have to
sell it to the president.” Kealey smiled to himself. “That might be a little bit trickier.”
Harper shook his head incredulously. “I always said that you would be a star at headquarters,
Ryan. You’re the most naturally deceptive person I know.”
The younger man grinned. “Don’t worry, John, I’m not out for your job. I’d never have the
patience for all the ass-kissing you have to do.”
Harper laughed. “It’s that ass-kissing that keeps you out of jail when you pull shit like you did
with Elgin.”
“Speaking of Elgin, I think the man knows more than he’s saying. I want to work with Adam
North on this, the guy from DEA. He kept it together when it counted. My problem is going to
be getting access. Do you think you can arrange that?”
Harper nodded slowly as they crossed the open lobby toward the security desk. “It’ll be tough,
but I can get you in there. The worst part will be avoiding the press. I believe they’re holding him
in Alexandria. Don’t leave any marks on him this time, Ryan. You shouldn’t have done that in
the first place.”
“Don’t worry, I know how to handle it.”
As they pushed out into the cool Virginia air, Ryan looked down the long rows of stone steps to
see a dark blue BMW waiting at the curb. Katie was standing next to it, shivering a little in a
short black dress. She looked incredible, her light makeup artfully applied, diamond drops
hanging from her ears. Her hair was up, and a few loose locks of golden brown fell down
around her face. She smiled up at him, and Ryan’s heart skipped a beat.
He turned to Harper, who was wearing a sly grin. “You clever bastard…” He put his hand on
the other man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks, John. I owe you one.”
“Take her somewhere nice, Ryan. She deserves it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ryan let go of his friend’s shoulder and hurried down the steps, wrapping her up in his arms
before they shared a lingering kiss. Harper watched from the top of the steps with a rueful grin,
laughing a little at the strange compatibility of the couple. Ryan with his unkempt hair, tattered
sweater, and heavy boots, while Katie looked like she had just stepped off a runway in Milan.
Harper thought of Julie and his smile grew. As he walked toward the parking lot and his own
waiting car, he decided that they would enjoy a night out on the town as well. After all, life was
too short for anything less.
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CHAPTER 22
ASHLAND, VIRGINIA ? WASHINGTON, D.C.
Nicole Milbery had been in the real estate business for sixteen years, and had never wanted to do
anything else. Now, at thirty-seven years of age, she was a slender woman of medium height, well
known and highly respected in her community. Her shoulder-length honey-blond hair was
layered in the latest style, and her soft, doelike brown eyes belied the dogged determination and
intelligence that was a hallmark of her character and the reason for her considerable success. She
was the sole proprietor of Milbery Realty, an agency based in the northern reaches of Virginia
that catered primarily to upscale clientele.
The person sitting across from her now did not fall into that category. He was looking for
something far more modest, 120 acres at the most, and only to rent. Although her profit on the
deal would be marginal at best, she found herself unwilling to hurry the proceedings along. He
was a strikingly handsome man. The dark brown hair was streaked with gold, and she noticed
that it drifted over his forehead into his eyes, which were the most amazing color of green she
had ever seen. His full lips were perfectly centered beneath a long, straight nose; the clean-shaven
jaw was square and firm, and his skin radiated a healthy glow.
He had come into her office just forty-five minutes earlier. When they shook hands he had
smiled, revealing boyish dimples and a set of perfect white teeth. Her breath had caught in her
throat, and ever since that moment, her professional poise had seemed an arm’s length away, just
beyond her grasp when she needed it most.
“So, Mr. Nichols,” she said, deliberately emphasizing the seductive quality of her voice. Her eyes
were locked onto his. “I think we’ve made some good choices here. When would you like to
take a look at these properties?”
He covered his mouth and faked a cough to hide his sudden grin. Just hearing her say it made
him want to laugh. He had chosen it on a whim three years earlier, and in retrospect, he knew it
had been a mistake. The very name itself occasionally drew attention, something that he was
