NORFOLK ? WASHINGTON, D.C.
When Will Vanderveen arrived at Norfolk International Terminals late in the afternoon to
collect his consignment, the last-minute rush in the container yard rendered him almost invisible
to the workers who hustled over the broad expanse of rain-slicked cement.
It was how he had planned it. The change in shift allowed him to blend easily into the crowd, and
it was not a coincidence that his navy blue coveralls, steel-toed boots, and wool knit watch cap
closely resembled the outfit worn by many of the lower-level NIT employees.
The cement was littered with hundreds of 20- and 40-foot containers, stacked four high and
seven deep, as port regulations required. Towering above the identical metal boxes were the
rail-mounted gentry cranes that were in constant motion, depositing one container after another
onto an endless procession of flatbed trucks.
As he crossed the open space, he approached three men standing next to a row of containers.
One was holding a clipboard and a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, and his uniform identified
him as a captain in the Virginia Port Authority.
Vanderveen studied the captain, an older man with iron-gray hair cut close to the scalp and hard
ridges carved into his face. His pale blue eyes were almost unnaturally clear. Vanderveen was
almost certain that he was an ex-Marine, most likely an upper-level NCO.
“ ’Scuse me,” Vanderveen said as he approached. No one noticed him, and he gave it a minute
before tapping the man on the shoulder. “ ’Scuse me, sir.”
The captain turned with an annoyed expression on his face. “Yeah, can I help you?”
Vanderveen set his jaw, narrowed his eyes slightly, and carefully added a generous measure of
hard Southern inflection to his own voice. “Sorry t’ butt in.” Fishing some paperwork out of his
folder, flashing the captain a sincere but unapologetic smile. “I need to get m’ consignment, but
I’ve never used NIT before. Can I bring m’ own truck in here?”
“No, I’m sorry, son,” the man drawled. He paused. “Well, hold on jes’ a sec. Yer gettin’ it l.c.l?”
“Yes, sir, I sure am.”
“Well, now, that’s another story. They might let you bring ’er in.” He pointed to a barrier in the
distance. “Other side a’ that fence, there’s an access road to the l.c.l yard. You jes’ show ’em
your ID and ya bill a’ ladin’ and you’ll be set.”
Vanderveen nodded his thanks. “Well, I ’preciate it, sir. Hey, where can I get me some a that?”
he asked, pointing to the man’s steaming cup.
The captain laughed and spit noisily on the ground. “Hell, you don’t want none a this, son.
Tastes like shit.”
Ten minutes later, Vanderveen was pulling a rented U-Haul cargo van up to the gatehouse
outside the smaller yard reserved for l.c.l shipments, otherwise known as less than container
loads. These, as the name implied, were exports that did not require the use of a whole
container. It was an excellent way for small companies to save money on shipping.
It was a very useful tool for people in certain other lines of work as well.
The gate guard stuck his head out the sliding window when Vanderveen pulled up.
“Help ya?”
“Jes’ here to collect some crates.” Falling straight back into the role. “Got m’ license if ya need
it.”
“Gotta see ya bill of lading, too.”
Vanderveen frowned. “I ain’t got one a them, buddy. Got m’ waybill, though. They tole me that
was good enough.”
“Yeah, that’ll work. Lemme see it.”
When he was satisfied that everything was in order, the guard turned to his computer and pulled
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up the Yard Management System. Then he handed back Vanderveen’s ID and waybill, both of
which identified him as Timothy Nichols. “Okay, sir. Ya already been cleared through Customs.
They got yer crates in Warehouse Three. Can’t have no personal vehicles in the yard, though.”
“Aw, come on now.” He was laying it on thick. “How else am I gonna get m’ stuff out?”
The guard nodded sagely. “I hear ya. They don’ tell people shit around here. Happens all the
time.” A brief hesitation. “Tell ya what. You jes’ go on ahead… I’ll take care of it fer ya.”
Vanderveen allowed a relieved expression to slide over his face. “I ’preciate it, buddy. Jes’ down
here, ya say?”
“That’s it. Two rows down, then take a left. Can’t miss it.”
“Gotcha.” The thin wooden barrier lifted and he drove through, following the guard’s
directions until the warehouse came into view. He pulled up next to the enormous metal
structure and hopped out of the van, ambling into the brightly lit interior of the building.
Almost immediately, he was approached by a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman, wearing
a hard hat and a frown. Looking her over, Vanderveen’s eyes drifted down to the identification
badge pinned to her clean chambray shirt: Bobbie Walker, Warehouse Manager.
“Sir, you can’t be in here without a hard hat. Can I help you?”
She was clearly not a Southerner, but he couldn’t stop now. There was no way of telling how well
she knew the captain and the gate guard. He gave her a rueful grin. “Sorry ’bout that, ma’am.
Man at the gate tole me t’ come on up here and get m’ crates. Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout the hard
hats.”
Her face softened a little bit. “Well, that’s okay.” She took a few steps and snagged one from the
top of a nearby locker. “Put this on, please. Now, you have your documentation on you,
Mr….?”
“Nichols, ma’am, Tim Nichols. I sure do.” He handed her his driver’s license and the waybill.
Her forehead creased as she considered the name, but her mind couldn’t quite make the leap.
They walked across the warehouse floor past heavy piles of aluminum girders and rolls of wood
pulp. She was checking numbers against her list when they stopped in front of a stack of small
wooden crates.
“Here we go: forty crates, seventy-five pounds each. That’s a heavy load.” She looked at him
curiously. “Whatcha got in here, anyway?”
“Jes’ some computer stuff, far as I know.” The lie rolled effortlessly off his tongue. “Can’t really
tell ya, t’ be honest. Company just puts m’ name on there for convenience. I do what I’m told,
Ms. Walker. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”
She laughed, her small blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Everyone works for the man, Mr.
Nichols. That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
Vanderveen was looking around the warehouse. He didn’t spot any watchers, but they didn’t get
the job by being obvious. If they had a line on him, they would make their move in the next few
minutes. “So, Customs already through with me, huh?” He tried to pass it off as a casual
question, but he watched her reaction carefully.
“Yeah, they just do a spot check most of the time.”
“So they didn’t open ’em up, then.” She’ll lie to you. If she lies, kill her. Do you have your knife?
His hand involuntarily drifted back to an object hooked to his belt. Yes, there it is. Use it now.
Now. NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW.
She was shaking her head. So was he, but for very different reasons. “Things have been crazy
around here lately, what with the terror alert and all. We got people from OSHA and Customs
all over the terminal. Cause more problems than they solve, you ask me. They don’t bother too
much with us, though. Spend their time looking at the dry-bulk and open-top containers on Pier
Two. Government don’t got time to be looking through everything that comes out of our little
yard.”
She seemed sincere. He breathed a very soft sigh of relief and nodded along with her. “They’s
troublemakers, all right. Ms. Walker, you think I might pull m’ van in here t’ get this stuff? Only
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take me ’bout twenty minutes, tops.”
She looked reluctant. “I don’t know… It’s against policy.”
Another smile. “Come on now. Think I don’t know a woman in charge when I see her? Hell,
you’re th’ one makin’ the rules around here anyway, right? Anyone gonna break ’em, might as
well be you.”
She blushed very slightly and touched his arm. “You’re a charmer, I’ll give you that. Okay, you
bring it on in. Twenty minutes, though, and that’s it. Fair enough?”
“I’ll be in and out b’fore ya know it.”
She giggled like a teenage girl at his choice of words. “I don’t think so, Mr. Nichols.” Her face
was a deep scarlet now. “In fact, I highly doubt it.”
Twenty-five minutes later Vanderveen rolled out of the gate. A cold can of Coke rested in the
cupholder next to him, a parting gift from the blushing Bobbie Walker. A brief wave to the gate
guard and he was leaving Terminal Boulevard, taking the right turn onto Hampton, a smile on
his face and 3,000 pounds of SEMTEX H in the cargo hold of his rented van.
Eight days to go, he thought. In eight days he would change the world.
David Brenneman watched as a gentle rain drifted over the gardens spread out before him. He
was seated in a simple chair in the Blue Room, sipping steaming coffee from a delicate china
cup. For once he was alone, and he took advantage of the solitude to admire the beauty of his
surroundings.
Brenneman knew that many of his predecessors had grown tired of the mansion’s elaborate
trappings, thinking it more like a museum than a home, but he had become only more fascinated
with the history of the place as time wore on. The Blue Room was his personal favorite by far —
a large, oval space that offered a sweeping view of the South Lawn. The center of the royal blue
carpet was dominated by a marble table purchased by James Monroe in 1817. Hanging above it
was an elaborate French chandelier dating from the early-nineteenth century. When he closed his
eyes, he was pleased to hear only the gentle tap of the rain against the lead-lined windows.
The brief reprieve would have been much more enjoyable, though, if he didn’t have to return to
the situation brewing on his doorstep.
A week earlier, the FBI’s Explosives Unit had finished its analysis of the residue collected at the
Kennedy-Warren blast site. The explosives were identified as SEMTEX H, originating from the
Czech Republic. When these results coincided with the findings of an independent lab, it became
clear that the main charge had been smuggled into the country, which meant that Customs was
first on the firing line.
Of course, there was plenty of blame left over for the man in charge of it all. His approval
ratings had dipped six points in one week, and supposedly there had been quiet talk from the
new Senate Majority Leader about pulling support for the incumbent in the upcoming election
year. Brenneman believed the rumors to be true, and was astounded and angered at the speed
with which his own party had dismissed his chances for reelection.
He was startled from his thoughts by a Secret Service agent standing at one of the entrances to
the room. “Excuse me, Mr. President. Deputy Director Harper is here to see you.”
Brenneman waved a hand absently. “Thanks, Dan. You can send him in. Oh, and could you call
the kitchen and have them send some more coffee over?”
“Of course, sir.”
The agent withdrew, and Brenneman stood as Harper entered the room. “John, good to see you.
How’s Julie?”
“She’s fine, sir. Thank you for asking.” Harper never ceased to be amazed by the man’s
prodigious memory and sheer graciousness, especially considering the pressure he was currently
under.
Brenneman gestured to the seat opposite his own and glanced at his watch. “Take a seat. I’m
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supposed to be at a meeting with Patterson from Treasury, but you’ve got my full attention for
the next twenty minutes.”
“I’ll get right to it, then, sir,” Harper said as he sat in a mahogany chair. “You’re familiar with
the file on Jason March?” He received a brief nod in return. “Then you’ll know that March is not
his actual name. Two of our officers have just returned from Pretoria, where they were able to
discover his true identity.”
The president leaned forward with interest. “And?”
“His name is William Paulin Vanderveen, a South African national, thirty-nine years old.” The
deputy director handed him a briefing folder, which the president immediately opened. The
pictures were the first thing to catch his eye. “The South African authorities believe that he was
responsible for the murder of one Joseph Sobukwe in 1975. Vanderveen was eleven years old
when Sobukwe was killed. Vanderveen’s sister died under unusual circumstances as well, but he
was never officially tied in with that.”
“Jesus Christ.” Brenneman leaned back in his chair and perused the contents of the folder. The
picture began to unfold over the next several minutes: Francis Vanderveen, a South African
general even more ruthless than the policies he enforced; William, the general’s brilliant,
misguided son, wholly devoted to his father; a broken promise of American money and
support; a fiery helicopter crash on a warm December morning. The president was absorbed as
a Filipino steward glided into the room and poured coffee from a silver carafe. The room was
silent until the man was gone and the door closed behind him.
“So this man, William Vanderveen. He blames us for what happened to his family, is that right?”
“That would appear to be the case, sir. We found evidence in South Africa — letters — that
suggest William Vanderveen knew plenty about the general’s antipathy toward us in the last days
of the Angolan campaign. Then you have his sister’s death and his mother’s subsequent
suicide… It doesn’t take a great stretch of imagination to see how this might have played out.”
“And we trained him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus Christ.” The president leaned back in his chair and closed the folder. “So what are we
dealing with here, John? How can we use this information?”
“Sir, to be perfectly honest, this kind of information is useful for shoring up a case against him
when he’s caught, and that’s about it. There’s a reason the Department of Transportation keeps
coming up empty on the airport surveillance tapes. Vanderveen probably has at least two
airtight identities, everything from driver’s licenses down to birth certificates. That’s the only
way to explain his ease of movement in and out of the country.”
The president nodded slowly as he lifted his cup. “I’m sure you’ve heard that some of my
advisors are pushing me to reconsider the military option. They think Tehran’s involvement is
clear enough to justify air strikes.”
Harper lifted his open hands. “Sir, we know who is directly responsible for these attacks, and we
