said in the lounge, she had no choice: she would have to file a motion for withdrawal. As she
walked, she found her anger at this new development focused on the agent who had brought her
the news. What a waste of time, she thought. That guy pulls me away to offer something that he
can’t possibly have the authority to deliver, and then —
The realization hit her with the force of a sledgehammer: It was a sham. That guy couldn’t have
been more than thirty, and he clearly had no legal training whatsoever. Why would they send
someone to deliver a phony offer, though? There was nothing to gain from it, unless…
She realized with a start that the guard was no longer stationed outside the interrogation room.
In fact, she couldn’t see anyone in the hall, though she could hear a distant conversation to her
rear. She began to run, the heavy briefcase banging against her leg, 100 feet away and closing.
The deputies trailing her called out in surprise at the sudden movement.
Ignoring them, she reached the door and burst into the room, looking down into her client’s
panicked eyes.
Down until she saw that the blood followed the cracks in the tile beneath her feet.
She stumbled back and screamed in fear and shock, and then in rage as the deputies rushed
toward the room.
Ryan turned the corner toward the exit, cursing inwardly when he saw what awaited him. Naomi
Kharmai was arguing in loud tones with Adam North, who was sliding his pistol back into its
holster after receiving it in exchange for his pass.
Naomi saw him and turned her fury away from the DEA agent. “What the hell are you doing
here, Ryan? I was supposed to be part of this, remember? This is bullshit! Just you wait until the
deputy director finds out…”
She went on and on as Ryan flashed his identification and slapped his pass down on the counter.
The deputy who scooped it up was wearing a wide smile, clearly amused by the scene Naomi
was making.
Ryan was less enthralled. Seconds from now he knew there would be a sharp crackle of static,
followed by an urgent radio transmission. This would result in a second call to the watch
commander, who would quickly determine what had transpired.
The door to the parking lot was less than 15 feet away.
“You have to stop, Naomi. Okay?” Ryan grabbed her outstretched wrist and pulled her close,
whispering harsh words into her ear. “We need to get out of here right now.”
She pulled away, but her face was still only inches from his. She fell silent as he guided her
toward the exit. North was already stepping out into the freezing air. He held the door open as
they followed him over the threshold.
Ryan was paying attention to everything while he held the door open, Naomi’s hand warm in his
own, sounds assaulting him from every direction: a distant conversation in the street, a car horn
sounded by an angry motorist. The scrape of their shoes as the tile gave way to damp asphalt,
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and the crackle of the deputy’s radio as the door eased shut behind them.
CHAPTER 25
WASHINGTON, D.C. ? HANOVER COUNTY, VIRGINIA
The apartment was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a desirable place to live. The space
was cramped and sparsely furnished. Tattered white curtains hung over the grimy windows. The
counter, when cleared of half-eaten takeout, which was not often, was irreparably stained. The
place stank of stale cigarettes and sweat, a smell that had been with her for the past six months.
She guessed that most of it drifted up from the rooms below, and the rest emanated from her
minder. Now, seated in a worn leather recliner, she could hear him as he moved around in the
adjoining room.
Fatima Darabi leaned back in the seat, her dark brown eyes intensely focused on the flickering
television in front of her. A cell phone rested on the end table next to her, as did a 9mm
Makarov pistol. Both the phone and the gun were never more than a few feet away from her
body. Her left hand was propped up beneath her chin. She watched…
It was amazing to Darabi that they would repeatedly show the atrocity on national television. She
was even more surprised by the fact that the government allowed it. The collapse of the
Kennedy-Warren was by no means a pleasant thing to see, even for someone who hated America
as much as she did. Nevertheless, she knew that the footage had come at considerable expense
to the networks, and had long ago learned that everything in this country was defined by its
monetary value.
It was at times like this that she relished her role. Here she was, in the heart of the nation, with
intricate knowledge of the man who had squeezed the trigger at the Kennedy-Warren, and yet
the Americans knew nothing of her existence. To have such a privilege…!
The rage that drove her did not begin as her own, but it had been bred in her from the start.
When the U.S. Navy cruiser Vincennes shot down Iran Air Flight 655 over the Atlantic in July
1988, the admirals in the Pentagon had called it an accident, pleaded their innocence even as
U.S. munitions continued to pour into Baghdad. Her brother had been on that flight, returning
to American University in Dubai after two weeks at home.
In the years preceding her brother’s death, her parents had been peaceful people, warm and
caring. They had the capacity to hate, though, and when they discovered the same quality in their
daughter, they nurtured it as carefully as they nurtured her body and her mind…
Fatima was pleased by her current assignment. She had been briefed on few specific points, but
she was astute, and knew that the money she had dispersed through more than fifty foreign
accounts was going to someone important. The name itself could tell her nothing, as it was
obviously not his own. The man’s voice told her little more; it was not difficult to detect the
French lilt on the other end of the line, but she suspected the accent was affected for her benefit.
She was not trained in such matters, but it did not matter. It would not pay to delve too deeply.
She had received her instructions from the minister himself, a fact that she was quietly proud of.
She would not live forever in this hole. Soon, she would be brought back to Tehran to assume
her rightful place at Mazaheri’s side.
But for now, she was waiting for the next call. When it came, it would be a few clipped
sentences, most likely a murmured request for additional funds. The man wasted no time in
conversation. It was a character trait that Darabi appreciated.
She stirred in her seat. The cell phone was ringing…
The day wore on like it was never going to end, but the long hours in the office were not the
source of her mood. They only compounded the problem.
Nicole Milbery pulled her eyes away from the telephone and tried to concentrate on the seller’s
agreement she was filling out on her computer. She was trying to understand why he hadn’t
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called. She thought that the two hours they had spent in the barn had been incredible, definitely
worthy of a follow-up performance, but it was becoming apparent that her most recent client
didn’t feel the same way.
She felt cheated and humiliated, emotions made worse by the fact that she still wanted him,
wanted him to call, wanted again what they had experienced only a few short days ago.
It was not her way to be patient, to let things fall into place. If he doesn’t call by tomorrow, she
decided with finality, he’s going to regret it. No one treats me like this.
She realized she was staring at the phone again. She tried hard to ignore the little pinpricks
behind her eyes and went back to angrily punching at the keyboard that rested on her desk.
Frank Watters watched with thinly veiled interest as the sole customer moved through the rows
of household appliances and electronic gadgets. The man who moved without pause past heavy
refrigerators and elaborate stereo systems did not fit in amongst his regulars. At the same time,
he wore clothes unmarked by the dirt of a building site, unstained by the remnants of a hurried
lunch eaten from the tailgate of a truck.
Watters, the elderly owner, was pleased by his own observations, and did not hesitate in making
them; there was very little else to do on a quiet Thursday afternoon.
Located just south of Ashland in Hanover County, Watters’s Electrical Supply was a haven for
housewives and electricians from three counties in any direction. His business was not hurting
for customers, but the store was busy in the early morning hours alone, when his regulars came
in to purchase what would be needed for the day’s work.
The sole customer had been in the store for almost twenty minutes, absently fiddling with the
big-screen televisions, when he finally brought his list to Watters. As the paper was pushed over
the counter, the old man noted with a small twinge of satisfaction that his earlier observations
had been correct. The tanned knuckles were missing the scrapes and scars that were particular to
an electrician or an independent contractor. The fingers were long and slim, but still retained
some appearance of masculinity, as did the man’s broad shoulders. Watters, with his insatiable
curiosity, thought the hands more appropriate to a writer, or a pianist, perhaps…
The customer knew what he wanted, though, and any lingering doubts that Watters might have
had concerning the man’s expertise were soon dispersed. The order was not unusual, and so the
old man was easily able to fill it from his stock: Number 18 AWG copper wire on a 50-foot roll,
a single-pole toggle switch with two exposed terminals, wire cutters of good quality, several
screwdrivers of various sizes, and electrical tape.
Watters gratefully accepted cash for this small purchase. He had no way of knowing that his only
customer of the afternoon would later visit two other supply stores to complete his
requirements, nor could he know for what purpose these materials were intended. Any
suspicions he might have had were dampened by the man’s polite manner and the easy smile that
was offered as the customer pushed open the door and stepped outside.
In the true heart of the state, far from the bustling cities of Richmond and Norfolk, beyond the
comfortable rurality of the Blue Ridge Parkway and the scenic views offered by winding ribbons
of road, lies the heavily forested land of rolling hills that remains largely untouched by the time
and wallets of transient tourists.
At night, the air is pierced only by the gentle songs of birds and crickets, or the rushing wind as
it follows the jet stream and pushes northeast through the uppermost branches of leafless trees.
For November, Virginia is experiencing a certain anomaly. The state has earned a dubious
honor by surpassing the prior record for most days with measurable precipitation in any month
of the year. It has rained for eighteen days and nineteen nights, and Will Vanderveen, as he sits
hard at work in the steeped shelter of the barn behind his modest home, is beginning to
understand how Noah must have felt.
When he thinks of the ark lifting in the great flood, he is buoyed as well, but not by the prospect
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of salvation.
The interior of the barn has undergone no grand revisions in the short time that he has occupied
it; in fact, it remains largely the same. There are only a few noticeable differences: A large swath
of broken straw has been cleared from the cement, pushed to the sides to make room for the
white Ford Econoline van that now dominates the open space. Against the far wall, on the
opposite side from the sliding door, a large wooden table has been erected. A myriad of tools
and materials can be found on the rough surface, patiently awaiting his ministrations.
In addition to the materials purchased at Watters’s Electrical Supply, Vanderveen has managed
to find a portable workstation with a lamp and optical magnification, which will be crucial for
the more delicate parts of the job. The workstation sits on top of the table next to a soldering
gun, rated at 20 watts, accompanied by two ounces of Antex solid wire flux.
Beside the soldering iron rests a digital ammeter and 30 feet of pliable conduit. All of this
equipment combined would be useless without the pair of Verizon cell phones that Vanderveen
has purchased on the outskirts of Richmond, along with three months of nationwide service. He
will not need more than a few weeks from the phones, but to deviate from the plan is to attract
notice, to attract attention…
Sitting in his hard wooden chair, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the roof overhead,
Vanderveen’s mind is far away as his hands move with speed and confidence. Far from the
intricacies of solder joints, far from the strained relationships between voltage, current, and
resistance through a circuit.
He is troubled by the fact that the money was not routed directly to him. They could have easily
routed it through the Caymans instead of their own intermediary. It would have cut out a great
deal of unnecessary risk, although the woman has done well so far in making the funds readily
accessible.
For the most part, though, his mind is occupied by the other woman, the realtor.
On reflection, he can concede that it was a mistake. Deep inside, a small voice tells him that he is
making a great many mistakes these days. A sweaty afternoon spent in the straw of the barn was
not worth even the slightest chance of detection. By giving her what she wanted, by easing the
quiet desperation, he had granted her access. Access to him, and access to what he is doing.
Now, it was not inconceivable that she might choose to stop by unannounced.
He was grateful for the lock on the sliding door. At the same time, he recognized that it was a
temporary impediment.
He thought that he was weak because, before Washington and Mashhad, he had spent two weeks
with Sadr’s advisors in Najaf, and before that, seventeen weeks in the fear-drenched killing
grounds of Ramallah. If he had been trusted in those places, he would have been given a woman.
As it was, he was tolerated but not accepted. He was only recognized later, when he was gone,
when he was no longer a danger to the respective organizations.
After all that time, five months of forced abstinence, the night with the realtor was like salve on
an open wound.
And now it was a serious threat to his freedom and his life. Afterward, with her naked form
