wrapped around him in the soft straw of the barn, she had spoken with undisguised contempt of
her husband. He had recognized a need in her, a need that would not be satisfied at home.
If he could satisfy that need, as he had done once before, then the woman was a threat to his
freedom and his life.
Vanderveen pushed those thoughts aside. It was done, and he could not change it. If it was a
weakness, to need a woman, then it was a weakness he thought he could live with.
The copper wire turned in his hands. Back to the task at hand, he ran through the schematics in
his mind. It would begin at the power source, running from the battery to the terminals on the
switch. The battery would not be hooked up until the last minute, though. He still had to
determine how long the circuit could remain closed before the battery was drained of power and
unable to provide the requisite 12 volts. That would come later.
Page 113
From the switch, the two-cable copper wire would run out to the exposed circuitry of one of the
cell phones, and then on to the number 6 blasting caps.
For the moment, the copper wire hung limp over the side of the wooden table.
Vanderveen surveyed his equipment with satisfaction. The crates that had been retrieved from
the Norfolk Terminals were well hidden beneath the straw in the barn, but the inquisitive mind
of the realtor was always in his thoughts, as was the scheming mind of his former commanding
officer.
Kealey… Vanderveen did not often think of him. He had discovered, through a discreet inquiry,
that the man had been present at the Kennedy-Warren just before it blew. How much more
convenient it would have been if Kealey had died in the explosion, he mused. Vanderveen did
not think it likely that his old friend posed a serious threat to his plans.
All the same, he knew that the problem of his former commander’s involvement would have to
be addressed. His work could not be compromised because his work, at any given moment, had
the unlimited potential to instill fear, to feed the paranoia that was spreading like a plague
throughout the American public.
When the towers crumbled on 9/11, it was as if he had been reborn. The weeks after the attacks
had seen blame thrown toward every corner of the globe, but it was bin Laden and his
organization that received the brunt of it. And when it was narrowed down, when it was a
certainty, only then had Vanderveen sought to expand his own horizons.
At the time of greatest danger, when new volunteers were considered with the greatest unease,
Vanderveen had slipped effortlessly into the organization, because the hatred that he felt toward
his adopted country could not be feigned, and the hatred was not satiated by the death of three
thousand Americans.
Ever so gently, he touched the grounded tip of the soldering iron to the mechanical joint on the
single-pole switch. In its final state, the two-wire annunciator cable would form a parallel circuit.
It would be necessary to check the current moving over each detonator, because he knew that a
single cap would require between 2 and 10 amperes to function correctly. The voltage would not
be a concern, as that was the only common parameter in the circuit he had devised. He had
decided on four detonators; only one cap was actually required, but he would not risk the chance
of a misfire.
He worked into the early-morning hours, his hands moving steadily, the device taking shape. Six
months ago, it was a dream. Four months ago, the glimmer of an idea. Two months, a working
plan. Now it was a certainty. The wire was warm beneath his fingers, running in its
predetermined path until Vanderveen decided otherwise. It was his creation, and he had little
doubt that it would function as intended. Still, there were days to go, and no limit to what might
go wrong.
North was the first to leave the parking lot, his mud-spattered 4Runner bouncing out onto Mill
Road, followed soon thereafter by a spirited squeal of rubber as he took the sharp right turn
onto Eisenhower Avenue. Ryan turned the key in the ignition as soon as Naomi clambered into
the passenger seat. Then they were pulling out of the lot in another squeal of tires, Ryan making
full use of the car’s six gears as the engine roared in approval. First he headed south, navigating
his way down Huntington until it merged with Route 1. Then he pushed the vehicle back up to
the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway, which he followed for several miles as he threaded his
way back into Washington.
“What the hell was that all about, Ryan?” She was turned in her seat to face him, the anger
glowing in her eyes and cheeks.
“We needed results, Naomi. The way you had it planned wasn’t going to work—”
“How would you know that?” she asked, her voice rising again. “You didn’t give my way a
chance, did you?”
“He gave it to me, Naomi. Elgin gave me the name. He took the waybill from the terminal
Page 114
because he wanted something to deal with later, just in case. He didn’t know at the time how big
this was going to get. The name was insurance, that’s it.”
“How did you get him to tell you?”
“That’s not important. The second person on that missing waybill was George Saraf. Judging by
the surname, I think you’ll find it’s another identity for Michael Shakib. Not as good as a direct
line to Vanderveen, but it’s still something.”
“How did you get the name, Ryan?”
A light drizzle had returned to the city, the gentle touch of a storm system that was lingering
over central Virginia. There were very few other cars on the highway, and he was glad of the
open road as the distinctive white markers of Arlington National Cemetery flashed by in the
dark.
Ryan turned to look at her, knowing that she wouldn’t stop until he said the words. She would
know soon enough anyway. “I beat it out of him, Naomi.”
Her eyes widened, perhaps a millimeter or two, but she did not respond. It was what she had
expected to hear.
A lengthy silence ensued. She settled back in her seat, glad of the truth, thinking that the
explanation was over. She was startled when he continued speaking, almost as though he hadn’t
stopped in the first place.
“But he still wouldn’t talk, you know? When it’s a piece of shit like Elgin, you think it’ll be easy,
but sometimes they surprise you. Sometimes they surprise themselves…” Ryan told himself to
let it go, to spare her the details, but the words kept coming, seemingly of their own accord. “I
only had a few minutes, Naomi. We were at a standstill. You know it, and I know it. I have piles
of paper at Langley, you have even more, but sitting behind a desk isn’t going to get us any
closer to Vanderveen.”
There was an edge to his voice. She turned to stare out the window, but he wasn’t done. His left
hand dug down between his back and the warm leather seat. She didn’t see what he was doing
until the knife was extended at arm’s length, handle first. “You wanted to know, right? You
asked the question… This is how, Naomi. This is how I got him to talk.”
She recoiled at first from the proffered weapon, but a strange curiosity took over as she watched
her own hand reach out to accept it. She could see that Ryan had dismantled the wooden grip,
presumably because the rivets would have set off the metal detectors inside the building. To
make it a usable weapon, he had wrapped electrical tape around the exposed handle. The slick
black surface was still shiny and damp with sweat.
Turning it over in her hand, the light from the streetlamps caught and illuminated the blade.
She saw a streak of red on her palm.
The knife fell out of her hand and away from her body, the light weapon bouncing once before
coming to rest on the floorboard at her feet.
“I had to convince him, Naomi. I had to show him I was serious. It was the only way. Naomi?”
“Take me home, Ryan.” The words were small and pitiful. She felt small and pitiful. The blood
was sticky and wet on her hand, and she was looking around desperately, but there was nothing
in reach with which to remove it.
He couldn’t see her hand, or her face in the shadows. He hesitated, unsure of her reaction. “I
need you to follow up on this. I’ll probably be out of the loop when Harper—”
“I know.” The words were almost inaudible. She was kicking at the weapon with her heel,
pushing it back under the seat and out of her sight. “Just take me home.”
She lived on a crowded row of town houses on M Street, uninspiring structures with crumbling
brick facades and weathered Georgian detail. When the heavy sedan glided up to the curb, she
pushed the door open quickly without saying a word. Ryan watched her run through the gentle
mist of rain and disappear into the house as a number of emotions fought for room on his face.
Ryan believed that he had shown her something new, and he was not proud of it. It might make
Page 115
her stronger, smarter in the end, but there was a price to be paid for the experience: despite
what she knew of his past, she would never again look at him in the same way. Knowing that he
was now less in her eyes irritated him, rubbed at his emotions like sandpaper on sunburnt skin,
and he wondered why that should be when they had known each other for less than a month.
The anger was a slow burn as he turned the BMW back into the heart of the city. He picked up
the cell phone lying on the passenger seat and tapped out a number from memory. Katie
answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” For some reason, they did not often use their cell phones to keep in touch. He was not
surprised that she didn’t recognize his number.
“Katie, it’s Ryan.”
“Hey! God, I’ve been so worried! When are you coming back? I’m starving, so I thought we
might—”
“Listen, I need you to get your stuff together and check out of the hotel right now.” The urgency
in his voice was hard to miss, but she asked it anyway.
“Why? I have to—”
“Don’t ask questions, Katie! I’ll tell you later. Just get your stuff and go, okay? It’s important.”
There was a long silence. When she finally spoke again, the words carried a toneless resignation.
“Where will you meet me?”
“I can’t stop in front of the hotel. Turn left out of the front doors and walk three blocks. Only
take what you can carry. I’ll replace whatever you leave behind.”
“I don’t want you to replace my things, Ryan. I want you to tell me what’s going on. I’ve been
waiting here all day, and now you just—”
“I’ll explain it to you later, I promise. Fifteen minutes, okay?”
He absently snapped the phone shut without waiting for her response, and then cursed under his
breath when he realized that he had hung up on her.
Ryan didn’t know how bad it would get. The room at the Hay-Adams was reserved under his
name, and he knew that once the story got out, reporters would be cold-calling the local hotels
to get a sound bite and video for the morning news. He didn’t want his name in print or his face
on television, and he didn’t want Katie to suffer those indignities either. Refuge might still be
found at Langley, but he wasn’t yet ready to face Harper or the man’s recriminations. Kealey
needed time to frame his words, time to shape an adequate explanation as to why he had nearly
killed a prisoner in Federal custody.
The prize was a name, but it was not a guarantee. In this case, he didn’t think the prize would be
enough to salvage his short-lived career at the Central Intelligence Agency.
That was fine by Ryan; he had made a promise to Katie, and he intended to keep it.
Through the thin veil of rain, the glittering facade of the Hay-Adams appeared in the distance.
He hoped that she had managed to find a raincoat in the small store in the lobby, but knew that
it wouldn’t do him any good either way. Whether she reached the car dry or drenched with rain,
he was almost certainly in for another argument.
Without thinking about it, he took the knife out from under the passenger seat and slid it under
the floormat beneath his own feet. Naomi Kharmai, as prepared for it as anyone could be, had
been exposed to violent death twice in the last month. In the case of Stephen Gray, the death had
been one of necessity. Some might have said, and he thought a case could be made, that it was
actually one step behind outright murder. If it was murder, though, then it was understandable,
even justifiable. What could not be rationalized was the random, senseless death she had been
forced to confront in the broken remains of the Kennedy-Warren.
Ryan could do nothing for her now; she had touched the cold, sharp edge of reality and would
sink or swim in her own time. He thought he recognized in her the strength to set it aside, to
push it away and carry on with the task at hand.
If he could have kept it away from her altogether, he would have done so gladly.
It was his strongest desire that Katie should never have to endure the same. It was the reason he
Page 116
wanted her out of the hotel, and it was the reason he pushed the knife under the mat. If he was
hard on her, if he told when he should ask, it was done out of fear that she might one day be
forced to carry the same burden, year in, year out, until it crushed her spirit and her life with its
weight.
Just as he would give anything to have her close, he would give anything to protect her
innocence.
He would never have expressed these thoughts to her; it wasn’t in his nature and the words
would have come out awkward, clumsy, and wrong.
He hoped she knew it, though. He hoped she felt it. To Ryan, only one thing took precedence,
and soon, Katie would be everything, the only thing. When that day came, he knew that he
would finally be able to put the past to rest.
CHAPTER 26
WASHINGTON, D.C. ? LANGLEY
A day trip to Washington, to look at the route and consider the options.
It was a fine day for the journey. Away from the clouds that hung over central Virginia, away
from the monotonous calculations and mind-numbing work with the soldering iron. He took his
most recent acquisition, a four-year-old Honda motorcycle, a VT1100 Shadow, all chrome and
glistening metallic paint. He preferred not to use the van until it was absolutely necessary. Had
he driven it into the heart of the city and been stopped for a traffic violation, the vehicle would
have become useless to him.
He pushed the bike north on I-95, turning onto Exit 170 before racing through the western edge
