“No,” Vanderveen said. He shook his head and reached under his coat, withdrawing a single sheet of paper. “This is why.”
Nazeri accepted the document. He was confused at first, but he read it quickly, and when he was done, his eyes seemed clearer, sharper, and his body was unnaturally still. “Is this true?”
“Amir, I’ve never lied to you. I made it clear from the start that I had my own agenda, but I gave you the opportunity to take part because I knew your cousin, and I knew what she was trying to do. She was gunned down in Washington when she could have been taken alive, and her death was covered up so the government could save face.”
Vanderveen paused and waited until their eyes met. “The director of the FBI is here, my friend. Here in New York, at the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square. He came to oversee security for the meeting at the UN, and in doing so, he’s given you the opportunity of a lifetime. Raseen has already verified his location. He’s there as we speak.” Along with thirty-five members of the UIA, Vanderveen thought.
Nazeri looked at Foster, who was obviously unaware of what they were talking about. “Does he know about this?”
“Yes,” Vanderveen replied. It was true; Foster had forged the memorandum himself. “But he can’t tell you anything I haven’t already, and we don’t have time to discuss this further. The man ultimately responsible for your cousin’s murder is within arm’s reach. Now, are you prepared to take the final step, or have you changed your mind?”
Nazeri looked at the paper in his hand, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. It was a strange gesture, and Vanderveen wasn’t sure what to make of it. He waited, and in time Nazeri seemed to come back to himself.
“No, I haven’t changed my mind.”
Vanderveen nodded slowly. Leaving this responsibility in Nazeri’s hands was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew it had to happen this way. In theory, he could have used a regular time fuse and set off the device himself, but Nazeri had wanted the responsibility, and Vanderveen had needed his preferred status with customs to get the daisy cutter inside the country to begin with. If he had denied the Iranian the chance to carry out the act itself, Nazeri might not have assisted him at all. Still, the other man’s firm expression — as well as Raseen’s earlier words — worked to alleviate most of Vanderveen’s lingering concerns.
“Then go. And good luck, my friend. This is the last time we will meet.”
Nazeri nodded and moved to the cab. As he climbed up and shut the door, Vanderveen started toward the chain that raised and lowered the roll-down vehicular door. With one hand on the chain, he glanced at his watch and turned to Foster. “Go and take care of the woman. Kealey will be here in a few minutes.”
The FBI agent nodded and started back toward the warehouse. As the door cleared the top of the truck, the Isuzu rolled out onto West Thirty-seventh, then turned right, the transmission whining as Nazeri shifted gears, the engine struggling with the weight in the box. Vanderveen lowered the door and looked back as Foster disappeared from view. He hesitated, then turned and walked quickly to the pedestrian gate. As he unlocked it and stepped into the street, he thought he heard Foster shouting something from inside the warehouse, but he ignored it and shut the gate behind him. He thought about locking it, but decided against it.
Directly across the street was a small parking lot. Vehicles in long-term storage were stacked on metal racks, while others were arranged in tight, neat lines on the cement. One of those cars was a red Mercury Sable. Aware of horns blasting to his left, Vanderveen turned to see what was happening. A car was approaching rapidly from the east. He turned to his right and saw that the Isuzu had already vanished into traffic. Nazeri would reach his target in a matter of minutes.
He crossed to the south side of the street, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. When he reached the Sable, he unlocked the door quickly and slipped into the driver’s seat. The car was Nazeri’s personal vehicle. He was barely inside when a silver Accord squealed to a halt in front of the warehouse, and two people got out. He didn’t know the woman, but he would have recognized Ryan Kealey any-where. As he watched through the windshield, they approached the pedestrian gate with their weapons out, checked it, and found it unlocked. Then they passed through.
As Naomi slipped into the office, her eyes were drawn first to the phone on the desk. She started toward it, aware of someone shouting in the warehouse. She realized it was Foster; she could hear him calling to Vanderveen, screaming that she had escaped. She looked around wildly, forgetting the phone. It wouldn’t take him more than a few seconds to figure out where she had gone, and when he did, he would throw open the door and kill her. She had no choice but to act first.
She went to the desk and started pulling open drawers as fast as she could, spilling the drawers and their contents onto the floor. As the third crashed to the ground, she looked down and found what she needed: a Smith amp; Wesson Model 60 revolver. She didn’t believe it at first; it seemed too good to be true, an impossible stroke of luck, but she snatched it up without hesitation. There wasn’t time to see if it was loaded. She only had time to do two things: draw back the hammer and level the weapon in outstretched arms. Then the office door flew open, and Foster appeared before her. His eyes went wide at the sight of the gun. He started to bring his own to bear, but Naomi was faster.
The first time, she barely had to touch the trigger. Foster jerked as the. 38+P round tore into his chest, but he still managed to get off a shot as Naomi squeezed the trigger again. Foster’s single round burned past her ear, slamming into the brick wall behind her head. At the same time, her second round drilled into the right side of his chest. Amazingly, he managed to level the gun again, his face twisted in fury and pain.
Naomi closed her eyes, held her breath, and pulled the trigger until all she heard was the sound of the hammer falling on empty chambers.
Before the car came to a complete halt on West Thirty-seventh, Kealey was already pushing open his door, but Crane beat him to it. She approached the pedestrian gate, gun out, muzzle down, as Kealey came round the front of the car. He could smell burning rubber from the tires as Crane tried the gate and found it unlocked. She looked at him, nodded once, and pushed through. He followed instantly, less than 2 feet behind her.
The parking area was empty, except for some pallets stacked in the corner and a blue Crown Vic. “That’s from the motor pool at the FO,” Crane said in a low voice. “He’s here.”
“But no truck,” Kealey pointed out. He felt suddenly numb; they were too late.
As Crane approached the warehouse, he moved to the car, looking through the windows. On the passenger- side floor he saw something that chilled his blood: Naomi’s purse. She had to be inside the building.
Involuntarily, his eyes moved to the glass doors of the warehouse, which were still propped open. He knew that as soon as he walked through those doors, there was a good chance he would find her body and nothing more. He found himself frozen, unwilling to take the next step, but then he heard a scream — a woman’s scream — followed immediately by shots. Crane, 10 feet from the door of the warehouse, seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then she dashed forward. At the same time, four more shots echoed within the building. Kealey sprinted forward, trying to catch up, shouting for Crane to wait, but she ignored him. She reached the doors and ran through, her 10mm up in a two-handed stance. Kealey heard two more shots as he covered the last 20 feet, heart pounding. He had no idea what he was heading into; all he knew was that he had to get through those doors.
As Foster slumped to the ground, Naomi found herself reaching down to grab his weapon. The revolver was empty, useless, and only one of the three men was down. Her head was buzzing with fear and adrenaline. She couldn’t seem to hear anything, and her vision was blurred. Looking down, she could see that the FBI agent wasn’t quite dead, but it wouldn’t be long. His eyes were still moving, his mouth open, stains spreading wet on his chest. She could hear a strange rattling noise as he tried to breathe through the fluid collecting in his throat. It was the first time she had ever killed another human being, but even as that thought hit her, along with a storm of emotions, a noise cut through the shock. She heard a man shouting, the words indistinct, and knew at once that it had to be Vanderveen.
Her eyes shot up, along with Foster’s gun, but Vanderveen didn’t come running into the warehouse. Instead, it was a woman — blond hair, black sweater, gun in hand. Her features were instantly recognizable; Naomi had never seen Samantha Crane in person, but she’d seen a number of photographs, and she knew who this was.
Suddenly, everything Ryan had said about Crane came back in a hot, fierce rush: It had to be her. No one else knew about Berlin. No one else knew…
Crane’s weapon was up and traversing the room. Suddenly, it was swinging right toward the office.
Right toward her.
