didn’t know the people he was dealing with, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage. They passed through an open door, the sounds of the busy shop fading as they climbed yet another staircase, emerging on the third floor.
“Close the door,” Raseen commanded. He obliged as she walked over to shut the sole window, blocking out the steady rumble of afternoon traffic on the rue Tronchet. She turned and crossed to an intricately carved armoire. Opening the heavy oak door, she ducked down and leaned into the cavernous opening, her body disappearing from the waist up.
As she gathered her materials, Vanderveen looked around. It was set up as a loft-style apartment, a chipped Formica table occupying the center, cabinets and a sink against the west wall, a white wooden door leading into a tiny bathroom. The bed was away from the window, tucked against the back of the armoire. Stepping into the kitchen, he ran his hand over the counter, leaving marks in the dust. He opened the fridge and saw that it contained only the necessities. It was clear that the room was used infrequently, which was a good thing. Different faces tramping through every week would be more likely to raise suspicion than a new face every few months.
Raseen emerged from the stand-alone closet, easing the door shut with her foot, a stack of papers and photographs in her hands. She placed the pile on the table and gestured toward a chair.
“Take a seat, Mr. Vanderveen, please. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”
He looked at her for a very long moment. With the use of his name, she was making it clear that al-Tikriti had passed information in both directions. More importantly, though, the discomfort she’d shown in the car had vanished without a trace. She met his even gaze without a hint of anxiety. He was oddly pleased; her new behavior meshed with what he’d been told, but he sensed something more, something that appealed to him on many levels: her true nature. Vanderveen guessed that she was much more capable — and dangerous — than her masters knew.
“If we’re going to work together,” he said, “we’ll have to get past the formalities.” He smiled at her, wondering just how much she really knew. “Call me Will.”
She gazed back at him, intractable, unshakable. She didn’t return the smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched, and her eyes flickered with amusement. She knew; he could read it in her little gestures. She knew exactly what he was, and it didn’t bother her in the least.
“Very well,” she said, acknowledging his offer. “Now please, sit down. We have little time, Will, and there is much to do.”
They worked for two hours straight. Raseen had taken meticulous notes, but didn’t seem to need them. She relayed the information in a low but confident voice, everything from the target’s personal habits to his schedule and security measures. From his discussion with al-Tikriti in Tartus, Vanderveen knew the information had come from a highly placed source in the Iraqi legislature.
She also told him about the men who would carry out the actual assassination. It was Vanderveen’s greatest concern, so he listened intently as she skimmed over their backgrounds. They had the requisite nationalities and a shared history of violence, but their operational experience was all but nonexistent, limited to a few shootings and the bombing of a Shiite mosque in Basra. According to Raseen, they were part of the swell of foreign insurgents that had crossed the border into Iraq shortly after the fall of the regime. They had cut their teeth taking potshots at American soldiers on the streets of Kirkuk; for some inexplicable reason, they assumed this gave them the necessary skills to move into freelance work.
“Where did you find them?”
“Argenteuil. I had many to choose from. Unfortunately, few were qualified.”
Vanderveen nodded, not in the least surprised. Argenteuil, a crumbling housing estate located south of the city, was a hotbed of antigovernment sentiment. The vast majority of the suburb’s residents were impoverished Muslims, and as such, they harbored considerable disdain for French authority, a near-tangible hostility that extended to the security forces. For Iranians who’d entered the country illegally, Argenteuil would be the perfect place to seek shelter.
“I assume they agreed to your plan,” he said.
Raseen nodded abruptly. “Obviously, they didn’t have access to my information, so they were forced to let me pick the time and place. It did not matter to them; money was their only concern, and they’ve been well paid. I supplied the weapons as well. The fourth stop on the schedule offers the best line of sight, which is why I selected it. I hope you agree.”
He nodded once. The assassination would take place on the Right Bank, a short distance from the Champs- Elysees, just outside Le Meridien Etoile. In twelve hours time, the hotel was scheduled to begin hosting a two-day economic development conference, sponsored by the International Chamber of Commerce. Some of the world’s most prominent economists would be in attendance, as would a number of foreign business leaders and politicians. Representing Iraq’s National Assembly was Dr. Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, a prominent Sunni politician and a man who was respected on both sides of the Sunni-Shia divide. His efforts to unify the Iraqi government had not gone unnoticed by the U.S. president. Unfortunately for the London-trained physician, his work had not gone unnoticed by Izzat al-Douri, either.
“What time is he scheduled to leave the conference?” Vanderveen asked.
“Seven o’clock in the evening. He has a meeting right after that at the Palais des Congres, which is directly across the street. It works very well for us. Based on my surveillance, traffic will be heavy enough at that time to slow the police response, but not so heavy as to prevent our escape. The second vehicle will be parked three minutes away. I’ve driven the route a number of times, and that’s the average: three minutes.”
“Tell me about the location of the second vehicle.”
“It will be parked in an underground garage on the rue Guersant. It’s used primarily by the staff of a financial group across the street. They arrive early and leave late, so with any luck, the garage will be empty when we arrive. More importantly, there are no cameras. The woman from the cafe will leave the second vehicle by herself.”
Vanderveen shifted uneasily; it was yet another complication. “I assume you trust her.”
“With my life,” Raseen replied evenly. “She has served us well. I only hope she will not be implicated when it’s over.”
Vanderveen shook his head absently, thinking it through. What he had to accomplish the next day was the only thing on his mind; the safety of the woman downstairs was the very least of his concerns.
He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly. “Grab your keys.”
Raseen looked up from her notes. “Why?”
“I want to look at the hotel and get a feel for the area. I also want you to show me where the backup car will be parked.” He glanced at his watch. “Then we’re going to take a drive.”
A small, unreadable furrow appeared between her eyes. “Where are we going?”
His gaze moved to the black plastic case at the foot of the bed. “We’re going hiking.”
CHAPTER 18
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The trip from Harper’s home on Q Street to the hotel passed relatively quickly, for which Kealey was grateful. He had considered stopping in for a drink or two, and he knew that he would have been more than welcome. Julie Harper was, after all, as much a friend to him as Jonathan was, but he knew where the conversation would lead, and he was too tired — both emotionally and physically — to deal with the past. After an exhausting ten-hour flight and the raid on Duke Street, he wanted nothing more than to get some sleep.
The driver dropped him at 15th and Pennsylvania, a stone’s throw from the White House. As he entered the eleven-story building and walked through the newly renovated lobby, Kealey could not help but admire the beautifully appointed interior of the Hotel Washington. It could not have been more different from the surroundings he’d grown accustomed to over the past six months, and it was definitely an improvement.
Harper had given him a key card in advance, so there was no need to check in. He reached the elevators and punched a button for the fifth floor. As he was waiting, a familiar voice called out from behind.
He turned to find Naomi Kharmai standing a few feet away. She was watching him with a strange expression, almost as if she didn’t recognize the man standing before her.
