workable lead, but where could she find it? The names on the documents in Mason’s computer had seemed so promising, but none had panned out. There had been partially composed letters, faxes, even an invoice or two. She’d run everything through the NCIC and the Pentagon’s database, but nothing had matched. It just didn’t make sense.
Her head snapped up as she realized something. She had never checked the list of vessels through the system, and some of them didn’t sound like ships at all. In fact, some of them sounded very much like first and last names. It might be nothing, she thought, but at this point, anything was worth a try.
The Mercedes was parked perpendicular to the boulevard Gouvion Saint-Cyr. From the backseat, Vanderveen had a clear line of sight down the length of the road. The facade of Le Meridien Etoile, glowing amber in the light of the fading sun, could be seen rising above the boulevard, and in front, a number of hired cars and taxis were lined up to accept and discharge passengers.
Raseen had pointed out the unmarked Peugeot 406 shortly after they’d moved into position. The rear window was heavily tinted, but Vanderveen could make out the vague outlines of two occupants. According to Raseen, both were CRS officers assigned to Tabrizi. The men were almost certainly trained in close-quarter protection. He knew they would react instantly when the first shots were fired; for this reason, his own shots had to be perfectly placed.
As Vanderveen watched through a pair of binoculars, the passenger lifted a phone to his right ear and held it there for approximately fifteen seconds. A number of conference attendees were already beginning to stream out through the steel-and-glass doors, though most were still upstairs, presumably mulling over business opportunities with their peers.
“What’s happening?” Raseen asked impatiently. She was fidgeting behind the wheel, her fingers tapping out a nervous, irregular beat on her thighs.
“It looks like somebody just called one of those officers. I think he’s coming out.”
Raseen looked at the clock in the dashboard, then lifted her phone and speed-dialed a number. When the call was answered on the other end, she simply said, “It’s time. Get moving.”
She kept the phone to her ear, tucked under her hair, as Vanderveen studied the sidewalk outside the hotel. Finally, the target stepped into view, a third bodyguard trailing a half step behind. “I’ve got him. Charcoal suit, yellow tie. Third from the left.”
Raseen repeated the information over the line. As the last word left her mouth, a black Ford sedan pulled up alongside them, then swung a hard left onto the boulevard, tires squealing.
“Idiots,” Vanderveen hissed. “They’re going too fast.”
Raseen was still relaying rapid instructions as she lowered the rear window from her console, each word running into the next. “You have him crossing the road, third from the left, third from the left… ”
Vanderveen had the G2 ready, the barrel stabilized on a large pack level with the open window. Cars passing by could see into the Mercedes, could see the rifle, but it couldn’t be helped. He found the notch for his cheek and positioned his right eye behind the Leupold scope.
Alerted by the fast-moving vehicle, the bodyguard walking with Tabrizi began pulling his principal back toward the hotel. The Ford squealed to a halt in the middle of the road, smoke rising up from the tires. A long burst of automatic fire erupted from the passenger-side window. The first volley was off, tearing into a line of parked cars, then over the sidewalk and into the glass doors of the hotel. A number of people were on the ground, blood spattered over the pavement, screams rising up as panic ensued. Tabrizi was only a few steps from safety when Vanderveen saw him stumble. Then his arms splayed out, his body jerking violently as a number of rounds ripped into his back. The physician dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap. The bodyguard collapsed next to him, but managed to crawl a few feet before being hit with a final burst, his life blitzed away in an instant.
The Ford was already squealing away as the first officer exited the Peugeot and brought his FAMAS to bear. He released a long burst of automatic fire after the departing vehicle, the rear windshield shattering instantly.
Despite the frantic scene unfolding before him, Vanderveen had been breathing slowly and steadily from the moment the Ford first accelerated down the boulevard. Now he found the gaping hole in the rear windshield. Through the scope, he could see that the passenger was slumped over the center console, the driver clearly fighting for control of the car. He centered the crosshairs on the back of the headrest, released the air from his lungs, and squeezed the trigger.
The suppressor dulled the report and the muzzle flash, but even at 270 yards, the effect of the 3-round burst was obvious. The headrest on the driver’s side exploded in a puff of white cotton filler, and the Ford lurched from the road, swiping a number of vehicles before grinding to a halt. The CRS man stopped firing and moved forward cautiously, his back to the Mercedes, as the third officer — one of the two left standing — ran out to assist the wounded, having already called for an ambulance. Apparently, Vanderveen’s shots had gone unnoticed.
“Go!” he said to Raseen, placing the rifle down by his feet. “Move!”
He punched the button and the window came up as she started the engine and pulled into traffic. Cars were fishtailing to a halt behind them, but the road ahead appeared to be clear. “Did they get him?” she was saying excitedly. “Was he hit? Was he hit?”
Vanderveen turned to look out the rear window. He could hear distant two-tone sirens but didn’t see anyone following as the Mercedes swung onto the rue Guersant, slipping into the busy traffic. “Slow it down. There’s nobody behind us.”
“Did they get him?”
He thought of Tabrizi’s body crumpling, hitting the pavement. He visualized the second volley punching up his legs and into his back.
“Yeah, they got him. He’s gone.”
CHAPTER 24
WASHINGTON, D.C.,VIRGINIA
It was just after two in the afternoon when they left the restaurant. The Suburban was waiting at the curb, but Harper crossed to the passenger-side window, leaned in, and dismissed his driver, preferring to walk for a while. The rain had moved on, and the air was beginning to warm, steam rising up from the damp pavement. Overhead, the sun poked out from behind thick gray clouds. They walked south on 6th, skirting a small knot of tourists before taking a left on E Street. As they strolled, Kealey quietly brought Harper up to date on what was happening at the NCTC.
When he was finished, Harper said, “Do you think it’ll come to anything?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kealey paused. “Naomi keeps surprising me, John. I don’t remember her being this capable.”
Harper flicked a sideways glance at the younger man, wondering where this was going. “I don’t know why you would say that, Ryan. Every fitness report she’s ever received has been stellar. Emmett Mills, for one, can’t say enough about her. He desperately wants her back, but I think it’s time to give her a starring role at the CTC. She’s more valuable here than she is in London.”
Kealey nodded and was about to comment when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at the number, and flipped it open. “Yeah?”
It was Kharmai. “Ryan, I’ve got something.” Her voice was tinged with excitement, but there was a crackle of static. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I’ve got you. What did you find?”
She explained about the calls she’d made to the various CIA stations, and then told him about Staibler’s contact in Port Said East. “This guy has access to everything, including collection logs. In other words, he can tell us exactly who arrived at the port to collect containers on a given date. Over a three-month period, the same man signed for containers coming off vessels that Mason was using. I can’t guarantee they’re the same containers, of course, but-”
“Naomi, what was the name?” Kealey asked impatiently.
“Erich Kohl.” She paused for effect. “It’s Vanderveen, Ryan. He was in Egypt on those three dates, collecting consignments. We found the link.”
