“I understand,” was Vanderveen’s terse reply. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Has the package changed hands?”
“Not yet. There are a few details to work out, but I’ll finish the transaction soon enough.”
“When exactly?”
The brief, uneasy silence that followed the question was answer enough, but Vanderveen voiced the words anyway. “That is not your concern. Just keep me updated. I need to know what’s on the computer. Mason may have known more than we thought.”
“Fine. Is there anything else?”
He was about to respond in the negative, but something sparked in the back of his mind. “The men from the Agency… I don’t suppose you caught their names?”
“The senior man called himself Jonathan Harper. He showed up at the NCTC earlier in the day, looking for information. His ID said he was with the Office of General Counsel, but something about it didn’t seem right to me. For one thing, I’ve never heard of an Agency lawyer showing up at a Bureau raid. There was no reason for an OGC rep to be there.”
Vanderveen considered for a moment, then said, “I want to know more about him. Do you have access to that kind of information? It could prove useful.”
“Possibly.”
“Good. Do what you can. What about the subordinate? He’s the one who took the laptop, right?”
“Yes. His name is Kealey, Ryan Kealey.”
Vanderveen closed his eyes and replaced the receiver. He remained in that position for nearly a full minute, then opened his eyes slowly and lifted the phone once more. This time, the number he dialed put him through to a very different part of the world.
When the receiver was picked up on the other end, he simply said, “It’s me. I’m afraid we may have a small problem.”
CHAPTER 28
CALAIS
After concluding the second call, Vanderveen left the glass booth and walked back toward the path leading into the park. Sounds emerged from a brightly lit restaurant across the avenue: the tinkle of a woman’s laughter, the clinking of glasses, and dozens of meshed conversations in a multitude of languages. The rich smells wafting out of the open doors served as a stabbing reminder that he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, but for the most part, his mind was consumed by what he had just learned.
Kealey. Vanderveen shook his head in delayed disbelief. At the same time, he wondered why he was so surprised. The man’s involvement was all but inevitable; he was, after all, one of the Agency’s most experienced field men, particularly when it came to the Middle East. Still, the unfortunate development raised uncomfortable doubts, forcing him to question some of his earlier choices. It seemed as though the shot he had taken on that sweltering Syrian hilltop eight years earlier had haunted him ever since. Rightly, Ryan Kealey should have died that day. Vanderveen could understand the need for revenge after that kind of betrayal, but the truth was that the man’s motivations ran far beyond the near-fatal wound he had suffered in Syria, far beyond the loss of his fellow soldiers. With this personal admission, Vanderveen once again found himself wondering: Had killing the woman in Maine been a mistake?
Yes, said the insistent voice inside, the same voice that had guided him since adolescence. He had been asking himself that specific question for months on end, and now he had his answer. It was a mistake, an act carried out in a moment of black rage. Better to have killed the man and been done with it. By sparing Kealey and taking his woman instead, Vanderveen had given him all the motivation he would ever need to track her killer to the end of the earth.
Despite the recriminations, despite the uncomfortable examination of his past decisions, Vanderveen was comforted by one truth he had learned over the years, which was this: opportunities are rarely lost, only delayed. The trick lay in recognizing a second chance when it presented itself, and it went both ways. After all, fate had given Ryan Kealey his fair share of opportunities, all of which he had squandered. He had missed his target in Syria after losing nearly half of his detachment to Vanderveen’s aimed fire, and he’d failed to finish the job on that frigid night in Maine nearly one year earlier, counting instead on nature’s fury to finish the work he had started.
Now the tables were turned once more, and this time, Vanderveen knew he could not fail. In fact, he suddenly realized there might be an opportunity here, a chance to remedy two problems at once. There was no doubt in his mind that Kealey would do everything in his power to track down Thomas Ruhmann. In this respect, Vanderveen had the advantage, as he already knew exactly where the Austrian arms broker was holed up. All he had to do was get there first. He would also need the proper materials.
A frown crossed his face with this realization. The second person he’d called had promised to fill Vanderveen’s order, but he was reluctant to place his faith in the distant voice. His own contacts, while abundant in the Middle East, were extremely limited in Western Europe. On the other hand, if the insurgency’s agent in England failed to come through, there was a chance — a good chance, even — that Yasmin Raseen could get hold of the right people. According to al-Tikriti’s veiled speech, she had operated extensively on European soil, a fact she had already demonstrated with consummate skill during their time in France.
As Vanderveen made his way through the park, the lights of the belfry drawing ever closer, he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a woman’s scream. The indignant cry was cut off in the middle, as though a hand had suddenly clamped over an open mouth. In the intense silence that followed, a burst of drunken laughter cut through the trees, followed immediately by a sound he could not quite place, a shuffling, grunting noise, which carried clearly in the brisk night air.
He did not hesitate; his stride was unbroken. In fact, he quickened his pace, hoping to get clear of the park before the police were alerted. The station was nearby, he knew, on the eastern side of the Town Hall. Whatever was happening — a rape, a robbery — was not his concern. His continued freedom precluded his intervention in such matters, but it was his utter indifference that sealed the decision to walk away, which was made unconsciously. The next sound he heard, however, caused him to freeze in his tracks and breathe a soft curse.
The woman had cried out again, apparently breaking free of the hand that silenced her. This time, the scream was accompanied by a flurry of pointed obscenities, which were not uttered in French, but in Arabic.
The park beyond the footpath was reasonably open, which worked both for and against him. The grass beneath his feet was close clipped, damp from the earlier rain, and the trees and hedges were neatly pruned, giving him a clear view of what lay ahead, or at least as much as the diffused light would reveal. Fortunately, the vegetation surrounding the war museum was less well kept, as though the men and women who maintained the exhibits had no time or concern for the aesthetics of the building itself.
It was from that copse of tangled trees that the woman’s scream had originated, and now, drawing closer, he heard yet another muffled cry. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman was Yasmin Raseen; what he didn’t understand was why she had followed him. He was struck by a sudden flash of anger; he had watched his trail carefully, and yet she’d somehow managed to track him for nearly an hour without giving herself away. She had operated in this capacity for much longer than he had, he knew, but knowing her capabilities didn’t slow the rising anger, which threatened to overwhelm him.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he forced himself to clear his mind and focus on the approach. He moved in a crouch, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. Judging by the drunken sound of the laughter he’d heard a moment ago, Raseen’s assailants were in no state to offer a serious challenge. For this reason, Vanderveen left the knife in his pocket. Whatever happened next, he was determined to keep things simple, and that meant leaving them alive if at all possible.
There. The trees gave way, and he took in the scene with a practiced eye: two bodies were intertwined, grappling on the ground, the larger figure on top. There was a second shape several feet to the right, a still form on a bed of crushed leaves. The figure was lying on its back, not moving, arms outstretched.
For a split second, he considered leaving her. It would be better if he did not have to explain her death, but some things couldn’t be helped. On the other hand, Vanderveen realized that she could be carrying some kind of
