gotten much sleep, as part of him had been waiting for the police to kick down the door. The raid had never come, but the restless night meant an early morning. They made the first ferry from Calais to Dover, endured the standard customs check on arrival, then caught a National Express bus to London. From Waterloo Station, it was a short taxi ride to the Embankment. They had arrived with an hour to spare, which was enough time to partake in a leisurely meal and watch for lingering eyes.
Embankment Cafe at noon. A man will sit outside, gray suit, green paisley tie. He’ll be carrying a black attache case and a copy of the Times. Follow him, and keep your distance.
Vanderveen had no patience for these little games, but he had no choice but to play along. He needed what the controllers had to offer; namely, the specifics regarding Thomas Ruhmann and his office in Berlin. The Austrian’s business relationship with the insurgency had started long before Vanderveen arrived on the scene. He had met Ruhmann only once, and briefly at that. The purpose of the meeting was to describe the kind of weapon he needed for the attack in New York, and Ruhmann had come through in spectacular form. Of course, circumstances had changed since then, and now, through little or no fault of his own, he had become a liability to the whole operation. The word had been sent up the line, sealing his fate.
Time was the other factor here. For the moment, Vanderveen had no idea what Kealey was up to. He had to wait for the wheels to turn in Washington, which meant that he had to move faster than he might otherwise have liked. He had every intention of placing a second call to the States by the end of the day, but for now, there were other things to consider.
Raseen lowered her cup to the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Russell, can we talk here?”
Vanderveen cast a subtle glance around. Due to the weather, the tables on the terrace were nearly deserted. The closest patrons were four tables over, but judging by their advanced age, elevated voices, and blunt Estuary accents, they would not be able to understand — or even hear — a murmured conversation in French from the next table, let alone at a distance of 15 feet.
Vanderveen smiled and said, “If you think it’s safe to talk, Nina, you don’t need to call me Russell.”
She smiled back demurely but without hesitation, and Vanderveen shook his head in amusement. Her unflinching ability to blend into her surroundings was something that continued to amaze him. Despite the privileged upbringing that al-Tikriti had described, Yasmin Raseen had spent her youth in a country that hindered women at almost every turn. He had not seen her wear a headscarf, yet she appeared at ease without it. He had not seen her pray once — let alone five times a day — yet she appeared unrepentant. The holy month of Ramadan was scheduled to start in less than two weeks, and it was clear she had no intention of fasting. At every turn she had defied his ideas of how she should act. Her indulgence in Western behavior only made her presence more confusing. Her controllers, if they had their way, would severely limit the future liberation of Iraqi women. He could not understand her motivation in helping them.
“Will, how much do you know about the man we’re going to meet?”
“Next to nothing. Why do you ask?”
She seemed to hesitate. “Doesn’t it worry you? Not knowing, I mean? This man could have switched sides. He could be working against us.”
“Perhaps,” Vanderveen conceded. “But it’s not likely. Take my word when I say that your people have a great deal of money and time invested in this. They’re not going to risk the entire venture on a man they can’t trust.”
“But how do they know?” she persisted. “What if-”
“They can’t know.” Vanderveen leaned forward and lowered his voice, even though no one was close enough to hear. “The whole thing is a risk, but we don’t have a choice. We need what this man is bringing us. Ruhmann knows too much; not the target, perhaps, but he acquired the weapon. He knows what it can do, and he knows how it’s disguised. He can’t be allowed to live.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she murmured. A few minutes passed. She finished her tea and ordered another pot as Vanderveen picked at his meal. The waitress hovered nearby, a pretty girl whose gaze had been locked on their table ever since they’d arrived. She had just stepped up to clear their plates when a flicker of movement caught Vanderveen’s attention. A man in a gray suit and green tie was taking a seat on the other side of an enormous concrete planter, which, at this time of year, was filled with nothing more than sandy soil and cigarette butts. The newcomer placed his briefcase down by his feet, unfolded his paper, and signaled the waitress. Seeing this, Vanderveen leaned back in his seat and looked at Raseen.
“You might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I think we’re going to be here a while.”
An hour slipped past. Raseen ordered a basket of scones as the surrounding tables started to fill, despite the overcast skies. Vanderveen both welcomed and despised the lunch-hour crowd, which was made up of weary tourists, well-groomed clerks from the Strand, and government workers from Somerset House. The other patrons helped them to blend in, but also made it much harder to detect surveillance.
He had been watching closely since they boarded the ferry in France, and felt reasonably sure they had not been followed. Unfortunately, he could not say the same for the courier. To make matters worse, he was struck by the same tingling sensation he’d felt the previous night in Calais. His instincts were telling him something was wrong, and yet, he had no choice but to go forward with the meet. If they pulled out now, they would lose valuable hours — even days — setting up a second attempt. That was time they just didn’t have. More to the point, al-Douri might begin to question his commitment, and he would undoubtedly forfeit the second half of his fee. Vanderveen had no intention of letting that happen.
Finally, the man in the gray suit called for the check. Vanderveen didn’t need to follow suit; he had already paid for their meal. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the courier stood, collected his briefcase, and left the terrace. He was clearly visible for some time as he moved northwest through the little park, heading toward the Strand. Once he was nearly out of sight, Vanderveen rose to his feet and slipped a few pounds under an empty glass. Raseen took his arm, and they left the terrace in turn, following at a discreet distance.
The Strand, running from the west end of Fleet Street to Trafalgar Square, the site of the National Gallery, is one of the busiest streets in London. In a city with nearly 8 million inhabitants, “busy” can be a very misleading term. Although the Strand was home to a wide variety of shops, theatres, and restaurants, the congestive vehicular traffic should have done much to dissuade tourists, Vanderveen thought. Nevertheless, the street was completely packed. If there was any surveillance in place, it would be almost impossible to spot. It was this fact that was troubling him as he walked northeast with the flow, Raseen’s arm tucked loosely beneath his own. The man in the gray suit was 30 feet ahead of them, his dark head weaving in and out of sight. There was a constant din: the sound of rushing feet as pedestrians swept past, jabbering into their cell phones; the noise spilling from the open doors of the restaurants and pubs; and the steady rumble of traffic a few feet to their left. Exhaust poured over the sidewalk in a thick, constant cloud, but nobody seemed to notice. When a sound emanated from the folds of Raseen’s new coat, it took her a few seconds to realize her phone was ringing. She pulled it out with a puzzled expression. “Hello?”
She handed it over, and Vanderveen lifted the phone to his ear. “Do you know the Savoy?”
The voice bore the crisp, upper-class diction of Eton or Sandhurst, which was fitting; the Savoy was one of London’s oldest and finest hotels, located only a few blocks away, close to the river. “Yes.”
“I need to collect a package at the concierge. Wait in the bar for twenty minutes, then head upstairs. Room 508. The desk will call up for you.”
Vanderveen hesitated before realizing he could use any name he wished. The clerk would not ask for identification, just the number of the room he wanted to call. “Agreed. Twenty minutes.”
The phone went dead, and he handed it back to Raseen. “You should have told me you gave him the number,” she whispered reprovingly. “I was going to get rid of that phone yesterday.”
“We’ll dump it before we leave the city.”
“What did he say?”
He relayed the instructions, hesitated, then spoke his mind. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped a notch, and she leaned in close, switching to French. “Something doesn’t seem right. It’s nothing I can see, but still…”
Vanderveen nodded uneasily. He slowed and stepped to the right, pretending to examine a shop window as people brushed past on the sidewalk. The overcast skies caused the window to act like a mirror, reflecting everything behind them. They stayed that way for about twenty seconds, looking for anything too familiar, ignoring the bright display of fall fashions. Raseen, looking deeply, deeply into the makeshift mirror, suddenly spoke up.
