forced to take the stairs.
They stepped into the dingy, empty foyer. There was just one apartment on the ground floor, that of the caretaker. Her number was posted on the buzzer outside the building. Raseen rapped on the door lightly as Vanderveen stood off to the side, out of view of the peephole. After a few seconds, they heard a muffled “ Ja? Was benotigst sie? ”
“Frau Hesser?” Raseen called lightly. “I’m Sara, Herr Ruhmann’s new assistant. He sent me down to ask you a favor. Do you have a minute?”
There was a long pause. Finally, the door cracked open. Raseen offered a friendly, appealing smile, and the door opened all the way, light spilling into the foyer. Vanderveen, standing off to the side, only saw part of what happened next. Raseen pushed her way into the caretaker’s apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. Stepping forward, Vanderveen heard a brief scream, followed by two dull thuds. Then the door swung open, and Raseen reappeared. She didn’t need to speak; a brief nod said it all.
They left the building and turned west. It was just after 6:00 p.m. Night had drifted over the city, and it started to rain as they walked, thunder booming in the near distance. They reached the Mercedes five minutes later. Vanderveen started the engine as Raseen climbed into the passenger seat. Soon they joined the light traffic moving north on the Friedrichstrasse. As they crossed the river, Raseen lifted the pack out of the backseat, where Vanderveen had tossed it before starting the car. Opening the main compartment, she extracted a pair of two-way radios. Like the rest of their equipment, the Motorola radios had been supplied by the man in Dresden. She turned each unit to the appropriate channel, then plugged in the headsets.
Vanderveen turned onto a narrow street running along the river, trying to gauge his position. As he looked to his left, a gap appeared between the buildings, and he saw a flash of Ruhmann’s building on the other side of the Spree. Vanderveen eased his foot off the accelerator. The curb was choked with cars, so he stopped in the road and flicked on the hazard lights. Fortunately, there was no traffic behind them.
“Here,” Raseen said, handing over the pack. One of the radios was still inside, along with several bottles of water, a shooting mat, and a large poncho. Getting out of the car, Vanderveen slung the pack over his shoulder. There was one other pack in the backseat, but he ignored it and walked to the back of the car. He retrieved a black plastic case from the trunk as Raseen slid into the driver’s seat.
She lowered the window as he approached. “Do you think it will work?” she asked, looking up at the surrounding buildings.
“I think so.” Vanderveen was wearing an anorak over a thick sweater, and he pulled the hood over his head as he turned to follow her gaze. “I just need to find a good vantage point. It shouldn’t take long. We can expect our friends in a few hours.”
“Fine. I’ll let you know when they arrive. I’ll be in front of the building.”
“Make sure you keep some distance. They won’t be expecting us, but it’s best to be safe.”
“Right. See you later.” She dropped the car into gear and accelerated quickly, the tires kicking up a spray of rainwater. Vanderveen crossed the road, black case in hand, and melted into the side streets bordering the river.
CHAPTER 39
BERLIN
By the time Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai stepped out of the terminal building of Berlin International Airport at Tegel, 8 kilometers from the city center, the rain was coming down in great windblown sheets. White and beige Mercedes taxis were lined up at the curb, waiting for passengers, as were a few limousines and a number of dark SUVs. Lights on the facade of the terminal shone down like miniature moons, indistinct in the deluge, and although they were surrounded by groups of people engaged in conversation, their voices could barely be heard over the sound of the rain pounding onto the overhead canopy.
From her brief discussion with Ryan on the plane, Naomi knew they were going to be met by a man named Bennett. According to Jonathan Harper, Bennett was a CIA operations officer based out of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin, an Air Force veteran who’d seen combat in Panama and the Gulf. More importantly, he had worked directly under Harper in the past. The DDO had gone out of his way to help them one last time. He had placed a call before they left Upperville that morning, securing Bennett’s assistance for their impromptu visit. Despite Harper’s assurances, Naomi wasn’t sure what to expect; Bennett might not enjoy the idea of operating without the approval of his immediate superiors. She would have discussed this possibility with Ryan, but he didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so she hadn’t pushed it.
At first, it had been difficult to keep quiet on the plane. She had so many questions. What did he hope to get out of Ruhmann? Did he really think the Austrian would lead them to Vanderveen? Mainly, she wanted to know why he had asked her to come along. She suspected it was mostly guilt, but she hoped that wasn’t the case. After all, it had been her decision to join him in raiding the German Embassy. He had tried to talk her out of it, but she had insisted, and it wasn’t his fault it turned out badly. She much preferred to think she was there because she had earned the right, because she had proved her value. Because she had a stake in how it all played out. Either way, she was glad for the chance. This was an immediate task, a way to take her mind off the fact that she’d just lost the only job she’d ever really loved. With little else to do, she had spent hours on the plane trying to figure out a way to redeem herself. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure how she could make up for violating a direct order from the president. If anything constituted a firing offense, that was it.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice that a Range Rover had braked to a halt in front of them, the black paint glistening beneath a sheen of rainwater. The man who jumped out of the driver’s seat was short and built like a bull. His blue eyes were small and bright in his square face, his upper lip completely obscured by a thick brown mustache. He came around the vehicle a little too quickly, almost as if he were about to pick a fight. Naomi resisted the temptation to take a step back as he marched up and extended a hand.
“Shane Bennett,” he said in a low rumble. “You’re Kharmai, right?”
Naomi nodded, hoping she didn’t look as intimidated as she felt. “Yes, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” He offered a warm smile, and she felt herself relax a little.
Bennett turned to Kealey and shook his hand. “And you’re Kealey. Good to meet you.”
Kealey returned the sentiment, but Bennett frowned as though he were trying to place the other man’s face. Suddenly, recognition sparked in his eyes, and his mouth dropped open. “Holy shit, I know you. You were in the Shahikot, weren’t you?”
Kealey looked uncomfortable. “That’s right. I remember you, too. Mako 31. You were the combat controller.”
“That’s it.” Bennett grinned broadly. “Never thought I’d see you again. Anyway, I don’t mean to hold you up. You have everything you need?”
Kealey looked down at Naomi’s bag. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Naomi scowled, catching the sarcasm. Ryan’s only luggage was a tiny black grip, which was slung over his right shoulder. She didn’t know how he could travel so light, and she felt a certain satisfaction when Bennett lifted her large suitcase with one arm and tossed it easily into the back of the Range Rover.
Ryan moved to the front, so she climbed into the backseat. As soon as the doors were closed, a shrill noise penetrated the warm, still air inside the vehicle. Bennett lifted a satellite phone from between the seats and answered. Listening quietly for a few seconds, he handed it over to Kealey. “It’s Harper.”
Kealey accepted the phone and got out of the truck, closing the door behind him. He moved off immediately, getting some distance between himself and the people standing outside the glass doors of the terminal. Kharmai and Bennett were left to sit in uncomfortable silence.
“So,” he finally said, turning slightly in his seat. “How long you been with the Agency?”
“About five years,” she replied, thinking it best not to mention the fact that she’d just been fired. “What about you?”
“Less than a year,” Bennett said, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Director Harper brought me in personally. I did some work with his people when I was still with the Air Force.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I think of people moving from the military into the CIA, the Air
