The younger man leaned back in his seat. He was frustrated, but he couldn’t find fault with what Harper had said. He looked over to see that Naomi was just as troubled as he was.
The Suburban slowed to a halt. Kealey looked out the window and frowned; it took him several seconds to figure out where they were. The vehicle was parked outside Jonathan Harper’s brownstone on General’s Row.
Harper turned in his seat, anticipating the younger man’s objections. “Julie’s been cooking all day, so don’t even think about saying no.” He looked at Naomi. “Kharmai, you’re more than welcome to stay. In fact, I’d prefer it if you did… We have plenty of spare bedrooms. I need to bring you both up to speed, but if you like, Jake can run you into the city, and I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
She was surprised at this turn of events, but she shook it off quickly. “I’d like to hear it tonight, sir, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 43
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The sky was pitch black, the rain drifting down as they stepped out of the vehicle. The driver retrieved their bags from the back, and Kealey hung back to help as Naomi hurried up the steps. Julie Harper, a short, slightly overweight woman with a warm smile and a pleasant nature, met them at the door. She kissed her husband perfunctorily and pulled Kealey into the warm, brightly lit foyer, brushing the cold drops from his sleeves. She looked up at him and placed a hand on his cheek.
“How are you, Ryan?” Her voice was soft and tinged with sympathy. “It’s been so long.”
“I’m fine, Julie. It’s good to see you again.”
Watching this scene unfold, Naomi realized that they hadn’t seen each other in a while, maybe not since Ryan’s full-time return to the Agency. Clearly, they knew each other well, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Katie Donovan had ever visited the Harper home. The thought gave her a jealous ache, although the feeling was quickly replaced by a wave of guilt.
She stood by awkwardly until Harper introduced her. She tried for a pleasant smile, even though she was completely exhausted and not feeling very sociable. The other woman shook hands with her warmly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Naomi. Here, let me take your coat.” Julie Harper glanced at her husband as she hung it on a rack near the door. “I assume you all have things to discuss.”
“We do, but it can wait until after dinner.”
Julie brightened. “Good. It’ll be ready in half an hour. You’ll have to excuse me.”
She hustled back to the kitchen, and Harper nodded toward the stairs, reaching for Naomi’s large case. “I’ll show you upstairs. If you like, you can get cleaned up before we eat.”
Kealey could not disguise his impatience. “John, I appreciate this, but we have a lot to go over. Now is not the time for-”
“Hold that thought.” Harper looked to Naomi and said, “Could you give us a minute? We’ll follow you up.”
“Of course, sir.” She walked up the stairs, and Harper turned back to Kealey, his face set in a firm expression.
“Ryan, you’ve been pushing yourself hard for days on end. As it stands, all the bases are covered.”
“I realize that, but-”
“Are you personally going to drive up to Canada? Are you personally going to check every vehicle coming through every border crossing?” Harper let the rhetorical question sink in, then said, “Stressing yourself now is counterproductive. We have all night to figure out our next move, so right now, go upstairs and clean yourself up. We’ll get down to business after we eat. Okay?”
Kealey couldn’t do much but nod tightly. Everything the other man had just said made perfect sense, and he wasn’t in a position to argue. “Fine.”
They presented themselves at the table twenty minutes later. Both had taken the time to shower and change, Kealey into a gray University of Chicago sweatshirt, Kharmai into a white woolen turtleneck. They were both in jeans. Despite the similarity of their outfits, Naomi felt distinctly underdressed. She knew it was probably just psychosomatic — the effect of being in her employer’s home for the first time — but knowing didn’t alleviate her sense of unease. The feeling didn’t subside until Harper came down in similar attire, having exchanged his suit for khakis and a black crewneck sweater. He poured the wine as Julie emerged from the kitchen. Once everything was laid out on the table, she started to fill their plates.
The meal was simple but excellent: vegetable soup to start, followed by linguine with red sauce, sauteed shrimp, Italian bread, and salad on the side. Julie made an obvious effort to promote conversation, but watching her, Naomi realized that the talk was only a cover for the concerned, motherly glances she kept shooting in Ryan’s direction. When the meal was done, she pushed back from her seat and offered to help clear the dishes, hoping to get Julie alone for a private discussion, but Harper waved it away.
“We have some things to talk about upstairs. Sorry to eat and run.”
“It was wonderful, though,” Naomi said quickly. She wanted to leave a good impression. “Thank you, Mrs. Harper.”
The other woman beamed as she cleared the plates. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, dear. And please, call me Julie.”
Naomi had to smile. Even though Julie Harper was clearly shy of her forty-fifth birthday, her personality seemed to be that of a woman years older. It wasn’t a bad thing, but Naomi couldn’t help feeling slightly awkward; it was strange being called “dear” by a woman barely ten years her senior.
She turned and followed the two men up the stairs. Jonathan Harper led them into a wood-paneled study. It was a distinctly masculine room, with leather club chairs, an enormous desk in the corner, and Persian carpets scattered across the floor. Harper gestured for them to sit and went to his desk, retrieving the suitcase he had taken from the Suburban earlier. As he opened it and pulled out a number of documents, Julie entered with coffee on a tray. She deposited it on the center table, pausing to rest a light hand on Kealey’s shoulder. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.
“Okay,” Harper said, settling into a free chair. “Where to begin, that’s the question.”
Naomi jumped on the opening. “Sir, what about the woman? Liz Peterson said she was going to send you the surveillance photographs from London.”
Harper nodded and slid a number of 8 x 10s across the table. Naomi picked them up and began perusing them instantly, handing some of them off to Ryan. “Do we know who she is?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t,” Harper replied. He started to pour black coffee into one of the mugs. “We ran her through our facial recognition software, which, as you know, is similar to that used by MI5. We had one hit, but it only came back with nine markers. That’s a forty percent match… not exactly definitive.”
“Not definitive, maybe, but it’s a start,” Naomi said, trying to remain optimistic. “Who came up?”
Harper handed her another photograph. “Samara Majid al-Khuzaai, thirty-eight years old, a Sunni born in Baghdad. Her father was part of the Special Republican Guard, Saddam’s innermost circle. The 1st Brigade, responsible for security. He was arrested in Najaf shortly after the invasion, and he didn’t go quietly. As they pulled him out of the house he was hiding in, he started screaming that it wasn’t over, that his daughter would carry on the fight. Even though it was made in the heat of the moment, the remark prompted a brief investigation. As it turned out, he only had one child, and that was Samara.”
Naomi looked at the two photographs. She studied al-Khuzaai’s face, then the surveillance photos of Vanderveen’s traveling companion. The two women did not look that similar.
She handed the shots to Kealey and said, “What does that mean, ‘carry on the fight’? Was that a legitimate threat?”
“It’s hard to say,” Harper replied. “But she isn’t in custody, and she hasn’t shown up in Jordan or Syria looking for political asylum. The Middle East desk at the CTC seems to think she’s still in Iraq, working with the insurgency.”
Kealey looked up from the photographs. “I don’t think it’s the same person, John. Is this our best
