into the life of Fatima Darabi. Finally, she incorporated the two, asking about their childhood together, the pivotal moments they had shared in their youth. Nazeri had been reluctant to talk at first, Raseen explained, but that was only because she was a woman, and it hadn’t stopped him for long. Amir Nazeri had been in the States for many years, and the cultural strictures imposed on him as a child had faded with time. As the miles and hours passed, she had managed to break through his defenses.
“I think he loved her a great deal,” Raseen concluded. Her voice was neutral; in Iran, romantic love between cousins was viewed differently than it was in the United States, as marriage within the family helped ensure the preservation of land and other material assets. “He believes she felt the same way. Her death changed everything for him.”
“Has it changed him enough, though?” Vanderveen mused. “That’s the question.”
Raseen shrugged. “Have you shown him the document?”
“Not yet.”
“When you do, his doubts will disappear, along with his fears. I would wait until the last possible minute; that way, it will have more of an effect. You shouldn’t worry, though. He’s prepared to see this through.”
Vanderveen nodded. “You have your phone?”
Nazeri had purchased several pay-and-go phones before driving up to Montreal. They each had one. “Yes, I have it.”
“And money?”
“I have that as well. I’ll call you once I’m in position.”
“Good.” Vanderveen paused. “We’ll meet again this evening, and then we’ll discuss how we’re going to get out of the country.”
“Fine.” She hesitated. “Will, do you remember what you told me in Germany? About Jonathan Harper?”
He nodded. During the brief trip from Potsdam to Berlin, he had relayed everything he had been told by his Bureau contact over the phone in the Luisenplatz, right down to the identity of the CIA’s deputy director of operations.
“Do you think we’ll get the chance to take care of that?”
“Possibly.” It was a tremendous opportunity, Vanderveen knew. The identity of the DDO was highly classified. Now, thanks to his Bureau contact, they had not only the man’s name, but an approximate address, a brownstone on General’s Row in Washington, D.C. “If the opportunity presents itself, we’ll pay him a visit. For now, we have enough to worry about.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She crossed the open cement, walking to the gate leading out to the street. Vanderveen followed. He unlocked the gate, then pulled it open. She stepped onto the street and turned to face him. There was an awkward pause while they each considered some kind of affectionate gesture, but then the moment was gone.
“I’ll be in touch.” Before he could reply, she turned and walked off, heading east toward Eighth Avenue. Vanderveen watched her go for nearly a minute, wondering if he would ever see her again. Then he shut the gate, locked it, and headed back to the warehouse.
CHAPTER 48
NEW YORK CITY
As the taxi she’d taken from LaGuardia Airport left Brooklyn and sped over the Williamsburg Bridge, Naomi Kharmai gazed out at the East River. The bridge offered an incredible view of FDR Drive and the Lower East Side, the Manhattan skyline beyond, but she was too distracted to appreciate the view. Her mind was wrapped up in the meeting she was about to attend, as well as the events of the previous night.
Naomi could still scarcely believe what had happened with Ryan, but she didn’t regret it at all. It had been everything she’d hoped for and more. The only reason she’d gone back to her room was to avoid a potentially embarrassing scene in the morning. After collapsing onto her bed, she had stared at the ceiling for hours, worried that if she fell asleep, she’d wake to find it had never happened, or — worse yet — that he regretted the encounter. It was a strange dichotomy; it had been one of the best and worst nights of her life, a bewildering mixture of lingering happiness and dread for what the morning would bring. She needn’t have worried; all of her fears had melted away with the kiss he’d given her over the breakfast table. She felt sure that, everything else aside, it was the start of something incredible. Part of her just wanted to get the day over with so they could talk about it properly. At the same time, she knew she couldn’t afford to let what had happened distract her. She did her best to push it aside as the taxi turned onto Kenmare Street, then swung a left onto Lafayette Street.
Naomi still didn’t know how she was going to handle the interview with Hakim Rudaki. She felt sure that Ryan was right — that he was stringing the Bureau along with false information. Judging by the information that Harper had managed to dig up on the Iranian informant, Naomi knew he wouldn’t break easily. He was an intelligent man: a Harvard graduate, a respected member of the academic community. She wasn’t intimidated by this — she had reached comparable heights at Stanford, after all — but she knew she couldn’t discount his academic achievements. At the very least, it meant that he would not succumb to crude psychological manipulation. This realization left her deeply concerned. She had faith in her abilities, but she wasn’t a trained interrogator, and she just couldn’t conceive of a way to get him to confess his true role in the recent events. All she could do was play it by ear and hope that Ryan had more luck in the South Bronx.
They had separated after their plane landed at LaGuardia. His destination was Vyse Avenue, where he was going to try and track down the Bureau safe house. Privately, Naomi didn’t think he would have much luck. The ADIC had assured the DDO that Rudaki would be present when Naomi arrived at 26 Federal Plaza, which meant that Ryan would find himself with no one to question, even if — by some miracle — he did manage to find the safe house. It would all come down to her.
It was strange; the full implication of this thought took a long time to sink in, but when it did, it hit her like a ton of bricks. If Vanderveen was planning to use a daisy cutter in the city that same afternoon, the only way they could stop him was by breaking Rudaki.
And that fell to her. No one else.
Her mouth went instantly dry. The thought made her feel dizzy and sick to her stomach… How could she not have seen this before? If they were right about Vanderveen’s intentions — and she felt sure that they were — the lives of thousands of people rested in her hands. The thought was so overwhelming that she didn’t notice they had reached their destination until the driver turned in his seat to scream at her in Spanish, trying to get her attention.
She handed over the money with shaking hands, then stumbled out onto Lafayette Street. The Civic Center was a block to the south, and for a minute, she wondered why the driver hadn’t continued. Then she realized that the roads surrounding the Bureau’s building were probably blocked off to vehicular traffic. She walked on weak legs down the sidewalk, following the crowds. The people around her were engaged in their daily routines, oblivious to the looming disaster. She couldn’t look at them. Her realization of a moment ago had left her numb… It was so unfair. How could the deputy director have put this on her shoulders? Maybe even he didn’t realize what he’d pushed her into, but she didn’t think that was the case. She felt a bitter anger join the piercing ache in her chest… Jonathan Harper was a lot of things, but he wasn’t naive. He’d known exactly what he was doing.
She reached Duane Street and turned right, passing a series of concrete barriers and a small guard shack. The U.S. Customs House was on her right, and past that, the east entrance of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building. She went up the brief flight of stairs, pulled open the glass door, and stepped inside. There were a number of turnstiles off to the right, but they were reserved for building employees with government-issued smart cards. Since she was technically no longer with the Agency, Naomi had only her British passport and her driver’s license. She was forced to wait in line with a group of sullen immigrants and their screaming children, all of whom were destined for the INS offices on the fourth floor. When it was her turn, she passed through the metal detector and endured a brief search of her purse. Then she explained to the security guard her reason for visiting. He placed a call and gestured for her to take a seat on a nearby bench.
Five minutes later she was approached by a man with dark, wavy hair; broad shoulders; and square, chiseled features. He was handsome enough, with one exception: his nose had been badly broken at some point in the past.
