“We got a lead on one of those carriers. The company is run by an Iranian right here in Manhattan. According to our records, he was naturalized back in ’86. He has an SCAC, he’s listed with customs, and one of his trucks came in from Canada carrying a heavy load last night. It looks like a solid lead. I’m gonna run over and check it out.”
Best looked at his watch and said, “Take somebody with you. O’Farrell.”
“O’Farrell isn’t here, sir, but I’ll find someone on the way out.”
“Fine.”
Naomi had listened to the conversation with interest, each sentence sparking a different emotion. She was annoyed that Rudaki wasn’t going to arrive until 2:00 p.m., which was nearly three hours away, but she was thrilled that he was with Crane, which probably meant they were at the safe house on Vyse Avenue. Ryan might still have a shot at getting to them. Above all, she wanted to know more about this possible lead. Iranian owner, SCAC, heavy load… It sounded promising. But again, with the Iranians… Despite herself, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of doubt. Maybe they’d gotten it wrong all along.
Before the young agent had closed the door, she called out for him to stop. He poked his head back in and shot her a curious glance. Best looked equally perplexed.
Naomi addressed the older man. “Sir, I was told I’d be able to see Rudaki immediately.”
“I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I’m sure there’s a good reason for the delay.”
“Good reason or not, I don’t want to sit around for three hours waiting on him. With your permission, I’d like to tag along with Agent Foster.”
Best laughed. “Absolutely not.”
The smug look on his face pushed her over the edge. She shot him the hardest look she had and said, “Sir, you said you wanted to avoid an interagency spat, right? Well, my superiors are behind me a hundred percent on this, so if you jerk me around here, I’ll be forced to call them and say we’re not getting the cooperation we were promised. I don’t know about you, but I could see word getting to the president pretty fast after that, and I don’t think he’d be too happy… especially if it turns out that we were right and you were wrong.”
Best stared at her incredulously. From the corner of her eye, Naomi could see that Foster was also completely stunned.
“Kharmai, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you have some fucking nerve, coming in here and-”
“Sir, there’s no harm in it,” Foster said, recovering quickly. The two men shared a meaningful look, and Best sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. Naomi suddenly got the impression that the ADIC was a man with a quick temper who relied on his subordinates to help him keep it in check. “As long as she’s not armed.”
Best looked at her. “Are you?”
“No.” She decided it was time to back down a little. “Sir, I don’t want to cause any problems. Just let me tag along with your agent here until Rudaki gets back.” She looked at Foster. “It won’t take too long, will it?”
He shook his head. “We only need to make a few stops. I want to talk with the Iranian and two others. I don’t have to cross the bridge. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”
Naomi turned back to Best expectantly. Finally, he nodded slowly. “If it gets you out of here, I guess I don’t see the harm.”
“Good. And thank you.” She grabbed her purse and avoided his angry gaze as she followed Foster out the door. The confrontation had left her drained, and suddenly, she couldn’t wait to be out of the building. When the door closed behind them, Foster gave her a look that fell somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
“You have some guts. I don’t think anyone’s ever talked like that to him in his life.”
She shrugged like it was nothing, but in truth, she was feeling quite proud of herself. “Well, I think he was asking for it.”
He looked at her for a moment longer, shaking his head in amusement. Then he nodded toward the exit. “You ready?”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 50
NEW YORK CITY
On Vyse Avenue in the South Bronx, Kealey sat behind the wheel of his rented Accord, his whole body taut, his eyes alert and watchful. The vehicle was parked just north of 173rd Street, directly behind a rusting, paint- stripped Camry covered in peeling bumper stickers. In front of the Camry was the blue Crown Victoria. The street was completely empty, but after a few minutes, he looked up at his rearview mirror and saw what he’d been waiting for. The three Latino teenagers that had confronted him earlier were approaching from the south, walking side by side like something out of a bad gangster movie.
The proposition Kealey had put to them was simple: for fifty dollars each, all they had to do was carry out a minor act of vandalism. He couldn’t trust them, of course, so he’d gotten the leader — the only one of them old enough to drive — to hand over his license. Kealey checked it quickly and decided it was authentic. Then he handed it back with a promise: if they backed out of the agreement, he’d pay Miguel Morales a very painful visit. Morales, he assured them, would be more than happy to point out where the other two lived, and they could expect the same. Kealey didn’t enjoy making threats of this nature — they were just kids, after all — but he needed their help, and he needed to get his point across. They had agreed without hesitation, so he’d given them the location of the vehicle, then the money. Now it looked like they were about to come through.
Kealey unconsciously felt for his Beretta as the three youths passed his passenger-side window. A few seconds later they stopped beside the Crown Vic. Morales was holding an aluminum baseball bat. As Kealey watched, he used it to knock off the Ford’s passenger-side mirror. Then, as the others cheered him on, he let loose with a wild swing, which caved in part of the front windshield.
Kealey heard the dull crunch and the ringing sound of the bat, but he wasn’t watching the action. His attention was focused on the housing units beyond the iron fence, and after a few seconds, his patience was rewarded. One of the doors flew open, and a tall, lanky man in a dark suit came running down the sidewalk, swearing at the top of his lungs. The three youths instantly scattered in what was clearly a prearranged fashion; by moving in different directions, they were virtually assured of escape. The man in the suit started to chase one of them, then stopped, realizing the futility of his actions. He walked at a fast pace back to the mangled car. Kealey could see him swearing and shaking his head as he assessed the damage.
This was his guy. With his neat hair, striped red tie, and bulge beneath the jacket, the man had agent written all over him. Kealey made sure his weapon was covered by his T-shirt, then got out of the Accord and walked around to the sidewalk, doing his best to avoid his target’s peripheral vision. The agent was already making his way back down the short path to the safe house. During his sprint from the building, he’d left the front door wide open. He was still swearing viciously, and Kealey silently urged him to keep going, as the noise helped cover the sound of his approach.
He silently closed the last few feet. As the agent put one hand on the door and prepared to step inside, Kealey lifted his shirt with his left hand and drew the Beretta with his right. Raising his arm, he brought the butt crashing down on the back of the agent’s neck. It was a bad angle; the man was much taller than he was, and he didn’t have good leverage, but the blow had the intended effect. The man let out a strange croak and dropped to the ground. He instantly tried to get up, but Kealey hit him again. This time he connected solidly, the blow sending a shiver along his forearm. He immediately raised the gun, ready for someone to come through the door.
Nothing. Kealey grabbed the back of the man’s shirt collar and pulled him inside, then closed the door. He took in the scene instinctively: a few worn couches, a beat-up recliner, a Samsung TV on a cheap wooden stand. Only the necessities. There were no prints on the walls, no rugs on the floor. He listened carefully. There was no noise coming from the kitchen, but he heard voices drifting down from the stairwell. Moving back to the unconscious agent, he checked the man’s coat pockets with practiced speed and skill. He found the gun first, then a leather billfold. He flipped it open. Inside were credentials identifying the fallen man as Special Agent Nicholas Mackie of the FBI.
“Nick?”
