I was thinking we should head back to your office. Rudaki’s probably already there, or at least on the way.”
“Actually, I just called. It’ll be another half hour or so. In the meantime, we have one more stop to make.”
She looked at her watch and frowned. “Will it take long?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He smiled reassuringly. “Not long at all.”
CHAPTER 52
NEW YORK CITY
As the Bureau Crown Vic turned left onto West Thirty-seventh Street, Naomi looked at her watch again, then scowled out the window. She no longer cared if her impatience was obvious. This was taking much longer than she’d expected, and she really wanted to talk to Rudaki. They were running out of time, but then again, she thought the delay might be a good thing. If Ryan had gotten to Rudaki already, that would explain why the informant had yet to show up at the New York FO. On the other hand, it seemed like if that had transpired, Ryan would have called to let her know. With this thought, she realized that she hadn’t checked her phone in a while. Her purse was down by her feet. Leaning down, she rooted around for a minute but didn’t find it.
“Agent Foster, did you see what I did with my phone?”
“Oh, shit,” he said, digging into his pocket. He pulled it out and handed it over. “Sorry… Some guy named Kealey called while you were getting the coffee. He asked me to tell you that he struck out.”
“Damn it,” she muttered. “Is that all he said?”
“That’s it.”
She looked at her phone, thought about calling him, then decided against it. If he’d struck out with the safe house, he wouldn’t want to hear that the New York FO had been wasting her time for the better part of an hour. The first person they’d visited had been a naturalized Iranian just west of the Brooklyn Bridge, the owner of a small freight company. He had been adamant in his denials of wrongdoing, and there had been something about his manner that convinced her immediately. Then they’d moved on to a Saudi immigrant in the financial district. That interview proved equally fruitless, ending with the man screaming obscenities at them in Arabic as they’d hurried back to the car. In short, the whole trip had been pointless, making her wish she had just stayed in the Javits Building. Unfortunately, it was a little late for that now.
Without warning, Foster swung the car to the right. They bumped over a little concrete lip, passing beneath a worn wooden sign. The car slowed to a halt in the middle of a large parking area, a brick warehouse off to the right.
Naomi turned to her left, confusion spreading over her face. She was about to ask what they were doing there when she saw the gun in his hand. She froze, unsure of what was happening. For a split second, she thought it was some kind of sick joke. Then she was aware of the metal door sliding down behind the car, blocking the view of the street. Before Foster could say anything — before she could even ask what was happening — her door was pulled open. She turned instinctively and looked up into a face she had only ever seen on her computer screen and in distant surveillance shots: the face of William Vanderveen.
She tried to speak, but no words came out. Vanderveen seemed to realize the effect he was having on her. He smiled, revealing two rows of very even, very white teeth. “You must be Naomi. It’s nice to meet you. Would you mind dropping that phone and stepping out of the car?”
She took note of his voice: flat, calm, devoid of emotion. There was no hint of his native South African dialect, but that wasn’t surprising; according to the files she had read on countless occasions, he had not returned to his homeland in many years. She felt like this must be a dream; in the year since she had learned of his existence, she had almost convinced herself that he wasn’t real, that he was nothing more than a figment of their collective imaginations. But now, sitting before him, she could see he was definitely real. Just like the gun in his right hand.
Seeing no other option, she dropped the phone on the floor, got out of the car, and shut the door. She looked around quickly as Foster got out of the driver’s seat and moved around the car. Aside from the roll-down vehicular door, there was also a pedestrian gate set in the 10-foot metal wall that separated the parking area from the street. A short, heavyset man with glasses and dark features was standing next to the door he had just pulled down. To her right was the warehouse; she could see an incongruous set of glass doors directly behind the back of a large Isuzu box truck. The doors were propped open with red clay pots, but it was the truck that held her attention. She knew instinctively that it contained the BLU-82, even though she could not see the contents from where she was standing.
Vanderveen looked to Foster and said, “Bring her inside and secure her.”
“We should just-”
“We will,” Vanderveen said. “But not yet. Just do as I say.”
Foster grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the glass doors of the warehouse. Naomi was still too stunned at this turn of events to think it through properly, but she forced herself to concentrate. It was now clear that Foster had been feeding Vanderveen information all along, but the question remained, how did he get it in the first place? Did Samantha Crane still have a part in it? Ryan had been so sure about that, and it still seemed like the only possible explanation.
Only now did she remember what he had told her in the bar at the Hotel Washington, that Foster had taken part in the raid in Alexandria. That was why the name had seemed so familiar, but Ryan had mentioned him only in passing, which explained why it had slipped her mind.
She cursed herself silently, bitterly, realizing she had probably made the last mistake of her life. Even though Vanderveen had cut off Foster’s last sentence, it had been all too clear what he was about to say: We should just kill her. She knew what was coming, but she couldn’t dwell on it. If she hesitated, or if she froze completely, she would lose any chance of survival. She forced herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
They entered the warehouse. Foster grabbed her arm and seemed to hesitate, then pushed her toward a large piece of machinery, a freestanding commercial lathe. Vanderveen walked in behind them, the gun held loosely in his right hand. Seeing that the other man had Naomi covered, Foster set down his service weapon on a nearby stack of broken wooden pallets. Then he produced a pair of handcuffs and pulled her over toward the lathe. She resisted slightly, so he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back sharply. Tears sprang to her eyes with the pain, but she refused to cry out.
“Put your hands around that bar,” Foster hissed. “Do it.”
The stinging sensation at the back of her head was unbearable, and she knew it wouldn’t help to struggle. She put her hands on either side of a horizontal bar that ran the length of the lathe, and he snapped the cuffs tightly around her wrists, securing her in place.
“Step away,” Vanderveen said. Foster hesitated, then did as he was told. The former U.S. soldier walked over and stood very close, eyeing her steadily. There was a smile on his handsome face, but the look in his eyes revealed his true intentions and etched away at whatever self-control she had left. She could tell he was deciding how best to hurt her before taking her life.
“Naomi… You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?” She didn’t reply, knowing it wouldn’t matter what she said. “As you can see, you’re in a very bad situation here. I’m afraid you used up all your luck in Berlin.”
Naomi closed her eyes. “So you were there.”
“Of course.” He paused and looked at her carefully, then reached out and touched her cheek. She recoiled instantly, but he merely smiled.
“Tell me, how long have you worked for the CIA?”
“I don’t work for them at all.” She did her best to sound defiant. “They fired me.”
“Really?” He looked amused. “I’m impressed. And how long have you known Ryan?”
She set her jaw and looked away. He stared at her for about twenty seconds, as if gauging her conviction. Then he nodded once and walked off toward the office, disappearing from sight. Naomi heard a door bang, the rattle of blinds against glass panes, and then he returned, carrying a green metal toolbox. Setting it down on the smooth cement floor, he opened it and started perusing the contents. As he rummaged, he spoke to her without
