Harper was about to respond when the heavy mahogany door was edged open by a secretary. “Excuse me, sir, but you might want to turn to Channel 3. It’s about Senator Levy.”
The confusion was evident on the faces of both men as the director scrambled for the remote control. An image appeared on the screen of a high-rise apartment complex that Harper recognized immediately.
“If you’re just joining us, we’re here outside the Kennedy-Warren, an exclusive residential building on Connecticut Avenue, where officials from the Justice Department have tracked down the man suspected in providing information that led to the cold-blooded murder of Senator Daniel Levy last week. The man has been identified as Michael Shakib, a Congressional staffer with strong ties to the Iranian American community, who has—”
“Jesus Christ!” Andrews screamed, his voice drowning out the excited anchorwoman. “How the hell did this get past us, John?”
“The FBI is supposed to be keeping us up-to-date on these kinds of developments, but—”
“Bullshit!” Andrews took a few deep breaths, resting his hands on one of the few empty spaces on his cluttered desk. Seconds passed, and the anger fell from his features. “Sorry, John, that’s not meant for you. I can see that they fucked us on this.”
The DCI thought for a long moment before continuing. “You know, it might even work out better that we’re not obviously invested. I don’t see this ending well, not with all those reporters out there. All the same, get someone down there without making a lot of noise about it. Send Kealey, if you want.”
Harper was in awe of the man’s self-control. “If I know him, sir, he’s probably already on the way.”
“Make sure we have a part in this, John. Bring us into the loop. If we don’t know what’s going on, it’ll be easier for them to hang the blame on us.”
It was a dismissal. Harper left the room quietly, grateful to leave behind the now-fuming director of Central Intelligence.
Ryan had driven his BMW down from Maine rather than risk being stuck in an uncomfortable rental for the duration of his stay in Washington. He decided that it had been a good decision as the powerful 4.4-liter engine pushed the car north along Connecticut Avenue. He was quickly approaching the Dupont Circle underpass, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he expertly navigated the busy street with one hand on the steering wheel.
“I got it, John. Talk to the guy on the scene, don’t make any noise . . . Fine, I understand. Here, talk to your girl.” He handed it over to a pale-faced Naomi Kharmai, who had to unclench her tightly balled fists to accept the outstretched phone.
“Don’t let them brush you off, Naomi,” Harper said. “We need to know if this is on the up-and-up. If Shakib is the leak, then we’re getting somewhere. Don’t worry that we didn’t get ahold of this first—
it’s what we do with it now, okay?” The DDO broke off to speak with someone else momentarily. “Call me when you have some details.”
The phone went dead in her ear before she could respond. As Ryan shifted into fourth gear and punched the pedal, she slunk back down in the seat as far as she could go, absolutely positive that they would be dead long before reaching their destination.
Connecticut Avenue outside the Kennedy-Warren was filled to capacity with emergency-service vehicles, fire engines, and the unmarked government sedans that belonged to the FBI personnel on the scene. Piles of dirty ice had accumulated at the curb, and the pavement beneath their feet was slick. A stiff wind whipped between the vehicles, making the temperature seem even lower than it really was. Ryan thought it was probably less than 30 degrees, making him wish he had brought more protection from the harsh weather than a worn, black-leather jacket. To make matters worse, he and Kharmai were forced to wait for five minutes while their identification was confirmed by the ponderously slow police officers maintaining the perimeter.
Naomi was staring at an unmarked Chevrolet transport van that was at least 25 feet long. The rear doors were open, and Kealey could easily make out the switchboard inside, as well as a gasoline-powered generator bolted to the floor. The vehicle was surrounded by men in blue coveralls and body armor, each holding an HK MP10 down by his side, except for the few who carried shotguns chambered with entry rounds. The men were quietly conversing among themselves; some chewed gum rapidly, fingers tapping impatiently on the trigger guards of their automatic weapons. They tried to hide their tense faces, mostly failing in the effort.
Ryan recognized the stress-relieving rituals and knew immediately that they would get the job done. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
“Do you think they’re going in already?” Naomi asked.
“Jesus, I hope not,” he replied, gesturing in the direction of the news vans held beyond the perimeter. Satellite dishes were attached to the roofs of the vehicles. “If he’s actually up there, he can see everything we’re doing. This can’t get any worse than it already is.”
Naomi spotted a heavy, angry-looking black man wearing a blue FBI parka over a white dress shirt and suit pants. He was shouting at a small cluster of agents, jabbing his finger into the air emphatically.
She caught his eye and walked in his direction, Kealey trailing behind her. The agents scattered on their approach.
“Naomi. I thought you might turn up,” the man said warily. She smiled pleasantly, ignoring the tone of his voice.
“Luke Hendricks, Ryan Kealey. Luke here is the ASAC for the Washington field office. Why didn’t we hear about this?” she asked bluntly. The generous smile was gone from her face.
“Hey, you said it. I’m the Assistant Special Agent in Charge; that means there is about a billion people telling me how to do my job.
I’m not the guy who decides what we share with other agencies,”
Hendricks responded.
Naomi was looking around. “Where’s the ADIC?” she asked. She was referring to the Assistant Director in Charge, who runs the field office in major cities such as Washington, D.C., and Los Angeles.
“In the hospital, believe it or not. Double-bypass surgery—pretty convenient, huh? I think he must have seen this one coming.”
Kealey appraised the FBI agent quickly, approving of what he saw.
Hendricks had a right to be angry; he had been placed in a difficult situation with very little oversight, and the unexpected presence of the reporters only compounded the problem. All the same, Ryan thought that he looked like a man able to make quick decisions under pressure.
“What do you have at this point?” Ryan asked.
“Not much. Confirmation that he’s in there, of course. The desk manager saw him go up twenty minutes before we walked through the door. We haven’t started a dialogue yet, and I’m beginning to think it won’t happen. I’m under pressure to send those guys in,”
Hendricks said, waving vaguely in the direction of the SWAT team standing by. “Personally, I’d like to exhaust all other possibilities before I give them the go-ahead. My guys are pretty pissed off, but you’d never know it looking at them. Right now, I don’t see this man coming down alive unless he gives it up—if he eats a bullet, then we’ll never figure out what he was up to.”
Ryan looked up at the towering building, then back to Hendricks.
He didn’t say anything. Personally, he thought that it was a mistake to assume anything about the man on the eighth floor of this apartment complex, Congressional staffer or not.
“How did you get a line on Shakib?” Kealey asked.
Hendricks focused his attention on the man standing slightly behind Naomi Kharmai. Kealey was of medium height, with black hair on the long side, a lean, muscular build, and dark gray eyes that were somewhat unnerving in their intensity.