Something sparked behind his eyes. If Kealey wanted to be involved, then so be it. Vanderveen started the Honda and eased back into traffic.
When she came back to herself, Naomi was alone in the hallway.
Standing up, she checked herself for injuries, afraid of what she would find. Miraculously, her body seemed to be intact. She walked on shaky legs toward the wrecked apartment. As she reached the doorway, the two remaining operators pushed out, oblivious to her presence, talking quickly but calmly into their lip mics.
“TOC, this is Alpha 4, I have four agents down. I need EMTs now.”
Naomi stepped into the devastation, slipping her pistol back into its holster. The cheap furnishings had been nearly destroyed, the carpet littered with splinters of wood and shards of shattered glass. One of the terrorists was lying spread-eagled on the floor. She felt bile rise in her throat when she saw what was left of the man’s face. She looked away quickly and forced a few shallow breaths, briefly catching the voices behind her in the process: “TOC, make that five down. I repeat, five down. Two tangos out of play. Confirm ambulances en route.”
Passing into one of the bedrooms, she was aware of distant sirens.
The room was sparsely furnished, its most notable feature a desk that had been smashed by bullets, and what looked like the remains of a laptop computer.
Fatima Darabi was sitting against the wall where she had fallen.
Her body was ruined, but her mind was still intact and all she knew was pain. She opened her mouth to breathe. When nothing happened, she realized that she had only a few seconds left. Through the rapidly encroaching darkness, Darabi watched as the dazed-looking woman wandered into the room.
Darabi’s fading brown eyes flickered to the handgun lying next to her. One of the agents had kicked it out of reach just after he fired a half dozen rounds into her chest. It was a stretch, but she would try for it anyway. Her body was dying, but the hatred that drove her was as strong as ever.
As Naomi examined the contents of the desk, she sensed something move behind her. She turned to stare at the body propped up against the wall, thinking she must have imagined the sound—until the eyes moved. Then, to her disbelief, the woman’s hand was reaching out for the Makarov that lay a few feet to her right. The operators had obviously assumed, in their haste to get back to their fallen team members, that the subject was dead. But she wasn’t dead, at least not yet, and the gun was in her hand and rising as Naomi frantically groped for her own pistol . . .
Naomi was far too late. The dying terrorist leveled her weapon and squeezed the trigger.
The pay phone was on the far edge of the lot, shielded from the storefront by a row of dilapidated vehicles, climbing out of a small mountain of refuse and cigarette butts. The metal casing was dented and scarred, and the telephone book absent, having been ripped away from its metal wire a long time ago.
Vanderveen didn’t need the book, as the number was already seared into his mind. It was the last thing he needed to do in the city.
He could not make the call from his cell phone or from his rented home in Virginia. Nor could he have done it from the waterfront, despite the slim chance that it would be traced back to that location.
He picked up the receiver and dialed the number.
“Hello, you’ve reached the U.S. Army Rangers Association. This is Pam speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hi, Pam. My name is Ryan Kealey. I’m a member of your organization and I receive your newsletter, the ‘Ranger Register.’ I haven’t been getting it lately, though . . . I recently moved, and I was wondering if you have my new address on file.”
There was only a minor risk in this approach. She might ask for his Social Security number, former address, date of birth . . . any number of things, none of which he could answer. If she asked, he would simply hang up and look for another way.
“What is your new address, Mr. Kealey?”
He breathed a soft sigh of relief. “It’s 1662 Manor Drive, Springfield, Illinois.” He gave her the zip code. “I wasn’t sure if I sent it or not . . . Is that what you have?”
He could hear the distant sounds of a computer keyboard over the line. “No, sir, I have 1334 Village Creek Road, Cape Elizabeth, Maine. I’ll go ahead and change that for you now.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
Vanderveen looked up in annoyance before answering. Several ambulances were racing past him on the Dwight D. Eisenhower Freeway, and he could barely hear the woman over the scream of their sirens. “No. You’ve been very helpful.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good day, sir.”
Vanderveen hung up and walked back to the Honda. He remembered Kealey as a man with incomparable devotion to the units in which he served. Since he had served in a number of units, it had taken a number of calls. A lot of calls, in fact. Vanderveen had almost given up when it finally came to him.
In that glorious moment of epiphany, he remembered that Kealey had once gone to the commanding general at Bragg with a fund-raising idea for the Ranger Memorial Foundation. This recollection had then led him to the USARA, one of the leading organizations chaired by former Army Rangers.
Vanderveen felt a twinge of satisfaction as he crossed the Francis Case Memorial Bridge and left the darkening Washington skyline far behind. He had come to a decision. He was going forward with it. He had come too far, worked too hard to throw it all away now. To assume the woman had taken her own life before talking required a tremendous leap of faith on his part, but he was prepared to take that leap. There was too much to lose if he didn’t.
It had been a productive day, and Vanderveen allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction at the knowledge that he once more held the power of life and death over a man whose fate should have been sealed on a Syrian hilltop seven years earlier.
After the late-night dash from the Hay-Adams, Kealey had traded down to a far more modest hotel on the outskirts of Alexandria. He had paid cash in advance before learning that the Elgin story was already dead, thinking that if the reporters managed to track him down, they had probably earned themselves a story. He was drained—
physically from the long hours and the constant stress, and emotionally from the protracted argument with Harper that had not managed to resolve itself.
Ryan had no illusions that his career would continue at the Agency, but he respected Harper, counted him as a friend, and it bothered him that he had walked out of Langley without trying to re-pair the rift between them.
He brought the BMW to a halt in the dying light of the hotel’s parking lot. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, allowing himself, just for a moment, a glimpse at what life might hold when it was all said and done. The teaching at Orono wasn’t bad; it was boring, but he could live with that. Maybe he’d get more involved, take on some extra classes. Maybe they would move, find a place closer to the city. Katie had suggested it recently, but he wasn’t sure if she had been serious or not.
They could go anywhere. Ryan had a great deal of money, mostly inherited from his grandfather on his mother’s side. He tried not to flaunt it . . . There was the car and the fancy hotels, but the house on Cape Elizabeth, while comfortable, was nothing overly extravagant for the area, and retirement was still nothing more than a distant possibility. The engagement ring had been his biggest purchase by far of the past year.
At the same time, he wasn’t cheap, and there were so many places they could go . . .
He got out of the car and walked toward their room. Maybe, for a while at least, it would be good to get away. He wondered what she would think of a ceremony at sunset on a beach on the Mediterranean, and a smile touched his face at the thought of her reaction. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to ask her.