A grim silence ensued as the people around the table considered this news. It was Jonathan Harper’s measured words that finally shattered the calm.
“There’s a chance he went back to the source, despite the increased security that was put in place after the Kennedy-Warren bombing. Has this information been checked against the records in Norfolk?”
“I have people working on that right now,” Susskind responded.
“We haven’t been able to get in contact with the director of operations or the terminal manager. The highest we could get was an assistant supervisor of the container division, and that particular individual is not exactly the picture of cooperation.”
It was the superintendent’s sonorous voice that rang out in response. “I might be able to help you with that,” he said. “Our department works pretty closely with the staff over there. I can save you a lot of time if you can get in touch with Gary Thompson and refer him my way. He’s the general manager at NIT.”
Susskind wrote the name down and nodded her appreciation to the heavyset colonel.
“Those records are going to be crucial,” Harper said. “If Vanderveen did use the terminal a second time, he obviously managed to get past Customs, or we wouldn’t be in this mess. At the same time, there will be a record of the type and weight of shipment he received. That could go a long way in telling us how he intends to deliver the package.”
“Getting access to those records needs to be a top priority,”
Landrieu agreed from the head of the table. “We need to throw some weight around. It’s going to take us long enough to get a search warrant without wasting any additional time.”
He turned his attention to the deputy director of the FBI. “Make sure they understand in Norfolk that there’s going to be serious repercussions if they keep it up. We’ll shut their whole operation down if we have to. What about the residence itself?”
“Surveillance is already in place,” Susskind responded. “The SAC
out of Richmond is running the show. Obviously, the Virginia State Police are on the scene as well. The state troopers have both ends of Chamberlayne Road blocked off, and a loose perimeter has already been formed around the house, extending a quarter mile out in every direction. The staging point is a half mile down the road—this part of the state is about as rural as it gets, which makes things a whole lot easier for us in some respects, harder in others. For instance, we can’t bring any choppers in without making our presence known.”
“Do we know if he’s in there?” McCabe asked.
“No idea. The lights are off, but that doesn’t mean much; at this time of the morning, he’s probably asleep.”
“What about infrared?”
“We tried that, but the windows are too small. We can’t get a good scan of the entire house.”
McCabe was nodding slowly. “Are there any vehicles on the property?”
“There’s a fairly large barn,” Susskind responded. “But the doors are closed and we can’t get close enough to see inside without jeopardizing our cover. When we move, we have to be sure.”
Plesse cleared his throat. “How about roadblocks? I would think, as a precautionary measure—”
“No way,” McCabe said from across the table. “It’s less than two hours into Washington from that part of Virginia. It would take us at least an hour just to get checkpoints set up on the main roads.”
“Besides, what would we tell the people manning them?”
Landrieu asked. “Let me remind you once again that the president is anxious to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to this situation.
Setting anything up that might approach an effective barrier around the city would mean bringing hundreds of people into the loop. That is completely unacceptable.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I think we’re past the point of worrying about publicity. By putting this much effort into keeping it quiet, we’re giving Vanderveen a huge advantage.”
Ryan flinched at Kharmai’s unexpected outburst, and waited for the inevitable reprimand.
Patrick Landrieu straightened and fixed his gaze on the young woman at the other end of the table. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Naomi Kharmai, sir. I’m with—”
“Central Intelligence, I know. I served that particular agency for more than twenty years. No offense, Ms. Kharmai, but I think the gravity of this situation is somewhat beyond the scope of your limited experience.” He turned his attention away from her immediately.
“Now, if anyone else has any reasonable suggestions . . .”
When Ryan tuned the man out and cast a quick glance in Naomi’s direction, he saw that she had slumped down in her seat. Her eyes were downcast, and her cheeks were bright red.
“Excuse me, Director.”
Landrieu looked up, surprised and annoyed. “Yes?”
“Do you know who I am, sir?”
Landrieu hesitated, a fact that was noticed by everyone present.
“Yes, I do, Mr. Kealey.”
“I would like to point out that Naomi’s efforts at tracking this name down are the only reason we’re even sitting here. If she has something to say, it would be well worth your time to listen to her.”
Had he been a man of compromise, willing to endure a mild re-buke in the interest of maintaining a positive atmosphere, the director might have shrugged it off. Because he was not that kind of man, however, he chose to bluster. “While I’m sure that we’re all grateful for Ms. Kharmai’s efforts, I don’t think we have time to—”
“Director.”
With the single spoken word, Landrieu looked up into the coldest pair of eyes he had ever seen. He almost opened his mouth to speak again, and then decided against it. Landrieu briefly reflected that what he saw in Kealey’s face might well have been the product, at least in part, of his own imagination. As a former deputy DCI, he still had connections at the highest levels of the Agency. He knew all about the man who was seated before him.
Patrick Landrieu swallowed his pride and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his words were barely audible, despite the stunned silence that had swept through the room. “By all means, Ms. Kharmai, if you have any suggestions, we would be happy to hear them.”
Naomi was a little shocked herself at what had just transpired. She collected herself quickly enough, though, and unconsciously straightened in her seat. “Thank you, Director. I admit that the political implications of another bombing, especially during a state visit by two national leaders, are way over my head. At the same time, we can’t afford to lose sight of the fact that the president is not the only person at risk here. There should be no doubt that a lot of people are going to die if Vanderveen manages to accomplish whatever it is he’s set out to do. As you’ve all seen from the copies of the driver’s license, Vanderveen made only minor cosmetic alterations while posing as Timothy Nichols. It’s fair to say that he’s probably already gotten rid of that identity, and has taken more dramatic steps to change his appearance for the final stage of his operation, if this is in fact the final stage.”
This statement was greeted by the low rumble of unhappy voices.
“If Vanderveen is still there, then we clearly have nothing to lose by moving in right now. If, on the other hand, he’s already gone, we need to know as soon as possible. Provided that the scene is treated with the utmost care and consideration, and any evidence remains intact, there’s a good chance we might find something useful, something that could tell us what he looks like now. At this point, there is very little else we can do. I think that it’s time to focus our efforts.”