Al-Tikriti considered this for a moment, tenting his fingers beneath his chin in a strangely pontifical gesture. “As you know,” he finally said, “this plan is not in its infancy. Arrangements have already been made in Paris… arrangements that could make your work much easier.” He paused. “Of course, the final decision is yours to make.”
Vanderveen hesitated, then said, “Go on.”
The former intelligence chief spoke for twenty minutes. When he was done, Vanderveen nodded his agreement, impressed in spite of himself. It was easy to see how al-Tikriti had earned his post; the older man was not bound by the usual limitations of Islamic extremism. In particular, his views on the fairer sex seemed to be far more progressive than those of his peers.
“I’ll need a point of contact,” Vanderveen said. He proceeded to recite a lengthy string of digits as well as an access code. “You can leave and pick up messages on that line. Obviously, face-to-face meetings will no longer be possible once we’ve set things in motion.”
Tahir al-Tikriti nodded once. “I’ll provide you with the number before you leave. Since we’re on the subject, the Jordanian’s successor has offered the use of his people.”
“I don’t need them. I’ll use the woman, but I’ll arrange everything else myself.”
“And documents? We can provide—”
“I have those as well. Let me make myself clear. Anything that connects us is dangerous. The fewer the links, the better off we are.” He paused. “There is one other thing. I understand the need to move immediately, but I expect the first ten million to be deposited in two days’ time.
The rest should be delivered once the job is completed in New York. If the plans for the meeting are changed or cancelled completely, I’ll reserve the right to end things there. Agreed?”
“Agreed. You understand what we are looking for. The goal is to—”
“The goal is to eliminate the targets you’ve drawn up in the prescribed manner. A simple task —provided the meeting at the UN goes forward.”
“It will go forward,” al-Tikriti intoned. “I have no doubt of it.”
“Then our business here is concluded,” al-Douri said. He stood, and though he was looking into the blackness of the room, his pale eyes seemed to be fixed on Vanderveen’s. “With one exception.”
“Yes,” the younger man said. “With one exception.”
Rashid al-Umari turned restlessly in a bare room on the second floor. He had not been able to sleep, despite his exhaustion. The skies had opened just after midnight, and though the window was shut and the curtains drawn, the room was filled with the sound of rushing water and the occasional peal of distant thunder.
A sudden noise drew his gaze to the door. He saw a black silhouette against the light in the hall.
Rashid blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up on the foldout cot. He was not alarmed in the least. In this place, he was on safe ground; he was amongst brothers. “What is it? Kohl…?”
He saw the gun come up, but it wasn’t real. He recognized the extended barrel of a suppressed weapon, but it couldn’t be real, not after what he had done for them. Mired in disbelief, he didn’t react, but it wouldn’t have mattered.
The muzzle flashed twice, and Rashid al-Umari tumbled back into permanent night.
CHAPTER 12
WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA
A premature winter wind whipped over the tarmac at Dulles International Airport as a Dassault Falcon executive jet taxied in on the 12/30 runway, the same plane having landed less than a minute earlier. Jonathan Harper, leaning against the rear fender of a black GMC Suburban — the only vehicle parked on the apron — brushed a few drops of rain from the sleeves of his Burberry overcoat and watched as the sleek jet rolled to a stop, the twin Pratt & Whitney engines winding down to a gradual halt. The cabin door swung out to the left a few moments later, the stairs came down, and the Falcon’s only passenger appeared in the doorway.
Harper instantly saw that Ryan Kealey was in rough shape. The lower half of his face was still covered in the thick, matted beard, and lank hair hung past the line of his jaw, further obscuring his features. His lean frame was covered by a pair of tattered khakis and a gray Nike sweatshirt, his rugged Columbia hiking boots still bearing clumps of red brown Iraqi mud. A large military rucksack was thrown over his right shoulder. He didn’t seem to be straining under the load, but there was something about the empty expression on his face that worried the DDO; it was a look that spoke of more than physical exhaustion.
As Kealey started across the windblown tarmac, Harper considered the events of the previous day. He had personally brought Kealey up to speed when the younger man finally called in, but it had been difficult to gauge his reaction over the static-filled line. If appearances were any indication, though, Kealey was having trouble with the revelation that Vanderveen had finally resurfaced, after almost a year of not knowing whether the man was dead or alive.
Crossing the last few feet of cement, Kealey shook Harper’s extended hand and offered something approaching a smile.
“Good to see you, John. I didn’t expect to be met by a man of your stature.”
“A lot’s been happening. I thought I would fill you in on the ride.”
Kealey nodded to the vehicle. “I guess your driver is cleared for it.”
“He’s cleared as high as you are.”
“Sounds good.” Kealey opened the rear doors and tossed his pack into the cargo area, then made his way to the backseat. Harper went to the passenger side and climbed in front, as was his habit.
Once both doors were shut, the driver put the truck into gear.
Harper handed Kealey a carryout cup of steaming black coffee over the back of the seat. “I thought you could use this,” he said.
“Thanks. I didn’t get any sleep on the plane.”
“I can tell. You look like shit.”
“I’m aware of that,” was the wry response. “I need a shower.”
“And a haircut,” Harper noted. “You’ll get all of that soon enough. I’ve got you set up at the Hotel Washington.”
Kealey raised an eyebrow, and Harper caught the gesture. “Yeah, I know. Admittedly, it’s much nicer than what you’d usually get, but I pulled some strings for you. After six months in the desert, I thought you could use some dependable air-conditioning and a comfortable bed. Oh, and Kharmai’s there as well. She’s already checked in.”
“Naomi,” Kealey said in a flat voice. “What’s she doing here?”
“We brought her back to work on al-Umari’s finances, among other things. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but she’s already managed to dig up some interesting information. I’ll let her brief you herself.”
“Is that where we’re going? The hotel?”
Harper nodded without turning around, then changed tack. “Anyway, here’s where we stand. As soon as you called in, we started running the names you got from Kassem. Two of them, unfortunately, belong to the recently deceased. Interestingly enough, both men were killed during the same raid on the Syrian border.”
A skeptical expression came over the younger man’s face. “I suppose that came from—”
“No.” The DDO had anticipated the response. “That came from the Pentagon, not the Iraqis. It’s been confirmed.”
Kealey leaned back in his seat and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t believe he’d wasted all that time for nothing, but Harper had only accounted for two…. “What about the third?”