“I want to look at the hotel and get a feel for the area. I also want you to show me where the backup car will be parked.” He glanced at his watch. “Then we’re going to take a drive.”
A small, unreadable furrow appeared between her eyes. “Where are we going?”
His gaze moved to the black plastic case at the foot of the bed. “We’re going hiking.”
CHAPTER 18
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The trip from Harper’s home on Q Street to the hotel passed relatively quickly, for which Kealey was grateful. He had considered stopping in for a drink or two, and he knew that he would have been more than welcome. Julie Harper was, after all, as much a friend to him as Jonathan was, but he knew where the conversation would lead, and he was too tired — both emotionally and physically — to deal with the past. After an exhausting ten-hour flight and the raid on Duke Street, he wanted nothing more than to get some sleep.
The driver dropped him at 15th and Pennsylvania, a stone’s throw from the White House. As he entered the eleven-story building and walked through the newly renovated lobby, Kealey could not help but admire the beautifully appointed interior of the Hotel Washington. It could not have been more different from the surroundings he’d grown accustomed to over the past six months, and it was definitely an improvement.
Harper had given him a key card in advance, so there was no need to check in. He reached the elevators and punched a button for the fifth floor. As he was waiting, a familiar voice called out from behind.
He turned to find Naomi Kharmai standing a few feet away. She was watching him with a strange expression, almost as if she didn’t recognize the man standing before her.
“Hey,” he said, breaking the strained silence. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too,” she replied, crossing the distance between them. “How have you been?”
“Not bad.”
For her part, Naomi could see that this wasn’t true. For one thing, he’d lost weight, a good deal of weight. His face was gaunt, the cheekbones razor sharp beneath tanned, taut skin, and his eyes were smudged with dark circles. His hair was far too long, and he looked incredibly tired, as though he hadn’t slept in months. It was a shocking transformation from the man she remembered, but despite the obvious changes, her attention was fixed on a much smaller detaiclass="underline" the fact that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
Naomi wasn’t sure what to make of the missing ring, but she did think it strange that he hadn’t gone through with it. She knew all too well how much he cared about the other woman, and Ryan didn’t seem like the type to draw an engagement out over the months and years. From the way he had once described it, it sounded as if they had the perfect relationship, and Naomi couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to change all that.
The question kept popping up in her mind, but she didn’t have time to consider it further, as he was saying something, returning her inquiry.
“Oh, I’ve been okay, I guess.” Trying to conceal her initial reaction, she smiled and tilted her head. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
He looked her over quickly. Her glossy black hair was cut short, falling just to her shoulders, and she was wearing a featherweight sweater the color of raspberries, low-slung jeans, and blocky heels. He’d forgotten how young she looked, like a teenaged girl who’d been pushed kicking and screaming into womanhood. It was hard to believe she was in her thirties.
“Harper told me you were here.”
“Oh.” She paused uncomfortably, then nodded toward a pair of double doors in carved walnut. “I was going to get a drink. Want to join me?”
Kealey could barely keep his eyes open, but not wanting to hurt her feelings, he nodded and they went inside. The Two Continents Lobby Restaurant was large and warmly lit, Charlie Parker’s
“April in Paris” playing softly over hidden speakers. Despite the relatively early hour, the room was nearly empty. An elderly couple sat at the end of the polished bar, sipping martinis, and a young woman with squinty eyes and silky brown hair was slumped over the counter a few seats down, her body all but consumed by an oversized sweatshirt. Taking in the slightly pathetic scene, Kealey was struck by an absurd desire to laugh; he’d nearly been killed a few hours earlier, and now he was standing in a bar and listening to jazz as though nothing had happened.
Strangely enough, it actually felt that way; it was almost as if his mind had already filed away the day’s events, along with the relevant emotions.
They took their drinks to a corner table and sat across from each other in awkward silence, Naomi intricately involved in the task of picking a loose cotton thread from the sleeve of her sweater.
“So,” he finally began. “I heard you’re working on al-Umari’s bank accounts.”
Naomi couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment; they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, and the first thing out of his mouth was work related.
She sighed and said, “That’s right. It’s tough going, though. Most of the banks stand to lose a great deal of business by cooperating, so the first thing I did was place a call to the FATF. They have a way of getting things done, but it still takes some time.”
Kealey nodded and lifted his glass. The Financial Action Task Force was widely respected for its unique ability to extract information from banks and government agencies alike. Although it consisted of less than a dozen people working out of a Paris apartment, the small group had reliable ties to more than twenty-eight countries, including the United States, a charter member.
“Anyway,” she continued, “we’ve already come up with something interesting. Rashid al-Umari recently sold off the Muthanna Division of the Southern Iraqi Oil Company, which includes a small refinery just east of Samawah.”
“Who did he sell it to?”
“That’s the interesting part.” She leaned forward in her seat, her green eyes sparkling. “How much do you know about real estate transactions in Iraq?”
His blank expression made the answer clear.
“Well, to break it down for you, buying real estate in Iraq is very, very difficult,” she said, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Everything is run out of the Real Estate Registration Department, which is part of the Ministry of Justice. When an agreement is reached between buyer and seller, both parties are required to make an appearance at the local RERD office, where their identities are verified, as well as their nationalities. Currently, only Iraqi-born citizens can legally purchase land in Iraq.”
“To avoid forgery, right? I heard that people were making their own title deeds during the war.”
“That’s right.” She seemed impressed, and Kealey felt vaguely insulted. He may not have known the specifics, but he did know a little something about the country in which he’d spent the last six months.
“Anyway,” she continued, “as it turns out, the Muthanna refinery was sold to a conglomerate of twenty-five Iraqi Sunnis, all of whom are active in mosques that have come to our attention for one reason or another, mostly for suspected recruitment of suicide bombers. Six have connections to known terrorist organizations, including Ansar al-Islam, but listen to this: at least three of those men can be directly tied to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”
Kealey was stunned by the reference to the Iranian president. “How the hell was that approved? I mean, if they had to turn up at the RERD—”
“We don’t think they did,” Naomi said. “It’s starting to look as if some money might have changed hands to, well, expedite the process. You see, the first appearance is just the start of it. If an application for sale is cleared by the RERD, it’s forwarded to the Civil Affairs Department.