Lowe gripped her right arm just above the elbow and steered her toward his cruiser. She stiffened under his grasp, but didn’t try to resist. “I’m going to have you sit in my car for a few minutes while we sort this out.”
“But why?” she asked, her voice beginning to climb. “This is ridiculous. I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Then you won’t mind answering a few questions.” He moved to open the rear door, but before he could, she caught his eye and spoke again in a more reasonable tone.
“Officer, do I really need to sit in the back?” She gave him a pleading look. “I mean, it’s not like I’m under arrest, right?”
He looked at her, then back at the car. It was true; she hadn’t really done anything wrong, and he didn’t want to invite a harassment charge at a later date. Besides, he’d rather have her up front, anyway. At the very least, it would give him something to look at for the next thirty minutes or so.
“Fine,” he said, guiding her round to the passenger side. He opened the front door, and she reluctantly got in. “Just wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Once the door was closed, Naomi quickly composed herself and watched intently as the officer walked to the front of his car, unhooking his shoulder mic. As he turned away and faced the embassy grounds, she sat up and checked out the cruiser. She didn’t bother trying the door, as there was nowhere to go. Looking down to her left, she examined the radio mounted between the seats. The chatter was audible, and the green LED light showed a “1,” which she assumed was the primary channel. She listened for the officer’s voice, which was nasally, unpleasant, and easy to catch, but heard nothing she recognized. She quickly decided he must be transmitting on a secondary channel.
She nearly pressed her ear to the window in an attempt to hear what was happening, but stopped herself in time, realizing how futile the gesture would be. He could be double-checking the tags on the Taurus, or he could be calling his patrol supervisor. Her panic was starting to get the best of her. She had done her best to seem disadvantaged but not incapable. After all, she needed him to leave; it wouldn’t do to have him sitting around, waiting for a tow truck that would never arrive. Unfortunately, he hadn’t bought her act, and now, the only thing working in her favor was that she had talked herself out of the backseat, where she would have been completely vulnerable, stripped of all her options.
She swore under her breath, second-guessing her actions, wondering how else she could have handled it. It might have been better to just hand over her real ID, but the officer might have detained her anyway, and she couldn’t risk being listed on a police report. It would be too easy to link her to the embassy break-in at a later date, as she was parked so close to the building.
Ideally, she would have had a false ID to satisfy a casual inspection, but even if Harper had been willing to go that far out on a limb, there just hadn’t been time to get one forged. Besides, forging an ID for a mid-level analyst would have raised a lot of questions. It also would have meant bringing too many people into the loop, and in this case, that simply wasn’t an option.
Things were not looking good right now, but they had the potential to get much worse. If a detective was called down to take over the questioning, she would never get rid of them in time.
Ryan would be making his way through the grounds; from his last transmission, she knew he had found what they needed. All he had to do now was get out of the building and back to the car.
Maybe he’ll spot the cruiser and walk away, she thought. Naomi didn’t think he would leave her, but given the situation, it might be the best thing. She couldn’t be arrested; she hadn’t done anything wrong. They might hold her for questioning, but if she stuck to her story, they would have no choice but to let her go. On the other hand, if they managed to dig up probable cause —or at least enough to convince a magistrate — they could get a warrant to search the Taurus. And if that happened, one of the first things they would find was the file on the front seat.
With this thought, she felt suddenly sick. The ORACLE file contained enough damaging information to drag the Agency through the mud for the next five years. Needless to say, its public disclosure would also completely destroy her career. Letting them search the car was not an option.
She looked through the windshield. From where she was sitting, the chancery was barely visible, a black smudge over the treetops. She peered into the darkness, searching in vain for the smallest sign of movement.
Come on, Ryan. Where are you?
CHAPTER 32
WASHINGTON, D.C.
On the third floor of the chancery, Kealey sprung into action. He reached out for the gun in the hand of the closest guard, shouting at the top of his lungs to distract them. He had been in this kind of situation before and knew almost nothing would work in his favor. One man was easy to handle — even easier to outwit — but two was a different proposition altogether. Even with the bare minimum of training, the guards would be hard-pressed to miss him at this range. At the same time, he guessed they would be reluctant to fire. As German nationals, they would have endured the compulsory nine months of military or civil service, but embassy duty did not typically draw the best and the brightest. They might be covering each other properly, but they would be slow to pull the trigger, fearing the inevitable fallout. His only chance was to play on that hesitation, using the one point in his favor for all it was worth.
As it turned out, he was wrong; the gun went off as Kealey closed his left hand around the guard’s wrist, his right coming down in a hammer blow on the radial nerve. The 9mm slipped from the guard’s limp hand and fell to the floor. The man near the door was screaming something in German, but Kealey ignored him, turning the incapacitated guard around and drawing his Beretta at the same time.
He wrapped his left arm around the throat of his hostage and jammed the muzzle into his lower back, then crouched behind the German, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. He could feel something burning in his left side and knew he was hit; the guard’s single round had found its target. It was a sickening realization; until he looked, he had no way of knowing how bad the wound actually was. It could be a scratch, or it could be life-threatening. The pain had not yet realized its full potential, but that would change in a matter of seconds.
The guard near the door was still shouting commands in his native language. He was clearly out of control; his eyes were like blue saucers, wide and irrational. The gun was moving all over the place; obviously, he did not have a shot from that angle, but was desperately trying to find one.
Kealey had time here, but only a little. Naomi needed his help; that much was clear, but until he got past these two guards, he could not do a thing for her. He only hoped that she had the good sense to stall.
Raising his head by a tiny fraction, he spoke quietly into the ear of his hostage. “What’s your name?”
“My…?”
“Your name,” Kealey hissed, adding a menacing edge to his tone.
“Klein. My name is Gunter Klein. Please, I have a daughter in Bonn….”
“Relax, Gunter.” He winced; the pain was getting worse. If it was only a flesh wound, it was a bad one. “I want you to tell your friend to drop his weapon. Do it now.”
He knew the man near the door spoke English; it was an unwritten rule for embassy postings in Washington. But Kealey also knew the instruction would carry more weight if it came from his own countryman. Klein, clearly terrified, stumbled over the few necessary words. The man at the door replied with a short verbal barrage, but didn’t release the gun.