She had picked a fight she couldn’t win; that much was immediately obvious. He was much stronger than her to begin with, and she didn’t have any leverage. To make matters worse, there were a number of obstacles in her way, including the radio and the dash-mounted laptop. Still, she held on with all her strength, struggling to keep his gun hand immobilized. Through the windshield, she saw Ryan running hard toward the cruiser, though something about his stride seemed a little bit off….
Without warning, Naomi was blinded by a sudden flash of light. Momentarily stunned by the muzzle blast and the deafening noise, she released her grip and raised her hands instinctively.
For a brief, terrifying instant, she thought she’d been shot in the face, but the pain never came. A split second later, the driver’s side door was yanked open. Lowe swung in his seat to counter this new threat as Kealey reached inside, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled him out of the car.
Lowe was still screaming as his feet left the cruiser, firing his weapon without regard for his aim.
One round missed Naomi’s right side by less than an inch, slamming into the passenger-side door; another whined past her ear and punched a hole in the roof. The next four drilled into the dash, the fifth exiting the windshield.
As the sound of gunfire faded into the night, replaced by the scream of approaching sirens, Naomi thought she heard a pair of sharp, brutal blows. She couldn’t be sure; for the moment, she was completely disoriented, her ears ringing, her head thumping. She found herself wedged against the door, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. She couldn’t see what was happening, and she wondered why, before realizing that her eyes were still squeezed tightly shut.
Just as she found the courage to open them, the passenger-side door was pulled open, and a familiar hand reached in for hers.
Naomi could see he was hurt from the moment her feet touched the pavement. He was favoring his left side, and as she pulled him into the light, she could see that his face was drawn, pale, and shining with sweat. There was blood on his hands and a large wet stain on his shirt, barely discernable against the dark material.
“Oh, God, what happened? ” she asked anxiously. She moved to examine the wound, but Kealey waved her away.
“Don’t worry about it. Are you hit?”
She looked down and performed a quick visual check. She didn’t see any blood, and nothing seemed to hurt except for her elbow, which was still throbbing painfully. “No, I’m fine.”
“Good.” Still holding his side, Kealey pointed toward the unconscious officer. “Take his radio.”
The words were pinched off at the end; clearly, he was in considerable pain. “Get rid of it, and cuff his hands. He’ll have the keys in his pocket. Make sure you get them, too. Hurry.”
She was already moving. Kneeling, she stripped off the officer’s shoulder mic, following the wires to the radio itself, which she pulled off the belt. Wrapping it all into an untidy ball, she tossed it into a bush near the sidewalk. Then she turned over the body, pulled the limp arms back to the rear, and snapped the cuffs into place. After a second of rummaging, she found the handcuff keys in a spare magazine pouch and slipped them into her pocket. “Done.”
Kealey was leaning against the front of the cruiser. Wincing, he straightened and started toward the passenger side of the Taurus. “We have to move. The responding units will be here in less than a minute. You have the car keys?”
“Got ’em.” She hesitated. “Ryan, you have to get to a hospital.”
He shook his head in the negative. “I already checked it out. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“But—”
“Naomi, we don’t have time to argue. Get in the car.”
She did as he asked. Starting the engine, she put the Taurus into drive, accelerated quickly, and swung a hard right onto Reservoir Road. As the screeching alarm started to fade, it all seemed to catch up with her. The adrenaline dissipated quickly enough, but even as her breathing returned to normal, her hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. As she struggled to regain control, she turned in her seat and said, “So where are we going?”
Kealey looked down at his side and grimaced. The options were few. A hospital was clearly out; the police would be monitoring emergency-room activity, watching for someone to be admitted with a gunshot wound. At the same time, he knew he needed immediate medical attention. The truth was staring him right in the face. He had shot a man in the German chancery, and he had brutally assaulted a police officer. There was only one place to seek refuge, just one place beyond the reach of the D.C. Metro Police Department.
“Langley,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’re going to Langley.”
CHAPTER 33
LONDON
Mid-afternoon in the heart of the West End. The skies above were gray and fatigued, the sort of overcast weather that promised rain, but would never deliver. They were sitting outside the Embankment Café, which was surrounded by bright green grass, towering hedges, and trees wielding their colorful autumn leaves. Beyond the trees and a dirty brick wall, the River Thames curved on a gentle, slow-moving arc to the south, Waterloo Bridge to the east.
Vanderveen had ordered a full English breakfast of eggs, bacon, chips, and beans, but Raseen had settled on black tea. As she sipped from the steaming cup, she kept shooting him little glances across the dingy plastic table. Vanderveen was guessing they were based partly on what had happened the night before and partly on how he looked now, which was considerably different. He had decided to switch passports shortly after they checked out of the hotel in Calais, which naturally meant a change in appearance. Now he was traveling as Russell Davies, a British national. The dark hair was gone, as were the beard and the tinted contacts. As with Tartus, he had returned to his natural state, although his blond hair and green eyes were much better suited to the streets of London than they were to a dusty Syrian souq.
Raseen had changed her persona as well, but her features were much less malleable, and her various passports reflected this fact. Anything other than her original hair color would look highly unusual, only increasing her visibility in a crowd. As a result, she had wisely stayed close to her natural look in all the photographs that accompanied her forged documents. The French passport she was using now — which had passed Vanderveen’s careful inspection — bore the name Nina Sebbar.
She had suggested they check out of the hotel the night before, but he had refused, knowing it would look more suspicious to leave in the middle of the night than it would to wait for morning.
At the same time, he had not gotten much sleep, as part of him had been waiting for the police to kick down the door. The raid had never come, but the restless night meant an early morning.
They made the first ferry from Calais to Dover, endured the standard customs check on arrival, then caught a National Express bus to London. From Waterloo Station, it was a short taxi ride to the Embankment. They had arrived with an hour to spare, which was enough time to partake in a leisurely meal and watch for lingering eyes.
Embankment Café at noon. A man will sit outside, gray suit, green paisley tie. He’ll be carrying a black attaché case and a copy of the Times. Follow him, and keep your distance.