All they had to do was keep track of him until the relief showed up, and then they could get an early jump on the weekend.
Haines glanced at his watch, then ran a hand through his iron gray hair. Fifty minutes to go.
They had used their time in the lobby efficiently. The shop on the ground floor offered a small selection of exorbitantly priced clothing, most of it bearing the Savoy logo. After a few minutes of searching, Vanderveen managed to find a plain navy ball cap and a black windbreaker, which he brought to the counter. Raseen picked out a bright red anorak with a detachable hood.
Vanderveen frowned at the color, but there wasn’t much else to choose from. Once he had paid, they made their way up to the fifth floor. Raseen tapped lightly on the door. It swung open, and they stepped inside.
Vanderveen moved into the room and looked around quickly, vaguely taking note of the cream-colored walls, dark wood, and opulent furnishings. The door from the hall opened into a small sitting room. Passing through, he poked his head into the bedroom, finding it empty. Closing the door, he turned and walked to the rain-streaked windows, where he pulled the drapes shut, blocking out an impressive view of the Thames and the South Bank. Then he opened the credenza, turned on the television, and upped the volume to a dull roar. Finally, he flicked on the lights and turned back to their host.
The courier had been watching all of this with a slight smile on his dark, narrow face, as if amused by the American’s paranoia. Vanderveen was instantly annoyed; everything he had just done was based on common sense, and it should have already been taken care of. His mind was still locked on the car Raseen had pointed out, and the courier’s seemingly lax attitude was doing nothing to improve his disposition.
“What do I call you?”
The courier shrugged. He had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I suppose you can call me Khalil.”
“You have what I asked for?”
“Of course.” He pointed toward the desk facing the windows. The black briefcase was on top, along with a large brown envelope and the torn remains of a FedEx overnight box.
Walking over, Vanderveen picked up the envelope and withdrew the contents. The first ten pages were typed. These would be notes thoroughly detailing the Austrian’s security measures. Setting them aside for the moment, he picked out a stack of 8 x 10s. Each full-color photograph was taken from a different angle, though they all depicted the same building. Finally, he got to the last two shots. One bore the image of Rühmann’s assistant. The other was a picture of Thomas Rühmann himself, obviously taken from a distance, but with a highquality telescopic lens. The image resolution was remarkably clear.
“What’s in the case?”
“Nothing. Just a few earnings reports to satisfy customs at Heathrow.”
“Have you examined this file?”
“Of course,” Khalil repeated. The knowing smirk returned to his face. “Who do you think took the pictures? I was ordered to compile an extensive dossier when we first entered into our relationship with Mr. Rühmann. You see, a group such as ours has to be prepared for all eventualities. As I’m sure you know, Mr. Vanderveen, information is the greatest commodity of all.”
Vanderveen’s head shot up, his eyes boring into those of the man standing 4 feet away. He could not disguise his astonishment, and as the seconds ticked past, it was a struggle to keep his control from slipping away… This man, this courier, who in all probability was being watched by the Security Service, knew his real name and his next target. Looking over to Raseen, he could see that she was equally stunned.
Khalil, misreading their shared expression, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m only here to help. I’m flying back to Amman tomorrow morning, and once I board that plane, you will never see me again. But as I’m here, I have something else for you.
Look in the newspaper. It’s on that chair over there.”
Raseen was closest. Picking it up, she flipped through the large pages awkwardly until a single, smaller sheet slipped to the floor. She picked it up, turned it over, and froze.
“What is it?” Vanderveen asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
Raseen looked up, her face stricken. “It’s you.”
He motioned silently, and she walked over, handing him the sheet. Vanderveen didn’t need to read the fine print to know what it was; the header said everything, as did the photograph.
He studied it carefully, though he recognized the picture instantly. It had been taken ten years earlier during his army service. He scanned the text, looking for the distribution date. When he found it, his chest tightened, and a jolt of anxiety passed through his body; the Red Notice — an international arrest warrant — had been issued by Interpol a full two weeks earlier.
“Every airport in Western Europe has one of those,” Khalil said quietly. The airy attitude was gone, and his face had settled into a grim expression. “Both commercial and private, along with most of the major hubs in South America, Africa, and the Middle East. The information was being tightly held until a few days ago, but somebody made the decision to give it wider distribution, which is how we learned about it. England is no longer safe for you. MI5 has watchers at train stations and ferry crossings. It’s a miracle you weren’t picked up this morning… As it stands, you look exactly like the picture. You have to change passports as soon as possible.”
Vanderveen barely heard a word, still trying to wrap his mind around this newest development.
His most recent information indicated that the U.S. government believed he was dead. Dead for the past year, drowned in the Atlantic, off the coast of Maine. Something had happened in the past couple of weeks to change that, something that even his contact in Washington didn’t know about.
Then something else occurred to him. Lifting the sheet, he said, “You had the newspaper at the café. Have you been carrying this around all day?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to leave it lying around for a maid to find.” Khalil paused uncomfortably, then said, “There’s more, I’m afraid. You’ve been placed on the 1267 Committee List. I have the documentation, if you want to see it.”
Raseen had taken a seat next to the windows, looking distinctly unhappy. Turning toward them, she said, “Committee List? What is that?”
Khalil was the one to explain as he handed Vanderveen the relevant paperwork. “The 1267
Committee,” he began, “was created under a UN resolution in 1999. Its sole purpose is to enforce sanctions that have already been imposed by the Security Council. The sanctions are limited to people and companies controlled by the Taliban, al-Qaeda, and Osama bin Laden, and the Committee List is simply a list of everyone who falls under that designation. Individually speaking, the sanctions are used to restrict travel and seize assets….”