The Assassin (43 page)

When they reached the café, Raseen left his side, took a seat, and waved for the waiter. Vanderveen retrieved the satellite phone from his coat and continued around the square. Since the courier’s death in London, everything had gone according to plan, with one major exception. The previous night, he had placed a call to his contact in Washington, D.C., and there had been no answer. Now he dialed the number again and waited.

“Hello?”

“It’s Taylor. Where have you been? I called yesterday.”

“I know, but I couldn’t get away. Have you reached your destination?”

“Yes. Anything new?”

“Quite a bit, actually…”

Vanderveen returned to the table ten minutes later. The food had arrived: sandwiches for him, yogurt and freshly baked bread for her, coffee for two. He took a seat but left the food untouched, and she noticed immediately. “What is it? What’s happened?”

He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Kealey is already on the way.”

She stopped buttering a slice of bread and studied him carefully. “So he knows about Rühmann.”

“So it would seem. He left a private airfield in Virginia at 6:00 AM eastern time, which means he should arrive sometime this evening. He has someone with him, a woman named Kharmai. Undoubtedly, they’ll want to talk with our friend.”

“And you think they’ll move tonight?”

Vanderveen thought for a moment. “I think there’s a good chance they will. But that’s not a problem… In fact, it means we’ll be able to leave the country sooner than we thought.”

She nodded her agreement.

“Try and eat something,” Vanderveen said. “We may not get the chance later tonight.”

On the return trip around the square, he had stopped at a newsstand to pick up a few papers. As Raseen dutifully tucked into her food, he unfolded a copy of
Die Welt
and read the cover story. The news from Iraq was predictably dire; the day before, a suicide bombing at the shrine to Imam Musa al-Khadam — one of the holiest sites in Baghdad — had resulted in 45 deaths. According to the Interior Ministry, a secondary device placed in a truck outside the Khadamiya hospital claimed the lives of 32 more as the injured were rushed from the shrine to the hospital in makeshift ambulances. Soon thereafter, angry crowds gathered at checkpoints leading into the Green Zone, and several U.S. military vehicles were fired upon as they tried to leave the American enclave. Sixty-three American casualties had been reported by the Pentagon over the past three days.

In the European edition of the
London Times
, however, Vanderveen found a much more interesting article. An investigative journalist in Karbala had uncovered the circumspect sale of an oil refinery east of Samawah. The refinery, originally owned by Rashid al-Umari and the Southern Iraqi Oil Company, had been sold to a conglomerate of Sunni investors, several of whom had direct ties to Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. The
New York Times
had picked up the story on the AP, as had every other major newspaper in North America and Western Europe.

In response, Ahmadinejad aired a speech in which he denied Iranian involvement, but praised Moqtadr al-Sadr and the Mahdi Army for what he described as “God’s work in ridding Iraq of the Zionist invaders.” That Nuri al-Maliki — the Shiite prime minister — had also been targeted in the recent wave of attacks seemed to have escaped the Iranian leader’s attention, but his remarks had had the expected effect. The U.S. ambassador to the United Nations called for a full inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the death of Nasir al-Din Tabrizi in Paris, and a former secretary of state appeared on
Meet the Press
, where he stated his belief that Iran was actively working to undermine U.S. policy in Iraq. He also remarked that such activities would not go unchecked by “this or any other administration.”

Vanderveen folded the newspapers and absently sipped his coffee, which tasted as if it had been made several hours earlier. Everything was working according to plan. The Iranians were under escalating suspicion, and the various factions in Iraq were at each other’s throats. The American troops were caught in the middle and sustaining huge losses with each passing day. Once the delegation in New York was taken out, Iraq would almost certainly slide into civil war. Izzat al-Douri was about to get his wish.

Thunder overhead pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced at his watch. Raseen, catching the gesture, looked over her shoulder. Tourists were clustered on the other side of the square, standing around the Brandenburg Gate, apparently unaware that there was a much grander specimen — with the same name, no less — on the Pariser Platz in Berlin, just a few kilometers to the east. Most of the tourists were toting cameras and daypacks, and a few carried umbrellas in anticipation of the building storm. As Vanderveen watched, one man walked to the center of the square, turned, and fired off a series of shots with a digital camera.

“That isn’t him,” Raseen remarked softly, her eyes trained on the figure in the near distance. “He’s wearing the right clothes, but that isn’t Rühmann. Why didn’t he come?”

Vanderveen slowly shook his head. He hadn’t really expected the Austrian to show up in person. The man standing in the center of the square, looking around impatiently, without a hint of subtlety, was Karl Lang, Rühmann’s bodyguard and personal assistant. His picture and background information were in the file they’d been given the previous day. Before leaving London, Vanderveen had memorized the contents and dropped the file down a grate on the King’s Road.

“I’m not sure,” he said, raising a hand to wave Lang over. “But this man is here for us, so let’s say hello.”

Lang was in his late thirties, short and heavily built. An expensive Nikon was draped around his neck, the strap tucked under the grimy collar of a light cotton jacket. His features were strangely androgynous, not in keeping with the rest of his body. As he walked to the table, he removed a blue daypack from his shoulders. Once he was seated, he tossed it casually under the table, where it landed next to a nearly identical pack.

“How did you get here?” he asked in English. His tone was distinctly confrontational.

“We have a car,” Raseen told him. “No one followed us.”

Lang snorted but did not reply.

“Where is Rühmann?” Vanderveen asked. “I was told he would be here.”

The words earned him a disdainful look. “My employer is a very important man. He can’t afford to waste time dealing with trivialities. Besides, meetings are dangerous. This could have been handled over the phone.”

“What about the key to the storage facility?”

“That could have been sent by mail.” The man leaned forward, his face pinched in anger. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t want to be here, and you don’t impress me. For a professional, you take a lot of foolish risks. I know who you are, Vanderveen, and so does Herr Rühmann. Did you honestly believe that he wouldn’t learn your identity? How do you think he lasted this long?”

“Certainly not by employing arrogant little shits like you,” Vanderveen replied in a calm, measured voice. The German bridled instantly, reaching over the table, but Raseen quickly batted his hand away.

“Stop it,” she hissed, glaring at each of them in turn. “We’re in the middle of a public square.” She focused her cold gaze on the courier, and there was something in her face that made him sit back instantly. “Since you’re here, I assume you’ve received the final payment.”

“Yes. The wire transfer came in yesterday,” Lang confirmed. “The key is in the pack. It will open a ground-level unit at the Lake Forest storage facility in Montreal. Unit 124, to be precise. Directions from Montreal-Trudeau are in there as well, along with an invoice for the boiler. All that leaves is the equipment. You know what you need, correct?”

“A truck and a forklift,” Vanderveen replied.

“That’s right.” Lang had a pedantic way of speaking, as though he were addressing a child. “But not just any truck and forklift. It’s important that you get it right, or you won’t be able to move the device, at least not safely. The truck needs to have a gross vehicle weight rating of at least thirty thousand pounds, with multi—”

“Multi-leaf spring shocks, I know. And a pneumatic forklift rated at twenty thousand pounds. I’m well aware of the specifications.”

Lang’s face tightened into a sneer. “Well, you seem to be very well informed, which only proves my point. This meeting was entirely unnecessary.” He nodded toward the clear glass table, beneath which both packs were clearly visible. “You have what you need. We’ve received the money. Is there anything else?”

Vanderveen smiled pleasantly. “No, that should do it. Thanks for your time.”

“Right,” Lang said curtly. He retrieved the pack that Vanderveen had brought, stood, and walked away.

“What a nice man,” Raseen remarked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You know, I don’t think Mr. Rühmann is too pleased with us.”

“Well, he doesn’t really know us, does he? Let’s see how he feels in a few hours. Maybe we can improve his disposition.”

After paying the check, they started back toward the car, which was parked on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate. As they walked, Vanderveen retrieved the satellite phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

“Who are you calling?”

“A friend in Manhattan.” He looked over. “We need to find a copying place. Any ideas?”

“There’s one on the Charlottenstrasse. I saw it when we left the car.”

“Good. I need to send him something.”

CHAPTER 37

NEW YORK CITY

It was just after 10:00 AM in a warm, cluttered office in the garment district of Manhattan. The room was enclosed by low cement walls and glass panes, the interior blinds pulled down. There was almost no natural light in the room, owing to the height of the surrounding buildings. On the other side of the glass, Amir Nazeri could hear his employees at work: the low rumble of voices, the whine of a small forklift, the thump of heavy pallets hitting the smooth cement floor. Behind him was the steady rumble of morning traffic on West Thirty-seventh Street. Caught in the middle, Nazeri was lost to the sounds, immune to the racket that constituted his daily work environment. As he flipped through the accumulated mail, his telephone rang. He looked up, startled. The sound caused a ripple of apprehension to run through his body, just as it had done for the past several weeks. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching for the receiver.

“Amir, it’s Erich.”

Nazeri’s mouth went dry instantly, but he forced himself to speak, his spare hand tightening around the arm of his chair. “Kohl.” He caught himself and said, “I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” The voice on the other end was calm and confident. “It’s time, my friend. Have you made the arrangements?”

“Yes. The transportation is waiting, along with the forklift. The second vehicle is already in Ithaca.”

“What about the other materials?”

“Here at the warehouse, locked in a spare room.”

“Good.” There was a rustle of paper, then, “The manifest needs to list a 150-horsepower commercial steam boiler. The width of the cabinet is fifty-six inches, the length is one hundred and fifty-six, and the height is one hundred and forty-five. That includes the barometric dampener. I’m going to fax you the commercial invoice. What else do you need?”

“The manifest, of course, but I can fill that out myself. My people in Montreal will fax it to the U.S. broker.”

“Fine. Amir, I want to be sure you can handle this. We don’t have time to waste. Today is Sunday. We need to be ready by Tuesday morning.”

Nazeri had written down the dimensions. He looked at the numbers and ran through them quickly. “It’s longer than I expected, but that’s not a problem. How heavy is it?”

“The actual shipping weight is 15,340 pounds.”

“Fine. I have a vehicle prepared.” Nazeri hesitated. “Will this stand up if I’m stopped on the bridge? I can’t risk—”

“It won’t have to stand up if you fill out the manifest correctly. You’re a naturalized citizen, and you’re known to customs. You come in and out of Canada all the time. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Yes, I… I suppose you’re right.”

There was a lengthy pause. “Amir, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted to set things right.”

Nazeri felt sweat running over his ribs. It had all been talk to this point, but now the time for talk was over. In theory, he could still go back. In reality, he had sealed his fate with the promise he’d made six months earlier. He steeled himself and said, “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I haven’t forgotten, Erich.” He paused, and a face flashed into his mind. It was a face he had not seen in many years. A face he would never see again, at least not in this lifetime. Suddenly, all doubt was gone. “I could never forget.”

“Then I’ll see you in Montreal, my friend. The Lake Forest storage facility, unit 124. Ten a.m. tomorrow.”

Nazeri looked at the clock on his desk. “If I’m going to make it by morning, I need to make some calls.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. And Amir?”

“Yes?”

“Be ready to work all night. It all comes down to Tuesday.”

The phone went dead. Nazeri held it for a minute longer, staring absently at the far wall. His chest felt hollow, his mind buzzing with fear and adrenaline. It was hard to believe it had all come down to this.

When Nazeri looked back on his life, he could not help but feel a certain amount of pride; by any standard, he had accomplished a great deal in his forty-four years. He had been born in Tehran, the fifth of seven children. His mother was French, his father a professor of physics at the Iran University of Science and Technology. From an early age, it was clear that he had not inherited his father’s aptitude for science, though his intelligence was never in doubt. At the same time, he had little interest in school, and even less interest in the impoverished state in which his family existed. When Amir was a child, his uncle had spoken of Europe in glowing terms, and it was this thought that had consumed his teenage years. He wanted nothing more than to leave Iran and never return, and following the fall of the shah in 1979, the opportunity finally presented itself. He immigrated less than a year after Khomeini assumed power, but he did not travel to Europe, as he’d originally intended. Instead, he went to America.