The American (32 page)

Naomi hung up the phone a moment later. Ryan looked into her face and saw that her bright green eyes were sparkling.

“A realtor, huh?” he said. “That's interesting.”

“It gets better,” she said. “Nicole Milbery specializes in farm properties. Her office is in Ashland. That's Hanover County, right in between Richmond and Washington. It's the perfect place for him…Ryan, do you know how to fix this bloody stupid machine?”

He couldn't help but smile at the way she said it. He examined the unit and punched some buttons to clear out the backlog. “Who were you talking to?”

“The night duty officer at the VSP's Hanover office. He's going to call the investigating officer at home right now. As soon as he finds him, we'll get some more details.”

“Don't get too excited,” he warned. “It could be nothing.”

Naomi wasn't going to be deterred that easily. “It could be everything.”

 

The sergeant on desk duty in Hanover returned the call ten minutes later. Naomi snatched up the phone and listened intently while Ryan looked on, rooted in place by a strange mixture of anticipation and apprehension. For some reason, he knew they were finally on to something.

She pulled the receiver away from her mouth. “Milbery leased a property less than three weeks ago. Just under a hundred acres, three miles east of I-95.” She turned her attention back to the telephone. “Did he leave a—okay, he did. That's great, I need you to fax that over to me. What was the name again?”

Ryan started to say something but she waved him away. “Okay, that's fine. Thanks for your help, Sergeant. Can you make your captain available? We're going to need to talk to him if this adds up to anything…Okay, thanks.”

She hung up and turned to face him. “Timothy Nichols. Does that name mean anything to you?”

He thought for a minute, pushed the names out and together again, mixed up the letters, turned them around. When it came to him, the rest of the room seemed to fall away. “It's him.”

“What?” She looked up, startled. “How do you know?”

“Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, Naomi. He always was an arrogant bastard.”

She went pale as she realized what he was saying. “Oh my God.”

As if on cue, the fax machine started up and produced a single piece of paper. Although the driver's license was not blown up to magnify the features, and the face itself was blurred by copying distortion, Ryan knew exactly who he was staring at when he lifted the sheet to the light.

“That's Will Vanderveen,” he said.

P
atrick Landrieu stood at the head of the table and surveyed the people sitting on either side of the polished wooden surface. Despite the fact that he was the ranking person in the room, he knew better than to try to assert his authority over the group that he currently faced. The combination of their egos and ambition easily overruled his titular superiority, and he was well aware that they would crush him in an instant if they felt it to be in their best interest.

Landrieu was a round little man with a prominent nose, sparse gray hair, and cheeks flushed pink from the heart medication that he took twice a day, or at least whenever his secretary reminded him. The fact that he made a habit of working sixteen-hour days was reflected in his shabby appearance. His career, however, had never suffered from his slight physical stature. He had begun his government service as a terrorism analyst nearly twenty-three years earlier, and his rise through the ranks had been remarkable. He had served as chief of staff to the director of Central Intelligence, and then most recently as deputy executive director before being appointed by the DCI to his current position.

As he looked out over the sea of faces, he saw that they were appraising him in turn. Perhaps more than a few were wondering how much longer Landrieu's reign could possibly last. He was already coming under heavy fire for the intelligence failures that had led to the most recent disastrous events in Washington, as well as for the lack of success in capturing the man believed responsible for both terrorist attacks.

Aside from Landrieu, there were seven other people in the room. Seated immediately to his right was Deputy Director Emily Susskind of the FBI. Next to Susskind was Assistant Director Joshua McCabe of the Secret Service and its advance team leader, Jodie Rivers.

Also present was Colonel Stephen Plesse, the superintendent of the Virginia State Police. Plesse had arrived by helicopter from the VSP Administrative Headquarters in Richmond less than ten minutes earlier. He was in full uniform despite the early hour, and his face was still red from the harsh winter wind that had cropped up in the past few hours and was now singing around the building.

The three remaining people in the room were seated to the left of Plesse. They were Jonathan Harper, Ryan Kealey, and Naomi Kharmai.

“Well,” Landrieu said, “you've all been made aware of the purpose of this meeting. I suggest we get right down to it. We have very little time to waste.”

“Do we have any guess as to how much time, exactly, sir?” Rivers asked. She had no desire to be at this meeting, figuring that her rightful place was back on the waterfront finalizing the security arrangements. Even if she had wanted to, there was no way she could spare the resources for anything they might have had in mind.

The director looked around the room, his eyes settling on Jonathan Harper. “Does anyone have an answer for that?”

“The timetable depends on what kind of weapon he's planning to use, and that comes down to what kind of vehicle he's driving,” Harper said. “Obviously, he'll need a bigger window if he's trying to bring a bomb into the city. I don't believe we've come up with anything solid on that yet. Emily?”

Susskind looked up from her coffee and debated for a second, her slender fingers dancing on the rim of her cup. “The only vehicle registered by Timothy Nichols in the state of Virginia is a four-year-old Honda motorcycle. Unfortunately, that doesn't really mean anything; he could have acquired another vehicle under a different name, or maybe he's stolen one—there's just no way of knowing.

“There's something else we need to consider, though. Once we had his alias, the link between Vanderveen and Theresa Barzan was quickly established. We still don't know her real identity, but we
do
know that, using that name on her Saudi passport, she wired him almost 35,000 dollars over the past several weeks. The funds were routed through the Caymans and the Cook Islands, which made it very difficult to trace. That's not enough money for a payoff, but it
is
enough to purchase a lot of expensive equipment.” She paused and cleared her throat gently. “The kind of equipment he would need to construct and conceal a large explosive device.”

A grim silence ensued as the people around the table considered this news. It was Jonathan Harper's measured words that finally shattered the calm.

“There's a chance he went back to the source, despite the increased security that was put in place after the Kennedy-Warren bombing. Has this information been checked against the records in Norfolk?”

“I have people working on that right now,” Susskind responded. “We haven't been able to get in contact with the director of operations
or
the terminal manager. The highest we could get was an assistant supervisor of the container division, and that particular individual is not exactly the picture of cooperation.”

It was the superintendent's sonorous voice that rang out in response. “I might be able to help you with that,” he said. “Our department works pretty closely with the staff over there. I can save you a lot of time if you can get in touch with Gary Thompson and refer him my way. He's the general manager at NIT.”

Susskind wrote the name down and nodded her appreciation to the heavyset colonel.

“Those records are going to be crucial,” Harper said. “If Vanderveen did use the terminal a second time, he obviously managed to get past Customs, or we wouldn't be in this mess. At the same time, there will be a record of the type and weight of shipment he received. That could go a long way in telling us how he intends to deliver the package.”

“Getting access to those records needs to be a top priority,” Landrieu agreed from the head of the table. “We need to throw some weight around. It's going to take us long enough to get a search warrant without wasting any additional time.”

He turned his attention to the deputy director of the FBI. “Make sure they understand in Norfolk that there's going to be serious repercussions if they keep it up. We'll shut their whole operation down if we have to. What about the residence itself?”

“Surveillance is already in place,” Susskind responded. “The SAC out of Richmond is running the show. Obviously, the Virginia State Police are on the scene as well. The state troopers have both ends of Chamberlayne Road blocked off, and a loose perimeter has already been formed around the house, extending a quarter mile out in every direction. The staging point is a half mile down the road—this part of the state is about as rural as it gets, which makes things a whole lot easier for us in some respects, harder in others. For instance, we can't bring any choppers in without making our presence known.”

“Do we know if he's in there?” McCabe asked.

“No idea. The lights are off, but that doesn't mean much; at this time of the morning, he's probably asleep.”

“What about infrared?”

“We tried that, but the windows are too small. We can't get a good scan of the entire house.”

McCabe was nodding slowly. “Are there any vehicles on the property?”

“There's a fairly large barn,” Susskind responded. “But the doors are closed and we can't get close enough to see inside without jeopardizing our cover. When we move, we have to be sure.”

Plesse cleared his throat. “How about roadblocks? I would think, as a precautionary measure—”

“No way,” McCabe said from across the table. “It's less than two hours into Washington from that part of Virginia. It would take us at least an hour just to get checkpoints set up on the main roads.”

“Besides, what would we tell the people manning them?” Landrieu asked. “Let me remind you once again that the president is anxious to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to this situation. Setting anything up that might approach an effective barrier around the city would mean bringing hundreds of people into the loop. That is completely unacceptable.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I think we're past the point of worrying about publicity. By putting this much effort into keeping it quiet, we're giving Vanderveen a huge advantage.”

Ryan flinched at Kharmai's unexpected outburst, and waited for the inevitable reprimand.

Patrick Landrieu straightened and fixed his gaze on the young woman at the other end of the table. “I'm sorry, miss, I didn't catch your name.”

“Naomi Kharmai, sir. I'm with—”

“Central Intelligence, I know. I served that particular agency for more than twenty years. No offense, Ms. Kharmai, but I think the gravity of this situation is somewhat beyond the scope of your limited experience.” He turned his attention away from her immediately. “Now, if anyone else has any reasonable suggestions…”

When Ryan tuned the man out and cast a quick glance in Naomi's direction, he saw that she had slumped down in her seat. Her eyes were downcast, and her cheeks were bright red.

“Excuse me, Director.”

Landrieu looked up, surprised and annoyed. “Yes?”

“Do you know who
I
am, sir?”

Landrieu hesitated, a fact that was noticed by everyone present. “Yes, I do, Mr. Kealey.”

“I would like to point out that Naomi's efforts at tracking this name down are the only reason we're even sitting here. If she has something to say, it would be well worth your time to listen to her.”

Had he been a man of compromise, willing to endure a mild rebuke in the interest of maintaining a positive atmosphere, the director might have shrugged it off. Because he was not that kind of man, however, he chose to bluster. “While I'm sure that we're all grateful for Ms. Kharmai's efforts, I don't think we have time to—”

“Director.”

With the single spoken word, Landrieu looked up into the coldest pair of eyes he had ever seen. He almost opened his mouth to speak again, and then decided against it. Landrieu briefly reflected that what he saw in Kealey's face might well have been the product, at least in part, of his own imagination. As a former deputy DCI, he still had connections at the highest levels of the Agency. He knew all about the man who was seated before him.

Patrick Landrieu swallowed his pride and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his words were barely audible, despite the stunned silence that had swept through the room. “By all means, Ms. Kharmai, if you have any suggestions, we would be happy to hear them.”

Naomi was a little shocked herself at what had just transpired. She collected herself quickly enough, though, and unconsciously straightened in her seat. “Thank you, Director. I admit that the political implications of another bombing, especially during a state visit by two national leaders, are way over my head. At the same time, we can't afford to lose sight of the fact that the president is not the only person at risk here. There should be no doubt that a lot of people are going to die if Vanderveen manages to accomplish whatever it is he's set out to do. As you've all seen from the copies of the driver's license, Vanderveen made only minor cosmetic alterations while posing as Timothy Nichols. It's fair to say that he's probably already gotten rid of that identity, and has taken more dramatic steps to change his appearance for the final stage of his operation, if this
is
in fact the final stage.”

This statement was greeted by the low rumble of unhappy voices.

“If Vanderveen is still there, then we clearly have nothing to lose by moving in right now. If, on the other hand, he's already gone, we need to know as soon as possible. Provided that the scene is treated with the utmost care and consideration, and any evidence remains intact, there's a good chance we might find something useful, something that could tell us what he looks like now. At this point, there is very little else we can do. I think that it's time to focus our efforts.”

The unhappy sounds gradually changed to general murmurs of consent. All the same, Naomi was surprised when Landrieu hurried to agree. “That sounds reasonable enough to me. Let's hold off on the roadblocks. It would take a huge effort to mobilize that kind of force at this time in the morning anyway. Emily, I suggest that you start looking for a judge to wake up. When will you be ready to go?”

Deputy Director Susskind took a quick look at her watch. “Most of my people are already in place. Once we get the warrant, say…5
AM
.”

“Excellent.” Landrieu pulled back the cuff of his shirt and looked at his own watch. “That's three hours from now. Send me an update when you hit the ground in Virginia. There's no point in waking up the president at this hour. Let's wait and see if we have something useful to tell him. Whoever's not on the move will meet back here at 7:00
AM
.

“President Chirac and Prime Minister Berlusconi arrived yesterday, ladies and gentlemen. The boating excursion is scheduled for 9:00
AM
. That gives us six hours to catch a man who has eluded us for more than seven years. I suggest you get to work.”

 

Five minutes later the room was almost empty. Ryan was one of the last to leave, and he looked around for a minute before he saw Naomi moving down a distant hallway. She was almost running, and he had to move fast to catch up.