The American (7 page)

The sharp green eyes flecked with brown were his most noticeable characteristic, framed by perfect olive skin. Thick black hair was set off by his straight white teeth, a feature most uncommon in the poverty-stricken areas of Iran from which he had risen into the world.

In reflective moments, Shakib could concede that he had been bestowed certain benefits denied to many of his peers. He was grateful for these advantages, yet despised them at the same time. What had given him the right to be so successful, to enjoy the wealth and privilege usually accorded to only the most elite of America's youth? On a warm, still night in Barbados four years earlier, he had met someone who would change his path in life, who would give him purpose. It had not been a chance encounter, but that fact had never been revealed to Michael Shakib. Until that first meeting, he had survived on his instincts and innate intelligence alone. It had been a useless existence. Despite his undeniable success, Michael had welcomed the opportunity to further such a grand cause, and was now prepared to make his greatest contribution.

He was not disappointed.

 

“They don't know what they're walking into,” Ryan said quietly. It was not his nature to press his opinion, although his every instinct was humming at the moment.

Only Kharmai heard, and turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Who do you think called them?” Ryan asked, waving at the reporters. As the wheels turned rapidly in her mind, Ryan pulled Hendricks to one side.

“Listen, I have no authority to back this up…It's just a suggestion, but I think you ought to expand the perimeter as far as you can. I know you can't get rid of the reporters, but that might give you a little breathing room. Also, you might want to have someone check these cars, verify the owners,” he said. He noticed the other man's questioning look. “I didn't spend my whole career in Washington.”

Luke nodded in agreement and understanding, then moved off to speak with the chief of the D.C. Metro PD. Kealey was grateful that Hendricks was open to suggestion, and could see that his first instincts about the man were correct. After several minutes had passed, he noticed agents checking vehicles and calling in license plate numbers. Ryan felt a tug at his arm.

“What did you say to Luke?” Naomi asked, brushing a stray lock of jet-black hair away from her eyes. Looking down at her, Ryan studied her face for the first time. She wasn't quite beautiful, but there
was
something undeniably attractive about her. Certainly, the bright green eyes and flawless caramel-colored skin would set her apart in any crowd. He took in the perfectly groomed hair and eyebrows, her expensive clothes, and could tell that she put a lot of effort into her appearance.

And she hadn't backed down from Hendricks either. He liked a woman who could stand up for herself. He angrily shook the intruding thoughts from his mind, telling himself to stay focused. Naomi had asked him a question, and he had to scramble to recall it.

“Just to have his people check the cars. He listens…That's a good quality in an SAC. How do you know him?”

“We've worked together before,” was her tart reply. She did not offer further insight.

Ryan could see the corner of her mouth turned up in a bemused smirk. He hoped that she hadn't misinterpreted his look. His life was already complicated enough as it was.

 

The venetian blinds in his apartment were closed, denying access to the prying eyes of the snipers located on the rooftops across the street. Shakib moved slowly, almost gracefully, through the drafty rooms, past the luxurious furnishings and other trinkets acquired over the course of a lifetime. None of it mattered to him.

On the other end of his expansive living room, a flat-screen Sony television was mounted on the wall. Behind the glass, CNN was running silent images of the Kennedy-Warren apartment complex. He was pleased to note the mobile command unit set up in the courtyard below, the agents swarming around it like bees around a hive.

After the plans for the assassination of Senator Levy had been examined and confirmed, the American had brought many materials to Shakib's three-bedroom apartment overlooking Cleveland Park. When he had described to his visitor the expensive restoration of the building and the fact that it had been recently named a National Historic Landmark, the man had smiled and nodded, clearly pleased by the news. The American had demanded solitude while he poured over blueprints and floor plans. Michael went out for sandwiches and coffee while his guest walked through the rooms examining the walls, ceiling, and door frames. A great deal of time had been spent on the balcony, as the man inspected the intricate ironwork combined with cement emplacements that kept the heavy structure secured to the building.

After many hours, his visitor had settled on a single pillar, 4 feet in diameter tucked halfway into a wall. Although he had previously despised the oversized intrusion into his living space, Shakib listened while his guest explained the importance of this single load-bearing structure, how it supported the three floors above him. He had listened while the man described the properties of the heavy marble and stone used in the construction of the building, and the quantity of SEMTEX H that would be necessary to cut through such material.

Shakib had appreciated the patient explanation, and absorbed the information attentively with few interruptions. Although the American understood nothing of Islam, his technical expertise accorded him some measure of respect. Shakib admired diligence in one's chosen profession. In the end, the months of preparation had come down to this one moment.

It was time.

 

Eight floors down, the reporters were angrily berating the police officers pushing them farther down the street. The nasty edge to the elevated voices carried high above the crowd, adding to the collective tension. New barriers were erected and more men stationed behind them. Luke Hendricks was holding a cell phone in each hand, barking orders into each as lesser agents hovered around him, vying for his attention.

Ryan and Naomi had been pushed aside by the agents milling around the command vehicle, so that they were now on the perimeter, almost as far away from the action as the buzzing reporters. This was moving too fast. Kealey wouldn't breathe easy again until Shakib was on the ground in handcuffs, and everybody was clear of the area. Instinctively, he began looking around for potential cover, his gaze settling on the heavy transport van located just a few feet away. Far above his position, a sniper from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team spoke into his headset.

“All ground units, this is Sierra Three. The doors to the balcony are open, over.”

On the ground, eyes shot skyward in unison. Hendricks lifted a radio to his mouth, walking away from the crowd of people surrounding him. “Sierra Three, this is Command. Do you have a shot?”

“That's affirmative, over.”

“Okay…Okay, sit tight. We need to—”

“Hold on,” came the sudden interruption. “Command, he's got something in his hand. I can't identify—”

Luke briefly wondered what it could be as various scenarios raced through his mind. When he hit upon the worst possibility, he was shouting into the radio, “Sierra Three,
take the shot
, I say again, take the shot
now
!”

Special Agent Mark Silverstein peered through the Leupold Vari-X scope mounted to his custom-made Remington 700P LTR rifle. The cold wind whipping across the top of the building scraped at his nerves, but he had already adjusted his sights accordingly. There was nothing more he could do, except to put his faith in his training. At such a short distance, he elected for a head shot, and was surprised to see the target smiling in his direction as he eased back on the trigger.

 

As the .308 round violently exited the back of Michael Shakib's head in a pink cloud, the spasm caused by his sudden death caused his right hand to squeeze tight around the electric detonator it contained. It could have gone either way, but the fist was squeezed tightly…The circuit that his visitor had carefully constructed less than two weeks earlier was finally completed.

 

Before Hendricks even issued the order to fire, Ryan Kealey was already pushing his way through the crowd of agents and police officers who were staring at the top of the building. He was dragging Naomi behind him and screaming at Hendricks to evacuate the area, and then at the crowd: “GET DOWN, GET DOWN!” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew that they wouldn't make a difference. He pulled Naomi toward the transport van, his eyes locked onto the open rear doors of the vehicle.

 

Far above, a brilliant white light erupted from the side of the building, immediately followed by an ear-splitting crack as the cutting charge ripped the pillar in half. Before the loudest part of the explosion reached them, the crowd below was momentarily blinded by the initial flash. Fortunately, many were spared the sight of the eastern face of the building collapsing out toward them.

 

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Luke Hendricks had been distracted by the figure racing through the crowd. His vision was not obscured, and so he was able to watch in disbelief as death rained down from above. Falling awkwardly to the ground, he pressed his face into the freezing asphalt, covered his head with his hands, and opened his mouth to scream.

 

The thunderous roar of the explosion echoed in Kealey's ears as he threw Naomi into a corner of the armored vehicle and covered her body with his. Her muffled screams vibrated through his chest as thousands of pounds of cement, marble, and iron from the building's façade crashed down onto Connecticut Avenue. He could hear no other sound of human life, only the deafening sound of the world falling down around them. A sudden impact crushed the opposite end of the vehicle, flipping the van onto its side like a toy. He felt something sharp tear into his face as the walls caved in, the wheels ripped from the axles, the polycarbonate glass crumpling in the windshield and passenger doors. Then the noise was gone and everything went black.

Katie Donovan hurried past the disbelieving crowd gathered round the television in Terminal A of Dulles International, barely taking the time to glance at the ruined building on the screen. United Airlines Flight 213 had just landed after leaving Bangor less than ninety minutes earlier. She had gripped the armrests tightly the entire flight, struggling to maintain the self-control that had been gradually slipping away since she first heard about the bombing earlier that morning. A sick fear had taken root and blossomed in her chest as the hours crept past.

Ryan had given her a cell phone number for emergencies, but she reached only his voice mail each time she tried to call. Then she attempted to reach him by calling Langley direct, but they refused to give her any information, instead referring her to a hotline set up to handle calls from friends and relatives of the victims.
Victims.
The word echoed in her head. It was hard to imagine Ryan being victimized by anything, but she couldn't shake the fear, and the panic threatened to consume her—if he was okay, he would have called. She
knew
he would have called. By the time she reached the Avis counter, it was all she could do to keep from screaming.

 

Forty-five minutes later, Katie's rented Taurus screeched to a halt outside Georgetown University Hospital. A uniformed police officer yelled at her as she ran through the assembled crowd of reporters and into the building, leaving the car unattended with the keys still in the ignition. A preoccupied nurse absently waved her toward surgery care, which led in turn to a large room decorated in a failed effort to project cheer. Katie could not imagine a more despairing sight. The room was filled to capacity with frightened-looking people. She was dimly aware of quiet whispers of support and low, muffled sobs.

With weak knees, she squeezed through the crowd to the desk and tried to speak to the woman on the other side, but the words were slow in coming.

“Are you okay?” the attendant asked with a genuinely concerned expression. The young woman standing before her looked terrible, hair plastered to her face, the skin around her eyes red and puffy. “Take your time, honey. It's going to be fine.”

Katie took a deep breath and rested her shaking hands on the counter for support. “I'm looking for my fiancé, Ryan Kealey. Ryan Thomas Kealey.”

The nurse looked down through the list, shaking her head. “I don't see anyone by that name.” Katie felt her heart sink, but there was a glimmer of hope. Maybe he hadn't even been at the Kennedy-Warren. But if he was okay, why hadn't he called? It just didn't make sense…“Hold on, honey, let me double-check.” As the nurse turned to question a harried surgeon, Katie squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to breathe again.

“Katie?”

She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, a large bandage covering the left side of his face. She could see long tears in his leather jacket, streaks of dried blood on his stained jeans and the backs of his hands. He hadn't called…It didn't matter, because he was there, alive. Her right hand flew to her mouth, the other reaching out for him as the tears streamed down her face.

 

“So you're both okay?” Harper asked. Ryan was pressed uncomfortably into a booth just outside of the hospital, a pay phone held to his ear. He needed to be outside for a while. The thin wall housing the phone rubbed at a long stripe of raw skin on his left arm, and the pain worked with the bite of the air to remind him that he was still breathing.

“We'll make it. A lot of other people didn't,” he replied. “Naomi's right arm was banged around pretty bad. I was sure it was broken, but the X-rays came back negative. They gave her a sedative; she's asleep now, I think. Suicide bombers in D.C. The audacity of these bastards. John…I don't know how to fight that.”

“We just got the first numbers.” Harper paused for a moment, beats of silence filling the empty space. “As of 5:00
PM
, 64 dead, 121 injured. Obviously, that's going to climb tomorrow when they finish going through the rubble.”

Ryan didn't respond. There didn't seem to be much to say.

“Listen, you've had a long day. If it hasn't caught up with you, it will. We'll talk in the morning.” A longer pause this time.

Harper sounded tired. Tired and weak. The combination served to gently ease yet another yoke down onto Ryan's shoulders, the burden of uncertainty. He wondered how much more he could carry before he crumbled under the weight.

“It's good to hear your voice, Kealey. I was worried there for a while. Give my regards to Naomi—the department already sent flowers to her room.”

“That was good of you, John. I'll see you tomorrow.”

After hanging up the phone, he leaned against the cold brick wall facing the hospital, looking up into the black emptiness. Ryan noticed that his hands were shaking, but he couldn't will them to stop. He had seen many awful things in his life, far more than most, but knew that he would never forget the images that had confronted him through the choking dust after pulling Naomi out of the crushed van.

Now those terrible scenes reminded him of others, and he rushed to quickly push the thoughts from his mind. Searching frantically for something else to focus on, anything else, he found himself thinking about what he had overheard Katie saying earlier.
My fiancé…I'm looking for my fiancé, Ryan Kealey.

They had never talked about marriage, and at first glance the idea seemed completely implausible. They had barely known each other six months, and he had never even met her family. Now that he thought about it, she had never mentioned them. In truth, though, he was more than ready to leave this life behind and start a family of his own. There had been women in the past, of course, but none that he cared about so much. If pressed, he wouldn't have been able to say exactly why.

Although extremely intelligent, she was ruled by emotion, a fact that Ryan found both fascinating and a little overwhelming. There was nothing petty in Katie Donovan—for her, feeling decided what happened next; it was real, and could be trusted. Sometimes, the passion she exuded was almost frightening in its intensity. When she cared about something, she threw her whole heart into it. She had thrown her heart into him, he could see that now. For a woman who would jump on a plane and travel hundreds of miles to be by his side, Ryan thought he would give anything.

He walked back across long shadows in the street, to the woman he had saved and the woman who might yet save him.