The Assassin (27 page)

“…attack occurred at 7:03
PM
Paris time. This video was shot by a tourist outside Le Meridien Etoile, the site of a two-day economic conference being held by the International Chamber of Commerce. According to witnesses, a number of conference attendees were exiting the hotel when a black Ford sedan sped down the boulevard, then braked to a halt in front of the main entrance. Automatic gunfire was leveled at the crowd from the passenger-side window. Although French police have yet to release a statement, the attack is believed to have claimed the lives of…”

Naomi listened for thirty seconds more before remembering that Ryan was still on the line. She lifted the phone back to her ear and, in a shaking voice, explained what she’d just heard.

On E Street, Kealey lowered the cell and looked at Jonathan Harper, who was methodically beating his pockets, obviously wondering where his own phone had gone.

Giving up the search, Harper turned to the younger man and said, “Tell me.”

“Two men just attacked a hotel in Paris. At least eight people are dead, including Nasir al-Din Tabrizi, the Iraqi foreign minister.”

“Oh, Christ,” Harper muttered. “This can’t get worse.”

CHAPTER 25

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Naomi Kharmai had never been more nervous; at least, not in the absence of imminent physical danger. Her hands were shaking, and her breath — when she could breathe at all — was coming in quick, short spurts. For the third time in a row, she stood and walked on shaky legs to the room’s only mirror. She checked her reflection with overly critical eyes, smoothing her hair and examining her suit. It was a Donna Karan two-piece in burgundy wool, the best she owned. Oblivious to the admiring gaze of the Secret Service agent standing nearby, she adjusted her skirt and turned to Kealey, who was slumped in a chair next to the door. He was wearing an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit he had borrowed from Harper. “Ryan, are you sure I—”

“Naomi, you look fine, okay? Try to relax.”

She turned back to the mirror in exasperation. He hadn’t even looked. She wondered how he could be so calm; as far as she knew, he had never met the president, either, or even been to the White House.

They were waiting in a dimly lit lobby on the first floor of the West Wing. Brenneman was in a meeting with the DCI, Jonathan Harper, and a number of FBI officials, including Harry Judd. Several hours earlier, Naomi had brought Kealey and the DDO up to speed on everything she had learned since the assassination in Paris. Afterward, Harper had talked to Andrews, asking that Kharmai be allowed to brief the president herself. Naomi had tried to flatly refuse, but Harper had insisted and assuaged her fears. Or at least he had made the effort; now, waiting to be called in, she was once again seized with terror. It didn’t make sense, and she was frustrated with her inexplicable lack of control. She was a professional, and she believed in what she had to say. At the same time, she had never even briefed the DCI, let alone the president of the United States, and she knew she only had one chance to make a convincing argument. She was determined to do so.

Naomi had been working feverishly ever since the attack. Through her contacts at the DGSE, she had learned the identities of the two gunmen. Both were Iranian, which, unfortunately, did not help the case she was about to make to the president. Tehran had yet to make an official statement, though she was confident that the regime would deny having played a part in the incident. For the most part, everything she had managed to dig up pointed in one direction: the Iraqi insurgency. Now, all she had to do was convince the president that she was right. In that respect, she rated her chances as good. What she was going to propose afterwards, however, might not be received as well, even though the DDO and the DCI had both agreed with her assessment.

She heard a door open behind her, and she swung on her heels, her heart leaping into her throat. The aide nodded to her and then to Kealey, who was still seated.

“Ms. Kharmai? Mr. Kealey? They’re ready for you. Follow me, please.”

Naomi stepped past the aide and entered the Roosevelt Room first, her leather briefing folder tucked tightly under her right arm. Kealey followed a few steps behind. Jonathan Harper, the only other person in the room, was waiting for them. He was standing before the fireplace, examining the Nobel Prize on the mantle. Naomi recalled that Theodore Roosevelt had won the prize for his work in ending the Russo-Japanese War, though she couldn’t remember the year. When the door closed behind them, Harper turned and crossed the beige Berber carpet. She immediately saw that his face was set in a grim expression, which didn’t help her nerves at all.

“The director stepped out to make a call,” Harper informed them. “The man himself is about to walk in here, so I’ll make this quick. Judd just railroaded us.”

“What are you talking about?” Kealey asked.

“Apparently, the Bureau has a source with strong ties to the Iranian government. This man predicted the attempt on al-Maliki, as well as the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi. They’ve been feeding this information to the National Security Council for weeks.”

Naomi shook her head, trying to see all the angles. “If they knew, why didn’t they pass the warnings along? Why did the attacks still take place?”

“The information
was
passed along. The Iraqis just didn’t act on it in time. Both attacks occurred earlier than anticipated, and in different places.”

“Is the president buying this?” Kealey asked doubtfully. “We don’t have much to implicate the Iranians.”

“He wants to. He’s been looking for an excuse to hit Iran ever since Senator Levy was killed last October.”

Both Kharmai and Kealey considered that for a moment. The previous year, the United States had formed an alliance with France and Italy to limit European oil exploration in Iran, the goal being to curtail the funds working their way into the regime’s weapons program. In response, the Iranians had formed a partnership with al-Qaeda to destroy the nascent alliance. They had started by targeting Senator Daniel Levy, the Senate majority leader and Iran’s most vocal opponent on the Hill. Levy had been a close friend of the president and one of his most ardent supporters. While the Iranian regime was never concretely linked with that attack — or those that followed — it was widely believed that the new hard-line regime had played a decisive role.

“So where do we stand?” Naomi asked. “Am I still doing the briefing?”

Harper opened his mouth to answer the question, but never got the chance. The door to the right of the fireplace swung open, and Director Andrews walked in, followed immediately by President David Brenneman.

The president walked over to Kealey first and extended a hand. “Ryan, it’s good to see you again. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

“I feel the same way, sir, but we’ll find who was responsible.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that we will.”

Listening to this strangely familiar exchange, Naomi was stunned. Here was yet another surprise: Ryan had met the president at least once before. But when? Her mind began ticking off the possibilities, but David Brenneman was already crossing the carpet toward her. He looked older in person, she thought, although it might just have been the strain of the past few weeks. He was tall — at least six feet four — and trim, with neat silver-brown hair and strong, handsome features. Despite the anger clouding his face, he looked
presidential
. She felt her mouth go dry as he offered a hand. She accepted it, painfully aware of how damp her own palms were.

“Naomi, I’m pleased to meet you. It should have happened before now… I know you played an important role in last year’s events. The country owes you a debt of gratitude, young lady.”

“Thank you, sir,” she managed. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

She instantly wished she’d limited her response to a polite nod, but the president didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. He gestured to the table and said, “Let’s get started, shall we?” They all took the appropriate seats, Brenneman at the head of the table. “Ms. Kharmai, I understand you’ve stumbled onto… excuse me,
discovered
, some interesting information regarding today’s attack in Paris.”

“Yes, sir.” She started to rise, but Brenneman waved her back into the seat.

“Unless you need the screen, we can do this in comfort,” he said. “Please proceed.”

“Of course, Mr. President.” Naomi flipped open her briefing folder, took a deep breath, and did her best to steady her jangling nerves. “Sir, let me start from the beginning. You see, the story does not begin with the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, but rather with the shipment of weapons through Anthony Mason to ports in the Middle East, where they were collected by none other than Will Vanderveen. At that time, he was using the name Erich Kohl. Over the next six months…”

She spoke for twenty minutes, detailing the links between Rashid al-Umari, Arshad Kassem, Anthony Mason, and Vanderveen. She also addressed the possible Iranian connection. Watching her from across the table, Kealey could not help but admire her poise and the way she managed to tie everything together. It was strange to listen to her speak to this audience; for the first time, he was acutely aware of her East Midlands accent, which had never seemed more out of place than it did in this room.

Naomi concluded by referencing Thomas Rühmann. “He’s actually an Austrian national, but accommodations have been made for him by some of his friends in the German federal cabinet. Though he’s listed on the boards of some of Germany’s most reputable companies, we’ve long suspected him of dealing arms to a number of governments and rebel groups. Needless to say, most of his customers are not people we want to see armed. The German government lets him get away with it because he’s done some work for them as well, but he’s also something of an embarrassment. They keep a close eye on him.”

Brenneman nodded and said, “What do you mean by that? They protect him directly?”

“In a way, sir. Let me give you an example. Three years ago, the State Department discovered that Rühmann was involved in the sale of two hundred Starburst man-portable missiles to Adnan al-Ghoul, a senior Hamas official. Incidentally, al-Ghoul has since been killed. Shortly after the sale came to light, State requested a formal audience through the appropriate channels. They expected full cooperation from the Germans, but the door was slammed shut in their faces. And that was then. Apparently, Rühmann has since enlarged his circle of influential friends, which makes getting access to him even more difficult.”

“Why the wall? Why would they go to that length to protect him, and what did you mean about him being an embarrassment?”

Kealey straightened in his seat and fielded the president’s questions. “Sir, do you remember the incident at Al Qaqaa in 2003?”

Brenneman considered for a moment. “Vaguely. Refresh my memory.”

“Al Qaqaa is a weapons storage facility located about twenty miles south of Baghdad. In 2003, it was reported that more than three hundred eighty tons of explosives, including HMX and RDX, had gone missing from the stockpile. That amounts to about forty truckloads. The
New York Times
was the first to break the story. Predictably, everyone started pointing fingers. The IAEA said that the material was accounted for in January of that year, and that U.S. troops were responsible for safeguarding the facility. The Pentagon turned the accusation around, but no one ever really took the blame. Some of the explosives later turned up, used in attacks on our troops, but most of it simply vanished. There was a lot of dispute afterward about what else might have been stored at Al Qaqaa.”

“How does Rühmann fit in?”

“Thomas Rühmann was in Iraq at the time, sir,” Naomi said. “In fact, he was the UN representative in charge of the last inspection at Al Qaqaa. That is, the last inspection before the explosives disappeared. Questions were asked, of course, but he resigned his post with the UN before his name came up, and his connections have since kept him out of the spotlight. Frankly, the Germans just want to forget the whole thing.”

“Okay,” the president said. “So to summarize, Rühmann can be linked, at least indirectly, to al-Umari and Vanderveen, both of whom were responsible for the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister.”

“That’s correct,” Naomi confirmed.

“But none of this can be tied to the assassination of Nasir Tabrizi in Paris, right?”

“Not yet,” she agreed reluctantly. “We’re still looking at that angle, sir.”

“And this is the only lead we have? Apart from the Iranian connection?”

“Unfortunately, that’s all we have at this time.”

“I could call Chancellor Merkel directly,” Brenneman pointed out. “She can hardly refuse the request if I make it myself.”

“Actually, sir, she might very well do just that,” Andrews put in. “At best, she’ll stall, and time is a factor here. The meeting at the UN is scheduled to take place on September sixteenth, coinciding with the opening of the General Assembly’s annual session. As you know, Prime Minister al-Maliki was the only member of the core Shiite group
not
scheduled to attend, the core being thirty-five key members of the United Iraqi Alliance. Nasir Tabrizi was on the other side, of course, but a moderating factor, nonetheless. From the Agency’s point of view, the fact that these men were specifically targeted is very troubling, and perhaps indicative of a larger attack here on U.S. soil. If the alliance is being targeted, we may be looking at more to come.”

Kealey instantly shot Harper a questioning look that said,
What meeting?
He didn’t notice that Kharmai had done the same thing, but Harper ignored both of them and turned to the president. “Sir, here is what it comes down to. I understand the Bureau has told you otherwise, but the Iranians have only been loosely implicated in the information we’ve gathered. Everything from our end points to an Iraqi mastermind. We need to talk to Rühmann, but we have no idea where he is. Nor do we know what name he’s using, and we’ve already checked the obvious.”