The American (6 page)

Ryan Kealey awoke without a sound, pieces of information slowly entering into his mind, each a revelation more startling than the one before.

The thin sheets were clinging to his sweat-soaked torso. As the shaking slowly left his body, Ryan was suddenly aware that Katie was whispering quietly in his ear, her arms wrapped around him protectively from behind, silken fingers gliding over the raised scar on his chest.

“Baby, are you okay? God, you were shouting so loud…” There was a noticeable tremble to her voice. “Your dreams…They're getting worse.”

He didn't respond, preferring to think of nothing for as long as possible. He just wanted to take comfort from the proximity of her body. Maybe she understood, as she fell silent while his ragged breathing slowly subsided.

Thoughts swirled around him in the dark, intruding when he could no longer hold them at bay. Jason March had murdered men that were like brothers to him. If the regular army fostered lifelong friendships, the relationships built within the Special Forces community were like family ties, carrying no more or less importance than actual blood relations. Now the man he had hoped was dead had returned from the other side of the world to commit even more vicious crimes.

Kealey thought that he was uniquely equipped to kill March. He felt that he owed it to the men who lost their lives on that hilltop far away from home. Where it would end, he wasn't sure. Ryan only knew that he would be there to make sure it did.

“I
'm due at the White House in two hours, John. I can't go up there empty-handed. What do you think we're looking at here?”

Jonathan Harper glanced up at Robert Andrews, the recently appointed director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was a difficult question to answer; the combined efforts of the CIA and the FBI had yielded very little new information in the past week. Phone calls had been made, favors called in. The interagency cooperation that was supposed to have come into effect following 9/11 had never really materialized, despite the recent development of the Terrorist Threat Integration Center located just a few short miles away. Harper had been one of the few to recognize beforehand that this would be the case.

“Well, we still have no claim of responsibility for the attack on Senator Levy, which in and of itself is highly unusual. Iran is denying all involvement, but I don't think we can take that at face value, especially since they officially announced that they're starting up their weapons program again. The timing is just too damn convenient. Besides, they had a better reason than anyone to take out the senator. He was their most vociferous opponent on everything from the acquisition of nuclear material to human-rights violations. One thing we do have is a tentative ID on the man who carried out the attack, and we can link him directly to Al-Qaeda. I sent that up to you earlier.”

Director Andrews nodded slowly, his lips pursed. “I find this a little hard to believe. Why would they trust an American enough to bring him that far into the organization?”

“Maybe they know what happened in Syria.”

Andrews looked up sharply. “You said the ID was verified by this guy Kealey. Where is he?”

“He just got back this morning. He's looking at cell phone intercepts with Davidson and Kharmai right now.”

“I thought he was retired.”

The deputy director shrugged. “He gave it a shot. I think he knew it wasn't going to last, though.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Andrews warned. “I read the file, and I know what he did in Bosnia. We're not trying to generate any publicity here, John.”

“That was never proven, sir.” The director shot him a skeptical look, which immediately made Harper regret the words.

“Just keep him in line, John. I appreciate what he's done here as much as anybody, but we have our hands full as it is. I don't need the Senate Oversight Committee jumping into the fray as well, okay?”

Harper nodded and stood to leave, but Andrews waved him back down into the seat.

“One more thing. I hear you have an analyst asking a lot of questions about Kealey. By that, I mean the same analyst you just mentioned.” Harper tried to contain his surprise, but the director noticed his incredulous look and gave a small, reluctant smile. “There is a reason I have this job, John.”

Harper nodded. “Naomi Kharmai. She's been with us for four years. She had clearance for the personnel file, so I gave it to her just to keep her happy. I told her not to take it any further, but I don't know if she'll listen. She's pretty stubborn.”

The DCI considered his response for a long moment. Finally, he said, “If you think it's worth keeping her on this, then make sure she stays busy with the relevant stuff. As in, what happened in Syria is
not
relevant. Those soldiers officially died in a training accident…We need to be able to work with the military, and if that piece of misinformation comes out on our end, then they won't trust us with anything else. And frankly, I wouldn't blame them,” Andrews added.

Harper was about to respond when the heavy mahogany door was edged open by a secretary. “Excuse me, sir, but you might want to turn to Channel 3. It's about Senator Levy.”

The confusion was evident on the faces of both men as the director scrambled for the remote control. An image appeared on the screen of a high-rise apartment complex that Harper recognized immediately.

“If you're just joining us, we're here outside the Kennedy-Warren, an exclusive residential building on Connecticut Avenue, where officials from the Justice Department have tracked down the man suspected in providing information that led to the cold-blooded murder of Senator Daniel Levy last week. The man has been identified as Michael Shakib, a Congressional staffer with strong ties to the Iranian American community, who has—”

“Jesus Christ!”
Andrews screamed, his voice drowning out the excited anchorwoman. “How the
hell
did this get past us, John?”

“The FBI is supposed to be keeping us up-to-date on these kinds of developments, but—”

“Bullshit!” Andrews took a few deep breaths, resting his hands on one of the few empty spaces on his cluttered desk. Seconds passed, and the anger fell from his features. “Sorry, John, that's not meant for you. I can see that they fucked us on this.”

The DCI thought for a long moment before continuing. “You know, it might even work out better that we're not obviously invested. I don't see this ending well, not with all those reporters out there. All the same, get someone down there without making a lot of noise about it. Send Kealey, if you want.”

Harper was in awe of the man's self-control. “If I know him, sir, he's probably already on the way.”

“Make sure we have a part in this, John. Bring us into the loop. If we don't know what's going on, it'll be easier for them to hang the blame on us.”

It was a dismissal. Harper left the room quietly, grateful to leave behind the now-fuming director of Central Intelligence.

 

Ryan had driven his BMW down from Maine rather than risk being stuck in an uncomfortable rental for the duration of his stay in Washington. He decided that it had been a good decision as the powerful 4.4-liter engine pushed the car north along Connecticut Avenue. He was quickly approaching the Dupont Circle underpass, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he expertly navigated the busy street with one hand on the steering wheel.

“I got it, John. Talk to the guy on the scene, don't make any noise…Fine, I understand. Here, talk to your girl.” He handed it over to a pale-faced Naomi Kharmai, who had to unclench her tightly balled fists to accept the outstretched phone.

“Don't let them brush you off, Naomi,” Harper said. “We need to know if this is on the up-and-up. If Shakib is the leak, then we're getting somewhere. Don't worry that we didn't get ahold of this first—it's what we do with it now, okay?” The DDO broke off to speak with someone else momentarily. “Call me when you have some details.”

The phone went dead in her ear before she could respond. As Ryan shifted into fourth gear and punched the pedal, she slunk back down in the seat as far as she could go, absolutely positive that they would be dead long before reaching their destination.

 

Connecticut Avenue outside the Kennedy-Warren was filled to capacity with emergency-service vehicles, fire engines, and the unmarked government sedans that belonged to the FBI personnel on the scene. Piles of dirty ice had accumulated at the curb, and the pavement beneath their feet was slick. A stiff wind whipped between the vehicles, making the temperature seem even lower than it really was. Ryan thought it was probably less than 30 degrees, making him wish he had brought more protection from the harsh weather than a worn, black-leather jacket. To make matters worse, he and Kharmai were forced to wait for five minutes while their identification was confirmed by the ponderously slow police officers maintaining the perimeter.

Naomi was staring at an unmarked Chevrolet transport van that was at least 25 feet long. The rear doors were open, and Kealey could easily make out the switchboard inside, as well as a gasoline-powered generator bolted to the floor. The vehicle was surrounded by men in blue coveralls and body armor, each holding an HK MP10 down by his side, except for the few who carried shotguns chambered with entry rounds. The men were quietly conversing among themselves; some chewed gum rapidly, fingers tapping impatiently on the trigger guards of their automatic weapons. They tried to hide their tense faces, mostly failing in the effort.

Ryan recognized the stress-relieving rituals and knew immediately that they would get the job done. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

“Do you think they're going in already?” Naomi asked.

“Jesus, I hope not,” he replied, gesturing in the direction of the news vans held beyond the perimeter. Satellite dishes were attached to the roofs of the vehicles. “If he's actually up there, he can see everything we're doing. This can't get any worse than it already is.”

Naomi spotted a heavy, angry-looking black man wearing a blue FBI parka over a white dress shirt and suit pants. He was shouting at a small cluster of agents, jabbing his finger into the air emphatically. She caught his eye and walked in his direction, Kealey trailing behind her. The agents scattered on their approach.

“Naomi. I thought you might turn up,” the man said warily. She smiled pleasantly, ignoring the tone of his voice.

“Luke Hendricks, Ryan Kealey. Luke here is the ASAC for the Washington field office. Why didn't we hear about this?” she asked bluntly. The generous smile was gone from her face.

“Hey, you said it. I'm the
Assistant
Special Agent in Charge; that means there is about a billion people telling me how to do my job. I'm not the guy who decides what we share with other agencies,” Hendricks responded.

Naomi was looking around. “Where's the ADIC?” she asked. She was referring to the Assistant Director in Charge, who runs the field office in major cities such as Washington, D.C., and Los Angeles.

“In the hospital, believe it or not. Double-bypass surgery—pretty convenient, huh? I think he must have seen this one coming.”

Kealey appraised the FBI agent quickly, approving of what he saw. Hendricks had a right to be angry; he had been placed in a difficult situation with very little oversight, and the unexpected presence of the reporters only compounded the problem. All the same, Ryan thought that he looked like a man able to make quick decisions under pressure.

“What do you have at this point?” Ryan asked.

“Not much. Confirmation that he's in there, of course. The desk manager saw him go up twenty minutes before we walked through the door. We haven't started a dialogue yet, and I'm beginning to think it won't happen. I'm under pressure to send those guys in,” Hendricks said, waving vaguely in the direction of the SWAT team standing by. “Personally, I'd like to exhaust all other possibilities before I give them the go-ahead. My guys are pretty pissed off, but you'd never know it looking at them. Right now, I don't see this man coming down alive unless he gives it up—if he eats a bullet, then we'll never figure out what he was up to.”

Ryan looked up at the towering building, then back to Hendricks. He didn't say anything. Personally, he thought that it was a mistake to assume anything about the man on the eighth floor of this apartment complex, Congressional staffer or not.

“How did you get a line on Shakib?” Kealey asked.

Hendricks focused his attention on the man standing slightly behind Naomi Kharmai. Kealey was of medium height, with black hair on the long side, a lean, muscular build, and dark gray eyes that were somewhat unnerving in their intensity.

More than a decade earlier, Luke Hendricks had served as an infantry squad leader in the 82nd Airborne out of Fort Bragg. He had seen action in the Gulf, and had been awarded the Soldier's Medal for pulling two young privates out of a minefield close to the end of his tour. Hendricks rarely talked about the experience, but he knew the difference between a soldier and someone who had served in the military. He could recognize a soldier when he saw one.

“Obviously, we looked at nationality first. It made sense to check out anybody affiliated with Iran working on the Hill. That only took us so far before someone came up with the idea to look at travel plans. Shakib vacationed annually in Valencia. After a day or two, he'd charter a flight to Bucharest under a different name, and then on to Tehran. It was a low-risk strategy with minimal contact, suggesting the possibility that he was a sleeper. Who knows what else he's given up over the years? A lot of heads are going to roll when the whole thing goes public.”

After Hendricks stated the obvious, he paused for a moment. “He knows we're out here. If we were completely off track, then he would have given it up a long time ago. This is the guy.”

“And you couldn't keep this quiet?” Naomi asked.

“I didn't leak it, if that's what you're suggesting. A lot of people had access to this information,” he responded angrily.

“Not us,” she muttered.

 

High above the commotion, Michael Shakib was kneeling motionless on a prayer mat facing east. His head was bowed in supplication facing Mecca, a place he had not visited, nor would ever visit, although the hajj was specifically required by the fifth pillar of his faith.

Shakib's features were distinctly Arabic, which was not surprising as he had been born in Qom before his parents emigrated to California in 1979, despite the immense difficulties associated with leaving the country after the Revolution. All his life he had been exposed to the prejudice and animosity felt toward Islam by his adopted homeland, but had never once considered leaving the faith. He was painfully aware that his appearance alone inspired distrust in the faces of the people he passed each day. This particular prejudice was largely imagined, however, for Michael Shakib was not an unattractive man.