The Assassin rk-2, page 48
part #2 of Ryan Kealey Series
He studied her dispassionately, then said, “You’re quite beautiful… I can’t imagine he would be able to resist you for long. I know I wouldn’t be able to.” He leaned close, touching the tip of the pliers to her cheek. As the cold metal brushed against her skin, Naomi nearly lost it, but she pushed down her terror with one last tremendous effort.
“Naomi, Naomi…” He repeated her name in a singsong kind of way, then shook his head in amusement. “I can see that there’s something between you two. It couldn’t be more obvious. Do you think you can replace his dead fiancee? Answer me.”
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“Do you want to?”
She didn’t reply, and he let it go. He leaned down to the toolbox and replaced the pliers, then came up with a retractable utility knife. Extending the blade with his thumb, he examined the edge, then tossed it back in the box. “That won’t work. Plastic surgeons can work miracles with clean cuts these days. Let’s see if we can’t find something a little more… interesting.”
She didn’t want to ask it, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What are you doing?”
“Well, it’s simple,” he said, still digging around in the toolbox. “Killing you outright would be too easy and, frankly, a little boring. I think I’ll make you suffer first.”
He looked up to catch her reaction, and when he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact. “You really shouldn’t have interfered in what I’m trying to do here. In your case, I could almost put it down to ignorance, but Ryan should have known better. Unfortunately, he’s not around to take his share of the blame, which leaves only you.” He dug around for a minute more, then produced a fixed-blade scoring knife. He held it up so she could see the hooked edge. “This is better.” He smiled gently. “Now, let’s see what we can do with that pretty face, shall we?”
As he advanced, Naomi pulled away as far as she could, aware of a low moan building deep in her throat. The steel cuffs were digging into her wrists, tearing the skin, but the pain didn’t register; all she could think about was getting away from the knife.
It was no good; there was nowhere to go. She felt flailing panic in her chest, felt her legs giving way as he pinned her painfully against the lathe. She could hear herself saying no and repeating the single word over and over as the jagged parts of the lathe dug into the lean muscles of her back. She was intensely aware of what this man had done to Katie Donovan a year earlier, and knew that she was about to suffer much, much worse. Her arms were pulled to the right, her left pinned between his body and hers. Naomi was wedged in place as he grabbed her throat with his left hand, pushing her head back, bringing the knife to her face with his right. She closed her eyes as tightly as she could and waited for the tearing pain to begin, praying it wouldn’t last too long.
But it never came. There was a sudden noise at the entrance, and Vanderveen stopped, looking left. Foster was standing inside the glass doors, about 20 feet away. “We can’t wait any longer,” he said uneasily. “Nazeri has to get moving. Right now.”
“In a minute,” Vanderveen replied. “This won’t take long.”
“Will…”
Vanderveen looked from Naomi’s terrified face to the door, then back again. He was clearly torn, but finally, he released her. Her strength failed her, and she slumped to the floor, only stopping when the cuffs pulled her arms taut over her head.
“Okay, I’m coming.” He looked back at Naomi, who had buried her face in her right shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”
At that same moment, Ryan Kealey’s rented Accord was racing south on FDR Drive, having just crossed the Triborough Bridge over the Harlem River. As soon as they’d left the safe house on Vyse Avenue, he had placed a direct call to Jonathan Harper at Langley, requesting a check on the name Nazeri in the New York area. Fortunately, the search yielded only a small number of results, and through the process of elimination, they were able to narrow it down to one probable address.
It was indeed that of Bridgeline Transport Inc., a freight company with terminals in Montreal and Ithaca, was owned by a man named Amir Nazeri, who’d emigrated from Tehran in the early eighties. The company also owned a vending service based on West Thirty-seventh Street, which was their current destination. Harper had demanded to know what was happening, but Kealey had cut him off in mid-sentence, not wanting to tie up the line. Repeated calls to Kharmai’s cell phone had gone unanswered, and he knew they were running out of time.
Up ahead, brake lights flashed as vehicles slowed to a halt. So far, they had managed to avoid most of the traffic, but it couldn’t last. He swore and slammed his hand against the wheel. Samantha Crane didn’t move an inch. She was sitting in the passenger seat. Over the past ten minutes, she had recovered slightly from Hakim Rudaki’s revelation. Now, she appeared neither drained nor angry. Her body was unnaturally still, her mouth set in a straight, tight line. Her eyes were unreadable, but Kealey knew exactly what she was feeling. He’d felt the same depth of betrayal when Will Vanderveen had shot him in Syria eight years earlier, right after killing 5 of his fellow soldiers. But that was in the past, and at the moment, all Kealey could think about was Naomi.
He was desperate to get to her, but at the same time, part of him wanted to sit in traffic forever. He was terrified that he’d get to the warehouse to find she was already dead, that he had failed her just like he’d failed Katie. Her words of the previous night were banging around in his head, but now they seemed taunting rather than reassuring. You’ve never let me down, and I know you never will. I trust you completely. He shook his head unconsciously, trying to free himself of the burden, knowing it was pointless to even try. If he proved her wrong — if she died because he couldn’t get there in time — he knew he would never be able to forgive himself.
Finally, the traffic broke, and they reached the exit for the Midtown Tunnel. He shot a look over his shoulder, then swerved into the next lane without indicating, punching the accelerator. The Accord shot forward on the service road. A few seconds later, the tires squealed in protest as Kealey swung a hard right onto East Thirty-seventh Street.
As he shifted into third gear, Samantha pulled out her Glock 29. He glanced over and saw her pull back the slide to check for a round in the chamber. She rested the gun on her lap and said, “How many people are we looking at here? I mean, it is just the two of us.”
It was the first time she had spoken since they’d left Vyse Avenue, and the question caught him off-guard. “Vanderveen, Foster, and this guy Nazeri. No more than that,” Kealey replied at length. “But they’ll all be there. I don’t think they’ll have moved the bomb yet. At least, I hope to God they haven’t.”
“How big a bomb are we talking about?”
“Fifteen thousand pounds.”
He didn’t look over, but he felt her staring at him. “Are you serious?” she finally asked.
He glared at her, and she was instantly repentant. “Never mind,” she mumbled. “Dumb question.”
Kealey shot a look at the speedometer: with Third Avenue looming, he was ahead of the traffic and building speed. As he watched, the light ahead turned yellow. People were lined up on either side of the street, waiting to cross, and he was still about 300 feet away from the intersection.
He punched the pedal and hit the horn as the speedometer continued to climb.
Naomi, still slumped against the front of the lathe, didn’t look up until she was sure she was alone in the warehouse. As she got to her feet unsteadily, she could hear the three men through the open glass doors. Suddenly, the truck started up and pulled away. She froze, wondering if that was it, if they were too late to stop the bomb, but the noise didn’t travel far. She realized that the Isuzu was still in the parking area, probably sitting in front of the roll-down vehicular door. It might not be gone, but it would be leaving soon, and as soon as it did, Vanderveen would be back to finish the job.
The thought filled her with a fresh, crippling wave of terror, but she pushed it down, knowing she had to act immediately. She took a deep, shaky breath and tried to focus, looking down at her cuffed hands. She didn’t recognize the machine she was cuffed to, though she noticed it seemed out of place in the building, which was otherwise filled with wooden pallets loaded with bottled water and soft drinks. Her eyes followed the length of the bar that secured her to the main unit. Gripping it with her hands, she shook it as hard as she could, but it didn’t give an inch. She went to the left side of the machine and leaned close, examining where the bar joined the larger part of the metal structure. It seemed to be pushed into a well of some kind, but it was machined with precision, and the fit was perfect. There was no room for give.
Breathing deeply again to steady her nerves, she made her way back to the other end of the lathe. When she checked the right side of the structure, she immediately felt her spirits lift; the bar was secured by what looked like simple screws. Instantly, her eyes moved down to the toolbox, which was within reach of her foot. Moving to the middle of the bar, she stretched out her left foot as far as she could, the cuffs tight against her raw wrists, her arms stretched so far it felt like they would pull out of their sockets. Her wounded left shoulder was screaming for her to stop, but she ignored it and kept going. Finally, her foot brushed against the box, then caught the lip. She pulled it back inch by inch until she could move it easier. Then she pulled it directly under her body.
There. A screwdriver right on top. Shifting her body, she examined the screws again. She swore under her breath. She knew there were different types of screwdrivers, but she didn’t have a choice; as far as she could see, the box only held one kind of screwdriver, and she couldn’t see the tip.
She used her left shin to push off the shoe on her right foot, silently thanking God she had worn flats. When her foot was exposed, she pinched the metal part of the screwdriver between her toes, then lifted it carefully. A sudden noise outside the warehouse made her jump, and she nearly dropped it. She kept going, knowing that what she had heard was the back of the truck being pulled down. The fear started to rise again, and she felt her limbs turn to water; she was out of time. The voices outside were so distinct, they had to be getting closer. She steeled herself immediately, trying to force breath in and out of her constricted lungs. It took everything she had, but finally, the screwdriver was in her hand. From there it was shockingly easy; she had the three screws out in no time at all, and the bar came free.
She looked at her hands, slightly amazed at what she had managed to do. She was still handcuffed, but at least she could move. She immediately started toward the office, intent on getting to a phone. It was the only option left to her, as she didn’t have a weapon. But then, just as she put her hand on the door, she heard exactly what she’d feared most: nothing at all. The truck was gone, and that could only mean one thing. Vanderveen was coming back to kill her. She turned back to the building’s entrance, seeing nothing at first, but then a shadow loomed on the concrete, drawing closer.
She looked around frantically, but she was boxed in. Her heart hammering, she pushed open the door to the office and stepped inside.
CHAPTER 53
NEW YORK CITY
After pulling the Isuzu up to the gate, which was still lowered, Vanderveen climbed out without shutting off the engine. He walked to the back, where Foster and Nazeri were waiting. Leaning in, he stared at the bomb one last time, aware that he would never again see it intact. The thought was strangely uplifting, but he couldn’t ignore the irony: in ceasing to exist, this device would create a whole new world of fear and terror.
For the most part, it still resembled the Parker boiler, with one exception: the panel on the left side had been removed, exposing the curvature of the BLU-82. The bomb itself was strapped to a customdesigned metal pallet and surrounded by an elaborate wooden framework. Wedged inside this framework, tight against the metal shell of the bomb, was 2? pounds of Semtex high explosive. The Semtex, in turn, was molded around a single nonelectric blasting cap, which fed 12 feet of military det cord through predrilled holes in the box and cab. The M60 fuse igniter was taped to the vinyl side of the driver’s seat; to set off the Semtex and the BLU-82, all Nazeri had to do was reach down, rip off the M60, push, turn, and pull. It was an extremely simple, efficient design. As far as Nazeri knew, he would then have approximately five minutes to get to safety before the bomb went off. In this belief, he was fatally mistaken.
Vanderveen had spent the last hour preparing the BLU-82, and in the process, he had replaced the time fuse he’d demonstrated earlier with standard det cord. It had not been difficult to distract Nazeri long enough to make the switch. The time fuse used by the U.S. military was extremely simple: black powder wound in yarn and sealed with bitumen, all of which was wrapped in plastic tubing. The powder was distributed in such a way as to ensure a slow burn. Det cord, on the other hand, was plastic tubing filled with thousands of grains of PETN, which burned at a rate of 8,400 meters per second. From the outside, time fuse and det cord looked remarkably similar, but the difference could hardly be greater. The instant Nazeri pulled the ring on the M60, he would cease to exist, along with the core leadership of the United Iraqi Alliance.
Vanderveen put a foot on the back bumper, reached up, and pulled down the rolling door. Once he’d secured it, he clamped on an ABUS Granit core-hardened padlock, the best that money could buy. Without the key, it would take a very long time to get through this simple piece of security.
And with that, it was done. He turned to Nazeri.
“It’s time.”
Nazeri nodded, his forehead bathed in a light sheen of sweat. Vanderveen almost reached out to put a hand on the man’s shoulder, but decided it wouldn’t be welcome. For the moment, it was just the two of them. Foster was standing a few feet away, but he was not a part of what they had started so many months ago, and he seemed to know it. He stayed silent and looked back to the warehouse, clearly uneasy.
In Farsi, Vanderveen said, “I know you’ve started to question whether you’re doing the right thing, Amir. I don’t question your love for your cousin, but I do wonder if you’re prepared to see this through. Why, when we’ve come this far, are you hesitating now?”
Nazeri lowered his head. Vanderveen knew exactly what he was thinking: that his hesitation reflected the limits of his grief; that in pausing to think things through, he had somehow marginalized his cousin’s death. “When I do this, many people will die. Many people who were not involved in her murder.”
“And who was responsible? In your eyes, who should pay?”
Nazeri looked up, his eyes burning. “The government. But we’re not attacking the government.”
“And yet you haven’t questioned the target. Why?”
“Because I know why you picked it,” Nazeri said slowly. “It’s a symbol of the city, known the world over. It’s a public-”
“No,” Vanderveen said. He shook his head and reached under his coat, withdrawing a single sheet of paper. “This is why.”
Nazeri accepted the document. He was confused at first, but he read it quickly, and when he was done, his eyes seemed clearer, sharper, and his body was unnaturally still. “Is this true?”
“Amir, I’ve never lied to you. I made it clear from the start that I had my own agenda, but I gave you the opportunity to take part because I knew your cousin, and I knew what she was trying to do. She was gunned down in Washington when she could have been taken alive, and her death was covered up so the government could save face.”
Vanderveen paused and waited until their eyes met. “The director of the FBI is here, my friend. Here in New York, at the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square. He came to oversee security for the meeting at the UN, and in doing so, he’s given you the opportunity of a lifetime. Raseen has already verified his location. He’s there as we speak.” Along with thirty-five members of the UIA, Vanderveen thought.
Nazeri looked at Foster, who was obviously unaware of what they were talking about. “Does he know about this?”
“Yes,” Vanderveen replied. It was true; Foster had forged the memorandum himself. “But he can’t tell you anything I haven’t already, and we don’t have time to discuss this further. The man ultimately responsible for your cousin’s murder is within arm’s reach. Now, are you prepared to take the final step, or have you changed your mind?”
Nazeri looked at the paper in his hand, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. It was a strange gesture, and Vanderveen wasn’t sure what to make of it. He waited, and in time Nazeri seemed to come back to himself.
“No, I haven’t changed my mind.”
Vanderveen nodded slowly. Leaving this responsibility in Nazeri’s hands was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew it had to happen this way. In theory, he could have used a regular time fuse and set off the device himself, but Nazeri had wanted the responsibility, and Vanderveen had needed his preferred status with customs to get the daisy cutter inside the country to begin with. If he had denied the Iranian the chance to carry out the act itself, Nazeri might not have assisted him at all. Still, the other man’s firm expression — as well as Raseen’s earlier words — worked to alleviate most of Vanderveen’s lingering concerns.
“Then go. And good luck, my friend. This is the last time we will meet.”
Nazeri nodded and moved to the cab. As he climbed up and shut the door, Vanderveen started toward the chain that raised and lowered the roll-down vehicular door. With one hand on the chain, he glanced at his watch and turned to Foster. “Go and take care of the woman. Kealey will be here in a few minutes.”
The FBI agent nodded and started back toward the warehouse. As the door cleared the top of the truck, the Isuzu rolled out onto West Thirty-seventh, then turned right, the transmission whining as Nazeri shifted gears, the engine struggling with the weight in the box. Vanderveen lowered the door and looked back as Foster disappeared from view. He hesitated, then turned and walked quickly to the pedestrian gate. As he unlocked it and stepped into the street, he thought he heard Foster shouting something from inside the warehouse, but he ignored it and shut the gate behind him. He thought about locking it, but decided against it.
