The Assassin. Andrew Britton
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“I’ll keep it in mind.”
CHAPTER 13
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
They arrived at the staging area thirty minutes after leaving the runway at Dulles. Harper had spent half the trip on the phone, trying to get the location of the command post, as the Bureau rep at the NCTC just hadn’t seen the benefit in giving the CIA access to one of its ongoing operations. In the end, though, it was the use of the president’s name—as Kealey had anticipated—that settled the argument.
They were passed through following a brief examination of their credentials. The Suburban bounced over a concrete lip and into the parking area, where the driver pulled in next to a fleet of Bureau Crown Vics. Several agents in blue FBI windbreakers were standing around the vehicles, smoking and sipping from steaming Styrofoam cups, engaged in low conversation. Kealey got out and went to the rear cargo doors, where he opened his ruck sack and replaced his sweatshirt with a corduroy barn jacket. Then he tucked his Beretta into the waistband of his khakis, where the grip of the weapon was neatly concealed by the wrinkled folds of his coat. A few of the Bureau agents were shooting him curious looks.
Harper waved him over. “Remember what I said, Ryan. They didn’t have to let us in.”
The younger man caught the drift immediately: keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. He’d heard the words often enough that they weren’t really necessary; by now, the accompanying look was enough.
The command post itself was based on the second floor of a two-story walk-up. The room was overheated, despite the fact that someone was coming in or out every few seconds, and filled with agents and communication equipment. Clear plastic draped over the unused gear served as protection against the leaky ceiling, but nothing could be done about the sagging floors, which looked ready to give. A series of monitors on one wall provided numerous angles of the target building, which was located a block to the east. It was almost impossible to tell who was in charge, but Harper was already cutting a confident path through the crowd. Kealey trailed at a distance, swearing under his breath when he tripped over one of the numerous extension cords snaking across the scuffed wooden floor.
Harper stopped at a functional steel desk in the back of the room. Standing behind it was a young woman—mid twenties, Kealey guessed—dressed in a pale purple pullover and faded jeans. A black DeSantis holster containing a 10mm pistol was clipped to her belt, the shirt pulled behind the grip to allow easy access to the weapon. Her soft blond hair was not her own—a trace of light brown could be seen at the roots—but it was done well, and the color suited her brown eyes and lightly tanned skin. Her ears were adorned with small diamond studs, and she wore a thin silver chain at her neck, the bottom half of which slipped under her shirt. Kealey couldn’t help but notice how bright she was in the otherwise somber, dark-suited crowd. She clutched a manila folder in both hands but seemed to be more interested in the phone that was pinched between her right shoulder and cheek.
“Yes, I told you that, Tom,” she was saying, her voice carrying over the din. “I did call HQ, but they wouldn’t put me through to Judd, and he has to approve it. As it stands, we just don’t have enough bodies….”
Harper leaned in to explain. “They were supposed to go in with the D.C. SWAT team and an ATF contingent. It sounds like she’s trying to beef up the numbers.”
“Who’s Judd?”
“Harry Judd, the deputy executive director. He’s the only one who can authorize the use of the HRT.”
Kealey nodded. He knew that the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team—frequently without any hostages to save—often served as an elite SWAT unit and was renowned for its low subject fatality rate. For this reason alone, he hoped the team would get the nod, but judging by the agent’s obvious frustration, it didn’t look good.
The woman finally tossed aside the file she was holding to more efficiently slam down the receiver. She clearly wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but Harper pressed forward. “Agent Crane, this is Ryan Kealey. Ryan, Special Agent Samantha Crane.”
Crane was nearly as tall as he was. She sized him up with a sweeping glance and offered a small, disapproving frown. Kealey couldn’t really blame her; he knew how he looked. Finally, she stuck out her hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”
Her grip was surprisingly strong, her voice hinting at a regional accent he couldn’t quite place. He was still trying to figure it out when she turned her attention back to Jonathan Harper. “No offense, Mr. Harper, but I have no idea how you were even cleared to this site. This is a domestic operation, a Bureau operation, and I’ve been working this case for three months. So unless you have something to contribute, I’m—”
“Agent Crane, I understand how you feel, and I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Harper said, moving fast to appease her. “Trust me when I say that we’re not here to interfere. That said, we would like to talk to Mason once you have him in custody.”
She frowned again. “That might be arranged, but not through me. He’ll have to be arraigned first, and—”
“What are you charging him with?”
Crane turned back to Kealey, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “The U.S. attorney files charges, Mr. Kealey, not the FBI.”
“So how did you get the warrant?” Kealey shot back.
She sighed impatiently. “Anthony Mason was served up to us by a cooperating witness three months ago. Based on his testimony and supporting documents, we can link Mason to the distribution of more than two hundred thousand dollars in various Class III weapons over the past two years. We know he’s responsible for much more, but that’s what we can prove. Everything’s in the affidavits we filed with the D.C. Superior Court.” She pointed to the folder on the desk and said, “That’s Mason’s file, by the way. You can check it out for yourself.”
“Where’s your witness now?” Harper asked.
“Federal custody.”
“Why don’t you use him?” Kealey asked. “You could send him in with undercover agents to make a buy. That would save the need for all of”—he waved his arms around the crowded room—“this.”
“Because Mason knows we’re holding him,” she replied. “They picked him up on a high-profile bust, a joint DEAATF operation. As usual, they held a press conference and started celebrating before they knew what they had, so Mason was tipped off before his buddy had the chance to give him up. Obviously, the trail went cold until this week.” She paused as though thinking it through. “Besides, the witness was kind of shaky to begin with.”
“So let me get this straight,” Kealey said. “Mason’s been at the top of your list for months, during which time you had shit. Now, by some miracle, you’ve suddenly managed to stumble onto him. Is that right?”
A cold look settled over her face at the tone of the question.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“We received some unexpected information, an anonymous tip. I’m not going to tell you anything more than that.”
Kealey gave her a hard stare. Anonymous tip? That was clearly bullshit. “Can’t you at least wait to get him outside the building? If he sees you coming, he’ll barricade himself inside. Besides, who knows how many—”
“Mr. Kealey, I don’t have to explain myself to you.” She set her feet and folded her arms. “But I will say this: It really isn’t up to me. I have my orders as well, and at the Bureau, we always follow orders.”
She didn’t expand on this last statement, but Kealey caught her meaning instantly: things didn’t work the same at the CIA. It wasn’t a compliment.
“Now is that it?” she asked sarcastically. “Or do you have any more questions?”
“Just one. If your witness is that shaky, how can