The Assassin by Andrew Britton Page A

Vanderveen turned the tables on Kealey and tracked him back to his home on the coast of Maine. There was a struggle — Kealey was nearly killed — but in the end, it was Vanderveen who went over the side and into the ocean.
    “There was a storm, and it was a drop of about a hundred eighty feet. Basically, his death was a foregone conclusion.”
    “So you just assumed he was dead?” Rachel Ford was amazed, her anger forgotten. “That’s pretty convenient.”
    “We helped the local authorities sniff around for a while — discreetly, of course. Even if Vanderveen had died in the fall, though, finding the body would have been nearly impossible.”
    “But why the cover-up?”
    “Because Kealey was — and still is — one of our most successful operatives.” The others were not surprised by Harper’s choice of words. In the intelligence business, talent was never an issue; the end result — success — was all that mattered.
    “We did our very best to bury this,” Harper continued. “Not even Kharmai knows the truth. We couldn’t afford to blow Kealey’s cover, and he was considered a legitimate target at the time. It was done for his protection.”
    The deputy DCI considered these words for a moment. Then realization dawned on her face, a small smile touching her lips. Harper issued a silent inward curse; it was clear that she had made the connection between Arshad Kassem and the current topic. He briefly wondered what he had said to give it away, but Ford’s next words cut his musings short.
    “So where does this leave us?”
    “We don’t have a choice. We have to wait,” was his simple reply. “Hopefully something comes in from Baghdad. All communications with respect to al-Maliki are being routed to the logistical hub in the embassy. If our man can’t pull any information out of Kassem, we’ll have to work our other sources and see what develops.”
    Rachel Ford snorted and seemed about to speak when her cell phone beeped. She glanced down at the number. “Gentlemen, I’ve been waiting on this call.”
    She was halfway to the door when she turned back to Harper and, in a strange monotone, said, “It seems to me that we need to engage in some serious damage control here. Needless to say, Kassem cannot be allowed to tell his story. I assume you agree.”
    Jonathan Harper was too surprised by the statement to respond immediately. Instead, he nodded once, and she walked out.
    Once she was gone, the mood in the room seemed to lighten a little. Andrews glanced at his watch, stood up, and moved to a cupboard behind his desk. After a moment he returned with two half-filled glasses.
    Harper gratefully accepted the generous measure of Glenlivet. The DCI regularly bent the rules by keeping alcohol in his office, but he was strict about its use. If a drink was offered, it was only after close of business, and while a second was consumed on occasion, a third was almost unheard of.
    As Andrews sank wearily into his seat and loosened his tie, Harper brought up Ford’s parting words, and the director nodded thoughtfully.
    “I’m not sure about her yet,” he mused. “It’s hard to know where she stands. Did you know that she served on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence?”
    Harper nodded, not at all surprised by the turn the conversation had taken. Although Ford outranked him, Jonathan Harper had been with the Agency longer than Andrews and Ford combined, and the DCI had never been reluctant to take advantage of his subordinate’s extensive experience. “I don’t know that much about her — I don’t get invited to the hearings — but I did see that in her bio when she was nominated.”
    “She also served as the vice-chair on the terrorism subcommittee.”
    Harper lifted an eyebrow. “I must have missed that part.”
    “She backed us up on quite a few things in that position, and that was before she got the nod from the president — before she was even considered, in fact. They had