IRAN • CAPE TOWN
Almost 2 miles above the desert floor east of Tehran, the Mi-26
cargo helicopter swept toward Mashhad at speeds approaching 170 miles an hour. Mashhad, however, was not its destination. Instead, the helicopter would set down at the makeshift airfield south of the Atrak from which March had first entered the country almost three weeks earlier. On arrival, the four auxiliary fuel tanks would be replaced, and the helicopter, designated as HALO by the Soviets who had so thoughtfully provided it, would continue northeast over the border and deep into the sparsely populated floodplains of Turk-menistan.
Jason March, sleeping lightly in a seat reinforced with ceramic plating, was one of two passengers on the flight. The other passenger sat across the wide, empty aisle, and stared out into the impenetrable night as a number of thoughts churned through his mind.
Saif al-Adel was, if nothing else, a pragmatic individual. This mind-set had been constantly reinforced by his discovery of many years ago: that whispered words of friendship could solve almost any problem. Especially when those words were followed by a bullet. Over the years he had taken more lives than he could count, both directly and indirectly. Now, for the first time in his life, he was imbued with the idea that his own future might rest in another man’s hands. The thought did not sit well with him.
If he was to choose poorly here, all of his past achievements would quickly be forgotten. The accomplishments were many, and he was proud of each in different ways. He recalled his early years as a volunteer in the fledgling Islamic Jihad movement, one of many ig-norant youths shouting slogans in the dusty streets after the assassination of Anwar Sadat.
That he could see the truth of his world at twenty years of age was a constant source of pride for Saif al-Adel.
After that came deeper involvement and growing responsibility as the lesser candidates returned to the mundanity of everyday life that was children, work, and fastidious saving so that they might pretend to be something other than sheep for one week a year on the overcrowded beaches of Quseir.
Saif would rather die than be commonplace. Time and time again he had proven his courage and leadership. He remembered a crowded storage facility on the Indus River, nervous laughter as the command wires were routed up toward the driver’s seat on a warm November afternoon. He remembered embracing his subordinate, the man who would drive the vehicle into the embassy at Islamabad, and he recalled the silence that hung over the room with the harsh smell of cigarette smoke as they waited for word of his success.
Thirteen dead on that attempt, but they missed the ambassador to Pakistan. A minor victory, nothing more. In 1996, a major role in the bombing of the Khobar Towers complex, which set the stage for his greatest personal accomplishment to date. After Khalil’s un-explained death on a dusty mountain road in Syria, an opening higher in the organization had become available. The success in Dhahran brought the name of Saif al-Adel to the Director’s attention. Word filtered down that he had been noticed, that he was to be given operational command for two simultaneous strikes, attacks on foreign targets that would bring the West to its knees.
At first he had made a show of his doubt, and used it to shield his personal desire. Like any man without a conscience, he was a natural actor. I am far too young, he had said. The chance will go to a proven leader. The commanders quietly praised his modesty and self-effacement. Then the summons came, and it was in his nature to view the choice not as a reward, but as an opportunity. For almost two years afterward he had made the preparations. The painstaking acquisition of almost 1,300 pounds of TNT, the rental and false registration of the numerous storage facilities where it would be stored, the training and motivation of the bombers who would meet Allah without knowing what they had accomplished. All of it lay on al-Adel’s shoulders, and it had been a major victory against the infidels.
The operation had resulted in 224 dead, including dozens of Americans.
His mind snapped back to the present as the helicopter shook with the power of the twin Lotarev D-136 turbines that drove the massive, eight-blade rotor overhead. All that he had accomplished would mean nothing if the American was not what he seemed.
Despite the narcissism that rose to dizzying heights within his own mind, al-Adel was not immune to his own faults. He could see that he wanted to impress the American by granting him the audience he had requested. For that, al-Adel could stand to blame himself. The Director did not appear on a whim; he was constantly on guard against the U.S. soldiers creeping east over the parched landscape, the newest brood of Afghan soldiers loyal to the West, and the inevitable traitors within his own organization. To ensure his presence, a valid reason must be given to justify the risk of exposure.
This he had explained to the American, and the reason was a plan.
For Saif, that simple explanation was enough. He had been stunned when the news came that 92 lay dead outside the Kennedy-Warren, and knew at once that he had underestimated the man’s capabilities.
Al-Adel had greater faith in the American than he would have admitted to.
He believed that the man could get to the president. He also knew that an operation of that magnitude would require the Director’s approval. It was on the hinge of this knowledge that al-Adel made his decision. If the plan was not worthy, and the American was not congratulated for his brilliance, then Saif would personally drag him out of the camp and shoot him before receiving his own bullet.
With this comforting thought, Saif al-Adel joined his fellow passenger in a dreamless sleep as the helicopter cut fast through the night toward the shimmering waters of the Caspian Sea.
Goddamn Ryan Kealey. Naomi was on the roof once again, and the sun was just as merciless as it had been the day before. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She had spent most of the morning cursing Ryan under her breath, while periodically checking to make sure that her radio wasn’t transmitting. He had rented the 20-foot catamaran early in the day, but then relegated her to the roof once more after explaining that it wasn’t enough to cover one side of the building.
Easy for him to say, she thought. He’s out on the water with a decent breeze and I’m stuck baking up here. The silver Mercedes had arrived on cue in the morning and had not moved since. Even the delivery boy had failed to make his sole contribution to the day’s events. Naomi felt her body growing numb from inactivity as the minute hand on her watch continued its endless circle.
The hours of silence were painful to her. It would have been better if she’d been able to talk to Ryan, but his orders had been strict: stay off the radio unless you have something to report. She knew herself well enough to admit that Ryan’s imperious behavior was not the real reason for her current mood.
She forced his face out of her mind and tried to concentrate on the building below. She felt herself drifting as the hours passed, and it was with a start that she looked up to see the heavy doors of the warehouse crack open. The night had moved in, and a full moon cast a brilliant light down over the empty street, clearly illuminating the face of only one man.
One man. It was the guard, and Naomi watched as he carefully pulled the door closed and locked it behind him. He walked quickly to the Mercedes, unlocked the door, squeezed his heavy frame into the car, and drove away. Naomi felt the excitement rise in her chest as she groped back across the rough surface of the roof for the radio.
The cold gray waters of Table Bay lifted the large boat on the gentle swells as Ryan stood at the helm, staring toward the line of warehouses jutting up from the rocky shore. His attention was focused on the only building still illuminated at this late hour, although no motion could be seen from the brightly lit interior.
He was startled back to reality by a sudden burst of static from the radio resting on the instrument panel inside the covered cockpit.
“Ryan, pick up.” He heard the urgency in her voice and reached quickly for the handset.
“Go ahead.”
“The driver’s gone,” she said, her excitement penetrating through the harsh static. “He just drove off by himself . . . Did you hear me?
He’s gone. What do I do?”
Ryan’s mind moved rapidly as he considered the options. “Okay, listen carefully. Go get the jeep and pull it around to the front of the building. Wait in the front seat and pull out the map like you’re looking for something. If the driver comes back, hit the Selcall button twice. The radio won’t make any noise on your end, but I’ll get the message. Then get the hell out of there.” A beat while he thought.
“Make sure you bring that pack down with you. You got all that?”
“Got it.”
Ryan slid the radio into his coat pocket and moved quickly back to the stern of the boat. Ripping the tarp off the small rubber dinghy, he hooked up the power cord to the portable crane and started the generator before undoing the tie-downs that secured the smaller craft to the catamaran. Looking up and across the water, he could see that the incongruous French doors tucked into the rear of the renovated warehouse were still open to the cool night air. They’d never get a better chance, he decided.
Naomi was racing through a tangled web of dark alleyways, her pounding footsteps echoing loud in the narrow space between the buildings. She fumbled for the keys as she reached the Nissan, tossed her pack into the back of the vehicle, and slid onto the cold leather of the driver’s seat. The temperature had dropped rapidly after sunset, and she found herself shivering as she started the engine and pulled the jeep out of the secluded alley.
The dinghy bounced over the gentle waves, Ryan wincing at the loud rumble of the 40 hp outboard motor churning up the water behind him. He shut down the motor after a few hundred meters and let the momentum of the boat carry him into shore. Jumping out, he pulled the dinghy up behind him, almost slipping on the wet rocks beneath his feet as he moved up the beach toward the open doors.
Naomi turned off the headlights as she turned the corner and braked to a gentle halt on the street opposite Gray’s building. The road was still clear as she unfolded the map and nervously fingered the radio lying by her side. Hurry up, Ryan.
Kealey passed through the double doors, the Walther up as he moved into the warehouse. Light from the fluorescent bulbs positioned far above erupted over the white-painted brick walls, reaching down to touch and illuminate a shining floor of lacquered oak.
Stephen Gray, seated behind an immense desk in the center of the room, was reclining comfortably in his chair, sipping at a cut-crystal glass of Chivas. He was startled by a shadow moving over the mirrorlike surface of his desk, and looked up as the dark figure entered the room.
He immediately knew that he would not survive the encounter.
His buildings had been raided by the authorities many times before, but this was not how the police came, through the back entrance with silenced pistols and shadowed faces. He began to tremble as his right hand inched toward the second drawer of his desk.
He tried to recall if the revolver it held was loaded.
Ryan moved quickly to control the situation. “Stephen Gray,” he said in a low, calm voice. Reason, he thought. Reason with the man.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I have a few questions, if you don’t mind. Stay still and keep your hands on the desk.”
“Fuck you.” Gray’s face was twisted in anger and defiance. He started to get to his feet.
Kealey saw that reason wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He moved fast around the desk before Gray could stand and put his foot hard into the man’s chest.
The chair flipped backward and Gray fell violently to the floor, the air crushed out of his lungs. Gasping for breath, he got to his hands and knees before Kealey’s foot slammed up into his stomach.
Gray felt his ribs crack on the second blow, and tried to curl himself into a protective ball as his vision blurred. Despite the nauseating pain, he could feel the barrel of the pistol being pressed into the base of his skull.
“I want to pull this trigger,” Ryan snarled. “You have one chance to save yourself.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wrinkled picture, dropping it unceremoniously in front of the businessman’s face. “How do you know this man?”
The silver Mercedes came fast around the corner, screeching to a halt right in front of the Nissan 4x4. The air caught in her lungs as Naomi reached for the radio and furiously punched the Selcall button. She tried to focus on the map, but the heavy driver was already out of the car, holding a bulging sack of takeout in one hand and tapping on her window with the other. The suspicion was plain in his face before she even began to lower the window.
“I swear it’s the truth!”
“I don’t believe you.” Ryan’s finger tightened on the trigger as he pressed the cold metal harder against the man’s head. “That’s the only name he’s ever used with you?”
“I knew his father personally. You can look for yourself. Jesus, look . . . Look, just let me up. I’m not going anywhere.” Any distraction would do, Gray thought to himself. The gun is loaded, I know it is. If I can just get to it, I might have a chance.
Ryan grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up roughly.
Immediately, Gray moved for the desk. “It’s right here, I have a file on him—”
The fist tightened around the back of Gray’s shirt, pulling him back and away. “Sit down,” Ryan said. He moved to the desk and started opening drawers. Turning to face the other man, he held the Smith & Wesson revolver up toward the light. “Is this what you were looking for?”
Opening the cylinder, he spilled the bullets out of the gun, the rounds rattling and rolling away across the polished floor. Casually tossing the revolver onto the desk, he moved forward in a smooth motion and slammed the butt of his own pistol into Gray’s face. The impact reverberated along the length of his arm. As Ryan pulled back to deliver a second blow, the radio tucked into his pocket bumped the corner of the desk, inadvertently pressing the transmit button.
“No, I have absolutely no idea,” Naomi was saying. “I think I made a wrong turn coming out of the Malay Quarter . . . I’m just trying to get back to the Commodore. Can you point it out to me? I mean, if you don’t mind.”
The doubt had faded slightly from the man’s blunt features.
Leaning forward and through the window, he began to trace a line along the map, snapping out directions in heavily accented English.
His finger was tracing through the map and along her leg . . . She held the map tightly in both hands, her arms straining so that she almost ripped the thin paper in half. Her mind was moving at the speed of light. Keep him occupied, Naomi.
She placed her hand on the man’s forearm and gave him her best smile. “I can’t thank you enough. You’re a lifesaver.” She hit the tone perfectly, and watched the grin spread over his face as his eyes scoured her body for the first time . . .
There was a burst of static from the radio.
The driver saw something change in her face and he pulled back quickly, the lascivious smile fading fast, replaced by a sneer as he dug for the weapon in his jacket.
Naomi’s hand moved down in a blur to the space between the seats, pulling up on Ryan’s Beretta. She got there first. Her mind was blank as she pointed the gun at his chest and fired twice, the shots ringing in her ears as she watched him fall back, shock carved into his face.
She stumbled out of the jeep, the radio forgotten behind her. She was reaching down, searching for the man’s keys, only to realize that they were in the still-running Mercedes. Naomi didn’t notice the lack of blood on the driver’s chest as she pulled the keys out of the car and ran to the front door of the warehouse.
The shots were audible from inside the building. Stephen Gray looked up and smiled in Ryan’s direction, a bloody, awful smile.
Something feral slithered into his eyes as he spoke. “You may know his name, but it won’t change anything.”
Ryan stepped back, still aiming the Walther at Gray’s chest. “What are you talking about?”
“The shipment has already landed in Washington. It’s too late to stop him. Do you understand what I’m saying? He’s going after all of them. He already has what he needs.”
Ryan was about to respond when the door burst open. He swung his pistol and then stopped when she moved into view. Naomi ran into the building . . . All she could see was Ryan.
Gray reacted immediately. With astonishing speed he turned the corner and hit Naomi head-on, the pistol flying out of her hand and across the floor. She was stunned by the blow, struggling to stand when Gray reached past her, his fingertips brushing against the Beretta. Then it was in his hand, and he was turning up and around . . .
Kealey shot him twice in the chest. Stumbling backward, Gray hit the wall and slumped down against it. He glared up at Ryan, a thin trickle of blood running out of his mouth and down onto the clean white cotton of his shirt. He summoned the last of his strength and lifted the pistol in Naomi’s direction.
Ryan had no choice. Taking two steps forward, he leveled the Walther and fired a third bullet into Stephen Gray’s forehead.
He breathed a soft curse. This was going all wrong . . . His first priority was to get out of the building. Moving forward, Ryan lifted the Beretta out of the dead man’s hand and slid it into his coat pocket.
Naomi was crouched against the wall, staring up at him with horror in her face. Leaning down, he grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly to her feet.
“Where’s the driver?”
“I shot him,” she said in a low monotone. Ryan’s eyes were moving fast around the room. There was a wall full of file cabinets and papers strewn across the man’s desk. He thought about sending Naomi out to the boat while he looked through the papers. He thought about the probable response times for police units heading out of the commercial district, and about what they would find when they arrived. He knew instinctively that Gray wouldn’t keep records of any illicit dealings in these file cabinets.
His deliberations had taken three seconds. It was too much of a risk. Besides, he already had what he came for. He grabbed Naomi’s hand and pulled her hard toward the open doors leading out to the bay. A scuffling sound behind him, movement on unsteady feet. A moment of shock as he considered . . . No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t turn to look.
They were running hard, out through the back as a long burst of automatic fire followed them, ripping through the French doors and sending jagged splinters of glass and wood spinning out onto the beach. Ryan felt like he was barely moving as his feet pounded over the sinking sand, Naomi like dead weight behind him, her hand tightly gripping his. Another long burst of fire, and then a shouted curse in Afrikaans as the bolt locked back on an empty magazine.
Ryan pushing the dinghy out over the rocks, pulling her roughly in and the engine roaring to life. The boat was going hard over the waves, slapping against the rubber floor as they jumped each swell.
Two minutes later they were out of range of the driver’s submachine gun, and Ryan cut back on the motor as they eased up to the rear of the catamaran.
Ryan finally forced himself to turn and look at Naomi. He was almost certain that she had been hit. He felt an overwhelming wave of relief when she didn’t appear to be wounded, but it was difficult to tell; he could see only her back as she crouched facing away from him, her upper body leaning over the side as she was violently sick into the black waters of Table Bay.