TAJIKISTAN • CAPE TOWN • PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA
The journey had been long and arduous, but they were now closing in on their final destination.
The most difficult part for al-Adel had been in securing more auxiliary tanks for the helicopter. It had taken shouted curses and threats of retribution in fractured Farsi over the encrypted radio, but the promise had been made and kept. The fuel tanks were waiting in a covered truck bed just off an abandoned highway north of Repetek.
From there, they were free to continue on the third leg of the flight.
The sky began to darken once again as the Mi-26 headed northeast, skirting the jagged western edge of Tajikistan that led toward the lush and fertile floor of the Ferghana Valley.
Saif al-Adel noticed that the American had not spoken for the entire duration of the flight. He wondered whether this was a sign that the man regretted his earlier demands, but soon dismissed the notion when he examined the other passenger’s face and saw nothing but quiet confidence. Clearly, the American had unshakable faith in his own abilities.
It was some time before they banked east over the valley floor 3,500 meters below. The descent took the heavy aircraft shuddering down through dark gray cumulus clouds, a light rain washing over the armored plating as the weight of the helicopter settled onto the struts of the landing gear. The monstrous blades continued to slice the air overhead as the passengers climbed down from the elevated cabin. Al-Adel gave a hand signal to one of the two pilots through the cockpit glass, and both men moved away from the craft as power to the engines was increased and the helicopter lifted once more into the air. Then it vanished into the black clouds and they were alone.
March pulled the hood of his anorak up to shield against the freezing rain that had already seeped its way down his neck and under his thin pullover. A vehicle was waiting for them, a Russian-made UAZ-3151. Al-Adel had his rucksack on the muddy ground, his hands buried deep in the bowels of the pack until he found what he was looking for. His eyes were bright when he lifted the Garmin handheld GPS receiver for March to see.
“The Americans would dearly love to get their hands on this. I imagine they would pay a great deal of money for the information it contains. Tell me, what would that money mean to you, my friend?”
Jason March fixed his steady gaze on the other man before speaking. “If you think I came this far to betray you for money, then you are the fool, Saif.”
“We shall see.” A smile spread over the Egyptian’s face as he held out his hand. “Give me your pistol.”
March hesitated, and the smile turned into an impatient sneer.
“Give me your pistol or I’ll shoot you where you stand. Even if you survive the bullet, you won’t last long—the temperature is already below freezing, and the wolves are always hungry in the winter.”
Reluctantly, March handed over his Beretta. “And your pack.”
March gave him that as well, and watched as the other man perused the contents. Satisfied, Saif al-Adel stood and gave him a questioning look. “Food and water? Where are these plans you speak of?”
March smiled and tapped his own head gently with two fingers.
An incredulous look spread over the commander’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold gaze. “Then I hope you have a good memory, my friend. A very good memory indeed, because your life depends on what you have to say today.” He threw the rucksack back toward the American, but held on to the Beretta. “Get in the jeep.”
“And where are we going?”
Al-Adel turned east toward the jagged spires of the Tian Shan mountains. “Up there,” he said.
Ryan had called the embassy in Pretoria from the catamaran with a request for transport. There would be hell to pay when Harper found out, but it was the only option open to him. He had briefly considered making the trip without Agency assistance, but knew that the consequences would be far worse if they were intercepted by the police without official cover. In that situation, he wouldn’t have put it past Langley to completely disavow any knowledge of their presence in South Africa.
In fact, he wouldn’t have expected anything less.
Despite the fact that they had nowhere else to go, Ryan realized they couldn’t stay out on the water. The first police officers on the scene would take in the vehicles left on the street and the shattered doors leading out to the beach, and then rightly conclude that an escape had been made by boat. Police cutters would be dispatched with orders to board every small craft in the vicinity, and the larger docks around the bay would be sealed off. Even now, approaching the private dock of the Victoria and Albert Hotel, he could hear the sirens screaming on the other side of the bay.
Looking down at his watch, he estimated that they had at least seven hours to kill, even if the embassy car carried diplomatic plates and traveled south unimpeded as fast as possible. After docking and securing the catamaran, he found blankets in a storage compartment beneath a seat at the stern. These he stuffed haphazardly into his backpack along with more bottled water, sacrificing space for speed.
Finally, he turned his attention to Naomi.
She was sitting on a hard wooden bench just aft of the cabin, hugging her knees against her chest and watching him intently. As he walked toward her, though, she pulled away from his outstretched hand.
“Naomi,” he said, impatience in his voice. “There’s no time for this. If you don’t follow me right now, we’re both going to spend a lot of time in a South African jail. You know I wouldn’t hurt you. Gray had a gun—he would have killed us both without thinking twice.”
After a moment she held out her hand without speaking. Ryan pulled her up off the bench and they stepped onto the dock, walking hand in hand past the bright lights of the V&A hotel and into the empty streets beyond.
The steep roads leading out of the valley gave them the most trouble as the jeep, lacking 4WD capabilities, continued to slide toward the precarious edge of the path. Several times March felt his heart in his throat as the jeep drifted in the deep mud toward the brink and a plummeting drop of several hundred meters to the valley floor. He was terrified of mountains and precipitous slopes, a fear that dated back to his childhood. He felt the cold sheen of sweat on his body and hoped that they didn’t have far to go. Fortunately, they soon moved away from the lip of the valley. The route smoothed out when they reached the cut-granite roads leading into the mountains.
Although the heater was going full blast, the air was bitterly cold in the higher regions, pushed along by a howling wind that whipped over the stone outcroppings and drove the frigid gusts through un-seen apertures in the vehicle’s frame. As the elevation continued to climb, the rain turned to sleet, and then to a driving snow that made progress even more difficult.
“Do you see that?” March followed al-Adel’s finger to a small stone structure perched on a rock outcropping at least 100 meters above the road. The building blended into the surrounding mountains so well that he would never have seen it on his own. “It is one of our observation points—only one of several. This is the only passable mountain road for 10 kilometers in any direction. That is why this place was chosen. If the Americans come, we will have ample time to evacuate the camp.”
“It’s a good location,” March conceded. He could see that there were other advantages as well; even those cruise missiles with the greatest range, the Tomahawks and the Harpoons, would not be able to reach the landlocked base from the North Sea. Additionally, incoming aircraft would be forced to cross the airspace of numerous countries in order to mount an attack. It would be difficult to get the consent of each government to do so. “It must be hard to direct the organization from here, though.”
Al-Adel nodded in agreement. “The unit commanders have been delegated a great deal of responsibility. Approval for missions is now granted by myself, or by Abu Fatima. You would know him as al-Zawahiri. He is a great man—I have known him for almost twenty years.”
The Egyptian fell silent as he consulted the Garmin navigation system once more. “We’re almost there,” he said. The space between the jagged rocks bordering the path began to narrow, and March could faintly hear the low rumble of a diesel engine over the screaming wind. Soon the outline of a track vehicle appeared through breaks in the snow, and then the formidable sight of a 100mm turret-mounted main gun pointed down the road in the direction of the approaching jeep. Al-Adel slowed to a stop and waited as a young man climbed out of the rear hatch and trudged heavily through the snow toward their vehicle, holding an AK-74 rifle and a portable radio.
Several words were exchanged between the guard and al-Adel in rapid-fire Arabic, and then the young soldier spoke into his radio.
After the guard had completed a cursory inspection of the jeep, the BMP-3 infantry carrier was rolled back to allow them to pass. The road led into a small clearing contained on three sides by towering granite walls that kept out much of the inclement weather. The clearing was dominated by a large canvas tent powered by a command vehicle and its generator, both of which were miniscule by comparison.
Two more soldiers of the Taliban stood guard outside the imposing shelter, but otherwise the clearing was devoid of human life.
After leaving the jeep, al-Adel and March approached the tent slowly, careful to keep their hands in plain view. One soldier checked them for weapons, taking both of al-Adel’s while the other stood back and covered the two arrivals with his rifle. Once again a quick conference was held by radio, and then the tent flap was pulled back to allow both men to enter.
Ryan and Naomi walked for twenty minutes before he found a suitable location just opposite the predetermined collection point.
The alley entrance was just below a recently installed streetlight, and the glare of the bulb made all but the first few feet of the black corridor impenetrable to the eye. The space between the brick walls of the buildings was perhaps 4 feet wide, and dominated by the smell of rotting garbage in close proximity. The stench was slightly quelled by a cool breeze that felt like an arctic wind in the narrow confines of the alleyway.
He moved deep into the dark space before pulling one of the two blankets from his pack and folding it into thirds. He placed the neat square of material on the litter-strewn ground and pulled Naomi down onto the makeshift seat. Then he reached for the second blanket and draped it over her, watching with satisfaction as she pulled the coarse wool around her body. After taking his own seat on the rough cement several feet away, Ryan focused his attention on the road adjacent to the alleyway and tried to ignore the biting cold.
After a few minutes he turned to check on Naomi and found her watching him, the luminous green eyes clearly visible even in the shadowed confines of the alley. He could also see that she was shivering hard, the thick material having fallen down from around her shoulders. Sliding over, he wrapped the blanket even tighter around her, and then pulled her shaking body close to his. After another moment she relaxed and rested her head gently on his shoulder.
“Ryan?”
“Hmmm?”
“When you shot him, did you feel anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it hard for you? I mean, killing someone?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a lie,” she mumbled after a moment. He did not respond.
“I watched your face when you pulled the trigger . . . There was nothing there.”
Her eyelids were growing heavy, and she pushed herself tighter into his body as the sleep began to wash over her like a warm sea.
“What was the little girl’s name, Ryan?”
He felt his muscles stiffen with apprehension. He did not want to remember that, to remember what they had done to her. It had taken so long to forget . . .
“It’s not right, you know. It’s not right that you feel nothing when you take a life . . .” A long pause. “The girl in Bosnia. What was her name?”
“Safiya,” he finally said. Her head was dipped, her face hidden from view. She could not have known the pain it caused him. “Her name was Safiya.”
“Thank you.” The words were so soft that he almost missed them.
Once again he stayed silent, and after a few minutes heard her breathing settle into the soft rhythm of sleep. Looking down, Kealey found her features hidden by layers of lustrous hair falling about her face. Only her nose was visible, the very tip peeking through the black waves. Instinctively, he pulled her even closer, turning his head away from the alley’s entrance just as a police car screamed past.
He willed the hours to pass and waited for the image of a young girl’s torn body to fade from his mind.
The air was warm and thick inside the tent, the combined effects of an overworked space heater and the trapped odor of men who had not bathed in weeks. There was a section separated from the sleeping quarters by a threadbare blanket hung from a wooden pole.
The makeshift curtain was not pulled all the way across, and March could see the communications gear set up on a wooden fold-out table. A soldier wearing a headset was seated before the array of equipment. Monitoring the radio net, he thought. He’d done the same thing many years before.
There was a flurry of activity in another cordoned section and two men emerged, one with a rifle in his hands. The other carried no weapon, and wore a thick woolen sweater over a linen shirt and wrinkled dress pants. The eyes behind the simple steel-frame spectacles were bleary with lack of sleep, but March could still easily identify the distrustful gaze that was aimed in his direction. The younger man with the rifle watched March carefully as his superior pulled al-Adel aside and began speaking rapid French in forceful tones.
March was fluent in the language, a fact that he had never revealed in al-Adel’s presence. He clearly understood that the older man was angry with Saif for bringing him into the mountains. Abruptly, the man turned to speak to March in cultured English. “Do you know who I am?”
“Of course.”
“Why have you come here?”
“To speak with the Emir.” March tilted his head a fraction to the left and appraised the man who stood before him: Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri, the Director’s private physician and closest confidante.
March knew it was widely suspected in Western intelligence circles that this man had died several years earlier in an air raid over south-western Afghanistan. “I thought Saif would have explained this to you. I do not think it is too much to ask, considering what I have contributed to your organization.”
“What you have contributed,” the physician repeated, an edge to his voice. A short, barking laugh as he turned to al-Adel in amusement, and then back to the American. “What have you done that is so special? I was fighting the jihad from an Egyptian jail when your mother was dressing you for school. The death of a politician, the destruction of an empty building . . . These are your grand accomplishments? That is all you have to offer?”
“It is more than your entire organization has achieved in four years,” March pointed out. He watched the arrogant smirk fade, slowly replaced by a strangely indifferent expression.
The older man turned to the junior soldier with the rifle and issued a command in French. Before the last word left his mouth, March had taken three lightning-fast steps forward to deliver a vicious blow to the young man’s throat. The soldier’s iron grip on the rifle slipped as his hands shot to his neck, groping at his crushed windpipe, his eyes bulging wide. March pulled the weapon out of the air, ejected the magazine, and snapped the round out of the chamber before the clip hit the ground. Only then was al-Adel screaming for security. The American’s hands were out and open, the rifle disarmed at his feet as the two soldiers standing guard outside pulled back the flap and moved quickly into the tent.
March ignored the muzzles held to his head and the violent Arabic curses. He ignored the tortured choking sounds of the dying soldier. He stared straight into the shock-ridden face of Ayman al-Zawahiri before speaking again.
“I won’t let you give that order,” March said, making no attempt to hide the snarl in his fluent French. “I didn’t come this far to lose my life at the hand of some pimple-faced child. You would be the one dying now if it pleased me to see it happen. I am here to give you an opportunity, perhaps the greatest of your life. Trust me when I tell you to take it. If nothing else, I should have your trust by now.”
The rifles did not waver. There was complete silence in the room.
Finally, the physician gave a hand signal and the soldiers slowly lowered their weapons. “Check him again,” he said, waving absently at one of the fighters. He studied March intently, his face wiped clean of any emotion. “My trust is not so easily won.”
One of the young men stepped forward nervously and patted him down at arm’s length. The boy on the ground was moving slower than before, the spastic movements coming less frequently now that he was almost out of air. The nineteen-year-old fighter conducting the search saw that the American did not once look down at the destruction he had caused. He finished as quickly as possible and retreated into the communications room, immediately pulling the curtain back behind him.
Al-Zawahiri lifted his chin in March’s direction and said, “Follow me.” March was surprised when the man turned toward the entrance leading back outside. He was so surprised that he did not immediately take note of Saif al-Adel’s body next to his, the pale face moving in close, hissing words and flecks of spittle into his ear.
“You are a dead man, American. Dead. I swear it to you.”
There was nothing he could say. He ignored Saif and followed al-Zawahiri across the bleak clearing toward a cavernous opening carved deep into the mountainside.
“Mr. Kealey? Ms. Kharmai? The ambassador will see you now.”
Ryan stood with Naomi and followed Gillian Farris, the deputy chief of mission, through the large, oak-paneled doors leading into the ambassador’s spacious office. Henry Martins stood up from behind his desk politely as they entered, but there was no trace of a smile on the broad, weathered face. Martins had nearly thirty years of experience in the Foreign Service, but had never before dealt with a situation quite like the one he currently faced. He did not relish the opportunity to do so now.
“Please, take a seat,” he said. He walked around the desk and joined them in the small seating area, easing his weight wearily into one of the several comfortable armchairs. Ryan watched in surprise as Martins poured them each coffee from a small carafe on the low center table. Finally, he looked up to study them from beneath hooded eyelids.
“I received a call thirty minutes ago from the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He’s been on the phone with the chief of the South African Police Service . . . Evidently, the only vehicle found outside of the warehouse was a silver Mercedes sedan leased three years ago by one of Stephen Gray’s holding companies. That will go on the police report, by the way.”
Ryan breathed a soft sigh of relief and saw the tension drain out of Naomi’s shoulders. The Nissan must have been taken by Gray’s injured bodyguard. It was definitely a break; the vehicle would have linked them directly to the scene. Although they were traveling under assumed identities, it was one less thing that might come back on them at a later date. “What about the driver?” he asked.
The ambassador raised his thick eyebrows and settled back slightly, the chair creaking in protest against his shifting weight.
“Nowhere to be found. The police won’t be looking too hard, either.” He took a long sip of coffee before continuing: “It should be said that this won’t come cheaply. President Mbeke will be leaning on us for favors in the months to come, and he’ll get much of what he asks for. You were under orders to question Gray quietly, as I understand it.”
“That’s right. He wasn’t very forthcoming.”
“Clearly. I’ve spoken with Jonathan Harper as well—he’ll have some choice words for both of you when you hit stateside. He’s not a happy man. Director Andrews is coming under heavy fire from the president. Privately, of course. It’s a miracle that this little debacle escaped notice of the press. I hope you at least got what you were looking for.”
Ryan nodded in the affirmative. “I have a name for you, sir: William Paulin Vanderveen. I know I’m in no position to be making requests here, but I really need your best people working on this. I need family history, anybody he might still have contact with. If that looks promising, then I need surveillance. Most of all I need photographs; I have to verify that March and Vanderveen are one and the same.”
Ambassador Martins was nodding slowly, his gaze alternating between the two CIA officers. “You two were placed in a difficult situation there. I can sympathize with that, but you’re asking a lot.”
“Sir, the South African government has a good reason to pitch in here,” Naomi pointed out. “No offense, but the embassy’s resources just won’t cut it. We’ve got to put the SA police to work. Vanderveen is a citizen of this country, and responsible for the murder of more than a hundred people. You might want to make sure they understand what that headline would look like on the front page of the New York Times—we really need all the help we can get. Besides, they won’t be getting any favors at all if President Brenneman has to carry all the weight for these attacks.”
There was the hint of a smile at the ambassador’s mouth. “You don’t pull any punches, Ms. Kharmai. But I agree, they do have a certain responsibility in this matter. I’ll push for you on one condition: you don’t leave this embassy unless you’re getting on an airplane.
Deal?”
“You’ll have no argument there. I think we’re both ready to get back to Washington,” Ryan said.
“Good. I’ll start making some calls.”
Martins stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. Both CIA officers rose to their feet as well, moving toward the door, which the ambassador graciously opened for them.
“I want both of you to get some rest,” he said as they moved out into the anteroom. Farris was waiting for them along with Aaron Jansen, the ambassador’s private secretary. “We found a couple spare beds—Gillian will show you where to find them. Oh, and the deputy director wants to hear from you, Kealey. Anything more from Washington, Aaron?” Ryan watched the young man shake his head.
“Okay, good. Ms. Farris will find you a secure telephone. I should have some information for you later in the day. We’ll get you a change of clothes and the basic necessities as well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The ambassador acknowledged Ryan’s gratitude with a slight nod and retreated back into his office, closing the door softly behind him.
“I bet you two could use some sleep,” Gillian Farris said with a smile. “Follow me. Aaron, Minister Zuma wants some time this afternoon. Can we clear the ambassador’s schedule for an hour at three?”
“Sure, Ms. Farris.” The secretary smiled pleasantly. “I had the head of embassy security penciled in, but I can bump him back to tomorrow.”
“Okay, great.” She left Jansen behind in the anteroom and led them through the building toward the staff temporary quarters. “This used to be the press room, but we converted it to make space for the additional security personnel after the bombings in Tanzania and Kenya,” she explained. “It’s not much, but it’s all we have available at the minute. Anyway, here are your keys—I’ll come and find you in about five hours.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “We appreciate it.”
The DCM smiled and turned back toward the main building, leaving them alone in the brightly lit corridor.
“See you in a few, Naomi.” He pushed into his room without looking back down the hall. A moment later he heard her door open and then slam shut. Sitting down on the edge of the hard mattress, he shook his head and reached for the receiver of the secure telephone.
Aaron Jansen had served as the ambassador’s private secretary for ten months. It was his first posting and a good one; most Foreign Service officers found themselves in obscure locations filling out low-level paperwork for the first few years of their career. Jansen owed his success to a Yale degree earned magna cum laude and his father’s wide-ranging influence. Despite his privileged upbringing, Jansen was used to the long hours and the heavy responsibility of his current position. He was accustomed to planning the ambassador’s schedule down to the most minute details. Jansen was young, handsome, and affable. He always had a joke or a kind word for his coworkers, especially the women. He was popular within the embassy walls, and he enjoyed his work.
The gate guards were well acquainted with the secretary’s strolls into the city center. He never came out of the embassy at the same time, owing to the ambassador’s unpredictable schedule. Sometimes he would walk across the broad expanse of cement in late afternoon, when the heat swelled and the air-conditioning was going full blast in the gatehouse. Other times he would make an appearance in the evening, when the sun had dipped behind the pale stone of the city’s skyline and the air was cool and inviting.
On only one morning each week did the secretary leave the building at precisely 8:30 AM. The young marine stationed outside the embassy watched as Jansen ambled across the circular driveway, the polished shoes shining in the hazy morning sun. The corporal, young and impressionable, snapped to attention as Jansen approached.
“Good morning, sir.”
Aaron Jansen smiled easily and shook his head in mock disappointment. “Corporal, I’m only about two years older than you are. I keep telling you to cut that out. How are you doing?”
“Just fine, sir, thank you.”
Another rueful smile. “Well, I guess there’s no convincing you. I’m just going to get some air . . . Give me about twenty minutes.”
“Sounds good, sir. Do you have your identification with you?”
“Always.”
“Okay, I’ll call it in, then.” The corporal was attentive to detail, which was how he’d earned his position in the first place. He called in the departure time to the operations center and made a note in his log before opening the electronic gate reserved for pedestrian traffic. “See you in a few, Mr. Jansen.”
“Catch you later, Corporal.” The secretary passed out into the busy street. He turned left from the embassy and walked down Pretorius, trying his best to avoid the crowded mass of humanity that lined the main artery running through the heart of the city.
The interior of the cave was tall and wide, but not deep. The only lighting was dim, emanating from oil lanterns that hung from the wet stone of the walls. It was also surprisingly warm, perhaps owing to the large number of young Taliban soldiers who were gathered in the dark space. They cradled small arms in their laps and listened intently, apparently oblivious to the discomfort of the rough dirt floor on which they sat. Each weapon had been cleared before they were allowed into the cave. Their collective attention was focused on the man who stood before them, his voice shaking with emotion as the words echoed in their ears:
“Praise be to Allah, that he has delivered you, the sons of Mohammad, into my welcoming arms. We ask that Allah forgive our wrongdoings, for He in His Greatness knows that the jihad cannot be fought by one man alone, and that we challenge an immoral enemy whose sins are far greater than ours. We bear witness to the atrocities that have been wrought at the hands of the Zionists and those who seek their alliance . . .”
“Omin!” The thundering voices were as one, rippling back over the man who beseeched them in a calm, measured cadence.
“Have our brothers and sisters not suffered? The children of Palestine, persecuted by the murderous Jews, have they not suffered? And where is the outcry, why is there no fatwa issued? The time of Western imperialism is at an end, my friends—”
“Yaum al akhir! Omin!”
March pushed his blond hair up under his raised balaclava and sneaked a glance at the men who flanked him. Al-Adel’s lips were slightly parted, the eyes blazing. He was staring wondrously at the man who held the crowd in the palm of his hand. Turning to his right, March saw that al-Zawahiri was wearing a similar expression.
It was just beginning to dawn on him that he was in an exceptionally dangerous place.
“They seek to spread their poison, and their arm grows longer with each passing day. We have been chosen by Allah to crush that arm . . . We have seen the slaughter in Burma, Fatani, Chechnya, and Bosnia Herzegovina. We have seen our homeland run red with the blood of innocents. They have turned their backs on our holy cru-sade, my brothers—”
“Aiwa!”
“They spit their laughter as though we are nothing—”
“Aiwa!”
“We ask Allah to guide us in this time of peril, in this time of hard-ship. He alone knows what we have endured, and He calls out for vengeance, He seeks to incur His Wrath—”
“Aiwa! Al Baseer, wa tayyibato!”
“We place our fate in His hands, for He is the Most Capable, and the Light that we seek. My brothers, Allah wept tears of joy when the Americans lost their twin pillars of debauchery in New York, their monuments to greed and the suffering of His chosen people—”
“AIWA, SHAYKH!”
March felt a surge of adrenaline at the man’s words, and the quiet assurance with which they were delivered.
“My word is the truth, and you will hear it now. We will not rest until our Palestinian brothers have driven the Jews into the sea, and the infidel armies have been routed from the land of Mohammad, peace be unto him—”
“As salamo alaina.”
“And this is the only path, for it is said, ‘If you meet those who reject, then strike the necks.’ It is Allah’s will, and He stands behind you in all His glory. There will be much rejoicing by our people when the heathens in the West feel the full measure of His Fury, and so it will be until all Muslims live together as one in His Kingdom. Praise be to Allah.”
“Subhana Rabbi yal A’la.”
“Go in peace, my brothers.”
The gathered fighters jumped to their feet, their shining eyes locked onto every movement of the man as they burst into wild applause. They watched in pure adoration as he climbed down painfully from the elevated stone outcropping at the back of the cave, waving to them like a visiting dignitary, and was immediately surrounded by a cluster of bodyguards, trustworthy veterans whose service dated back to the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan.
The applause continued to grow even after the speaker had turned a corner and was swept from view. Soon it was an incredible wave, the clamorous noise reverberating from the jagged granite walls like thunder.
Saif al-Adel wiped tears from his eyes and turned to the American.
It was a new look, a side of the Arab that he had not yet seen . . . In this place, March wore the face of the enemy. He braced himself, waiting for the pain of a knife or a bullet from behind, but there was nothing. A surge of relief coursed through his body as he decided that he was safe for the moment. Belatedly, he pulled the balaclava down to hide his face from the crowd.
“Remember what I said, American. He has no love for you or your kind. Is that not obvious now? Maybe you begin to understand the risk you have taken in coming here.”
“You brought me, Saif,” March whispered gleefully. “It’s your neck, too.” He did not stop to watch the color drain from the Egyptian’s face, turning instead to follow al-Zawahiri into the hidden depths of the cave. March had waited for this audience for three years, and now he was within minutes of meeting, in his eyes, the greatest man on the face of the earth.
Aaron Jansen was not in a hurry, and it was a beautiful day. He walked slowly east through the clamorous streets, enjoying the vibrant sounds of a busy city. He stopped at a coffee shop painted a brilliant white; the sun was so bright off the shining surface that it hurt his eyes just to look at it. He sipped at the warm coffee as he continued past the Caledonian Sports Ground, stopping once more to briefly watch the last few minutes of a vigorous soccer game played out between two groups of young men.
The jovial shouts of the players followed Jansen as he passed under the canopy of jacaranda trees that had sprung up alongside the playing fields. The cool shade felt good on his back as he waded through the riotous color of the purple blossoms that had fallen from the trees above. With his customary consideration for his host country, Jansen tossed his empty cup into a trash receptacle and stopped at a cluster of pay phones facing away from the fields.
He had long since memorized the number, a fifteen-digit mon-strosity that had given him some trouble during the first tentative months of his treachery. Through a quick check on the Internet, he had discovered that the international calling code placed the receiving line somewhere in the Paraná province of Brazil. That was as far as he dared to take his inquiries, though. For Jansen, ignorance was bliss, and ignorance was a numbered account in a Zurich bank that had been growing steadily for the past six months.
The line was picked up after a single ring. “Quem você se está chamando para?”
“I’m calling for the Rodriguez Holding Company.”
The voice on the other end abruptly changed from rapid Portuguese to flat, unaccented English. “Go ahead.”
“One name, two descriptions. This is in relation to the shooting death of Stephen Gray . . . the name is Kealey. Male, five foot ten inches to six feet, one-hundred and seventy pounds, black hair, gray eyes.
No name for the woman, but she’s a British national of Indian descent, five foot four inches or five foot five inches, slim, black hair, and green eyes. Best guess: CIA, based out of Langley. They’re due back in Washington today. I would have more, but—”
“Your information will be passed on. Thank you for calling.” The voice was gone, the phone dead in his ear. Jansen replaced the receiver with a shaking hand and smoothed his hair. The entire exchange had taken nine seconds.
The money was nice. The money was very nice, but he knew he would not sleep that night at all. Aaron Jansen turned in his tracks and began the long walk back to the embassy.
Ryan had called Jonathan Harper first. It had been a brief conversation, not that there was much back and forth. He had given the deputy director the name of William Vanderveen, and then listened to a barrage of angry denigrations. After five minutes, Harper had run out of steam and reluctantly congratulated Ryan on a job well done.
The next call had been to Katie back in Cape Elizabeth. That one had been a little bit trickier, since he didn’t really have a good excuse for not calling in six days. There was no screaming or accusations from her end, though in some ways, it was far more painful to endure her quiet disappointment. He vowed that he would make it up to her once he got back to the East Coast. It would piss Harper off even more if he went straight back to Maine after a brief appearance at Langley, but Ryan knew where his priorities lay.
It had just taken him a while to figure it out.
There had been no mention of Naomi, from her end or his. He hoped that Katie had enough trust in him not to worry about it, but that sounded stupid, even in his own head. He had kissed her . . .
No, that wasn’t right. Naomi had kissed him. But he hadn’t exactly stopped it in a hurry, had he? Ryan cut the thought off quickly and decided to get some sleep.
It seemed like only a few minutes later when he heard a knock at the door. Gillian Farris poked her head in, her fiery red hair in sharp contrast with the plain white wall behind her.
“The ambassador would like to see you in twenty minutes, Mr. Kealey,” she said. “I’ve already woken Ms. Kharmai—can I tell him you’ll be there?”
Ryan laughed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Call me Ryan, Ms. Farris. And yes, you can tell him I’ll be there. It wouldn’t be a good idea to keep the ambassador waiting, would it? Any chance of some breakfast?”
“It’s more like lunch now, but we’ll find something for you.” Her eyes drifted over his bare chest and washboard abs. “You might want to put a shirt on too, Ryan. The ambassador probably doesn’t appreciate those long hours in the gym as much as I do,” she said with a wink and an engaging smile. She pulled back from the open door and closed it behind her.
As her footsteps receded down the hall, Ryan snapped his open mouth shut and burst into laughter, shaking his head in amusement.
That was a story he could tell Katie, if only to get a laugh out of her jealous reaction. He stepped into the adjoining bathroom and showered quickly, then shaved and brushed his teeth before dressing in the clothes that the embassy staff had left for him earlier in the day.
He decided that the DCM had probably picked the clothes out herself, since they were in good taste and fit remarkably well.
There was another knock at the door just as he pulled his shirt on. Naomi was waiting for him in the hall.
“Hey,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
“No,” was her blunt response. He locked the door behind him and they began walking toward the embassy’s main building. “What did the DDO have to say?”
“He wanted to know how I got the Beretta through airport security. I told him to go and ask the guys in Science and Technology.
Apart from that, he bitched for a while, then said we did a good job.”
She laughed without mirth. “That sounds about right. I don’t think we really accomplished anything, though.”
He turned to look at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, what do we really know now that we didn’t know before?
His real name? It’s not like that’ll be the one he’s using. And I don’t buy into this surveillance business—I’m pretty sure that someone who’s managed to avoid capture for eight years won’t be going home to see his nieces and nephews just for the hell of it. He’s too smart for that.”
Ryan didn’t respond as they approached the ambassador’s anteroom, and Naomi relented a little bit. “I’m sorry, it is something. We might be able to—”
“No,” he said, waving her apology away. “You’re right.” He fell silent for a moment. “You know what the last thing Gray said to me was?”
“No, I didn’t hear.”
“He said, ‘The shipment has already landed in Washington. It’s too late to stop him. He’s going after all of them.’ ”
She turned to look at him. “What do you think that means—‘all of them’? All of who?”
“Think about it, Naomi. Senator Levy was killed because he forged an alliance with the French and the Italians. Who’s coming to Washington in November?”
“Chirac and Berlusconi.” Her eyes opened wide as she caught on.
“Oh my God, do you really think . . . ?”
Ryan shrugged. “Why else would he take the risk? It would have to be something big. Like I said before, he’s a huge asset to Al-Qaeda.
They wouldn’t chance losing him on a minor operation.”
“But it’s suicide,” she objected. “It’s impossible to kill the president of the United States—let alone two other national leaders at the same time—and just walk away.”
They reached the anteroom and Ryan pulled the door open for her. “Naomi, Jason March is one of the most dangerous men the U.S.
military has ever produced,” he said. “If anyone can get away with it, it’s him.”
They moved deeper into the bowels of the cave.
The wind rushing over the razor peaks of the Tian Shan mountains was only a distant roar in the black tunnels that continued down in a seemingly endless circle. The air was far colder away from the cave’s entrance, and March found himself shivering violently as he blindly followed Ayman al-Zawahiri. He kept his hands slightly out in front of him to avoid running into any walls, but was more concerned with the fact that Saif al-Adel was less than two steps to his rear. He could not help but wonder if he was being led to his own grave.
His fears, however, were somewhat abated by the appearance of a dull light in the distance. As they moved closer to the opening, al-Zawahiri turned awkwardly in the narrow space and murmured brief instructions.
“Wait here. I will call for you when he is ready.”
March nodded and leaned back against the damp wall as the physician disappeared through an entrance carved into the earth. To his surprise, al-Adel did not take the opportunity to issue more muted threats. He wouldn’t have had much of a chance, in any case, as the older man returned a moment later, his considerable girth outlined in the opening by the faint light at his back.
“He will see you now, American. Saif, you are needed above. Your presence is not required here.”
March did not turn to humor himself with al-Adel’s stunned expression, although he dearly wanted to. Instead, he took a deep breath to calm his shaking hands and took his first tentative step toward the light.
Ryan was instantly wary when he and Naomi sat down across from Ambassador Martins. The man was clearly disturbed about something.
“I hope you two slept well.” They both watched as the ambassador poured coffee with a shaking hand. “I apologize,” he said, “but the inquiries I put out this morning have not yielded positive results.”
He cleared his throat and went on. “That is not to say we have not learned anything. The problem is that we’ve underestimated just how dangerous this man really is. I’ve already forwarded copies of the information we gathered to the FBI and the Justice Department.
I thought they needed to see it right away.” The ambassador pushed a folder across the table, which Ryan immediately picked up and opened. “Those are photographs of William Vanderveen as a young man. There aren’t many—apparently he was somewhat camera shy.
We couldn’t find many people to corroborate that statement, though, because . . .”
Ryan could see right away that March and Vanderveen were the same person. He was so lost in the photographs that he almost didn’t catch the ambassador’s awkward pause. “Because what, sir?”
“Because everyone in his immediate family is dead.”
Naomi choked on her coffee, but Ryan didn’t notice. His attention was completely focused on Martins.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Martins continued. “There was never any concrete evidence that Vanderveen was responsible. Our closest guess is that he fled the country in 1981. I can’t tell you what he did after he arrived in the States, but the South African government has been very cooperative in piecing together their records.
Their only stipulation was that the information didn’t go public, and I said we were more than happy to agree. This story could be extremely embarrassing to the army, not to mention the country as a whole.”
“I need to hear it all, sir.”
And so the ambassador began.
The bolt-hole was small, far too small for three people to stretch out comfortably. The two men inside were each seated on an olive green military cot. The two cots were positioned next to a small space heater, and al-Zawahiri pointed to a third when Vanderveen entered the room. He took a seat and waited patiently. It was not his place to speak first.
The physician pulled a thermos from a pack on the hard dirt floor.
He proceeded to pour hot tea into a metal canteen cup, which he then handed to his superior. Vanderveen watched as the cup was gratefully accepted by unsteady hands.
The man took a sip of the warm liquid and smiled weakly, finally looking up at his guest. “We find small pleasures here . . . They are the only kind to be had.”
Will Vanderveen nodded his understanding, but did not speak. Al-Zawahiri was looking at him with something approaching approval.
Vanderveen wondered what had caused the sudden change of heart.
“I trust no one more than Ayman. I have heard on the radio of your victories, and he tells me what you have done. He says there is an arrogance in you . . .” The Director waited for the American to speak, and seemed pleased when he did not. “That is immaterial to me, in any case. By your actions you have demonstrated your loyalty.
Allah’s blessings and salutations be with you, my brother.”
“And with you,” he said automatically.
The infamous half smile appeared at the Director’s mouth. “Do you make a mockery of my faith, American?”
A sharp intake of air, but the awkward moment was free of panic.
Vanderveen understood fear, even felt it on very rare occasions. Fear of other men, though, had never entered into the equation. “No, Emir. I only wanted to demonstrate my respect. I apologize if I offended you.”
The apology was ignored. “You speak my language well, but there is something of the Helabja Valley in your accent . . . or perhaps not.
Perhaps I am mistaken.”
A long hesitation, which peaked the interest of his inquisitors.
Only the truth, Vanderveen decided. They may know more than they’re letting on. “I trained Kurdish insurgents in the Helabja when I was with the army.”
The Director savored another long sip of tea, and gestured from his canteen cup to the American. Immediately, al-Zawahiri poured another cup, handed it to Vanderveen, and then poured a third for himself.
“I understand that you are reluctant to speak of your past. This is the habit of men who have things to hide.”
“I cannot deny that, Emir. However, the things I have seen, the things I know . . . They could only prove useful to you.”
This sentence was received with a sudden spark of interest. The Director leaned forward slightly, grimacing at the pain in his chest.
He caught the American’s reaction.
“Don’t be concerned, my friend. Your countrymen came close three years ago. Too close, but I have changed my ways since then.”
“They are not my countrymen,” he spat.
The Director lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “No? You fought with them. Is that not so? You killed for them. What else could they be?”
Vanderveen ignored the question. By doing so, he knew that he took a tremendous risk. “I assume al-Adel has told you about our friend Shakib?”
The tall man stared at him for a long time before answering. So the arrogance is there, after all. “I was told that he had some information. Nothing more.”
Vanderveen smiled in satisfaction. “It is much more than information, Emir. It is a means to an end. I have in my possession a two-month advance itinerary for the president of the United States, as well as presidential briefings compiled by the American Secret Service.”
Both men stared at him in shock, unable to conceal their amazement. Al-Zawahiri’s head was swimming with the enormity of the statement. It was a few moments before he could put his finger on what was bothering him: it was the way the man referred to “Americans” with detachment, as though they were a separate breed from himself. But this man was an American, was he not? “Why have we not already heard about this?”
A shrug. “It is not the kind of information that can be passed on lightly. Complete security can only be guaranteed in a face-to-face meeting such as this one.”
“You fail to understand, my friend, that these plans would have been changed after Shakib’s death . . .”
The physician’s words trailed off when he noticed that the American was shaking his head in disagreement. “These documents were neither found nor suspected to be in his possession at any time. They were returned to their rightful place after Shakib made copies, and the originals were never reported as lost or compromised. Give me a sheet of paper, please, and a pencil.”
Al-Zawahiri dug for the items, which he then handed over.
Vanderveen propped the paper on his knee and drew a crude calen-dar, circling the specific dates as he spoke: “As I said, it is a two-month itinerary, beginning in the month of October. As of last week, the president has continued to meet every major obligation outlined on the schedule. We are now in the first week of November.
Unfortunately, circumstances have left us with very little time to act.
However . . . I believe that two-and-a-half weeks will be sufficient, if I move quickly. With your approval, of course.”
“And what is it, exactly, that you intend to do?” the Director asked.
Vanderveen looked up into the calm brown eyes of Osama bin Laden and smiled. “On November 26th, President David Brenneman will be hosting formal negotiations with the French president and the Italian prime minister in Washington. I’m going to kill them all.”