The American (14 page)

The silver Mercedes was there, but in a slightly different spot. Thinking back to Harper's file on Gray, Ryan remembered that the businessman also owned a town house on the Buitengracht, in addition to numerous properties farther north; there was a good chance that he had spent the night at one of those locations before driving back to the warehouse in the morning. Ryan looked at his watch. Only eight minutes past seven, and the man was already at work. He filed that fact away as he got out of the jeep and took advantage of the empty street to survey the arrangement of the buildings surrounding Gray's renovated warehouse. The sidewalk opposite was very narrow, almost nonexistent before it rose up into the face of yet another industrial complex.

Ryan's eyes followed the lines of the building up to the flat roof, and then on an imaginary path cutting down diagonally to the metal-framed door on the other side of the Mercedes. He walked down a litter-strewn alley, the straight cement walls towering on either side of him, and was pleased to find an aluminum fire escape hanging over a Dumpster, which was coated in flaking brown paint.

By standing on the Dumpster, he found he could reach the base of the fire escape. It pulled down easily when he tugged on the lowest rung. It was all he needed for the moment. Satisfied, Ryan returned the retractable ladder to its original place and hopped down from the container, walking back down the narrow space between the buildings toward the jeep. He still had a lot to do before nightfall.

 

Naomi woke just before ten, the sheets in a tangle at her feet. Crawling out of bed, she was startled to see the sun halfway into its climb through the African sky. She could hear happy shouts of children beneath her window, and she wondered why Ryan had let her sleep for so long. Thinking his name forced her to recall the night before. Sitting on the edge of the bed, her mind scrambled to recollect the events that had transpired.

Oh God.

I can't believe I did that,
she thought.
I can't believe it.
Naomi knew she felt something for Ryan, but also knew instinctively that it could never work. He was engaged, and…Well, that was all that was wrong, really, but it was enough. He hadn't pulled away, though. She could remember that clearly now. She'd given him the opportunity, but he didn't pull back. All the same, he couldn't think too much of her after what she had said. Rambling on about her father, feeling sorry for herself. There would be no more of that, she decided. No way in hell.

T
hey arrived much earlier than expected, just as the sun was beginning its downward descent over the highest peaks in the mountainous Khondaub region west of Arak. The convoy had picked up speed upon reaching the highway running northwest from Kerman through Yazd and Isfahan. Once the last city faded from view, the surrounding landscape gradually became less populated as the hours passed and the low-lying foothills gave way to rocky escarpments towering far above the desert floor.

There were no private homes within 30 kilometers of the complex, at least none that were occupied. The interior ministry had forced the families out when construction was first started on the heavy-water reactor. They received no compensation for their loss, but they were fortunate enough to have left with their lives. The current regime would have been far less generous.

The facility lay nestled in a shallow valley, the flat tan buildings blending into the surrounding granite walls that served as natural protection against inbound missiles. The complex was encircled by twin chain link fences topped with razor wire. To the untrained eye, security would have appeared weak, almost nonexistent, but it was there. It could be seen in the weapon-clearing barrels that marked the entrance to each building, and in the camouflage netting that shielded the truck-mounted SA-8 Gecko SAM system. It could be seen in the phase array radar bolted to the command vehicle, and in the bunkers that dotted the perimeter, complete with ammunition stores and grenade sumps. The unmarked minefields that were scattered throughout the open ground south of the facility would have been harder to pick out, as would the early-warning sensors that monitored mountain passes as far as 20 kilometers away.

The convoy was expected, and was not forced to contend with these extensive security measures. Once cleared through the main gate, the vehicles cut an erratic path through the complex. First they passed the four-story structure that served as a barracks for the soldiers, and then the largest building on the compound: the pre-stressed concrete structure that housed the twin reactors and the smaller steam generators. Beyond the reactor building was the immense cooling tower that served, unbeknownst to the base commander, as a reference point for the NSA satellite control teams at Fort Meade, Maryland.

The vehicles finally slowed to a halt in front of the administration block, a cluster of identical buildings linked by narrow corridors that comprised the northernmost part of the compound. The weary men descended from the vehicles, each stretching in the cool mountain air as a truck-mounted crane was pulled alongside and soldiers were called for to assist in unloading the container. March did not stay to supervise the procedure, instead turning to follow Hamza and the Iranian officer into the cool interior of the administration building.

The hallways all looked alike to March: spotless white walls and freshly waxed pale tile floors, no paintings, no windows. He noticed that the building was missing the usual procession of harried file clerks and overworked administrative personnel. In fact, they passed no one at all on the lengthy walk into the heart of the structure. The silence would have been overwhelming were it not for the gentle, irregular tap of their shoes on the gleaming floor. Finally, the colonel stopped at an unmarked door. He knocked softly, and was granted permission to enter. “Wait here,” he said, and the door closed behind him.

The officer was gone for five minutes. Hamza avoided the other man's eyes, but knew instinctively that the American was watching him. He found it difficult not to flinch under the penetrating gaze. His mind kept returning to Beheshti, to the mocking tone of the colonel's voice, to the contempt in the American's eyes, to the solitary shuttered building that was the harbormaster's office.

Hamza thought of the sun beating down, cooking the sheets of metal and whatever lay within. He wondered if the flies had yet to find the harbormaster.

The door was pulled open and they were beckoned inside. The interior of the room was a marked difference from the sterile halls. Small, tastefully framed paintings decorated the walls. The carpet was maroon, deep and soft, and expensive-looking armchairs were scattered throughout the space. March noticed that his companion stared as though he had never seen such luxury.

Saif al-Adel was seated on one of the several couches. He stood as they entered the room, the thin smile taut over his narrow features. Hamza was relieved to find him in good humor.

“Welcome, my brother. We were afraid that the desert might have swallowed you whole, along with our American friend here,” he said.

Hamza chuckled nervously and looked to the other man in the room, the Iranian minister Mazaheri. He was wearing full clerical robes, the corners of his eyes crinkling beneath the elaborate turban as he offered his greetings. “You have the container,” he said. It was not a question.

Hamza nodded, and the minister's smile grew. “You have performed an invaluable service to my country. I have made the other arrangements, as promised. Our South African friend has already delivered your package. You are to be congratulated.” Mazaheri cast a sideways glance at al-Adel, and then focused his attention on the other Egyptian. “Come, my friend,” he said, placing a friendly arm around Hamza's shoulder. “Share a meal with me. You've traveled far, you should rest before the transport arrives.”

Hamza looked to his commander, and received a smile and an approving nod. “He's right, Hassan. You deserve more than a good meal, though. I would say that it is time to reevaluate your place in the organization. Your reward is long overdue.”

Despite his best efforts, Hamza could not contain the small smile that spread across his lips. He would be made a commander, he would be Saif's equal…After all these years, it was now a certainty. He went easily, following the minister out of the room, standing tall as he considered the new powers that would soon be his. The smile stretched as an image presented itself to him—it was his name, in large print next to those of al-Zarqawi and bin Laden in the Western newspapers. The image grew in his mind, clouding out all other thought. He would be known, as al-Adel was known. He didn't hear the minister's idle chatter, and he did not notice that the American walked far behind with Saif, far enough that they could speak privately.

“You know who I am,” the commander said.

It was a blanket statement, and March did not think it required a response as they moved back through the clean white halls.

Finally, al-Adel continued: “Everything about you concerns me. I make no secret of that. Hassan will only speak well of you, but I am not so easily convinced. I ask of you a single question: what has the West done to you, one of its own, that you would see it burn?”

March considered the question, but only briefly. “You asked me this before, and my answer is the same. Yes, I know who you are. On the other hand, you know what I can do. I ask nothing in return for my actions, only that you provide me with the basic materials that are required for success. What I've done in the past, who I am, is not your concern. We will either proceed on that basis or not at all. The decision is yours to make.”

Saif al-Adel looked up as the steel-and-glass doors approached. Hamza and the minister pushed out first, their backs instantly bathed in a red glow from the sun sinking low over the mountains. “You are a brave man to say such things to me,” he said absently. “If I didn't know differently, I would say you were a fool. You should know that the air force colonel had many good things to say about you. His assignment was not a random choice. He was impressed, and so Mazaheri was impressed. I want to show you something.”

They followed the other two men out into the rapidly cooling air. The minister and Hamza were walking toward the dining facility, leaving twin trails of dusty footprints in the thin sienna topsoil that covered the granite stone of the valley floor. A small group of soldiers stood outside the open doors, laughing and talking as they waited for the meal line to advance.

“I have known Hassan for fourteen years. He is a fellow Egyptian, and has always served the organization well. Two years ago he saved my life in an American ambush, and he wept with me when we were denied the privilege of burying our less-fortunate comrades. For that, and for his service, I love him as a brother.”

March watched as the minister spoke to Hamza, patting him on the shoulder and pointing to an adjacent building as though offering an explanation. March watched Hamza nod in agreement, and Mazaheri began to walk away as the other man continued on toward the dining hall.

“The colonel was impressed with you, but not with Hassan. He was described as ‘poorly prepared,' and ‘weak when confronted by a lesser man, a man with no authority.' The colonel is Mazaheri's son-in-law, and as such has the minister's ear and his respect. I would gladly cut the man's throat and watch him choke for breath, but Mazaheri is the key to Al-Qaeda's future, and so he must be humored…”

March saw the arrogance in Hamza's walk. Mere words, a false promise had given the man steel in his backbone when before there was none. He watched the soldiers lift their weapons as one. There was the terrible moment of comprehension as Hamza extended his arms, desperately throwing his palms out at the rifles pointed in his direction, screaming that it was a mistake. There was the distinctive crack of a single Kalishnikov, followed by the steady rhythm of automatic fire. There was the sight of flailing limbs as bullets ripped through his outstretched hands and into his face and chest.

The firing stopped. Hassan Hamza lay dead on the ground, streams of blood already running out from underneath his body in thin rivulets, seeping down into the cracks of the stone as the soldiers cleared their weapons and resumed their conversation. Mazaheri was still walking. He hadn't turned at the sound of gunfire, nor had he flinched when the reports echoed back over the mountains.

When al-Adel turned to look at Jason March, there was no evidence of grief in the commander's face. “To ensure the future of the organization, I would let these animals kill my brother. When you came to us, it was as a volunteer. You had neither my trust nor my respect. Now you have my respect. You've earned that much. Bear in mind, though, that you can only fail me once…Remember what happened here. It is a good lesson.”

Peering into the American's eyes, he saw nothing that might hint at fear or indecision. Instead, he saw a strength that rivaled his own. Saif al-Adel knew that the man would not take the words personally, and was pleased.

What he heard next, though, shook the commander to his very core.

“You want what I can achieve. In return, I want you to take me north.”

A lengthy silence ensued. “Why?”

“You know why.”