The American (4 page)

K
ealey was standing before a bank of monitors and audio equipment in a darkened room occupied by the Directorate of Science and Technology. He wore a visitor's pass around his neck that identified him by number, although the laminated surface also bore a photograph of himself taken three years earlier. The crowded space was filled with young analysts looking at data, monitoring rows of numbers, and occasionally speaking quietly to each other over Styrofoam cups of cold coffee. Ryan Kealey, standing next to the chief analyst, Roger Davidson, was lost in the sense of anonymity that seemed to blanket the room.

“Okay, this copy arrived in June of 2003 via the Saudis—God knows how they got it. Originally broadcast on Al-Jazeera, it's the usual fare, so it didn't get a lot of attention at first. Declaration of
fatwa
—a religious proclamation—issued on a standard feed, decent resolution. Remember, we're looking at the background…This isn't surveillance tape, so we didn't really need to run any compression. We got what we were looking for when we adjusted this spot here—you see?”

As the analyst manipulated strings of data on a laptop computer, the corner of the screen on the second monitor darkened, revealing a small group of people. Some were reading from what Kealey thought were handmade military field manuals, while others were stripping and cleaning weapons.

“Got it?” asked Davidson. “Okay, this tape was shot at midday, at least according to the time-and-date stamp. My tech officers swear up and down that it hasn't been altered, so we'll call that fact for now. Now, you can see the glare
was
initially blocking out this group of people, so we've…”

Ryan tuned the analyst out as he leaned in to stare at the tape. The group of men were seated on the sand beneath a worn canvas tarp lashed to wooden supporting poles. For the most part, they appeared to be of Arab descent, dressed in loose, dark clothing or flowing robes covered in dirt and dust. All were wearing the traditional kaffiyeh, including one man half-turned away from the camera, the sun giving light to blond hair that strayed from beneath the head covering. The angle did not reveal the man's face, only the clean, straight line of his jaw, obvious even beneath the heavy beard.

Ryan Kealey stared at the frame for a long time.

He turned and caught Davidson watching him with a satisfied smile on his face. “Harper said you would pick up on that right away.” He tapped emphatically on the screen where the image was located. “I don't think it's an accident that this guy is facing away from the camera. He's far more disciplined than the others, probably because someone has a file on him somewhere. He's a player, but he wasn't always so careful. I'll show you what I mean.”

The analyst kept the image on the screen and started a different segment of tape on another of the room's many flat-screen monitors. “This is a copy of a tape found in the Khyber Pass four months ago. The original was badly damaged by fire, probably in an attempt to destroy it. Mostly they were successful, but we recovered about two minutes of intermittent footage.

“In this one, we have what appears to be a high-level meeting of lesser Al-Qaeda operatives and members of the
majlis al shura
, the governing council. Although the time and date are not displayed, we believe that it was recorded well
after
9/11, as our intelligence indicates that this man, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, was still busy recruiting for Ansar al-Islam in northern Iraq until early 2002. In fact, the most recent sighting came in May of that same year, when a Pakistani army captain supposedly spotted him in Peshawar…”

Kealey might as well have been alone in the room, his attention completely focused on the monitor. At that moment, the man with whom al-Zarqawi was speaking briefly glanced up in the direction of the camera. The face was without expression, but the flashing green eyes seemed to stare right through the glass, as though catching sight of an old friend from across a crowded room.

“Son of a bitch,” Kealey whispered under his breath. He turned to Davidson, abruptly interrupting the man's impassioned commentary. “I've seen enough. Take me to Harper.”

 

Seated in the deputy director's seventh-floor office, Ryan could catch distant views of the Potomac River across treetops lightly dusted with snow. The sight of the water reminded him of his old house on Cape Elizabeth, and he suddenly felt the urge to call Katie. Would she even pick up the phone? She could definitely hold a grudge, as he had discovered much to his chagrin on several other occasions…

“Ryan, I take it you feel sure enough to move on this?” Harper asked.

Kealey snapped back from his thoughts, turning his full attention to the other man.

“It's March on that tape, John, I'm positive. If we can place him here during the attack, well, that's another question. It would help if we had some witnesses to talk to. If their stories match up, then we might have a foundation to build on.”

Harper nodded his agreement and turned to the only other person in the room, a small young woman seated on the other side of the coffee table. “What did you turn up in the interviews, Naomi?”

“Nothing new from the civilians, sir, but the Secret Service has already consulted with their person on the scene. They've faxed me a copy of her account. She only got a brief look, but it's enough to confirm the other descriptions: Caucasian male, late twenties to early thirties, medium height, lean build. More importantly, she was the only witness confident enough to pick someone out of the photographs. Iran doesn't have an embassy here in Washington, of course, but they
do
have a special-interest group located in the Pakistani embassy. Our people were watching the building five minutes after the attack, and there was no real fluctuation in traffic in or out.

“That's the bad news. It's going to be tough to stick this to the regime in Tehran. However, it's possible, even likely, that this new government has direct ties to Al-Qaeda. If we can dig something up there, we would definitely have a silver bullet to hand to the U.N.”

Harper was looking thoughtfully out the window as she spoke. When he swiveled back in her direction, he nodded briefly and gave her a polite smile. “Thanks, Naomi. Would you mind excusing us for a moment?”

She didn't move for a couple of seconds, then stood up without looking in Kealey's direction. “Of course, sir.”

“I take it she's cleared for this.” Ryan asked after she had left the room and closed the heavy door behind her, perhaps slightly harder than necessary. On the other side of the wall, a light flashed red next to the door frame, announcing that they were not to be disturbed.

Harper nodded wearily. “Naomi Kharmai. From what I'm told, she's a rising star in the CTC,” he said, referring to the Agency's counterterrorism department. “She's finishing up her master's in computer science at GWU. From London, originally, but she speaks four languages, including Arabic and Farsi. That's why she's in on this. Otherwise, I'd probably get someone with a little more experience.”

Ryan wasn't surprised to hear that Kharmai was British. The accent was a dead giveaway, but there were other factors to take into account. Although the CIA depended on foreign assets for much of its hard intel, many were also brought in as full-time employees at Langley, especially in recent years. Of course, they underwent a rigorous security screening before they were offered positions, and even then, they were periodically checked up on by the internal Office of Security. Most of the Agency's foreign-born recruits were never aware that they were lightly surveilled by their own employer from time to time, without regard for rank or seniority.

“Do I have to ask who Lawrence identified?”

Harper shook his head and pushed an 8 x 10 across the coffee table. When Ryan picked it up, he found himself staring at the same person in the videotapes. It was the man he knew as Jason March.

“Obviously, we've known about this for some time,” the DDO was saying. “There's more, of course; one of ours was attached to the Special Forces team that cleared those caves. In addition to the videotape, he bagged some papers that had been partially burned. They were shipped directly over to our embassy in London. Technical Services didn't get much, but the senator's name came up as a possible target. That was enough to get him a protective detail, for all the good it did.

“If it
is
March we're dealing with, then we're in serious trouble, Ryan. Can you imagine what the reaction will be if word gets out that an American national is that high up in Al-Qaeda? There will be chaos, pure and simple. It'll be a field day for the media…This guy makes John Lindh look like a boy scout.” Jonathan tapped his pen methodically against the sleek finish of his desk as he considered. “Kharmai's pretty quick, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “That's quite a leap, from Iran to Al-Qaeda, and she doesn't know about March or his involvement, if in fact he was involved.”

“I'd say it's a safe bet, John,” Kealey said. “And it's definitely cause for concern. As you said, Senator Levy's name was known to Al-Qaeda, and Levy just happened to be the most outspoken critic of the Iranian hard-liners. If Al-Qaeda is being directly supported by the new regime, then they're going to have access to the money and equipment needed to pick up where they left off.”

Harper finished the thought. “Which means we could be looking at a serious problem. I get the feeling that March would be able to tell us a lot right now.” He turned to look directly at the other man. “Where is he?”

“Out of the country, no question.” Ryan's response was quick and definitive. “He would have had prior arrangements in place; he knew that once we had a positive ID, he would have no chance at moving through any standard point of embarkation. On the other hand, he wouldn't take the obvious route out anyway.

“It sounds impossible, right? The assassination of a well-guarded politician in Washington, D.C., during daylight hours. There was definitely a huge amount of risk involved, but there are Metro stations all over the place, including one right behind the Smithsonian. Hell, there's at least eight different ways to leave the city from Union Station alone. He counted on the heavy tourist presence on the Mall despite the weather, and he set up just outside the security perimeter for the White House. He probably scouted out the locations of the countersniper teams, at least those with fixed posts. Maybe that information was provided to him…It's difficult to say. In short, he hasn't lost a step. You can't count on him to make any mistakes.”

T
he young woman leaned back against a late-model Range Rover and shivered slightly in the cold night air as she watched the small plane approach through scattered clouds. She wore the long black chador that was customary dress for the female populace, although her head covering was pushed back to reveal lustrous black hair framing her oval face. The woman reasoned that this small violation of her country's stringent standards of dress could be easily forgiven in her lonely surroundings. The makeshift airfield was located almost 5 kilometers south of the Atrak River, a major perennial that cuts through the desolate coastal plains extending from the Caspian Sea. This portion of Iran was virtually deserted, and so made an ideal landing spot for the aging multiprop Cessna, which was making its final descent after having left Azerbaijan three hours earlier under a false flight plan.

Once the plane rolled to a stop on the compact dirt of the runway, the exterior door swung open and a sole passenger emerged, carrying only a duffel bag in his right hand. She watched with interest as he carefully climbed down from the elevated fuselage and moved toward her. From his youthful appearance, she guessed the man was in his late twenties, early thirties at most. He walked with a crisp, confident stride that propelled him effortlessly across the perilous surface of the desert sand.

“Hello,” she said. Then, in rapid Farsi, “My name is Negin. I will take you the rest of the way. I have been instructed to ask if you are carrying any weapons—you will be searched on arrival.”

“I'm unarmed. How far?” he asked in kind. Although she had been told the man understood the language, it was still a little unsettling to hear her native tongue spoken so fluently by a foreigner.

“Less than two hours. They are waiting for you,” was her response. Fifteen minutes later, the Range Rover emerged from the dark expanse of the desert and turned onto the cracked asphalt of the main road to Mashhad, speeding east toward the holy city as the stars burned far overhead.

 

Mashhad is the capital of and the largest city in the Khorasan province of Iran, home to approximately two million souls. His hosts could hardly have selected a better location for this meeting, March thought, as the very name of the city means “place of martyrdom.” One would have to search long and hard to find a community more virulently opposed to Western culture. Although he had few doubts about his own abilities or capacity for survival, he might have feared for his safety were it not for the presence of the other men seated around the simple wooden table before him.

An amusing thought suddenly occurred to him: despite his recent atrocities, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency would probably greet him at the airport with open arms and a suitcase full of cash were he to sacrifice the people in this room. The occasional looks of distrust that were cast in his direction were enough to convince him that he was not the only one to envision this scenario.

Most, however, were uncomfortable meeting his eyes and chose to stare down at the notepads on the table or to distant corners of the room.

His real name was not Jason March, nor did they know him as such. It was, however, the pseudonym he had been identified with most over the years. On a hilltop overlooking the Syrian coast seven years earlier, March had proven his loyalty to these men and their cause. None, however, was aware of this fact, and he did not volunteer the information. About the man seated before them they knew very little, except that he could accomplish anything. This was the only statement made about the American that was not disputed.

“You achieved a great deal in Washington, my friend. I trust the contact we provided was to your satisfaction.” The speaker was an Egyptian national, Mustafa Hassan Hamza. Despite having been sentenced to death in absentia by an Egyptian court in 1981, he had remained active within the organization. After the invasion of Afghanistan by American forces in late 2001, he had narrowly escaped the country with his life. The subsequent decimation of Al-Qaeda's ranks had resulted in rapid promotion for the man who now held the rank of assistant commander within the Islamic terror network.

“I was impressed with your source's efficiency and dedication,” March replied honestly. He did not give compliments freely. “It is a shame that he will most likely be discovered by the FBI; in fact, this may have already occurred. They can be quite efficient in their own right.”

“Do you have any recommendations?” the Egyptian asked.

“Through our mutual friend in South Africa, I have already provided your source with the means to evade capture. As I said before, I do not think you will be disappointed by his commitment to this organization.”

Hamza appraised the man seated before him with increasing admiration. Once again he was reminded of how fortunate he was to have such a powerful weapon at his disposal, not to mention the inherent propaganda value of an American working against his own country. Nevertheless, his lack of knowledge about the man's past was a constant source of worry for Hamza. How long could a man commit treason on such a grand scale before his conscience rallied against him?

Another thought ate at him occasionally, though he had all but dismissed it: how far would the Americans go to plant someone in his organization? He did not think they would kill one of their own greedy politicians, but deep down he was aware that this was not necessarily true, and the doubt was a heavy stone in his stomach. There were people within the Western intelligence services who were very much like him, in that they did not consider themselves bound by law or moral imperative. Hamza himself had often been heard to say that these few exceptional individuals posed a greater threat to the organization than the entire might of the American military combined.

The Egyptian did not betray any of these thoughts, his face an impassive mask. He turned to another man seated directly across from him, who had not spoken for the duration of the meeting. “Minister Mazaheri, thank you for being here this evening. I believe you have news to impart.”

The newly appointed minister of intelligence and security nodded and went on to address the group, his eyes focusing intently on each face from behind simple steel-framed spectacles. “His Excellency is most pleased by what you have accomplished. He was angered by the American accusations, and wishes to thank you for the actions you have initiated against them. Tomorrow he will issue a statement declaring his intention to reopen the nuclear facility at Natanz.” This revelation brought murmured approval from the small group of men around the table, the few who were trusted enough to be told of this development.

“Of course, production is already well under way. Recently installed gas centrifuges have dramatically increased the speed of the enrichment process, and our heavy-water reactor at Arak is currently producing weapons grade plutonium. We have, however, encountered several difficulties. The IAEA has its suspicions, as always, and is insisting on access to our facility in the south. This proposal is rapidly gaining support within the U.N. El-Baradei can be quite persistent. Additionally, we have been forced to import some of the components needed for the carbon casing and injection core. It will be difficult to bring these materials into the country without alerting the Americans.”

The Iranian leaned forward, resting his hands on the rough surface of the table. His face was twisted in hatred when he spoke again. “This new resolution implemented by the West will set back the program by ten years or more if it is allowed to continue. For years we have survived only through the greed of European oil companies who regularly undermined the American sanctions. Now it appears that the French are starting to fall into line, as are the Italians…It is the opinion of my government that there is only one way to dissuade them from supporting these latest measures.”

Hamza absorbed these comments silently, one hand carefully grooming his thick black mustache as he considered this statement. “A large-scale attack on U.S. soil. Many American deaths. Extensive news coverage and public backlash. These are the things that you need to cause a division, to break their will.”

Ali Vahid Mazaheri nodded in agreement. “What do you suggest?”

“There are many options,” Hamza said. “First, a suitable target must be found. Everything depends on the target. A decisive strike will shatter the coalition; however, we may need assistance from His Excellency in mounting such an operation. Your government has seen how effective Al-Qaeda can be, even in our current weakened state.” He sent a respectful nod in the American's direction. “Our Western friend has taken many risks that have once again brought us to the attention of the world. Speed is critical at this juncture if we wish to cause immediate disarray in the American leadership.”

The minister inclined his head slightly, a small smile etching its way across his face. “An interesting proposal. What do you require?”

“At first, nothing. Merely your support.”

“You have it. My country is in your debt, and it shall be repaid many times over. I will convey your proposal to His Excellency.”

“You have my gratitude. I am confident that we shall both prosper from this agreement.”

Hamza smiled and stood, as did the Iranian minister. Both men shook hands and then embraced, causing the small group surrounding the table to break into spontaneous applause.

Jason March stood to the side, his face wiped clean of any emotion. Inside, though, he felt a wave of pleasure ripple through his body as a vision of Washington ablaze seeped its way into his mind. The image of fire erupting from the windows of the White House was so powerful that Hamza had to speak his name several times before he snapped back to reality.

“Yes, what is it?”

Hamza frowned slightly at the man's tone. He was still, after all, a traitor to his native country. A man who changed sides once could do so again. Hamza wanted to test this man's loyalty; to do so, he was about to take a serious risk.

“Follow me. There is someone I would like for you to meet.”

 

The ancient Ford Cortina moved steadily through the darkened streets of Mashhad, stopping at various locations, sometimes for several minutes at a time, before moving off again unexpectedly with a sudden burst of speed. Although hundreds of volunteers would have jumped at the chance to drive Hassan Hamza about the city, he placed trust only in his own instincts, and rightfully so; he had seen many other experienced operatives die at the hands of the American Special Forces by exercising less caution than was necessary in their chosen profession. The American seated next to him had not spoken since leaving the heavily guarded two-story residence northeast of the city center. Hamza wondered what was running through the other man's mind.

After forty-five minutes had passed, Hamza decided they had not been followed. In any city in Afghanistan, he would not have attempted such a meeting, but he felt reasonably secure in this part of northeastern Iran. He turned abruptly into a dusty alleyway, the sedan clattering to a stop between buildings of pale stone.

“Follow me. You have nothing to worry about,” he assured the other man. He handed the American a woolen watch cap. “Put this on.”

March pulled the material down low over his blond hair, which, if left uncovered, would be immediately noticed and stored away for future use by the city's many inhabitants. Given the chance, the people in this area would eagerly criticize the decadent West; however, he was aware that they might easily change their tune when presented with a generous reward for information. Such was the fickle nature of humanity, March knew. Most people would gladly sacrifice their principles for money.

The two men moved quickly down the alley, and then past a row of dilapidated, low-slung brick buildings. March noticed that the street was unusually dark, the bulbs in the streetlights above having been either removed or destroyed. Despite the late hour, an old woman wandered down the uneven street in their direction, her gait unsteady. She averted her eyes as she passed the two men, another fact that was not lost on the American. He decided that the organization had taken substantial measures to ensure their security in this area, perhaps even to the point of bribing people house to house. Certainly, the local officials would have been well compensated for their cooperation.

They stopped at the fifth house on the left. March hesitated before pushing through the wrought iron gate, sensing that something was amiss. Hamza's easy smile did little to alleviate his sudden fear. As his acute senses suddenly focused, he picked up a silhouette in his peripheral vision. A sniper lay prone on the low roof of the building, the rigid bone of his eye socket just millimeters from the scope of a Russian Dragunov rifle.

March was impressed by the man's discipline, but thought the weapon far too large and difficult to maneuver in an urban environment. He personally would have opted for the Galil with its folding stock, but never would have suggested it to the man on the roof. He almost laughed out loud at the idea of an Arab militant using a weapon manufactured in Israel.

Approaching the door, two more guards suddenly entered his line of sight, AK-47 rifles held down by their sides. The men tensed momentarily as they approached, then quickly relaxed as Hamza spoke with one of the guards in hushed tones. A portable radio was lifted to lips cracked by the harsh sun, words were exchanged, orders issued. Moments later, the door swung open and the two arrivals were hustled inside.