The American rk-1 Read online

  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 southwestern 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 crusade, 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 hardship. 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.