The American rk-1 Page 4

  CHAPTER 5

  IRAN

  The 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 n
odded 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.

  Jason March waited, his back aching in the uncomfortable wooden chair. The past few days had been tedious: nonstop travel under assumed identities, the constant fear of discovery, the constant apprehension. Only now was it coming to a peak; he felt as though he was about to be tested, and his answers would determine not only his place within the organization, but whether he would leave this building alive or not. Through his supreme confidence, March retained a measure of caution. He had come too far to throw it all away now.

  Low voices outside the door announced his visitors before they pushed into the room. Hamza entered, quickly followed by a surprisingly tall, gaunt individual whom March recognized immediately. The man had made few changes to his appearance despite the leaflets dropped by army helicopters that offered a reward in excess of 25 million dollars for his apprehension.

  Saif al-Adel cursorily examined the person who had abruptly stood upon his entrance into the room. He was instantly suspicious, as the man’s appearance seemed to embody Western decadence in its entirety. The eyes, on the other hand, told a different story altogether, the hatred visible deep within the vivid green irises. It was this hate he wanted to explore. Soon he would have the answers he needed to proceed.

  CHAPTER 6

  WASHINGTON, D.C.,CAPE ELIZABETH

  It had taken all her powers of persuasion, but Naomi Kharmai was finally able to liberate the personnel file from Jonathan Harper’s protective care. It lay closed before her now, although she had already examined it thoroughly. Naomi sipped at her tea in the deserted cafe as she recounted the information she had learned about Ryan Thomas Kealey. He was thirty-three years old, the last three of which had been spent in the Central Intelligence Agency as part of the Special Activities Division. Within those three years, the file confirmed that he had been awarded the Intelligence Star for courageous action in the field.

  She considered this award for some time. Although the circumstances that had resulted in the conferrence of the medal were sealed, Naomi recognized immediately that Kealey must carry a fair degree of influence within the Agency as a result of his actions. She had noticed earlier, with some surprise, that he was on a first-name basis with Deputy Director Harper. Perhaps this also explained why Ryan was not attached to the CTC; certainly, they would have eagerly recruited him given the opportunity.

  The file also recorded his activities before joining the Agency. Kealey had left the U.S. Army as a major in 2001 under pressure from Special Forces Command. Naomi took that to mean the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whose approval would have been needed in order to indict a soldier with Ryan Kealey’s background. The 201 military record cited numerous awards: the Distinguished Service Cross, the Legion of Merit with one Oak Leaf Cluster, the Bronze Star with two Oak Leaf Clusters — the list we
nt on and on. Kharmai knew little about military decorations, but was aware that this man would be held in high esteem by anyone wearing the uniform.

  Naomi could see that he was educated as well, holding a bachelor’s of science in business administration from the University of Chicago. His graduate degree had been awarded by Duke University in 1994. By that time, Kealey was already a first lieutenant fresh out of Special Forces Assessment and Selection, soon to be followed by successful completion of the Q course at Fort Bragg.

  Unbelievable, she thought. He had achieved the rank of major in eight years, and that time included two years attached to another unit, the 1st SFOD-D, which she did not recognize. That was phenomenal advancement. The man was obviously being groomed for high command. She wondered what Ryan Kealey could have done to derail such a successful career.

  She had a sudden insight and flipped open the file to the last page, looking for the signatory: MG Peter Hale, USASFC. With or without Harper’s authority, Naomi Kharmai decided she would find a way to talk with Kealey’s last commanding officer.

  It was fast approaching dark when Ryan finally returned to Cape Elizabeth two days later. There was little reason to wait around in Washington while the analysts did their work, so Harper had given him a brief reprieve. Katie had not answered her phone for the duration of the trip, so he couldn’t help but feel slightly apprehensive when he saw her little car parked outside the house.

  The interior was almost as cold as the air outside. He went directly into the living room, where he proceeded to carefully stack wood in the immense stone fireplace. It wasn’t long before the fire began to spread a pleasant warmth throughout the house. He turned to find Katie leaning against the doorjamb wearing tight jeans, a loose woolen sweater, and a look of consternation. She was watching him quietly. It seemed to Ryan that the temperature of the room had suddenly dropped again. Judging from the scowl on her face, he wasn’t about to receive a warm welcome home.