The American rk-1 Page 7

The thunderous roar of the explosion echoed in Kealey’s ears as he threw Naomi into a corner of the armored vehicle and covered her body with his. Her muffled screams vibrated through his chest as thousands of pounds of cement, marble, and iron from the building’s facade crashed down onto Connecticut Avenue. He could hear no other sound of human life, only the deafening sound of the world falling down around them. A sudden impact crushed the opposite end of the vehicle, flipping the van onto its side like a toy. He felt something sharp tear into his face as the walls caved in, the wheels ripped from the axles, the polycarbonate glass crumpling in the windshield and passenger doors. Then the noise was gone and everything went black.

  CHAPTER 8

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “Connecticut Avenue was a scene of devastation this morning as an explosion tore apart the eastern face of the Kennedy-Warren residential complex. Although the building was evacuated prior to the explosion, officials fear that the death toll will continue to climb as many people at the scene are still unaccounted for. The explosion appears to be terrorist related, and is thought to have originated in the eighth-floor apartment of Michael Shakib, the man who allegedly provided information that led to the assassination of Senator Daniel Levy, the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, here in Washington almost two weeks ago. We’ll have more updates on the way. I’m Susan Watkins, for CNN.”

  Katie Donovan hurried past the disbelieving crowd gathered round the television in Terminal A of Dulles International, barely taking the time to glance at the ruined building on the screen. United Airlines Flight 213 had just landed after leaving Bangor less than ninety minutes earlier. She had gripped the armrests tightly the entire flight, struggling to maintain the self-control that had been gradually slipping away since she first heard about the bombing earlier that morning. A sick fear had taken root and blossomed in her chest as the hours crept past.

  Ryan had given her a cell phone number for emergencies, but she reached only his voice mail each time she tried to call. Then she attempted to reach him by calling Langley direct, but they refused to give her any information, instead referring her to a hotline set up to handle calls from friends and relatives of the victims. Victims. The word echoed in her head. It was hard to imagine Ryan being victimized by anything, but she couldn’t shake the fear, and the panic threatened to consume her — if he was okay, he would have called. She knew he would have called. By the time she reached the Avis counter, it was all she could do to keep from screaming.

  Forty-five minutes later, Katie’s rented Taurus screeched to a halt outside Georgetown University Hospital. A uniformed police officer yelled at her as she ran through the assembled crowd of reporters and into the building, leaving the car unattended with the keys still in the ignition. A preoccupied nurse absently waved her toward surgery care, which led in turn to a large room decorated in a failed effort to project cheer. Katie could not imagine a more despairing sight. The room was filled to capacity with frightened-looking people. She was dimly aware of quiet whispers of support and low, muffled sobs.

  With weak knees, she squeezed through the crowd to the desk and tried to speak to the woman on the other side, but the words were slow in coming.

  “Are you okay?” the attendant asked with a genuinely concerned expression. The young woman standing before her looked terrible, hair plastered to her face, the skin around her eyes red and puffy. “Take your time, honey. It’s going to be fine.”

  Katie took a deep breath and rested her shaking hands on the counter for support. “I’m looking for my fiance, Ryan Kealey. Ryan Thomas Kealey.”

  The nurse looked down through the list, shaking her head. “I don’t see anyone by that name.” Katie felt her heart sink, but there was a glimmer of hope. Maybe he hadn’t even been at the Kennedy-Warren. But if he was okay, why hadn’t he called? It just didn’t make sense… “Hold on, honey, let me double-check.” As the nurse turned to question a harried surgeon, Katie squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to breathe again.

  “Katie?”

  She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, a large bandage covering the left side of his face. She could see long tears in his leather jacket, streaks of dried blood on his stained jeans and the backs of his hands. He hadn’t called… It didn’t matter, because he was there, alive. Her right hand flew to her mouth, the other reaching out for him as the tears streamed down her face.

  “So you’re both okay?” Harper asked. Ryan was pressed uncomfortably into a booth just outside of the hospital, a pay phone held to his ear. He needed to be outside for a while. The thin wall housing the phone rubbed at a long stripe of raw skin on his left arm, and the pain worked with the bite of the air to remind him that he was still breathing.

  “We’ll make it. A lot of other people didn’t,” he replied. “Naomi’s right arm was banged around pretty bad. I was sure it was broken, but the X-rays came back negative. They gave her a sedative; she’s asleep now, I think. Suicide bombers in D.C. The audacity of these bastards. John… I don’t know how to fight that.”

  “We just got the first numbers.” Harper paused for a moment, beats of silence filling the empty space. “As of 5:00 PM, 64 dead, 121 injured. Obviously, that’s going to climb tomorrow when they finish going through the rubble.”

  Ryan didn’t respond. There didn’t seem to be much to say.

  “Listen, you’ve had a long day. If it hasn’t caught up with you, it will. We’ll talk in the morning.” A longer pause this time.

  Harper sounded tired. Tired and weak. The combination served to gently ease yet another yoke down onto Ryan’s shoulders, the burden of uncertainty. He wondered how much more he could carry before he crumbled under the weight.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Kealey. I was worried there for a while. Give my regards to Naomi — the department already sent flowers to her room.”

  “That was good of you, John. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After hanging up the phone, he leaned against the cold brick wall facing the hospital, looking up into the black emptiness. Ryan noticed that his hands were shaking, but he couldn’t will them to stop. He had seen many awful things in his life, far more than most, but knew that he would never forget the images that had confronted him through the choking dust after pulling Naomi out of the crushed van.

  Now those terrible scenes reminded him of others, and he rushed to quickly push the thoughts from his mind. Searching frantically for something else to focus on, anything else, he found himself thinking about what he had overheard Katie saying earlier. My fiance… I’m looking for my fiance, Ryan Kealey.

  They had never talked about marriage, and at first glance the idea seemed completely implausible. They had barely known each other six months, and he had never even met her family. Now that he thought about it, she had never mentioned them. In truth, though, he was more than ready to leave this life behind and start a family of his own. There had been women in the past, of course, but none that he cared about so much. If pressed, he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly why.

  Although extremely intelligent, she was ruled by emotion, a fact that Ryan found both fascinating and a little overwhelming. There was nothing petty in Katie Donovan — for her, feeling decided what happened next; it was real, and could be trusted. Sometimes, the passion she exuded was almost frightening in its intensity. When she cared about something, she threw her whole heart into it. She had thrown her heart into him, he could see that now. For a woman who would jump on a plane and travel hundreds of miles to be by his side, Ryan thought he would give anything.

  He walked back across long shadows in the street, to the woman he had saved and the woman who might yet save him.

  CHAPTER 9

  IRAN

  The icy, intertwined limbs of the oak and conifer trees climbed high above the narrow side street running north from Niyavaran Park. The very highest points of the branches dangled heavily before yellow sodium lights that spilled down onto wet pavement shining in t
he cold drizzle. The light did not spread too far, as if it knew that the darkest corners of the city were best left to their own devices, alone and unrevealed.

  Except for the hypnotic sound of the gentle rain, the streets of Tehran were silent as the night grew deep.

  Ali Ahmedi, twenty-eight years old, six-year veteran of the Komiteh, the Iranian Secret Police, was hunched in the doorway of a dimly lit restaurant. The hood of his anorak was over his head, his breath steamed in the air. By his side, he held the Kalishnikov that could be bought for less than thirty American dollars in the markets at the city center. His weapon was better maintained than most, the bolt free of rust, with a light coat of oil. As soon as he was permitted, he would find a warm, comfortable place on the floor inside and clean the weapon again. Ahmedi took pride in his work, a deep pride that left little time for his wife and infant child. He was particularly pleased with his current assignment, despite the inclement weather. Across the street, a second guard was well concealed in a dark alley. The young officer counted himself fortunate; the alley had no overhead cover, and his friend would be well soaked by now.

  Behind Ahmedi, past the grimy windows set in stout wooden frames, beyond the tables and chairs of rough-hewn oak, two men enjoyed a simple meal of lamb kebab and boiled rice.

  A third guard drifted through the seating area in the foreground, an Uzi submachine gun slung carelessly across his chest. His eyes, though, were constantly moving over the dark shadows of the room, paying particular attention to the swinging door that led to the kitchen in the rear of the building. The two men and the guard; otherwise, the restaurant was empty.

  Saif al-Adel pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, a contented expression settling over his narrow features. His face was almost feminine in appearance, with full lips, a long, straight nose, and pale, flawless skin pulled taut over high cheekbones. He took his time speaking, as was his custom; in the dangerous business that was his, one did not last by making rash comments or hasty decisions.

  Hamza watched the man carefully. He was ever cautious of his fellow Egyptian’s volatile mood swings. They were difficult to catch; the signs could be as subtle as a small inclination of the head, a narrowing of the eyes. For Saif al-Adel, the word volatile held a different connotation than it did for the vast majority of humanity. Hamza had personally witnessed what the other man’s silent rage could lead to. Thinking about it now, he was brought back to an incident that had taken place nearly two years earlier…

  The sands of the endless desert south of Kabul burned beneath the fiery orb above. Late in June of 2002, the morale within the organization was low, tempers flaring easily in the extreme temperatures that accompanied the rising and setting of the sun. The Afghans were afraid, and they tried to hide the fear with aggression and bluster. The fear could be attributed to the Americans, and to the MH-60 helicopters that would come low over the desert at night, and to the Special Forces soldiers that would fast-rope down to the desert floor below. Because of the fear, discipline was almost nonexistent in the flat expanse stretching in every direction. Young members of the organization congregated in large groups outside the caves, firing their weapons wildly into the air with complete disregard for the Western satellites that passed overhead. Hassan Hamza, while taking inventory of American Stinger missiles in the cool hollows of the stone outcropping, was drawn to the light outside by elevated voices.

  Saif al-Adel, the recently installed commander of the military wing of Al-Qaeda, passed a small cluster of vociferous young volunteers. He heard the name of Muhammed Atef, his predecessor — until the day the Americans had come with their stolen coordinates and laser-guided bombs. He heard the sarcasm in the young voice, the snarled insults, and the derision that can be shown for the dead without fear of reprisal.

  This is what Hamza saw: A junior member of the Taliban, maybe twenty years of age, held court at the center of a small group. His rifle was more than an arm’s length away, half-buried in the sand, forgotten by the soldier. The men surrounding him roared their approval at the vicious humor, laughed at his biting tongue, but al-Adel was ignored at the periphery of the group. His head was turning, the expression on his face did not change as he slipped the Makarov pistol free from his belt. Then the head of the young soldier was pulled back and to the right, the crowd scrambling away abruptly, startled shouts filling the air. The muzzle was jammed into the soft flesh beneath the jawbone, brown eyes wide in surprise as the trigger was squeezed, and the top of the boy’s head exploded up into the shimmering heat.

  Saif al-Adel stood facing the stunned group of Taliban soldiers, the pistol loose in his right hand. There were armed men at his back, but he did not turn to track their movements. He was unafraid, and the statement had been made… The aggression faded from the eyes of the young men, replaced by a muted fear. Hamza had seen it all.

  And could see it still. The hatred was gone at the moment, displaced by the rapture that always followed a successful operation. Hamza could feel it slinking just below the surface, though; for Saif al-Adel, pleasure and murder were born in the same bottomless pit.

  “Hassan, my old friend, you are to be congratulated.” The words were soft and sincere. Despite himself, Hamza felt a strong swell of pride at the compliment. “The American is amazingly proficient.” A brief pause. “He is also obstinate, sullen, and evasive. I do not trust him at all.”

  The older man could concede that these descriptions were accurate. He had arrived at the same conclusions long ago. He pulled at his ragged black beard while he framed a response.

  “He is useful for what he can accomplish, and for what he can tell our soldiers. He is a gifted teacher; I have seen it with my own eyes. A man who is Western in appearance and mannerisms, but can speak numerous foreign languages with local dialects. A man who is able to instruct our fighters on the use of improvised explosive devices, who can demonstrate sniping techniques out to 500 meters without the benefit of a telescopic sight. Most importantly, a man who does not boast, does not condescend when given the opportunity… What would you call such a man?”

  The commander drank hot tea and averted his eyes. The answer was clear, but he did not want to acknowledge the truth of it, because if it was true… If it was true, then he was no longer really in control.

  “He is an American,” he spat. “He can only be against us.”

  “That is not so, Saif.”

  “He cannot be trusted.”

  “What more can he do?” Hamza asked reasonably. “How many citizens of his own country must he kill before you place your faith in him?”

  Silence for a moment, save for the easy footsteps of the guard moving past empty tables.

  Hassan did not want to openly challenge the young commander. To do so would be to invite a bullet in the early-morning hours, when he was curled tight against the cold. Loyalty did not carry far when anger was stirred, and one man finally succumbed to heavy eyelids and the pressure of commanding unruly boys who were not yet men. Maybe it would be the knife, held tight against his throat with his arms pinned tight to his body; the end could come in any number of ways. He did not want to take the chance.

  “My friend, I understand your skepticism, because I share it.” Hamza studiously avoided the word fear. “However, there comes a time when you must accept your good fortune, and use it to your advantage. It is a dangerous weapon we use, but with care it can take us far. He was a soldier, he was disgraced; that much is obvious… I know what you want. You want a complete history, you want to know this man inside and out. I tell you now, that is not possible. He is an enigma, by definition. We must accept what Allah chooses to give us, and be grateful.”

  A small smile, followed by another sip of tea. This was the dangerous time, when the smile could mean anything. Hassan knew why Saif was suspicious. He had questioned the American for three hours, and was told nothing. At one point, the commander held a pistol to the man’s head and denounced him, accused him of spying for the West, but stil
l had elicited no reaction. As dawn approached, he had finally given up in frustration. Hamza could see the man’s mind working quickly now, cheek muscles twitching as al-Adel pondered his friend’s opinion.

  The older man thought that his considered statements had been well received.

  “Hassan.” The arms spread wide, the palms open in a gesture of reluctant capitulation. “You are correct, as always. I was wrong to doubt a man that you saw fit to bring into the organization. I have always respected your judgment.” This last sentence was delivered deliberately, Saif’s eyes burning into Hamza’s face. They were genuine, reassuring words, and his subordinate felt the trust that was given him.

  “With your approval, I want to give him full control of the operation in Africa.”

  “No, no.” The commander’s long arms waved the idea away quickly. “We have exhausted our ability to operate in that region. Since the bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, the Americans have considerably enhanced security at their embassies in the region. Most of their buildings are at least 100 meters away from the street, and the exterior windows are now coated in mylar. There are additional personnel and vehicular searches — in short, another attempt would result in far fewer casualties. I won’t waste the infidel on a fruitless endeavor.”

  “I agree completely,” Hamza said. It was true; the attacks in 1998 had resulted in the deaths of 213 people in Nairobi. It would be difficult to achieve that success again, and any members of the organization involved in the attack would almost certainly be killed by the marines guarding the perimeter.

  “There is much to be gained from this strike, my friend. The support of the Iranians will be invaluable in the future. We will have safe refuge, access to new training camps with decent equipment. We will have money, weapons, volunteers. It is a new beginning for us. There is much to be gained. It cannot fail…

  “It might interest you to learn, Hassan, that the American was far more forthcoming with information not related to himself.”