registered in South Africa. It has a regular route, making stops in Marseille and Rosslare in the
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south of Ireland before heading over to our East Coast.” Ryan looked up to catch Harper’s
incredulous expression. “Jesus Christ, John, I didn’t go in there to make idle threats. This is what
we needed, and now we have it. We don’t have time to waste with gentle persuasion, you said so
yourself.”
“Well, why the hell did you keep me hanging on? This might be enough to save you — did he
identify March?”
Kealey sighed and shook his head wearily. “I knew he wasn’t going to be able to. If Shakib had
told March about the situation, then Elgin would be in a dirt-covered hole somewhere and we
wouldn’t have gotten this far. I told you before, March is not given to making mistakes. He
doesn’t believe in loose ends.”
The irony of this statement was immediately apparent to Jonathan Harper. Clearly, Jason
March’s biggest mistake to date was not killing Ryan Kealey on that Syrian hilltop seven years
earlier. But that thought had come unannounced, and it was incredibly disloyal. He felt ashamed
that he had identified with a killer, even if only for a moment. It went against everything that he
valued.
Ryan watched a myriad of emotions cross the other man’s face and wondered what he was
thinking.
With Kealey’s contribution, the tension was gone from both men. It was still an interrogation
room, though; the cold gray walls felt closer by the second, the scarred metal desk screamed
confessions, and the disconnected camera seemed to watch over everything with an unwavering
eye. Ryan was tired of it. He thought of Katie and for a moment felt better, lighter.
“I think I’ve done enough for today, John. Can you get me out of here, or did you just come
down for the conversation?”
A sly grin eased itself across the older man’s face. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Junior?”
They departed the Norfolk Police Department less than a half hour later, both men down low in
the backseat of a Chevy Suburban almost identical in appearance to Adam North’s. The heavily
tinted windows shielded the occupants from the view of the few reporters savvy enough to stake
out the department motor pool.
“I should have asked before, but how’s Naomi doing?”
“She’ll be fine,” Harper said. “North ran her over to the De Paul Medical Center. They stitched
her up okay and gave her something for the pain. She’s checked into the Marriott Waterside.
That’s where I’m taking you.”
“John—” Kealey started to protest, but was cut off just as fast.
“Ryan, you got what we needed. I want you to get some rest, because you’ll probably be moving
out again tomorrow, depending on what we dig up. Everything else that needs to get done today
is on my side of the fence, and if I show up at the DEA division office with you in tow, it’s going
to cause more problems than it will solve. They aren’t too happy with you right now.” Kealey
nodded his head in reluctant agreement as the vehicle turned onto Waterside Avenue.
“I’ll call for you tomorrow morning,” Harper said as the vehicle slowed to a halt next to the
hotel. Ryan moved to climb out, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
“You got what we needed, Ryan, and all three of you walked out. That’s the important thing. Go
talk to Kharmai; North said she looked pretty down when he left her.”
“What happened today wasn’t her fault, John. It was mine. I told her she could trust me, and
then that bastard got to her with a knife… She has a right to be upset.”
“Hey, she’s only alive because of what you did for her in Washington, okay? Keep that in mind.
She should be grateful to have you around. Go get some sleep.”
Ryan gave a mock salute and Harper couldn’t help but smile as the Suburban pulled away from
the curb. As he went through the process of checking in, Ryan began to realize how tired he
actually was. It was hard to believe he had woken up with Katie just twelve hours earlier.
The elevator stopped on the third floor and he got out, looking down at the scrap of paper that
Jonathan had pressed into his hand. Room 305. There. He looked down at the dirt on his ragged
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jeans from where he had hit the floor in the bar, and realized that he probably looked like hell.
Oh well, he thought, at least I have a decent excuse.
Naomi Kharmai was curled into a tight ball on the bed, a white cotton bathrobe loose against
her bare skin. The room was completely dark, but her eyes were wide open, staring fixedly into
the empty space. After North had taken her back to the hotel, she had showered once, then
again, and then a third time, the hot water beating down as it burned over the closed wound on
her left thigh. Now, with nothing left to distract her, the scene played over and over in her mind.
She was moving toward the bar, confidence in her stride, the Glock steady in her hand. She
could see her own face from a distance, the fierce determination, the set of her jaw. Then she was
facing Ryan, the sharp blade biting into her throat as Elgin whispered filth into her ear: I’m
gonna cut you and fuck you, bitch.
Cut you and fuck you… She sobbed once, a loud, dry sob that vanished into the empty room.
There was a knock at the door.
“Naomi, it’s Ryan.” She didn’t answer. “Naomi, just let me talk to you for a minute.”
The door handle jiggled, but she didn’t get up to let him in. After a minute or so, she heard a
strange clicking sound. Ryan pushed his way into the room and turned on the light.
She sprang up, hurriedly wiping hot tears from her eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” she yelled angrily. “If I wanted you to come in I would have opened the fucking door!”
He raised his hands in surrender. She took in his dirty jeans, the black T-shirt tight over his chest
and arms, and the most recent addition: a thin, looping scar that ran down the left side of his
face. He must have come straight from the police station. She felt something that only
heightened her anger and confusion.
“Look,” he said, “I just wanted to check on you. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“No thanks to you,” she sneered. “Nice job shooting me, by the way. No harm done… Maybe
they’ll give you another medal.” Sarcasm usually came easy for her, but it didn’t feel right this
time, and she felt a small tinge of regret as soon as the words left her mouth.
He stared at her in disbelief. The catlike green eyes were wide in anger, but he could see the
glistening tracks down her cheeks and the red irritation at the corner of her eyes. For all of that,
he couldn’t help himself. “What do you mean, another medal?” he asked slowly.
From the expression on his face, she knew that she was caught. He moved toward her slowly
until he was standing only a few feet away. His face was as blank as it had been when he emerged
from the stockroom at the bar.
“Listen to me,” he said in a low voice. Naomi took a step back involuntarily. “I’m sorry for
what happened to you today, but stay the hell out of my personal life. You have no right to dig
into my past. Keep it up, and I’m done looking out for you.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the hallway. She didn’t move for a few moments as a
number of emotions passed over her face. Finally, she went to shut the door after him.
CHAPTER 14
IRAN ? NORFOLK
Southeastern Iran, on the Makran Coast overlooking the Arabian Sea.
Far to the north, the peaks of the Zagros can be seen towering over the arid landscape. Apart
from the size, the mountains and the land below are almost indistinguishable.
He stood on the black tarmacadam that was sticky beneath his feet. Now easing into November
and almost 95 degrees Fahrenheit, the air thick in his nose and mouth. His frustration was
exacerbated by the people standing in the near distance, the air force colonel sent by Mazaheri,
and the aides who smirked and stood with jutted chins and arrogant eyes as they basked on the
fringe of his power. There were the two young members of the Komiteh as well, the
ever-present AK-47s slung across their chests. Hassan Hamza stood with them, speaking in quiet
tones to the colonel, his eyes moving with ill-concealed disdain over the young men who
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surrounded the senior officer. They had been talking for twenty minutes, and there appeared to
be little progress.
The impatience was not visible in March’s face or the carriage of his lean frame. He stood quietly
and stared out to sea as the argument carried on behind him.
They were in the port city of Bandar Beheshti, less than a 100 miles from the Pakistani border.
The men stood in the shade of one of the open warehouses. It was not a large harbor, with only
four berths and four jetties, each of which held two mobile cranes. There was an electric
evacuator for the discharge of grain from a container ship, and the chain-wheel cranes, of which
there were two, rolled well in from the edge of the macadam. A pair of ancient forklifts also
occupied the broad expanse of black asphalt.
Besides the four open warehouses, there were two sheltered structures and the harbormaster’s
office, which was little more than a shed of corrugated iron. Surrounding the port, nothing but
razor-sharp strands of concertina wire and empty space.
He heard voices rising, and he turned toward the group of men. Hamza was stalking angrily in
his direction, the colonel shouting at his back. The Egyptian wiped beads of sweat from his
brow as he approached, his mouth curled into a snarl beneath the heavy mustache.
“Those bastards!” he hissed. “They understand nothing. In Tehran, everything is a phone call
away. It is not that easy here.”
“What’s the problem?” March asked.
“There is no truck. There is no way to move the cargo, but we cannot leave it, not even in the
closed warehouses. It is many miles to Arak, it is a mountain pass… We must have a truck.”
“Did you speak to the harbormaster?”
Hamza waved his arms in frustration. “I asked if there was a vehicle in the secure buildings. He
would not say…”
Hamza stopped talking. The laughter of the colonel’s aides was shrill in his ears. The gleaming
eyes had moved away from his face and were focused on the office that lay across the stinking
heat of the asphalt.
Less than five minutes later, Jason March emerged from the dull metal structure. He was wearing
a faint smile. A small silver object caught and reflected the sunlight as it dangled from the fingers
of his right hand.
“A key. So there is a truck,” Hamza said as he joined March at the locked sliding door of the
second warehouse.
“If there was not a truck, then that is what he would have said,” was the flat response.
Hamza stared at the harbormaster’s building and noticed that the colonel and his aides were
doing the same. The laughter had stopped, and the aides silently sulked around the Iranian
officer like scolded children. The heavy door was lifted to reveal the vehicle, an International
4900 4x2. March hopped into the cab and began to dismantle the plastic housing surrounding
the steering column. The engine roared to life a few minutes later.
“Unfortunately, he only had the key to the warehouse,” March explained. “It will be an
inconvenience, but only a minor one.”
Hamza did not reply, only turning once more to look at the office that was like a mirage in the
heat of the afternoon.
A technician had accompanied the group, a former dockworker who was skilled in the use of a
mobile crane. The 20-foot container waited patiently on the second jetty, the ship having
departed many hours ago. The truck was reversed onto the jetty, the container was loaded. It
would be a long journey, but they were not expected for several days. They had all the time in
the world.
Ryan Kealey woke to the ringing of the phone on the nightstand. Rubbing the sleep out of his
eyes with one hand, he picked up and answered with the other. Looking out of the window, he
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could see dark clouds hanging over the bay and hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance.
“Ryan, it’s Harper. I’ll meet you and Kharmai out front at ten. Be ready for the airport — we
got a hit. I think you’re going to like this.”
“Okay, I’ll be downstairs.” He hung up and went into the bathroom. He had fallen asleep almost
immediately after entering his room the night before, but after showering and shaving, he was
beginning to feel halfway human again. There was a tap at the door just as he finished getting
dressed.
Naomi stood in the hallway. Her face was nearly contrite, but not quite. She looked almost as
stunning as she had the day before, wearing a thin cashmere sweater and a pair of dress slacks to
cover the bandage on her thigh. Her face was drawn, though, and her eyes shadowed as though
she had slept poorly. She started to speak and then hesitated. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.”
He couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be some kind of apology, but he shrugged and followed
her down to the ground floor. The restaurant seemed to be pretty decent, and he was surprised
to see that it was almost completely empty. They took a seat as far away as possible from the
other guests, and soon he was enjoying a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. When
she ordered only a blueberry muffin, he smiled and she caught it.
“What’s that look for?” she asked. “I’m on a diet.”
He shook his head. “You know a diet is the last thing you need,” he pointed out. “And I resent
you making me say that, by the way. I’m engaged, you know.”
She grinned and pushed her plate away. Leaning forward in the chair, her long fingers moved
uncomfortably close to Ryan’s as she spoke. “Listen, I apologize for last night, but only to a
certain extent. I don’t think I’m getting fair treatment here. It took quite a bit of digging for me
to get up to speed on information that you and the deputy director should have been willing to
give me up-front.” He didn’t answer and she went on. “The whole point of this is to track down
Jason March, but you haven’t told me the first thing about him. I know that you were a soldier,
Ryan. I know what he did to you and your men.”
He closed his eyes and tried to contain his reaction. How did she find out? It was immediately
clear to Ryan that he hadn’t given Naomi Kharmai enough credit. The only question was what to
do about it now. He opted for conciliation.
