“It seems like you know everything,” he said. It was a struggle to keep his voice light. “What else
can I tell you?”
Naomi thought she was fairly adept at gauging mood, and sensed that now would not be a good
time to mention Bosnia. Shrugging her shoulders, she reached over to steal his glass of orange
juice. “Well, I’d like to know what we’re trying to accomplish. Clearly, March is associated with
the Iranians and Al-Qaeda, so they’re definitely working together. We know what the Iranians
want. What about Al-Qaeda — do you think they’re going after the same thing?”
Ryan shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “If they use a nuclear weapon, or even manage to
acquire one, then they’re finished. They’ll lose most of their state-sponsored support due to fear
of sanctions imposed by the U.N. or, even worse, American military retaliation. I’m sure these
thoughts wouldn’t readily occur to Al-Qaeda’s leadership, but that’s the reality of the situation.
They’ve made a lot of contradictory statements about their attempts to purchase nuclear
material.”
“What about Iran?”
“Well, if we find out that Iran has a weapon, they can just claim it’s for national defense. Then
they’ll make some minor concessions to make it easier to swallow. The OSCE and the U.N.
won’t like it, and neither will we, but the North Koreans have already discovered that we’re
willing to let a lot slide as long as you keep it on your side of the fence. That’s why Brenneman is
so intent on stopping them before they get that far. Once they have a weapon, our options
obviously become more limited.”
She smiled and popped a piece of muffin into her mouth. “It’s pretty clear that you’re not an
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expert on foreign policy,” she said.
“That’s true enough,” he replied with a grin of his own. “But the fact remains that Al-Qaeda is
more likely to retain their grassroots support and the flow of small arms and money into the
organization if they stay away from the biological and nuclear side of things. Otherwise, they’d
be asking for more trouble than they can handle. If I had to guess, I’d say that they’re helping
Iran with their nuclear ambitions.”
“In exchange for what?”
“It’s hard to tell. They might not even have come to an agreement yet,” he said. “It could be
money, political asylum, arms — it might even be something as simple as safe passage through
the country. For that kind of help, though, I would say that they’ll expect a lot in return.”
“That makes sense.” Naomi finished her juice and peeked at her watch. It was almost ten. “How
do you think March fits in?”
Ryan didn’t answer as the waiter approached with their check. He waited until the bill was settled
and they had collected their coats before picking up the thread. “You read the file, so you know
what he is.” She hadn’t read the file, but didn’t stop to correct him. “His appearance and
training allow him to blend in perfectly here. He might even have been able to bring some
international connections to the table. For any stateside operation, March is going to be their
best bet for success. Also, he has a lot to teach the young recruits. They won’t use him unless
there’s a high probability that he’ll come back alive. Believe me when I say that Al-Qaeda gets
stronger every day he’s involved.”
“That’s a scary thought,” she murmured.
Ryan nodded his head in agreement. “I know.”
The black Suburban was parked along the curb, a gentle mist of rain falling around them as they
hurried from the hotel entrance into the warm interior of the truck. Harper was waiting in the
front passenger seat. As soon as the doors were shut, the vehicle moved off into traffic. Ryan
handed the deputy director a carryout cup of coffee from the hotel’s restaurant, and the older
man nodded his appreciation.
“We came up big on the Natalia, Ryan,” he said. “It belongs to a man by the name of Stephen
Gray. Does that ring a bell?”
Kealey scanned his memory. “Vaguely. Owns a shipping company, right? He got into some
trouble when one of his boats was picked up on the way to Northern Ireland with a cargo hold
full of weapons.”
The DDO tossed the file he was holding into Ryan’s lap. “One and the same. It caused a lot of
problems because the weapons were high grade, a thousand 40mm automatic grenade launchers
still in the packing grease, eight thousand rounds of ammunition, crates full of Vektor 7.62mm
tripod-mounted machine guns. All of it was manufactured by a division of Denel Arms, in which
the government holds a majority share. As you might expect, the Brits were furious. There was a
lot of speculation that Gray was stockpiling weapons to sell to the highest bidder, but he beat
the charges on a technicality.”
Naomi’s eyes opened wide and Ryan looked up sharply. “That’s a problem,” he said. “If any of
that is true, then there’s a good chance that Al-Qaeda has access to some serious firepower.”
“I’d say it’s more than a chance,” Naomi put in. “I mean, look at the facts. Gray owns a shipping
company that was used to smuggle arms. One of his ships brings explosives into the States,
which in turn are used in a terrorist operation by Al-Qaeda. There must be some direct
connection.”
Harper was nodding slowly. “And I’m willing to bet that Jason March is that connection.” He
picked up a second file from the floor at his feet. It was a dark brown folder with no markings
that Naomi could see. He handed it back to her. “It’s about time you got a look at this,
Kharmai.” Kealey shot her a questioning look, but she ignored it and began to peruse the
contents as the DDO explained: “That is a complete history of March… everything we know, to
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be more specific. There isn’t much more than a 201 file. His records were good enough to get
him into the military, and once you’re in, no one looks much further.”
She looked up curiously. Ryan was staring out into the rain. “What do you mean by that?” she
asked.
“I mean that he didn’t exist until he joined the army,” Harper said. Her mouth hung open as she
searched his face.
“That can’t be right,” she said. “The military looks at your birth certificate, your driver’s license,
even your secondary-school records, right? How could he just—”
“Every piece of documentation that he submitted was an invention.” It was Ryan speaking, and
she turned to look in his direction. “Filling out the initial paperwork was the risky part, but even
then they don’t look too hard — the army has always been desperate for warm bodies. Once he
was in, it was all taken as fact. Airborne, Ranger School, Air Assault, Sniper School, the SERE
course — that’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape — SF Assessment and Selection…
He got into all of it by the strength of his military record, and he succeeded in everything he did.
He was a model soldier. There was no reason for the generals signing off on it to doubt any of
his personal history before he came into the service.”
Naomi detected a bitter edge to Ryan’s words, and her conversation with General Hale came
flooding back once again: I just didn’t buy into what Kealey was saying… It sounded
paranoid… I should have listened to him, though… I should have listened… She was looking
through the file. If anything, March’s achievements were even more staggering than his
commanding officer’s. The first page listed his MOS as 18 Charlie, or Special Forces engineer
sergeant. In addition to the schools that Ryan had mentioned, Sergeant March had completed
EOD (Explosives Ordnance Disposal) and was qualified in both Scuba and HALO — High
Altitude, Low Opening freefall parachuting.
When it came to the list of awards and achievements, though, the DD214 was noticeably bare.
The highest award that March had earned was the Meritorious Service Medal. Aside from that,
there wasn’t much to speak of.
“If he was such a great soldier, why didn’t he receive more commendations?”
Ryan had to think for a minute, as it was a good question. “He did okay; he received all the
standard medals as you move through the ranks, and any decent E-7 gets the MSM. It’s just that
he rubbed a lot of officers the wrong way, and they’re responsible for approving the awards. He
was always separate from his peers, never wanted to be a team player. A lot of people didn’t like
the way he acted… It made them nervous.”
Including you, she thought. But Ryan Kealey had looked deeper into March’s mind, had seen
what was truly lurking there long before anyone else. He couldn’t be blamed for what Jason
March had done seven years earlier, or for the crimes he had committed since. She handed the
file back to the deputy director.
“Now you have an idea of what you’re going after,” he said.
She managed to keep a straight face, but thought she saw the corner of Ryan’s mouth lift in
amusement. Clearly, Harper didn’t know what kind of investigator he had brought into the fold.
“I want you two in Cape Town to see what Gray has to say. He has a converted warehouse there
that he uses as an office and base of operations. He also owns shipping operations in Durban
and Richard’s Bay, but Cape Town is the base.”
He pointed back to the file sitting on Kealey’s lap. “That should contain all the information you
need. As you can imagine, Stephen Gray is not a favored citizen since he beat those charges. We
have unofficial support from the South African government to conduct this operation.
Translated, that means that they will overlook something, but not anything. You got me this
time, Ryan?” His voice was steel as he stared at the younger man.
Kealey nodded deferentially, which was a source of some amusement to Kharmai until Harper
fixed her with the same sobering gaze.
“Let me also tell you that the local police force hasn’t been brought into the loop, and it’s not
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going to happen anytime soon. They don’t know who you are… It’s worth keeping that in mind.
They won’t hesitate to shoot if they think you’re a threat. I’m not saying this for my own health,
okay? The nearest U.S. embassy to Cape Town is in Pretoria, which is over 600 miles away. That
doesn’t give you a lot of room for error, so you can’t afford to fuck up, because no one has your
back.”
Jonathan Harper turned in the seat to point something out to the driver as they approached the
departure gates for Norfolk International, the wet street hissing beneath the tires as the skies
finally opened and rain hammered down onto the roof of the vehicle and the approaching road.
“I almost forgot.” Harper turned back around over the back of his seat to hand them each
folders. “These are your passports and driver’s licenses. Congratulations, you now work in
Silicon Valley. It should be a substantial salary increase for both of you, if only on paper,” he
said with a grin. “Put anything you need on expenses, but don’t forget who’s ultimately
accountable, okay?”
The smile faded from his face as he turned back to business. “There is a reason that I’m sitting
here instead of my comfortable little office in Langley. This situation has the full attention of the
director and the president, so it has to have our full attention as well. I’m counting on both of
you.”
The small convoy had been traveling northwest for almost eight hours. They were crossing the
Dasht-e Lut, the great salt desert that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. When the
foothills of the Zagros had finally appeared in the distance, the sight had inspired the young
policeman seated in the passenger seat of the second Land Rover to murmur a brief prayer of
gratitude. In front of the policeman was the vehicle carrying the man from Al-Qaeda, the air
force colonel, and two of his aides. Behind him was the International 4900 driven by the
American, carrying the metal container that was bound for the plant at Arak.
They had passed through the towns of Nikshahr and Bampur, small groups of children waving
excitedly as the vehicles carefully navigated the narrow streets. Four hours later, the city of Bam
could be seen to the north, causing a man native to the sprawling municipality to cry out
excitedly from the backseat. They had traveled only 50 additional miles since the city outskirts
had faded from view.
Earlier in the day, the startling contrasts of the desert had come as a welcome surprise to Ali
Ahmedi, who had, until now, spent every one of his twenty-eight years in the streets of Tehran.
His views of the Iranian landscape had always been limited to the jagged peaks of Mount
Damavand, the highest point in Iran just north of the capital city. He had never experienced the
desert until the trip to Beheshti, the immense white cumulus clouds bright against the brilliant
blue backdrop of sky, falling down to the razor edge of the horizon where the sand, stone, and
dried-out mud of the kavirs began.
Now the air was cool, and Ahmedi rolled down the window for the breeze as the stars settled in
overhead. Soon they would stop, as travel over the sucking mud of the kavir salt marshes was
dangerous enough in the daytime, when the path ahead was visible and a judgment could be
made.
His friend and fellow officer of the Komiteh drove the vehicle. In the rear seat were three of the
colonel’s aides. As the hours passed, Ahmedi had listened to them with amusement, at first.
Then growing impatience, and finally, outright annoyance.
All they could speak of was the American.
Their conversation was littered with wild supposition and theory; the American was not an
American at all, but a European mercenary; the American was a spy for the Great Satan; the
American was a killer of the highest distinction, without peer.
The last one had some merit, he thought.
Ahmedi had watched the American fix the man of Al-Qaeda with his movie-star good looks and
snake eyes, and then move off easily toward the harbormaster’s office. He recalled that the
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harbormaster had shouted that the warehouse could not be opened, that a truck must be
acquired elsewhere. The American had entered the building of corrugated iron, and the
harbormaster had not been seen again…
No one had dared to enter the office afterward. Ahmedi would have said that the man from
Al-Qaeda was afraid of the American, and that the colonel and his aides shared the fear.
The headlights flashed from the truck behind, and the policeman at the wheel of Ahmedi’s
vehicle flashed his in turn. The convoy stopped and the engines died. Sleeping bags were pulled
