down a litter-strewn alley, the straight cement walls towering on either side of him, and was
pleased to find an aluminum fire escape hanging over a Dumpster, which was coated in flaking
brown paint.
By standing on the Dumpster, he found he could reach the base of the fire escape. It pulled
down easily when he tugged on the lowest rung. It was all he needed for the moment. Satisfied,
Ryan returned the retractable ladder to its original place and hopped down from the container,
walking back down the narrow space between the buildings toward the jeep. He still had a lot to
do before nightfall.
Naomi woke just before ten, the sheets in a tangle at her feet. Crawling out of bed, she was
startled to see the sun halfway into its climb through the African sky. She could hear happy
shouts of children beneath her window, and she wondered why Ryan had let her sleep for so
long. Thinking his name forced her to recall the night before. Sitting on the edge of the bed, her
mind scrambled to recollect the events that had transpired.
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Oh God.
I can’t believe I did that, she thought. I can’t believe it. Naomi knew she felt something for Ryan,
but also knew instinctively that it could never work. He was engaged, and… Well, that was all
that was wrong, really, but it was enough. He hadn’t pulled away, though. She could remember
that clearly now. She’d given him the opportunity, but he didn’t pull back. All the same, he
couldn’t think too much of her after what she had said. Rambling on about her father, feeling
sorry for herself. There would be no more of that, she decided. No way in hell.
CHAPTER 16
IRAN
They arrived much earlier than expected, just as the sun was beginning its downward descent
over the highest peaks in the mountainous Khondaub region west of Arak. The convoy had
picked up speed upon reaching the highway running northwest from Kerman through Yazd and
Isfahan. Once the last city faded from view, the surrounding landscape gradually became less
populated as the hours passed and the low-lying foothills gave way to rocky escarpments
towering far above the desert floor.
There were no private homes within 30 kilometers of the complex, at least none that were
occupied. The interior ministry had forced the families out when construction was first started
on the heavy-water reactor. They received no compensation for their loss, but they were
fortunate enough to have left with their lives. The current regime would have been far less
generous.
The facility lay nestled in a shallow valley, the flat tan buildings blending into the surrounding
granite walls that served as natural protection against inbound missiles. The complex was
encircled by twin chain link fences topped with razor wire. To the untrained eye, security would
have appeared weak, almost nonexistent, but it was there. It could be seen in the
weapon-clearing barrels that marked the entrance to each building, and in the camouflage netting
that shielded the truck-mounted SA-8 Gecko SAM system. It could be seen in the phase array
radar bolted to the command vehicle, and in the bunkers that dotted the perimeter, complete
with ammunition stores and grenade sumps. The unmarked minefields that were scattered
throughout the open ground south of the facility would have been harder to pick out, as would
the early-warning sensors that monitored mountain passes as far as 20 kilometers away.
The convoy was expected, and was not forced to contend with these extensive security measures.
Once cleared through the main gate, the vehicles cut an erratic path through the complex. First
they passed the four-story structure that served as a barracks for the soldiers, and then the
largest building on the compound: the prestressed concrete structure that housed the twin
reactors and the smaller steam generators. Beyond the reactor building was the immense cooling
tower that served, unbeknownst to the base commander, as a reference point for the NSA
satellite control teams at Fort Meade, Maryland.
The vehicles finally slowed to a halt in front of the administration block, a cluster of identical
buildings linked by narrow corridors that comprised the northernmost part of the compound.
The weary men descended from the vehicles, each stretching in the cool mountain air as a
truck-mounted crane was pulled alongside and soldiers were called for to assist in unloading the
container. March did not stay to supervise the procedure, instead turning to follow Hamza and
the Iranian officer into the cool interior of the administration building.
The hallways all looked alike to March: spotless white walls and freshly waxed pale tile floors, no
paintings, no windows. He noticed that the building was missing the usual procession of harried
file clerks and overworked administrative personnel. In fact, they passed no one at all on the
lengthy walk into the heart of the structure. The silence would have been overwhelming were it
not for the gentle, irregular tap of their shoes on the gleaming floor. Finally, the colonel stopped
at an unmarked door. He knocked softly, and was granted permission to enter. “Wait here,” he
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said, and the door closed behind him.
The officer was gone for five minutes. Hamza avoided the other man’s eyes, but knew
instinctively that the American was watching him. He found it difficult not to flinch under the
penetrating gaze. His mind kept returning to Beheshti, to the mocking tone of the colonel’s
voice, to the contempt in the American’s eyes, to the solitary shuttered building that was the
harbormaster’s office.
Hamza thought of the sun beating down, cooking the sheets of metal and whatever lay within.
He wondered if the flies had yet to find the harbormaster.
The door was pulled open and they were beckoned inside. The interior of the room was a
marked difference from the sterile halls. Small, tastefully framed paintings decorated the walls.
The carpet was maroon, deep and soft, and expensive-looking armchairs were scattered
throughout the space. March noticed that his companion stared as though he had never seen
such luxury.
Saif al-Adel was seated on one of the several couches. He stood as they entered the room, the
thin smile taut over his narrow features. Hamza was relieved to find him in good humor.
“Welcome, my brother. We were afraid that the desert might have swallowed you whole, along
with our American friend here,” he said.
Hamza chuckled nervously and looked to the other man in the room, the Iranian minister
Mazaheri. He was wearing full clerical robes, the corners of his eyes crinkling beneath the
elaborate turban as he offered his greetings. “You have the container,” he said. It was not a
question.
Hamza nodded, and the minister’s smile grew. “You have performed an invaluable service to
my country. I have made the other arrangements, as promised. Our South African friend has
already delivered your package. You are to be congratulated.” Mazaheri cast a sideways glance
at al-Adel, and then focused his attention on the other Egyptian. “Come, my friend,” he said,
placing a friendly arm around Hamza’s shoulder. “Share a meal with me. You’ve traveled far,
you should rest before the transport arrives.”
Hamza looked to his commander, and received a smile and an approving nod. “He’s right,
Hassan. You deserve more than a good meal, though. I would say that it is time to reevaluate
your place in the organization. Your reward is long overdue.”
Despite his best efforts, Hamza could not contain the small smile that spread across his lips. He
would be made a commander, he would be Saif’s equal… After all these years, it was now a
certainty. He went easily, following the minister out of the room, standing tall as he considered
the new powers that would soon be his. The smile stretched as an image presented itself to him
— it was his name, in large print next to those of al-Zarqawi and bin Laden in the Western
newspapers. The image grew in his mind, clouding out all other thought. He would be known, as
al-Adel was known. He didn’t hear the minister’s idle chatter, and he did not notice that the
American walked far behind with Saif, far enough that they could speak privately.
“You know who I am,” the commander said.
It was a blanket statement, and March did not think it required a response as they moved back
through the clean white halls.
Finally, al-Adel continued: “Everything about you concerns me. I make no secret of that. Hassan
will only speak well of you, but I am not so easily convinced. I ask of you a single question: what
has the West done to you, one of its own, that you would see it burn?”
March considered the question, but only briefly. “You asked me this before, and my answer is
the same. Yes, I know who you are. On the other hand, you know what I can do. I ask nothing in
return for my actions, only that you provide me with the basic materials that are required for
success. What I’ve done in the past, who I am, is not your concern. We will either proceed on
that basis or not at all. The decision is yours to make.”
Saif al-Adel looked up as the steel-and-glass doors approached. Hamza and the minister pushed
out first, their backs instantly bathed in a red glow from the sun sinking low over the mountains.
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“You are a brave man to say such things to me,” he said absently. “If I didn’t know differently, I
would say you were a fool. You should know that the air force colonel had many good things to
say about you. His assignment was not a random choice. He was impressed, and so Mazaheri
was impressed. I want to show you something.”
They followed the other two men out into the rapidly cooling air. The minister and Hamza were
walking toward the dining facility, leaving twin trails of dusty footprints in the thin sienna topsoil
that covered the granite stone of the valley floor. A small group of soldiers stood outside the
open doors, laughing and talking as they waited for the meal line to advance.
“I have known Hassan for fourteen years. He is a fellow Egyptian, and has always served the
organization well. Two years ago he saved my life in an American ambush, and he wept with me
when we were denied the privilege of burying our less-fortunate comrades. For that, and for his
service, I love him as a brother.”
March watched as the minister spoke to Hamza, patting him on the shoulder and pointing to an
adjacent building as though offering an explanation. March watched Hamza nod in agreement,
and Mazaheri began to walk away as the other man continued on toward the dining hall.
“The colonel was impressed with you, but not with Hassan. He was described as ‘poorly
prepared,’ and ‘weak when confronted by a lesser man, a man with no authority.’ The colonel is
Mazaheri’s son-in-law, and as such has the minister’s ear and his respect. I would gladly cut the
man’s throat and watch him choke for breath, but Mazaheri is the key to Al-Qaeda’s future, and
so he must be humored…”
March saw the arrogance in Hamza’s walk. Mere words, a false promise had given the man steel
in his backbone when before there was none. He watched the soldiers lift their weapons as one.
There was the terrible moment of comprehension as Hamza extended his arms, desperately
throwing his palms out at the rifles pointed in his direction, screaming that it was a mistake.
There was the distinctive crack of a single Kalishnikov, followed by the steady rhythm of
automatic fire. There was the sight of flailing limbs as bullets ripped through his outstretched
hands and into his face and chest.
The firing stopped. Hassan Hamza lay dead on the ground, streams of blood already running
out from underneath his body in thin rivulets, seeping down into the cracks of the stone as the
soldiers cleared their weapons and resumed their conversation. Mazaheri was still walking. He
hadn’t turned at the sound of gunfire, nor had he flinched when the reports echoed back over
the mountains.
When al-Adel turned to look at Jason March, there was no evidence of grief in the commander’s
face. “To ensure the future of the organization, I would let these animals kill my brother. When
you came to us, it was as a volunteer. You had neither my trust nor my respect. Now you have
my respect. You’ve earned that much. Bear in mind, though, that you can only fail me once…
Remember what happened here. It is a good lesson.”
Peering into the American’s eyes, he saw nothing that might hint at fear or indecision. Instead, he
saw a strength that rivaled his own. Saif al-Adel knew that the man would not take the words
personally, and was pleased.
What he heard next, though, shook the commander to his very core.
“You want what I can achieve. In return, I want you to take me north.”
A lengthy silence ensued. “Why?”
“You know why.”
CHAPTER 17
CAPE TOWN
They began watching the warehouse just before dawn on the third day.
With only two people, it would have been impossible to follow Gray away from the building.
Kealey knew that their faces would too quickly become familiar, and security around the
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businessman would be heavily increased if they were spotted. He wanted the chance to isolate
Gray if at all possible. The lost hours in the man’s schedule grated at Ryan, but he was
reasonably satisfied with their coverage of the warehouse. It was secluded and quiet.
Approaching vehicles could be heard long before they turned onto the narrow street running
through the maze of industrial buildings that marked this forgotten district of the Cape.
The previous day had been well spent. The shops on the Strand had provided Ryan with better
equipment than he could have hoped for. At a small sporting-goods store he had found a good
set of Rigel 2350 night vision binoculars. These he purchased, along with two cushioned sleeping
bag mats and a backpack. He also stopped at the local CNA grocery store to pick up a case of
bottled water. For the other items that were needed, Ryan put in a call to Pretoria. From there,
the request was forwarded to Langley and approval was given. Just past three in the afternoon,
as Ryan and Naomi were finishing lunch in awkward silence on the terrace, the delivery was
made by diplomatic courier. The parcel, opened in the privacy of Ryan’s hotel room, contained
the Tait Orca encrypted radios and earpieces that he had specifically requested.
