It also contained a P22 Walther handgun complete with a 5" modified barrel, the extended
muzzle threaded for the heavy Dalphon suppressor that lay next to the weapon.
Ryan didn’t need the radios or the pistol yet. They had parked the Nissan several hundred
meters away and approached from the north, winding their way through a labyrinth of buildings
before reaching the aluminum fire escape of the building opposite Gray’s. Naomi was shivering
violently as they climbed the ladder and settled in on the roof, sliding their way forward to find
the best view of the warehouse below. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the silver
Mercedes glided up next to the curb. Ryan checked his watch: 7:15 AM. Gray seemed to be
fairly consistent in his habits.
They watched as the driver got out of the vehicle and walked around the car, looking up and
down the street as he moved. He was a large white man with a shaved head, a neat goatee, and
more fat than muscle. His poorly fitted suit stretched at the seams, and even at a distance,
Kealey could spot the bulge beneath the man’s left armpit. The passenger door was opened and
the second occupant of the vehicle stepped out onto the street.
It was Ryan’s first look at Stephen Gray. He was small and neat, deeply tanned, and
clean-shaven, with a full head of closely trimmed silver hair; the man wore his wealth well. Ryan
watched the driver walk several steps ahead of his charge, the right hand held beneath his jacket
as his eyes searched the surrounding buildings. The front door to the warehouse was pulled
open, and Ryan could see the big man pause inside the threshold as though disarming a security
system. It was clear that the driver knew his job. It would be better if he was poorly trained, but
Ryan knew that it could have been worse. He was relieved that Gray didn’t seem inclined to
travel with a large entourage, as was the habit of so many other rich men.
Once the door closed behind the two men, the warehouse was still for hours. No movement
could be seen through the small metal-framed windows at the front of the building. As the sun
rose and beat down on the pebbled surface of the roof, Naomi began shifting her body
impatiently and casting little glances in his direction. Finally, she sidled over next to him slowly.
“Can I talk?”
“Quietly,” he said.
“How long are we going to stay here?” Her body was very close to his.
“Until nightfall.”
Ryan heard her mumble something under her breath, and turned to look in her direction. She
was drinking bottled water, and a few drops spilled down onto her chest. His eyes involuntarily
followed the path of the drops, moving down from her face to the thin sheen of sweat on the
graceful curve of her neck, and then over small, firm breasts straining against the damp cotton of
her T-shirt. He caught himself and looked away quickly, forcing his attention back to the
warehouse below. He angrily wiped sweat out of his eyes and drank from his own water bottle.
Naomi was watching him carefully. She edged a little closer, so that their legs were touching and
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her shoulder was pressed lightly against his. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I’m sorry about
what happened the other night. I was way out of line, and I probably drank too much… It didn’t
mean anything, okay? It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Her tone was anything but apologetic. He eased his body away from hers slightly in turn. “It was
as much my fault as yours. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” He looked up into her
face, inches away from his own. “You’re right. It didn’t mean anything, and it’s not going
anywhere. That’s all that has to be said.”
She held his gaze for a few seconds longer, as if measuring his sincerity, then slowly slid her mat
back to its original position as Ryan turned back to focus on the building below.
Just after one in the afternoon, a battered white scooter screamed up to the entrance of the
building. A young African male hopped off and kicked hard on the door. It was cracked open
slightly. A large bag was thrust in through the opening, and the delivery boy received a fistful of
rand in return. The money was stuffed down into his dirty jeans before the tires spun in the street
and the scooter whined away.
The hours continued to pass as the vibrant sounds of the Malay Quarter drifted over the
rooftops from the east. After the few words spoken earlier in the afternoon, Ryan cast two more
quick glances in Naomi’s direction. Both times he could see clearly the anger and hurt in her
face. He was beginning to regret capitulating so easily to Harper’s request that she be brought
along.
Finally, the air began to cool as dusk settled over the weary city. Ten minutes after the
streetlights came on, the heavy door of the warehouse was pushed open. The big man emerged
first, the right hand once again shielded from view inside his jacket. He surveyed the street, then
turned and nodded as Gray followed him out, pausing only to set the alarm once more. Ryan
checked his watch again. It was just after 8:00 PM. He waited for five minutes after the Mercedes
had driven off before standing up on the rooftop, gratefully stretching sore muscles as he shook
out a day’s worth of inactivity.
“Well, that was time bloody well spent,” Naomi said. Kicking at her water bottle, she watched
as it bounced over the surface of the roof, scattering small rocks along the way. Ryan looked
over as she leaned down to rub at a cramp in her thigh.
The sarcasm rubbed at his nerves, but he held his temper as he rolled up his mat and packed it
neatly into the backpack. “You’re right. It was time well spent,” he said in a neutral tone. She
threw him a withering look and he rose from his crouch to point down at the warehouse. “Now
we have some idea of what we’re looking at. Gray only has one guard, but he’s a professional.
Did you watch him get out of the car? He kept the door open and the engine running while he
checked the street, and his eyes didn’t stop moving the whole time they were in the open, which
was about fifteen seconds.”
She looked a little less certain of herself as he went on, seemingly speaking more to himself than
to her. “They’re careful about setting that alarm. We can’t get in at night and wait for them
unless I ask Harper to send me somebody from Technical Services. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll
jump at the idea.”
“So what do you think?” she asked.
He shook his head absently as he picked up her belongings and added them to the pack. “We’ll
keep looking, for now. Time is a factor, but we need to do it right. We’ll get an opportunity
sooner or later.”
Standing up, he began to walk over to the fire escape, Naomi trailing along dejectedly as she
pondered days on end of lying in the heat looking at nothing more than bricks and mortar. She
didn’t see the small smile that played over Ryan’s face as he swung his leg over the edge of the
roof.
“You know something?” he said. “I think I’d like to see what’s on the other side of that
building.”
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CHAPTER 18
IRAN ? CAPE TOWN
Almost 2 miles above the desert floor east of Tehran, the Mi-26 cargo helicopter swept toward
Mashhad at speeds approaching 170 miles an hour. Mashhad, however, was not its destination.
Instead, the helicopter would set down at the makeshift airfield south of the Atrak from which
March had first entered the country almost three weeks earlier. On arrival, the four auxiliary fuel
tanks would be replaced, and the helicopter, designated as HALO by the Soviets who had so
thoughtfully provided it, would continue northeast over the border and deep into the sparsely
populated floodplains of Turkmenistan.
Jason March, sleeping lightly in a seat reinforced with ceramic plating, was one of two passengers
on the flight. The other passenger sat across the wide, empty aisle, and stared out into the
impenetrable night as a number of thoughts churned through his mind.
Saif al-Adel was, if nothing else, a pragmatic individual. This mind-set had been constantly
reinforced by his discovery of many years ago: that whispered words of friendship could solve
almost any problem. Especially when those words were followed by a bullet. Over the years he
had taken more lives than he could count, both directly and indirectly. Now, for the first time in
his life, he was imbued with the idea that his own future might rest in another man’s hands. The
thought did not sit well with him.
If he was to choose poorly here, all of his past achievements would quickly be forgotten. The
accomplishments were many, and he was proud of each in different ways. He recalled his early
years as a volunteer in the fledgling Islamic Jihad movement, one of many ignorant youths
shouting slogans in the dusty streets after the assassination of Anwar Sadat.
That he could see the truth of his world at twenty years of age was a constant source of pride for
Saif al-Adel.
After that came deeper involvement and growing responsibility as the lesser candidates returned
to the mundanity of everyday life that was children, work, and fastidious saving so that they
might pretend to be something other than sheep for one week a year on the overcrowded
beaches of Quseir.
Saif would rather die than be commonplace. Time and time again he had proven his courage and
leadership. He remembered a crowded storage facility on the Indus River, nervous laughter as
the command wires were routed up toward the driver’s seat on a warm November afternoon.
He remembered embracing his subordinate, the man who would drive the vehicle into the
embassy at Islamabad, and he recalled the silence that hung over the room with the harsh smell
of cigarette smoke as they waited for word of his success.
Thirteen dead on that attempt, but they missed the ambassador to Pakistan. A minor victory,
nothing more. In 1996, a major role in the bombing of the Khobar Towers complex, which set
the stage for his greatest personal accomplishment to date. After Khalil’s unexplained death on a
dusty mountain road in Syria, an opening higher in the organization had become available. The
success in Dhahran brought the name of Saif al-Adel to the Director’s attention. Word filtered
down that he had been noticed, that he was to be given operational command for two
simultaneous strikes, attacks on foreign targets that would bring the West to its knees.
At first he had made a show of his doubt, and used it to shield his personal desire. Like any man
without a conscience, he was a natural actor. I am far too young, he had said. The chance will go
to a proven leader. The commanders quietly praised his modesty and self-effacement. Then the
summons came, and it was in his nature to view the choice not as a reward, but as an
opportunity. For almost two years afterward he had made the preparations. The painstaking
acquisition of almost 1,300 pounds of TNT, the rental and false registration of the numerous
storage facilities where it would be stored, the training and motivation of the bombers who
would meet Allah without knowing what they had accomplished. All of it lay on al-Adel’s
shoulders, and it had been a major victory against the infidels. The operation had resulted in 224
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dead, including dozens of Americans.
His mind snapped back to the present as the helicopter shook with the power of the twin
Lotarev D-136 turbines that drove the massive, eight-blade rotor overhead. All that he had
accomplished would mean nothing if the American was not what he seemed. Despite the
narcissism that rose to dizzying heights within his own mind, al-Adel was not immune to his own
faults. He could see that he wanted to impress the American by granting him the audience he had
requested. For that, al-Adel could stand to blame himself. The Director did not appear on a
whim; he was constantly on guard against the U.S. soldiers creeping east over the parched
landscape, the newest brood of Afghan soldiers loyal to the West, and the inevitable traitors
within his own organization. To ensure his presence, a valid reason must be given to justify the
risk of exposure.
This he had explained to the American, and the reason was a plan. For Saif, that simple
explanation was enough. He had been stunned when the news came that 92 lay dead outside the
Kennedy-Warren, and knew at once that he had underestimated the man’s capabilities. Al-Adel
had greater faith in the American than he would have admitted to.
He believed that the man could get to the president. He also knew that an operation of that
magnitude would require the Director’s approval. It was on the hinge of this knowledge that
al-Adel made his decision. If the plan was not worthy, and the American was not congratulated
for his brilliance, then Saif would personally drag him out of the camp and shoot him before
receiving his own bullet.
With this comforting thought, Saif al-Adel joined his fellow passenger in a dreamless sleep as the
helicopter cut fast through the night toward the shimmering waters of the Caspian Sea.
Goddamn Ryan Kealey. Naomi was on the roof once again, and the sun was just as merciless as
it had been the day before. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She had spent most of the morning
cursing Ryan under her breath, while periodically checking to make sure that her radio wasn’t
transmitting. He had rented the 20-foot catamaran early in the day, but then relegated her to the
roof once more after explaining that it wasn’t enough to cover one side of the building.
Easy for him to say, she thought. He’s out on the water with a decent breeze and I’m stuck
baking up here. The silver Mercedes had arrived on cue in the morning and had not moved
since. Even the delivery boy had failed to make his sole contribution to the day’s events. Naomi
felt her body growing numb from inactivity as the minute hand on her watch continued its
endless circle.
The hours of silence were painful to her. It would have been better if she’d been able to talk to
Ryan, but his orders had been strict: stay off the radio unless you have something to report. She
knew herself well enough to admit that Ryan’s imperious behavior was not the real reason for
her current mood.
She forced his face out of her mind and tried to concentrate on the building below. She felt
herself drifting as the hours passed, and it was with a start that she looked up to see the heavy
