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the clip hit the ground. Only then was al-Adel screaming for security. The American’s hands
were out and open, the rifle disarmed at his feet as the two soldiers standing guard outside
pulled back the flap and moved quickly into the tent.
March ignored the muzzles held to his head and the violent Arabic curses. He ignored the
tortured choking sounds of the dying soldier. He stared straight into the shock-ridden face of
Ayman al-Zawahiri before speaking again.
“I won’t let you give that order,” March said, making no attempt to hide the snarl in his fluent
French. “I didn’t come this far to lose my life at the hand of some pimple-faced child. You
would be the one dying now if it pleased me to see it happen. I am here to give you an
opportunity, perhaps the greatest of your life. Trust me when I tell you to take it. If nothing else,
I should have your trust by now.”
The rifles did not waver. There was complete silence in the room. Finally, the physician gave a
hand signal and the soldiers slowly lowered their weapons. “Check him again,” he said, waving
absently at one of the fighters. He studied March intently, his face wiped clean of any emotion.
“My trust is not so easily won.”
One of the young men stepped forward nervously and patted him down at arm’s length. The
boy on the ground was moving slower than before, the spastic movements coming less
frequently now that he was almost out of air. The nineteen-year-old fighter conducting the search
saw that the American did not once look down at the destruction he had caused. He finished as
quickly as possible and retreated into the communications room, immediately pulling the curtain
back behind him.
Al-Zawahiri lifted his chin in March’s direction and said, “Follow me.” March was surprised
when the man turned toward the entrance leading back outside. He was so surprised that he did
not immediately take note of Saif al-Adel’s body next to his, the pale face moving in close,
hissing words and flecks of spittle into his ear.
“You are a dead man, American. Dead. I swear it to you.”
There was nothing he could say. He ignored Saif and followed al-Zawahiri across the bleak
clearing toward a cavernous opening carved deep into the mountainside.
“Mr. Kealey? Ms. Kharmai? The ambassador will see you now.”
Ryan stood with Naomi and followed Gillian Farris, the deputy chief of mission, through the
large, oak-paneled doors leading into the ambassador’s spacious office. Henry Martins stood up
from behind his desk politely as they entered, but there was no trace of a smile on the broad,
weathered face. Martins had nearly thirty years of experience in the Foreign Service, but had
never before dealt with a situation quite like the one he currently faced. He did not relish the
opportunity to do so now.
“Please, take a seat,” he said. He walked around the desk and joined them in the small seating
area, easing his weight wearily into one of the several comfortable armchairs. Ryan watched in
surprise as Martins poured them each coffee from a small carafe on the low center table. Finally,
he looked up to study them from beneath hooded eyelids.
“I received a call thirty minutes ago from the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He’s been on the
phone with the chief of the South African Police Service… Evidently, the only vehicle found
outside of the warehouse was a silver Mercedes sedan leased three years ago by one of Stephen
Gray’s holding companies. That will go on the police report, by the way.”
Ryan breathed a soft sigh of relief and saw the tension drain out of Naomi’s shoulders. The
Nissan must have been taken by Gray’s injured bodyguard. It was definitely a break; the vehicle
would have linked them directly to the scene. Although they were traveling under assumed
identities, it was one less thing that might come back on them at a later date. “What about the
driver?” he asked.
The ambassador raised his thick eyebrows and settled back slightly, the chair creaking in protest
against his shifting weight. “Nowhere to be found. The police won’t be looking too hard,
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either.” He took a long sip of coffee before continuing: “It should be said that this won’t come
cheaply. President Mbeke will be leaning on us for favors in the months to come, and he’ll get
much of what he asks for. You were under orders to question Gray quietly, as I understand it.”
“That’s right. He wasn’t very forthcoming.”
“Clearly. I’ve spoken with Jonathan Harper as well — he’ll have some choice words for both of
you when you hit stateside. He’s not a happy man. Director Andrews is coming under heavy fire
from the president. Privately, of course. It’s a miracle that this little debacle escaped notice of
the press. I hope you at least got what you were looking for.”
Ryan nodded in the affirmative. “I have a name for you, sir: William Paulin Vanderveen. I know
I’m in no position to be making requests here, but I really need your best people working on
this. I need family history, anybody he might still have contact with. If that looks promising, then
I need surveillance. Most of all I need photographs; I have to verify that March and Vanderveen
are one and the same.”
Ambassador Martins was nodding slowly, his gaze alternating between the two CIA officers.
“You two were placed in a difficult situation there. I can sympathize with that, but you’re asking
a lot.”
“Sir, the South African government has a good reason to pitch in here,” Naomi pointed out.
“No offense, but the embassy’s resources just won’t cut it. We’ve got to put the SA police to
work. Vanderveen is a citizen of this country, and responsible for the murder of more than a
hundred people. You might want to make sure they understand what that headline would look
like on the front page of the New York Times — we really need all the help we can get. Besides,
they won’t be getting any favors at all if President Brenneman has to carry all the weight for these
attacks.”
There was the hint of a smile at the ambassador’s mouth. “You don’t pull any punches, Ms.
Kharmai. But I agree, they do have a certain responsibility in this matter. I’ll push for you on one
condition: you don’t leave this embassy unless you’re getting on an airplane. Deal?”
“You’ll have no argument there. I think we’re both ready to get back to Washington,” Ryan said.
“Good. I’ll start making some calls.”
Martins stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. Both CIA officers rose to their feet
as well, moving toward the door, which the ambassador graciously opened for them.
“I want both of you to get some rest,” he said as they moved out into the anteroom. Farris was
waiting for them along with Aaron Jansen, the ambassador’s private secretary. “We found a
couple spare beds — Gillian will show you where to find them. Oh, and the deputy director
wants to hear from you, Kealey. Anything more from Washington, Aaron?” Ryan watched the
young man shake his head. “Okay, good. Ms. Farris will find you a secure telephone. I should
have some information for you later in the day. We’ll get you a change of clothes and the basic
necessities as well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The ambassador acknowledged Ryan’s gratitude with a slight nod and retreated back into his
office, closing the door softly behind him.
“I bet you two could use some sleep,” Gillian Farris said with a smile. “Follow me. Aaron,
Minister Zuma wants some time this afternoon. Can we clear the ambassador’s schedule for an
hour at three?”
“Sure, Ms. Farris.” The secretary smiled pleasantly. “I had the head of embassy security penciled
in, but I can bump him back to tomorrow.”
“Okay, great.” She left Jansen behind in the anteroom and led them through the building toward
the staff temporary quarters. “This used to be the press room, but we converted it to make
space for the additional security personnel after the bombings in Tanzania and Kenya,” she
explained. “It’s not much, but it’s all we have available at the minute. Anyway, here are your keys
— I’ll come and find you in about five hours.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said. “We appreciate it.”
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The DCM smiled and turned back toward the main building, leaving them alone in the brightly
lit corridor.
“See you in a few, Naomi.” He pushed into his room without looking back down the hall. A
moment later he heard her door open and then slam shut. Sitting down on the edge of the hard
mattress, he shook his head and reached for the receiver of the secure telephone.
Aaron Jansen had served as the ambassador’s private secretary for ten months. It was his first
posting and a good one; most Foreign Service officers found themselves in obscure locations
filling out low-level paperwork for the first few years of their career. Jansen owed his success to a
Yale degree earned magna cum laude and his father’s wide-ranging influence. Despite his
privileged upbringing, Jansen was used to the long hours and the heavy responsibility of his
current position. He was accustomed to planning the ambassador’s schedule down to the most
minute details. Jansen was young, handsome, and affable. He always had a joke or a kind word
for his coworkers, especially the women. He was popular within the embassy walls, and he
enjoyed his work.
The gate guards were well acquainted with the secretary’s strolls into the city center. He never
came out of the embassy at the same time, owing to the ambassador’s unpredictable schedule.
Sometimes he would walk across the broad expanse of cement in late afternoon, when the heat
swelled and the air-conditioning was going full blast in the gatehouse. Other times he would
make an appearance in the evening, when the sun had dipped behind the pale stone of the city’s
skyline and the air was cool and inviting.
On only one morning each week did the secretary leave the building at precisely 8:30 AM. The
young marine stationed outside the embassy watched as Jansen ambled across the circular
driveway, the polished shoes shining in the hazy morning sun. The corporal, young and
impressionable, snapped to attention as Jansen approached.
“Good morning, sir.”
Aaron Jansen smiled easily and shook his head in mock disappointment. “Corporal, I’m only
about two years older than you are. I keep telling you to cut that out. How are you doing?”
“Just fine, sir, thank you.”
Another rueful smile. “Well, I guess there’s no convincing you. I’m just going to get some air…
Give me about twenty minutes.”
“Sounds good, sir. Do you have your identification with you?”
“Always.”
“Okay, I’ll call it in, then.” The corporal was attentive to detail, which was how he’d earned his
position in the first place. He called in the departure time to the operations center and made a
note in his log before opening the electronic gate reserved for pedestrian traffic. “See you in a
few, Mr. Jansen.”
“Catch you later, Corporal.” The secretary passed out into the busy street. He turned left from
the embassy and walked down Pretorius, trying his best to avoid the crowded mass of humanity
that lined the main artery running through the heart of the city.
The interior of the cave was tall and wide, but not deep. The only lighting was dim, emanating
from oil lanterns that hung from the wet stone of the walls. It was also surprisingly warm,
perhaps owing to the large number of young Taliban soldiers who were gathered in the dark
space. They cradled small arms in their laps and listened intently, apparently oblivious to the
discomfort of the rough dirt floor on which they sat. Each weapon had been cleared before they
were allowed into the cave. Their collective attention was focused on the man who stood before
them, his voice shaking with emotion as the words echoed in their ears:
“Praise be to Allah, that he has delivered you, the sons of Mohammad, into my welcoming arms.
We ask that Allah forgive our wrongdoings, for He in His Greatness knows that the jihad cannot
be fought by one man alone, and that we challenge an immoral enemy whose sins are far greater
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than ours. We bear witness to the atrocities that have been wrought at the hands of the Zionists
and those who seek their alliance…”
“Omin!” The thundering voices were as one, rippling back over the man who beseeched them in
a calm, measured cadence.
“Have our brothers and sisters not suffered? The children of Palestine, persecuted by the
murderous Jews, have they not suffered? And where is the outcry, why is there no fatwa issued?
The time of Western imperialism is at an end, my friends—”
“Yaum al akhir! Omin!”
March pushed his blond hair up under his raised balaclava and sneaked a glance at the men who
flanked him. Al-Adel’s lips were slightly parted, the eyes blazing. He was staring wondrously at
the man who held the crowd in the palm of his hand. Turning to his right, March saw that
al-Zawahiri was wearing a similar expression.
It was just beginning to dawn on him that he was in an exceptionally dangerous place.
“They seek to spread their poison, and their arm grows longer with each passing day. We have
been chosen by Allah to crush that arm… We have seen the slaughter in Burma, Fatani,
Chechnya, and Bosnia Herzegovina. We have seen our homeland run red with the blood of
innocents. They have turned their backs on our holy crusade, my brothers—”
“Aiwa!”
“They spit their laughter as though we are nothing—”
“Aiwa!”
“We ask Allah to guide us in this time of peril, in this time of hardship. He alone knows what we
have endured, and He calls out for vengeance, He seeks to incur His Wrath—”
“Aiwa! Al Baseer, wa tayyibato!”
“We place our fate in His hands, for He is the Most Capable, and the Light that we seek. My
brothers, Allah wept tears of joy when the Americans lost their twin pillars of debauchery in
New York, their monuments to greed and the suffering of His chosen people—”
“AIWA, SHAYKH!”
March felt a surge of adrenaline at the man’s words, and the quiet assurance with which they were
delivered.
“My word is the truth, and you will hear it now. We will not rest until our Palestinian brothers
have driven the Jews into the sea, and the infidel armies have been routed from the land of
Mohammad, peace be unto him—”
“As salamo alaina.”
“And this is the only path, for it is said, ‘If you meet those who reject, then strike the necks.’ It is
Allah’s will, and He stands behind you in all His glory. There will be much rejoicing by our
