people when the heathens in the West feel the full measure of His Fury, and so it will be until all
Muslims live together as one in His Kingdom. Praise be to Allah.”
“Subhana Rabbi yal A’la.”
“Go in peace, my brothers.”
The gathered fighters jumped to their feet, their shining eyes locked onto every movement of the
man as they burst into wild applause. They watched in pure adoration as he climbed down
painfully from the elevated stone outcropping at the back of the cave, waving to them like a
visiting dignitary, and was immediately surrounded by a cluster of bodyguards, trustworthy
veterans whose service dated back to the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan.
The applause continued to grow even after the speaker had turned a corner and was swept from
view. Soon it was an incredible wave, the clamorous noise reverberating from the jagged granite
walls like thunder.
Saif al-Adel wiped tears from his eyes and turned to the American. It was a new look, a side of
the Arab that he had not yet seen… In this place, March wore the face of the enemy. He braced
himself, waiting for the pain of a knife or a bullet from behind, but there was nothing. A surge of
relief coursed through his body as he decided that he was safe for the moment. Belatedly, he
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pulled the balaclava down to hide his face from the crowd.
“Remember what I said, American. He has no love for you or your kind. Is that not obvious
now? Maybe you begin to understand the risk you have taken in coming here.”
“You brought me, Saif,” March whispered gleefully. “It’s your neck, too.” He did not stop to
watch the color drain from the Egyptian’s face, turning instead to follow al-Zawahiri into the
hidden depths of the cave. March had waited for this audience for three years, and now he was
within minutes of meeting, in his eyes, the greatest man on the face of the earth.
Aaron Jansen was not in a hurry, and it was a beautiful day. He walked slowly east through the
clamorous streets, enjoying the vibrant sounds of a busy city. He stopped at a coffee shop
painted a brilliant white; the sun was so bright off the shining surface that it hurt his eyes just to
look at it. He sipped at the warm coffee as he continued past the Caledonian Sports Ground,
stopping once more to briefly watch the last few minutes of a vigorous soccer game played out
between two groups of young men.
The jovial shouts of the players followed Jansen as he passed under the canopy of jacaranda trees
that had sprung up alongside the playing fields. The cool shade felt good on his back as he
waded through the riotous color of the purple blossoms that had fallen from the trees above.
With his customary consideration for his host country, Jansen tossed his empty cup into a trash
receptacle and stopped at a cluster of pay phones facing away from the fields.
He had long since memorized the number, a fifteen-digit monstrosity that had given him some
trouble during the first tentative months of his treachery. Through a quick check on the Internet,
he had discovered that the international calling code placed the receiving line somewhere in the
Paraná province of Brazil. That was as far as he dared to take his inquiries, though. For Jansen,
ignorance was bliss, and ignorance was a numbered account in a Zurich bank that had been
growing steadily for the past six months.
The line was picked up after a single ring. “Quem você se está chamando para?”
“I’m calling for the Rodriguez Holding Company.”
The voice on the other end abruptly changed from rapid Portuguese to flat, unaccented English.
“Go ahead.”
“One name, two descriptions. This is in relation to the shooting death of Stephen Gray… the
name is Kealey. Male, five foot ten inches to six feet, one-hundred and seventy pounds, black
hair, gray eyes. No name for the woman, but she’s a British national of Indian descent, five foot
four inches or five foot five inches, slim, black hair, and green eyes. Best guess: CIA, based out
of Langley. They’re due back in Washington today. I would have more, but—”
“Your information will be passed on. Thank you for calling.” The voice was gone, the phone
dead in his ear. Jansen replaced the receiver with a shaking hand and smoothed his hair. The
entire exchange had taken nine seconds.
The money was nice. The money was very nice, but he knew he would not sleep that night at all.
Aaron Jansen turned in his tracks and began the long walk back to the embassy.
Ryan had called Jonathan Harper first. It had been a brief conversation, not that there was much
back and forth. He had given the deputy director the name of William Vanderveen, and then
listened to a barrage of angry denigrations. After five minutes, Harper had run out of steam and
reluctantly congratulated Ryan on a job well done.
The next call had been to Katie back in Cape Elizabeth. That one had been a little bit trickier,
since he didn’t really have a good excuse for not calling in six days. There was no screaming or
accusations from her end, though in some ways, it was far more painful to endure her quiet
disappointment. He vowed that he would make it up to her once he got back to the East Coast.
It would piss Harper off even more if he went straight back to Maine after a brief appearance at
Langley, but Ryan knew where his priorities lay.
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It had just taken him a while to figure it out.
There had been no mention of Naomi, from her end or his. He hoped that Katie had enough
trust in him not to worry about it, but that sounded stupid, even in his own head. He had kissed
her… No, that wasn’t right. Naomi had kissed him. But he hadn’t exactly stopped it in a hurry,
had he? Ryan cut the thought off quickly and decided to get some sleep.
It seemed like only a few minutes later when he heard a knock at the door. Gillian Farris poked
her head in, her fiery red hair in sharp contrast with the plain white wall behind her.
“The ambassador would like to see you in twenty minutes, Mr. Kealey,” she said. “I’ve already
woken Ms. Kharmai — can I tell him you’ll be there?”
Ryan laughed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Call me Ryan, Ms. Farris. And yes, you can
tell him I’ll be there. It wouldn’t be a good idea to keep the ambassador waiting, would it? Any
chance of some breakfast?”
“It’s more like lunch now, but we’ll find something for you.” Her eyes drifted over his bare chest
and washboard abs. “You might want to put a shirt on too, Ryan. The ambassador probably
doesn’t appreciate those long hours in the gym as much as I do,” she said with a wink and an
engaging smile. She pulled back from the open door and closed it behind her.
As her footsteps receded down the hall, Ryan snapped his open mouth shut and burst into
laughter, shaking his head in amusement. That was a story he could tell Katie, if only to get a
laugh out of her jealous reaction. He stepped into the adjoining bathroom and showered
quickly, then shaved and brushed his teeth before dressing in the clothes that the embassy staff
had left for him earlier in the day. He decided that the DCM had probably picked the clothes
out herself, since they were in good taste and fit remarkably well.
There was another knock at the door just as he pulled his shirt on. Naomi was waiting for him in
the hall.
“Hey,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
“No,” was her blunt response. He locked the door behind him and they began walking toward
the embassy’s main building. “What did the DDO have to say?”
“He wanted to know how I got the Beretta through airport security. I told him to go and ask the
guys in Science and Technology. Apart from that, he bitched for a while, then said we did a
good job.”
She laughed without mirth. “That sounds about right. I don’t think we really accomplished
anything, though.”
He turned to look at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, what do we really know now that we didn’t know before? His real name? It’s not like
that’ll be the one he’s using. And I don’t buy into this surveillance business — I’m pretty sure
that someone who’s managed to avoid capture for eight years won’t be going home to see his
nieces and nephews just for the hell of it. He’s too smart for that.”
Ryan didn’t respond as they approached the ambassador’s anteroom, and Naomi relented a
little bit. “I’m sorry, it is something. We might be able to—”
“No,” he said, waving her apology away. “You’re right.” He fell silent for a moment. “You
know what the last thing Gray said to me was?”
“No, I didn’t hear.”
“He said, ‘The shipment has already landed in Washington. It’s too late to stop him. He’s going
after all of them.’”
She turned to look at him. “What do you think that means — ‘all of them’? All of who?”
“Think about it, Naomi. Senator Levy was killed because he forged an alliance with the French
and the Italians. Who’s coming to Washington in November?”
“Chirac and Berlusconi.” Her eyes opened wide as she caught on. “Oh my God, do you really
think…?”
Ryan shrugged. “Why else would he take the risk? It would have to be something big. Like I said
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before, he’s a huge asset to Al-Qaeda. They wouldn’t chance losing him on a minor operation.”
“But it’s suicide,” she objected. “It’s impossible to kill the president of the United States — let
alone two other national leaders at the same time — and just walk away.”
They reached the anteroom and Ryan pulled the door open for her. “Naomi, Jason March is one
of the most dangerous men the U.S. military has ever produced,” he said. “If anyone can get
away with it, it’s him.”
They moved deeper into the bowels of the cave.
The wind rushing over the razor peaks of the Tian Shan mountains was only a distant roar in the
black tunnels that continued down in a seemingly endless circle. The air was far colder away
from the cave’s entrance, and March found himself shivering violently as he blindly followed
Ayman al-Zawahiri. He kept his hands slightly out in front of him to avoid running into any
walls, but was more concerned with the fact that Saif al-Adel was less than two steps to his rear.
He could not help but wonder if he was being led to his own grave.
His fears, however, were somewhat abated by the appearance of a dull light in the distance. As
they moved closer to the opening, al-Zawahiri turned awkwardly in the narrow space and
murmured brief instructions.
“Wait here. I will call for you when he is ready.”
March nodded and leaned back against the damp wall as the physician disappeared through an
entrance carved into the earth. To his surprise, al-Adel did not take the opportunity to issue
more muted threats. He wouldn’t have had much of a chance, in any case, as the older man
returned a moment later, his considerable girth outlined in the opening by the faint light at his
back.
“He will see you now, American. Saif, you are needed above. Your presence is not required
here.”
March did not turn to humor himself with al-Adel’s stunned expression, although he dearly
wanted to. Instead, he took a deep breath to calm his shaking hands and took his first tentative
step toward the light.
Ryan was instantly wary when he and Naomi sat down across from Ambassador Martins. The
man was clearly disturbed about something.
“I hope you two slept well.” They both watched as the ambassador poured coffee with a shaking
hand. “I apologize,” he said, “but the inquiries I put out this morning have not yielded positive
results.”
He cleared his throat and went on. “That is not to say we have not learned anything. The
problem is that we’ve underestimated just how dangerous this man really is. I’ve already
forwarded copies of the information we gathered to the FBI and the Justice Department. I
thought they needed to see it right away.” The ambassador pushed a folder across the table,
which Ryan immediately picked up and opened. “Those are photographs of William
Vanderveen as a young man. There aren’t many — apparently he was somewhat camera shy. We
couldn’t find many people to corroborate that statement, though, because…”
Ryan could see right away that March and Vanderveen were the same person. He was so lost in
the photographs that he almost didn’t catch the ambassador’s awkward pause. “Because what,
sir?”
“Because everyone in his immediate family is dead.”
Naomi choked on her coffee, but Ryan didn’t notice. His attention was completely focused on
Martins.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Martins continued. “There was never any concrete evidence
that Vanderveen was responsible. Our closest guess is that he fled the country in 1981. I can’t tell
you what he did after he arrived in the States, but the South African government has been very
cooperative in piecing together their records. Their only stipulation was that the information
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didn’t go public, and I said we were more than happy to agree. This story could be extremely
embarrassing to the army, not to mention the country as a whole.”
“I need to hear it all, sir.”
And so the ambassador began.
The bolt-hole was small, far too small for three people to stretch out comfortably. The two men
inside were each seated on an olive green military cot. The two cots were positioned next to a
small space heater, and al-Zawahiri pointed to a third when Vanderveen entered the room. He
took a seat and waited patiently. It was not his place to speak first.
The physician pulled a thermos from a pack on the hard dirt floor. He proceeded to pour hot
tea into a metal canteen cup, which he then handed to his superior. Vanderveen watched as the
cup was gratefully accepted by unsteady hands.
The man took a sip of the warm liquid and smiled weakly, finally looking up at his guest. “We
find small pleasures here… They are the only kind to be had.”
Will Vanderveen nodded his understanding, but did not speak. Al-Zawahiri was looking at him
with something approaching approval. Vanderveen wondered what had caused the sudden
change of heart.
“I trust no one more than Ayman. I have heard on the radio of your victories, and he tells me
what you have done. He says there is an arrogance in you…” The Director waited for the
American to speak, and seemed pleased when he did not. “That is immaterial to me, in any case.
By your actions you have demonstrated your loyalty. Allah’s blessings and salutations be with
you, my brother.”
“And with you,” he said automatically.
