The infamous half smile appeared at the Director’s mouth. “Do you make a mockery of my
faith, American?”
A sharp intake of air, but the awkward moment was free of panic. Vanderveen understood fear,
even felt it on very rare occasions. Fear of other men, though, had never entered into the
equation. “No, Emir. I only wanted to demonstrate my respect. I apologize if I offended you.”
The apology was ignored. “You speak my language well, but there is something of the Helabja
Valley in your accent… or perhaps not. Perhaps I am mistaken.”
A long hesitation, which peaked the interest of his inquisitors. Only the truth, Vanderveen
decided. They may know more than they’re letting on. “I trained Kurdish insurgents in the
Helabja when I was with the army.”
The Director savored another long sip of tea, and gestured from his canteen cup to the
American. Immediately, al-Zawahiri poured another cup, handed it to Vanderveen, and then
poured a third for himself.
“I understand that you are reluctant to speak of your past. This is the habit of men who have
things to hide.”
“I cannot deny that, Emir. However, the things I have seen, the things I know… They could only
prove useful to you.”
This sentence was received with a sudden spark of interest. The Director leaned forward slightly,
grimacing at the pain in his chest. He caught the American’s reaction.
“Don’t be concerned, my friend. Your countrymen came close three years ago. Too close, but I
have changed my ways since then.”
“They are not my countrymen,” he spat.
The Director lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “No? You fought with them. Is that not so? You
killed for them. What else could they be?”
Vanderveen ignored the question. By doing so, he knew that he took a tremendous risk. “I
assume al-Adel has told you about our friend Shakib?”
The tall man stared at him for a long time before answering. So the arrogance is there, after all.
“I was told that he had some information. Nothing more.”
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Vanderveen smiled in satisfaction. “It is much more than information, Emir. It is a means to an
end. I have in my possession a two-month advance itinerary for the president of the United
States, as well as presidential briefings compiled by the American Secret Service.”
Both men stared at him in shock, unable to conceal their amazement. Al-Zawahiri’s head was
swimming with the enormity of the statement. It was a few moments before he could put his
finger on what was bothering him: it was the way the man referred to “Americans” with
detachment, as though they were a separate breed from himself. But this man was an American,
was he not? “Why have we not already heard about this?”
A shrug. “It is not the kind of information that can be passed on lightly. Complete security can
only be guaranteed in a face-to-face meeting such as this one.”
“You fail to understand, my friend, that these plans would have been changed after Shakib’s
death…”
The physician’s words trailed off when he noticed that the American was shaking his head in
disagreement. “These documents were neither found nor suspected to be in his possession at any
time. They were returned to their rightful place after Shakib made copies, and the originals were
never reported as lost or compromised. Give me a sheet of paper, please, and a pencil.”
Al-Zawahiri dug for the items, which he then handed over. Vanderveen propped the paper on
his knee and drew a crude calendar, circling the specific dates as he spoke: “As I said, it is a
two-month itinerary, beginning in the month of October. As of last week, the president has
continued to meet every major obligation outlined on the schedule. We are now in the first week
of November. Unfortunately, circumstances have left us with very little time to act. However… I
believe that two-and-a-half weeks will be sufficient, if I move quickly. With your approval, of
course.”
“And what is it, exactly, that you intend to do?” the Director asked.
Vanderveen looked up into the calm brown eyes of Osama bin Laden and smiled. “On
November 26th, President David Brenneman will be hosting formal negotiations with the
French president and the Italian prime minister in Washington. I’m going to kill them all.”
CHAPTER 20
TAJIKISTAN ? PRETORIA
Deep in the cold bowels of the Tian Shan mountain range, the man known as the American held
his audience rapt with the plan that he had carefully conceived over the previous few weeks. It
was a plan that would establish Al-Qaeda’s dominance over world events, as well as providing
them with a sponsor nation in Iran.
The plan appealed to his audience for these reasons and more.
The three men who sat in the cave shared a sickness. It was a disease that was never spoken of in
plain terms, but once disguised as revolutionary fervor, it became a topic of discussion that
could hold their collective attention for many hours. The disease could be seen in their shining
eyes, and in the rapturous smiles that creased their faces when they talked about the technical
difficulties of destroying a city block and murdering the president of the United States, as well as
the leaders of two other nations, all at once.
“The most difficult part of the operation is already accomplished,” Vanderveen said. His Arabic
was nearly flawless. Eleven years earlier he had been sent to the excellent Defense Language
Institute in Monterey, only to be returned to his unit after three months when his proficiency
surpassed that of the program’s director.
At the time, he had modestly accepted the man’s praise and a syrupy letter of commendation.
Now, deep in the hellish caves, he made no effort to hide his arrogance. “The Iranian is my only
concern… Can he be trusted?”
Al-Zawahiri nodded, staring sadly into his empty cup. The thermos had long since run dry,
much to his disappointment. “I do not believe Mazaheri would cheat us, especially after what
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you have already done for him in escorting the container to Arak. He has my confidence.”
“Is it what I asked for?”
“Actually, it is somewhat more: 545 bricks of SEMTEX H. The plastique is out of the Czech
Republic. Each brick weighs 2,500 grams. The total weight of the shipment, if I am not
mistaken, is—”
“About 1,360 kilos, or a little over 3,000 pounds. I believe that will be enough.”
Al-Zawahiri was vaguely impressed with the man’s rapid calculations. He would have been
stunned to learn that the American could have done the same math in his sleep at five years of
age.
“The challenge comes in creating a kill zone wide enough to encompass the entire convoy,”
Vanderveen continued. “Despite Shakib’s contributions, there are things we don’t know.”
“For instance?”
“How the recent attacks will affect Brenneman’s security situation, for one thing…”
As the American explained the numerous factors that might prevent a successful strike, a very
different conversation was taking place 750 miles to the southwest.
The Vanderveen family history, as described by Ambassador Martins, was sketchy at best. There
was a fading birth certificate, he explained, a wilted document from the eastern Transvaal dating
back to 1964. For their purposes, it was worthless.
For the time being, the first ten years in the life of William Vanderveen would remain a mystery.
There was also documentation dating back to 1975. These were medical records held at the
Rand University in Johannesburg. They verified that a young man, accompanied by his mother,
had visited the psychology department in February of that year. The boy’s scores were
astronomical; well beyond the top 1 percent of the population, and yet his family had declined
numerous requests for follow-up testing.
According to the file, the psychologist who had administered the exams, a Dr. Wilhelm D.
Klerk, had expressed bitter disappointment that the woman and boy had never returned to his
department. This disappointment had been tempered when the doctor discovered that they
belonged to Francis Vanderveen, the famed South African general; it was only to be expected
that the family would seek privacy in such matters.
Ryan Kealey made an effort to listen dispassionately, but soon found himself consumed by
conflicting emotions; deep down, he wanted nothing more than to kill the man who had
betrayed and murdered five of his fellow soldiers. At the same time, he felt a desperate need to
understand, as though understanding might erase some of the lingering pain and guilt. Ryan
listened to the ambassador intently, but was fast with the questions: “Who was this General
Vanderveen?” he asked. “Why was he so important?”
Martins answered this to the best of his ability. He talked about South Africa’s policies during
the apartheid years, and he explained that the military was often the first line of defense against
African uprisings in the capital and major cities such as Johannesburg and Cape Town.
“When Daniel Malan took power in 1948, he immediately dismissed several high-ranking army
officers who were known to be unsupportive of his policies. At the time, Francis Vanderveen
was a captain in the 11th South African Special Services Battalion. He survived the purging of
the ranks, though, mostly because it was widely rumored that he had been collecting damaging
evidence for years, files that tied many of the National Party’s most prominent figures to the
Nazis during the second World War.”
“In other words,” Naomi said, “Vanderveen was untouchable.”
The ambassador nodded. “Precisely. However, that is not to say that he disagreed with Malan’s
views. In fact, he had long been noted for his support of the Afrikaner Broederbond.
“In 1959, Vanderveen established a liaison between the South African Defense Forces and the
Bureau of State Security. This position gave him the authority to oversee both military and
police matters in South Africa. By that time he was a colonel, and responsible for enforcing the
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Pass Laws and Section 10 of the Black Urban Areas Act of 1945. I won’t bore you with the
details, but this was legislation that served to confine black Africans to demarcated areas in
remote parts of the country, thereby providing the illusion, if not the reality, of a white South
Africa.”
“How could one man oversee that kind of operation?” Kealey asked.
“He didn’t,” was the ambassador’s reply. “He had a huge staff on hand, not to mention the army
itself. Nevertheless, there is evidence that Vanderveen led many of the raids himself. In the 1960s
alone, it’s estimated that he orchestrated the removal of almost two million black Africans.”
Naomi considered this piece of information for a moment. “You know, I took a course last year
at GWU where we looked pretty closely at apartheid and its role in South African history. I
don’t recall seeing this man’s name anywhere.”
Martins sipped at his coffee and nodded slowly. “You wouldn’t have. You see, Francis
Vanderveen was very effective at his work, but his tactics were something of an embarrassment
to the government, even a government as ruthless as Malan’s. As he went about enforcing
Section 10, the colonel didn’t always wait until the houses were vacated before moving in with
the bulldozers. Worse yet, there were rumors that he had a hand in the Sharpeville massacre of
1960.”
“I did read something about that,” Kharmai interjected. “The security forces opened fire on a
group of African protesters outside a police station. The officers later reported hearing shots,
but no weapons were ever found on the bodies.”
“That’s right. Sixty-nine people died in the square, with another hundred or so wounded.
Vanderveen had quite a reputation by this time. No one was foolish enough to accuse him
outright, but everyone knew who had given the order to fire. Incredibly enough, Vanderveen’s
career wasn’t damaged in the slightest by that incident. In fact, he was promoted to brigadier
general in 1964. That was the same year of his son’s birth.”
Ryan settled back a few inches in his chair. Finally, we come to it.
“William Paulin was the second child of Francis and Julienne Vanderveen. Their first, Madeline
Jane, was born in 1961. As the general was gone the majority of the time, the children lived with
their mother on the family estate in Piet Retief, a small town in the Assegai Valley. By all
accounts, Julienne was a very beautiful woman, and wholly devoted to her children.” Martins
hesitated. “What follows is largely conjecture, but as I said, we had a difficult time finding
reliable witnesses.
“You’ve already seen the transcripts. William scored 184 on the Stanford-Binet when he was
eleven years old. He also scored off the charts on the Weschler Scales and the Slosson
Intelligence Test for Children. His brilliance was undeniable, but his sister was another matter
entirely. She was better known for her… well, for her promiscuous behavior. In 1975, it was
widely rumored in the village that she was seeing one of the Africans working a nearby farm. A
young man in his early twenties.”
Naomi did the math quickly. “She was fourteen?”
Martins nodded. “It didn’t last long, though. Madeline died that same year. Apparently, she
suffered a fatal fall in the mountains surrounding her home.”
Kealey thought he saw where this was going. “The general?”
But Martins shook his head. “No. He would have had ample motive if the rumors were true, of
course, but Francis Vanderveen was 100 kilometers away on the day his daughter died,
supervising the destruction of an entire village in the Natal. He was not responsible.”
A brief silence ensued. “Surely you’re not suggesting that William—”
The ambassador held up a hand to stop Naomi. “I’m just giving you the facts.”
“But he was so young,” Kharmai protested. “It doesn’t seem… right, somehow.”
“There’s nothing right about it,” Martins agreed. “But the story doesn’t end there. A month
after the girl was buried, the young man she had been seeing went missing from the farm he was
working. They found him a week later in the first hills leading out of the Assegai. The body was
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virtually cut to pieces.”
“And the girl’s father?” Ryan inquired.
“Was 1,100 kilometers away at the time, supervising a troop buildup on the Angolan border.”
Another silence, longer this time. “Needless to say, Julienne was devastated by the loss of her
only daughter, but I’ll get back to that in a moment.”
