this small violation of her country’s stringent standards of dress could be easily forgiven in her
lonely surroundings. The makeshift airfield was located almost 5 kilometers south of the Atrak
River, a major perennial that cuts through the desolate coastal plains extending from the Caspian
Sea. This portion of Iran was virtually deserted, and so made an ideal landing spot for the aging
multiprop Cessna, which was making its final descent after having left Azerbaijan three hours
earlier under a false flight plan.
Once the plane rolled to a stop on the compact dirt of the runway, the exterior door swung
open and a sole passenger emerged, carrying only a duffel bag in his right hand. She watched
with interest as he carefully climbed down from the elevated fuselage and moved toward her.
From his youthful appearance, she guessed the man was in his late twenties, early thirties at most.
He walked with a crisp, confident stride that propelled him effortlessly across the perilous
surface of the desert sand.
“Hello,” she said. Then, in rapid Farsi, “My name is Negin. I will take you the rest of the way. I
have been instructed to ask if you are carrying any weapons — you will be searched on arrival.”
“I’m unarmed. How far?” he asked in kind. Although she had been told the man understood the
language, it was still a little unsettling to hear her native tongue spoken so fluently by a foreigner.
“Less than two hours. They are waiting for you,” was her response. Fifteen minutes later, the
Range Rover emerged from the dark expanse of the desert and turned onto the cracked asphalt
of the main road to Mashhad, speeding east toward the holy city as the stars burned far
overhead.
Mashhad is the capital of and the largest city in the Khorasan province of Iran, home to
approximately two million souls. His hosts could hardly have selected a better location for this
meeting, March thought, as the very name of the city means “place of martyrdom.” One would
have to search long and hard to find a community more virulently opposed to Western culture.
Although he had few doubts about his own abilities or capacity for survival, he might have
feared for his safety were it not for the presence of the other men seated around the simple
wooden table before him.
An amusing thought suddenly occurred to him: despite his recent atrocities, the director of the
Central Intelligence Agency would probably greet him at the airport with open arms and a
suitcase full of cash were he to sacrifice the people in this room. The occasional looks of distrust
that were cast in his direction were enough to convince him that he was not the only one to
envision this scenario.
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Most, however, were uncomfortable meeting his eyes and chose to stare down at the notepads
on the table or to distant corners of the room.
His real name was not Jason March, nor did they know him as such. It was, however, the
pseudonym he had been identified with most over the years. On a hilltop overlooking the Syrian
coast seven years earlier, March had proven his loyalty to these men and their cause. None,
however, was aware of this fact, and he did not volunteer the information. About the man seated
before them they knew very little, except that he could accomplish anything. This was the only
statement made about the American that was not disputed.
“You achieved a great deal in Washington, my friend. I trust the contact we provided was to
your satisfaction.” The speaker was an Egyptian national, Mustafa Hassan Hamza. Despite
having been sentenced to death in absentia by an Egyptian court in 1981, he had remained active
within the organization. After the invasion of Afghanistan by American forces in late 2001, he
had narrowly escaped the country with his life. The subsequent decimation of Al-Qaeda’s ranks
had resulted in rapid promotion for the man who now held the rank of assistant commander
within the Islamic terror network.
“I was impressed with your source’s efficiency and dedication,” March replied honestly. He did
not give compliments freely. “It is a shame that he will most likely be discovered by the FBI; in
fact, this may have already occurred. They can be quite efficient in their own right.”
“Do you have any recommendations?” the Egyptian asked.
“Through our mutual friend in South Africa, I have already provided your source with the
means to evade capture. As I said before, I do not think you will be disappointed by his
commitment to this organization.”
Hamza appraised the man seated before him with increasing admiration. Once again he was
reminded of how fortunate he was to have such a powerful weapon at his disposal, not to
mention the inherent propaganda value of an American working against his own country.
Nevertheless, his lack of knowledge about the man’s past was a constant source of worry for
Hamza. How long could a man commit treason on such a grand scale before his conscience
rallied against him?
Another thought ate at him occasionally, though he had all but dismissed it: how far would the
Americans go to plant someone in his organization? He did not think they would kill one of
their own greedy politicians, but deep down he was aware that this was not necessarily true, and
the doubt was a heavy stone in his stomach. There were people within the Western intelligence
services who were very much like him, in that they did not consider themselves bound by law or
moral imperative. Hamza himself had often been heard to say that these few exceptional
individuals posed a greater threat to the organization than the entire might of the American
military combined.
The Egyptian did not betray any of these thoughts, his face an impassive mask. He turned to
another man seated directly across from him, who had not spoken for the duration of the
meeting. “Minister Mazaheri, thank you for being here this evening. I believe you have news to
impart.”
The newly appointed minister of intelligence and security nodded and went on to address the
group, his eyes focusing intently on each face from behind simple steel-framed spectacles. “His
Excellency is most pleased by what you have accomplished. He was angered by the American
accusations, and wishes to thank you for the actions you have initiated against them. Tomorrow
he will issue a statement declaring his intention to reopen the nuclear facility at Natanz.” This
revelation brought murmured approval from the small group of men around the table, the few
who were trusted enough to be told of this development.
“Of course, production is already well under way. Recently installed gas centrifuges have
dramatically increased the speed of the enrichment process, and our heavy-water reactor at Arak
is currently producing weapons grade plutonium. We have, however, encountered several
difficulties. The IAEA has its suspicions, as always, and is insisting on access to our facility in the
Page 16
south. This proposal is rapidly gaining support within the U.N. El-Baradei can be quite
persistent. Additionally, we have been forced to import some of the components needed for the
carbon casing and injection core. It will be difficult to bring these materials into the country
without alerting the Americans.”
The Iranian leaned forward, resting his hands on the rough surface of the table. His face was
twisted in hatred when he spoke again. “This new resolution implemented by the West will set
back the program by ten years or more if it is allowed to continue. For years we have survived
only through the greed of European oil companies who regularly undermined the American
sanctions. Now it appears that the French are starting to fall into line, as are the Italians… It is
the opinion of my government that there is only one way to dissuade them from supporting
these latest measures.”
Hamza absorbed these comments silently, one hand carefully grooming his thick black mustache
as he considered this statement. “A large-scale attack on U.S. soil. Many American deaths.
Extensive news coverage and public backlash. These are the things that you need to cause a
division, to break their will.”
Ali Vahid Mazaheri nodded in agreement. “What do you suggest?”
“There are many options,” Hamza said. “First, a suitable target must be found. Everything
depends on the target. A decisive strike will shatter the coalition; however, we may need
assistance from His Excellency in mounting such an operation. Your government has seen how
effective Al-Qaeda can be, even in our current weakened state.” He sent a respectful nod in the
American’s direction. “Our Western friend has taken many risks that have once again brought us
to the attention of the world. Speed is critical at this juncture if we wish to cause immediate
disarray in the American leadership.”
The minister inclined his head slightly, a small smile etching its way across his face. “An
interesting proposal. What do you require?”
“At first, nothing. Merely your support.”
“You have it. My country is in your debt, and it shall be repaid many times over. I will convey
your proposal to His Excellency.”
“You have my gratitude. I am confident that we shall both prosper from this agreement.”
Hamza smiled and stood, as did the Iranian minister. Both men shook hands and then
embraced, causing the small group surrounding the table to break into spontaneous applause.
Jason March stood to the side, his face wiped clean of any emotion. Inside, though, he felt a
wave of pleasure ripple through his body as a vision of Washington ablaze seeped its way into
his mind. The image of fire erupting from the windows of the White House was so powerful that
Hamza had to speak his name several times before he snapped back to reality.
“Yes, what is it?”
Hamza frowned slightly at the man’s tone. He was still, after all, a traitor to his native country. A
man who changed sides once could do so again. Hamza wanted to test this man’s loyalty; to do
so, he was about to take a serious risk.
“Follow me. There is someone I would like for you to meet.”
The ancient Ford Cortina moved steadily through the darkened streets of Mashhad, stopping at
various locations, sometimes for several minutes at a time, before moving off again
unexpectedly with a sudden burst of speed. Although hundreds of volunteers would have
jumped at the chance to drive Hassan Hamza about the city, he placed trust only in his own
instincts, and rightfully so; he had seen many other experienced operatives die at the hands of the
American Special Forces by exercising less caution than was necessary in their chosen
profession. The American seated next to him had not spoken since leaving the heavily guarded
two-story residence northeast of the city center. Hamza wondered what was running through the
other man’s mind.
After forty-five minutes had passed, Hamza decided they had not been followed. In any city in
Page 17
Afghanistan, he would not have attempted such a meeting, but he felt reasonably secure in this
part of northeastern Iran. He turned abruptly into a dusty alleyway, the sedan clattering to a stop
between buildings of pale stone.
“Follow me. You have nothing to worry about,” he assured the other man. He handed the
American a woolen watch cap. “Put this on.”
March pulled the material down low over his blond hair, which, if left uncovered, would be
immediately noticed and stored away for future use by the city’s many inhabitants. Given the
chance, the people in this area would eagerly criticize the decadent West; however, he was aware
that they might easily change their tune when presented with a generous reward for information.
Such was the fickle nature of humanity, March knew. Most people would gladly sacrifice their
principles for money.
The two men moved quickly down the alley, and then past a row of dilapidated, low-slung brick
buildings. March noticed that the street was unusually dark, the bulbs in the streetlights above
having been either removed or destroyed. Despite the late hour, an old woman wandered down
the uneven street in their direction, her gait unsteady. She averted her eyes as she passed the two
men, another fact that was not lost on the American. He decided that the organization had taken
substantial measures to ensure their security in this area, perhaps even to the point of bribing
people house to house. Certainly, the local officials would have been well compensated for their
cooperation.
They stopped at the fifth house on the left. March hesitated before pushing through the wrought
iron gate, sensing that something was amiss. Hamza’s easy smile did little to alleviate his sudden
fear. As his acute senses suddenly focused, he picked up a silhouette in his peripheral vision. A
sniper lay prone on the low roof of the building, the rigid bone of his eye socket just millimeters
from the scope of a Russian Dragunov rifle.
March was impressed by the man’s discipline, but thought the weapon far too large and difficult
to maneuver in an urban environment. He personally would have opted for the Galil with its
folding stock, but never would have suggested it to the man on the roof. He almost laughed out
loud at the idea of an Arab militant using a weapon manufactured in Israel.
Approaching the door, two more guards suddenly entered his line of sight, AK-47 rifles held
down by their sides. The men tensed momentarily as they approached, then quickly relaxed as
Hamza spoke with one of the guards in hushed tones. A portable radio was lifted to lips cracked
by the harsh sun, words were exchanged, orders issued. Moments later, the door swung open
and the two arrivals were hustled inside.
Jason March waited, his back aching in the uncomfortable wooden chair. The past few days had
been tedious: nonstop travel under assumed identities, the constant fear of discovery, the
constant apprehension. Only now was it coming to a peak; he felt as though he was about to be
tested, and his answers would determine not only his place within the organization, but whether
he would leave this building alive or not. Through his supreme confidence, March retained a
measure of caution. He had come too far to throw it all away now.
Low voices outside the door announced his visitors before they pushed into the room. Hamza
entered, quickly followed by a surprisingly tall, gaunt individual whom March recognized
