The American rk-1

by Andrew Britton

  “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 Parana 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 voce se esta 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.

  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 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 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.

  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.”

  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.