The American (16 page)

“I knew his father personally. You can look for yourself. Jesus, look…Look, just let me up. I'm not going anywhere.” Any distraction would do, Gray thought to himself.
The gun is loaded, I know it is. If I can just get to it, I might have a chance.

Ryan grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up roughly. Immediately, Gray moved for the desk. “It's right here, I have a file on him—”

The fist tightened around the back of Gray's shirt, pulling him back and away. “Sit down,” Ryan said. He moved to the desk and started opening drawers. Turning to face the other man, he held the Smith & Wesson revolver up toward the light. “Is this what you were looking for?”

Opening the cylinder, he spilled the bullets out of the gun, the rounds rattling and rolling away across the polished floor. Casually tossing the revolver onto the desk, he moved forward in a smooth motion and slammed the butt of his own pistol into Gray's face. The impact reverberated along the length of his arm. As Ryan pulled back to deliver a second blow, the radio tucked into his pocket bumped the corner of the desk, inadvertently pressing the transmit button.

 

“No, I have absolutely no idea,” Naomi was saying. “I think I made a wrong turn coming out of the Malay Quarter…I'm just trying to get back to the Commodore. Can you point it out to me? I mean, if you don't mind.”

The doubt had faded slightly from the man's blunt features. Leaning forward and through the window, he began to trace a line along the map, snapping out directions in heavily accented English. His finger was tracing through the map and along her leg…She held the map tightly in both hands, her arms straining so that she almost ripped the thin paper in half. Her mind was moving at the speed of light.
Keep him occupied, Naomi.

She placed her hand on the man's forearm and gave him her best smile. “I can't thank you enough. You're a lifesaver.” She hit the tone perfectly, and watched the grin spread over his face as his eyes scoured her body for the first time…

There was a burst of static from the radio.

The driver saw something change in her face and he pulled back quickly, the lascivious smile fading fast, replaced by a sneer as he dug for the weapon in his jacket.

Naomi's hand moved down in a blur to the space between the seats, pulling up on Ryan's Beretta. She got there first. Her mind was blank as she pointed the gun at his chest and fired twice, the shots ringing in her ears as she watched him fall back, shock carved into his face.

She stumbled out of the jeep, the radio forgotten behind her. She was reaching down, searching for the man's keys, only to realize that they were in the still-running Mercedes. Naomi didn't notice the lack of blood on the driver's chest as she pulled the keys out of the car and ran to the front door of the warehouse.

 

The shots were audible from inside the building. Stephen Gray looked up and smiled in Ryan's direction, a bloody, awful smile. Something feral slithered into his eyes as he spoke. “You may know his name, but it won't change anything.”

Ryan stepped back, still aiming the Walther at Gray's chest. “What are you talking about?”

“The shipment has already landed in Washington. It's too late to stop him. Do you understand what I'm saying? He's going after all of them.
He already has what he needs
.”

Ryan was about to respond when the door burst open. He swung his pistol and then stopped when she moved into view. Naomi ran into the building…All she could see was Ryan.

Gray reacted immediately. With astonishing speed he turned the corner and hit Naomi head-on, the pistol flying out of her hand and across the floor. She was stunned by the blow, struggling to stand when Gray reached past her, his fingertips brushing against the Beretta. Then it was in his hand, and he was turning up and around…

Kealey shot him twice in the chest. Stumbling backward, Gray hit the wall and slumped down against it. He glared up at Ryan, a thin trickle of blood running out of his mouth and down onto the clean white cotton of his shirt. He summoned the last of his strength and lifted the pistol in Naomi's direction.

Ryan had no choice. Taking two steps forward, he leveled the Walther and fired a third bullet into Stephen Gray's forehead.

He breathed a soft curse. This was going all wrong…His first priority was to get out of the building. Moving forward, Ryan lifted the Beretta out of the dead man's hand and slid it into his coat pocket. Naomi was crouched against the wall, staring up at him with horror in her face. Leaning down, he grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly to her feet.

“Where's the driver?”

“I shot him,” she said in a low monotone. Ryan's eyes were moving fast around the room. There was a wall full of file cabinets and papers strewn across the man's desk. He thought about sending Naomi out to the boat while he looked through the papers. He thought about the probable response times for police units heading out of the commercial district, and about what they would find when they arrived. He knew instinctively that Gray wouldn't keep records of any illicit dealings in these file cabinets.

His deliberations had taken three seconds. It was too much of a risk. Besides, he already had what he came for. He grabbed Naomi's hand and pulled her hard toward the open doors leading out to the bay. A scuffling sound behind him, movement on unsteady feet. A moment of shock as he considered…No, it couldn't be. He didn't turn to look.

They were running hard, out through the back as a long burst of automatic fire followed them, ripping through the French doors and sending jagged splinters of glass and wood spinning out onto the beach. Ryan felt like he was barely moving as his feet pounded over the sinking sand, Naomi like dead weight behind him, her hand tightly gripping his. Another long burst of fire, and then a shouted curse in Afrikaans as the bolt locked back on an empty magazine. Ryan pushing the dinghy out over the rocks, pulling her roughly in and the engine roaring to life. The boat was going hard over the waves, slapping against the rubber floor as they jumped each swell. Two minutes later they were out of range of the driver's submachine gun, and Ryan cut back on the motor as they eased up to the rear of the catamaran.

Ryan finally forced himself to turn and look at Naomi. He was almost certain that she had been hit. He felt an overwhelming wave of relief when she didn't appear to be wounded, but it was difficult to tell; he could see only her back as she crouched facing away from him, her upper body leaning over the side as she was violently sick into the black waters of Table Bay.

T
he journey had been long and arduous, but they were now closing in on their final destination.

The most difficult part for al-Adel had been in securing more auxiliary tanks for the helicopter. It had taken shouted curses and threats of retribution in fractured Farsi over the encrypted radio, but the promise had been made and kept. The fuel tanks were waiting in a covered truck bed just off an abandoned highway north of Repetek. From there, they were free to continue on the third leg of the flight. The sky began to darken once again as the Mi-26 headed northeast, skirting the jagged western edge of Tajikistan that led toward the lush and fertile floor of the Ferghana Valley.

Saif al-Adel noticed that the American had not spoken for the entire duration of the flight. He wondered whether this was a sign that the man regretted his earlier demands, but soon dismissed the notion when he examined the other passenger's face and saw nothing but quiet confidence. Clearly, the American had unshakable faith in his own abilities.

It was some time before they banked east over the valley floor 3,500 meters below. The descent took the heavy aircraft shuddering down through dark gray cumulus clouds, a light rain washing over the armored plating as the weight of the helicopter settled onto the struts of the landing gear. The monstrous blades continued to slice the air overhead as the passengers climbed down from the elevated cabin. Al-Adel gave a hand signal to one of the two pilots through the cockpit glass, and both men moved away from the craft as power to the engines was increased and the helicopter lifted once more into the air. Then it vanished into the black clouds and they were alone.

March pulled the hood of his anorak up to shield against the freezing rain that had already seeped its way down his neck and under his thin pullover. A vehicle was waiting for them, a Russian-made UAZ-3151. Al-Adel had his rucksack on the muddy ground, his hands buried deep in the bowels of the pack until he found what he was looking for. His eyes were bright when he lifted the Garmin handheld GPS receiver for March to see.

“The Americans would dearly love to get their hands on this. I imagine they would pay a great deal of money for the information it contains. Tell me, what would that money mean to
you
, my friend?”

Jason March fixed his steady gaze on the other man before speaking. “If you think I came this far to betray you for money, then you are the fool, Saif.”

“We shall see.” A smile spread over the Egyptian's face as he held out his hand. “Give me your pistol.”

March hesitated, and the smile turned into an impatient sneer. “Give me your pistol or I'll shoot you where you stand. Even if you survive the bullet, you won't last long—the temperature is already below freezing, and the wolves are always hungry in the winter.”

Reluctantly, March handed over his Beretta. “And your pack.” March gave him that as well, and watched as the other man perused the contents. Satisfied, Saif al-Adel stood and gave him a questioning look. “Food and water? Where are these plans you speak of?”

March smiled and tapped his own head gently with two fingers. An incredulous look spread over the commander's face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold gaze. “Then I hope you have a good memory, my friend. A very good memory indeed, because your life depends on what you have to say today.” He threw the rucksack back toward the American, but held on to the Beretta. “Get in the jeep.”

“And where are we going?”

Al-Adel turned east toward the jagged spires of the Tian Shan mountains. “Up there,” he said.

 

Ryan had called the embassy in Pretoria from the catamaran with a request for transport. There would be hell to pay when Harper found out, but it was the only option open to him. He had briefly considered making the trip without Agency assistance, but knew that the consequences would be far worse if they were intercepted by the police without official cover. In that situation, he wouldn't have put it past Langley to completely disavow any knowledge of their presence in South Africa.

In fact, he wouldn't have expected anything less.

Despite the fact that they had nowhere else to go, Ryan realized they couldn't stay out on the water. The first police officers on the scene would take in the vehicles left on the street and the shattered doors leading out to the beach, and then rightly conclude that an escape had been made by boat. Police cutters would be dispatched with orders to board every small craft in the vicinity, and the larger docks around the bay would be sealed off. Even now, approaching the private dock of the Victoria and Albert Hotel, he could hear the sirens screaming on the other side of the bay.

Looking down at his watch, he estimated that they had at least seven hours to kill, even if the embassy car carried diplomatic plates and traveled south unimpeded as fast as possible. After docking and securing the catamaran, he found blankets in a storage compartment beneath a seat at the stern. These he stuffed haphazardly into his backpack along with more bottled water, sacrificing space for speed. Finally, he turned his attention to Naomi.

She was sitting on a hard wooden bench just aft of the cabin, hugging her knees against her chest and watching him intently. As he walked toward her, though, she pulled away from his outstretched hand.

“Naomi,” he said, impatience in his voice. “There's no time for this. If you don't follow me right now, we're both going to spend a lot of time in a South African jail. You know I wouldn't hurt you. Gray had a gun—he would have killed us both without thinking twice.”

After a moment she held out her hand without speaking. Ryan pulled her up off the bench and they stepped onto the dock, walking hand in hand past the bright lights of the V&A hotel and into the empty streets beyond.

 

The steep roads leading out of the valley gave them the most trouble as the jeep, lacking 4WD capabilities, continued to slide toward the precarious edge of the path. Several times March felt his heart in his throat as the jeep drifted in the deep mud toward the brink and a plummeting drop of several hundred meters to the valley floor. He was terrified of mountains and precipitous slopes, a fear that dated back to his childhood. He felt the cold sheen of sweat on his body and hoped that they didn't have far to go. Fortunately, they soon moved away from the lip of the valley. The route smoothed out when they reached the cut-granite roads leading into the mountains.

Although the heater was going full blast, the air was bitterly cold in the higher regions, pushed along by a howling wind that whipped over the stone outcroppings and drove the frigid gusts through unseen apertures in the vehicle's frame. As the elevation continued to climb, the rain turned to sleet, and then to a driving snow that made progress even more difficult.

“Do you see that?” March followed al-Adel's finger to a small stone structure perched on a rock outcropping at least 100 meters above the road. The building blended into the surrounding mountains so well that he would never have seen it on his own. “It is one of our observation points—only one of several. This is the only passable mountain road for 10 kilometers in any direction. That is why this place was chosen. If the Americans come, we will have ample time to evacuate the camp.”

“It's a good location,” March conceded. He could see that there were other advantages as well; even those cruise missiles with the greatest range, the Tomahawks and the Harpoons, would not be able to reach the landlocked base from the North Sea. Additionally, incoming aircraft would be forced to cross the airspace of numerous countries in order to mount an attack. It would be difficult to get the consent of each government to do so. “It must be hard to direct the organization from here, though.”

Al-Adel nodded in agreement. “The unit commanders have been delegated a great deal of responsibility. Approval for missions is now granted by myself, or by Abu Fatima. You would know him as al-Zawahiri. He is a great man—I have known him for almost twenty years.”

The Egyptian fell silent as he consulted the Garmin navigation system once more. “We're almost there,” he said. The space between the jagged rocks bordering the path began to narrow, and March could faintly hear the low rumble of a diesel engine over the screaming wind. Soon the outline of a track vehicle appeared through breaks in the snow, and then the formidable sight of a 100mm turret-mounted main gun pointed down the road in the direction of the approaching jeep. Al-Adel slowed to a stop and waited as a young man climbed out of the rear hatch and trudged heavily through the snow toward their vehicle, holding an AK-74 rifle and a portable radio. Several words were exchanged between the guard and al-Adel in rapid-fire Arabic, and then the young soldier spoke into his radio.

After the guard had completed a cursory inspection of the jeep, the BMP-3 infantry carrier was rolled back to allow them to pass. The road led into a small clearing contained on three sides by towering granite walls that kept out much of the inclement weather. The clearing was dominated by a large canvas tent powered by a command vehicle and its generator, both of which were miniscule by comparison. Two more soldiers of the Taliban stood guard outside the imposing shelter, but otherwise the clearing was devoid of human life.

After leaving the jeep, al-Adel and March approached the tent slowly, careful to keep their hands in plain view. One soldier checked them for weapons, taking both of al-Adel's while the other stood back and covered the two arrivals with his rifle. Once again a quick conference was held by radio, and then the tent flap was pulled back to allow both men to enter.

 

Ryan and Naomi walked for twenty minutes before he found a suitable location just opposite the predetermined collection point. The alley entrance was just below a recently installed streetlight, and the glare of the bulb made all but the first few feet of the black corridor impenetrable to the eye. The space between the brick walls of the buildings was perhaps 4 feet wide, and dominated by the smell of rotting garbage in close proximity. The stench was slightly quelled by a cool breeze that felt like an arctic wind in the narrow confines of the alleyway.

He moved deep into the dark space before pulling one of the two blankets from his pack and folding it into thirds. He placed the neat square of material on the litter-strewn ground and pulled Naomi down onto the makeshift seat. Then he reached for the second blanket and draped it over her, watching with satisfaction as she pulled the coarse wool around her body. After taking his own seat on the rough cement several feet away, Ryan focused his attention on the road adjacent to the alleyway and tried to ignore the biting cold.

After a few minutes he turned to check on Naomi and found her watching him, the luminous green eyes clearly visible even in the shadowed confines of the alley. He could also see that she was shivering hard, the thick material having fallen down from around her shoulders. Sliding over, he wrapped the blanket even tighter around her, and then pulled her shaking body close to his. After another moment she relaxed and rested her head gently on his shoulder.

“Ryan?”

“Hmmm?”

“When you shot him, did you feel anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it hard for you? I mean, killing someone?”

“Yes.”

“That's a lie,” she mumbled after a moment. He did not respond. “I watched your face when you pulled the trigger…There was nothing there.”

Her eyelids were growing heavy, and she pushed herself tighter into his body as the sleep began to wash over her like a warm sea. “What was the little girl's name, Ryan?”

He felt his muscles stiffen with apprehension. He did not want to remember that, to remember what they had done to her. It had taken so long to forget…

“It's not right, you know. It's not right that you feel nothing when you take a life…” A long pause. “The girl in Bosnia. What was her name?”

“Safiya,” he finally said. Her head was dipped, her face hidden from view. She could not have known the pain it caused him. “Her name was Safiya.”

“Thank you.” The words were so soft that he almost missed them.

Once again he stayed silent, and after a few minutes heard her breathing settle into the soft rhythm of sleep. Looking down, Kealey found her features hidden by layers of lustrous hair falling about her face. Only her nose was visible, the very tip peeking through the black waves. Instinctively, he pulled her even closer, turning his head away from the alley's entrance just as a police car screamed past.

He willed the hours to pass and waited for the image of a young girl's torn body to fade from his mind.

 

The air was warm and thick inside the tent, the combined effects of an overworked space heater and the trapped odor of men who had not bathed in weeks. There was a section separated from the sleeping quarters by a threadbare blanket hung from a wooden pole. The makeshift curtain was not pulled all the way across, and March could see the communications gear set up on a wooden fold-out table. A soldier wearing a headset was seated before the array of equipment.
Monitoring the radio net,
he thought. He'd done the same thing many years before.

There was a flurry of activity in another cordoned section and two men emerged, one with a rifle in his hands. The other carried no weapon, and wore a thick woolen sweater over a linen shirt and wrinkled dress pants. The eyes behind the simple steel-frame spectacles were bleary with lack of sleep, but March could still easily identify the distrustful gaze that was aimed in his direction. The younger man with the rifle watched March carefully as his superior pulled al-Adel aside and began speaking rapid French in forceful tones.