The American (15 page)

T
hey began watching the warehouse just before dawn on the third day.

With only two people, it would have been impossible to follow Gray away from the building. Kealey knew that their faces would too quickly become familiar, and security around the businessman would be heavily increased if they were spotted. He wanted the chance to isolate Gray if at all possible. The lost hours in the man's schedule grated at Ryan, but he was reasonably satisfied with their coverage of the warehouse. It was secluded and quiet. Approaching vehicles could be heard long before they turned onto the narrow street running through the maze of industrial buildings that marked this forgotten district of the Cape.

The previous day had been well spent. The shops on the Strand had provided Ryan with better equipment than he could have hoped for. At a small sporting-goods store he had found a good set of Rigel 2350 night vision binoculars. These he purchased, along with two cushioned sleeping bag mats and a backpack. He also stopped at the local CNA grocery store to pick up a case of bottled water. For the other items that were needed, Ryan put in a call to Pretoria. From there, the request was forwarded to Langley and approval was given. Just past three in the afternoon, as Ryan and Naomi were finishing lunch in awkward silence on the terrace, the delivery was made by diplomatic courier. The parcel, opened in the privacy of Ryan's hotel room, contained the Tait Orca encrypted radios and earpieces that he had specifically requested.

It also contained a P22 Walther handgun complete with a 5" modified barrel, the extended muzzle threaded for the heavy Dalphon suppressor that lay next to the weapon.

Ryan didn't need the radios or the pistol yet. They had parked the Nissan several hundred meters away and approached from the north, winding their way through a labyrinth of buildings before reaching the aluminum fire escape of the building opposite Gray's. Naomi was shivering violently as they climbed the ladder and settled in on the roof, sliding their way forward to find the best view of the warehouse below. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the silver Mercedes glided up next to the curb. Ryan checked his watch: 7:15
AM
. Gray seemed to be fairly consistent in his habits.

They watched as the driver got out of the vehicle and walked around the car, looking up and down the street as he moved. He was a large white man with a shaved head, a neat goatee, and more fat than muscle. His poorly fitted suit stretched at the seams, and even at a distance, Kealey could spot the bulge beneath the man's left armpit. The passenger door was opened and the second occupant of the vehicle stepped out onto the street.

It was Ryan's first look at Stephen Gray. He was small and neat, deeply tanned, and clean-shaven, with a full head of closely trimmed silver hair; the man wore his wealth well. Ryan watched the driver walk several steps ahead of his charge, the right hand held beneath his jacket as his eyes searched the surrounding buildings. The front door to the warehouse was pulled open, and Ryan could see the big man pause inside the threshold as though disarming a security system. It was clear that the driver knew his job. It would be better if he was poorly trained, but Ryan knew that it could have been worse. He was relieved that Gray didn't seem inclined to travel with a large entourage, as was the habit of so many other rich men.

Once the door closed behind the two men, the warehouse was still for hours. No movement could be seen through the small metal-framed windows at the front of the building. As the sun rose and beat down on the pebbled surface of the roof, Naomi began shifting her body impatiently and casting little glances in his direction. Finally, she sidled over next to him slowly.

“Can I talk?”

“Quietly,” he said.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Her body was very close to his.

“Until nightfall.”

Ryan heard her mumble something under her breath, and turned to look in her direction. She was drinking bottled water, and a few drops spilled down onto her chest. His eyes involuntarily followed the path of the drops, moving down from her face to the thin sheen of sweat on the graceful curve of her neck, and then over small, firm breasts straining against the damp cotton of her T-shirt. He caught himself and looked away quickly, forcing his attention back to the warehouse below. He angrily wiped sweat out of his eyes and drank from his own water bottle.

Naomi was watching him carefully. She edged a little closer, so that their legs were touching and her shoulder was pressed lightly against his. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I'm sorry about what happened the other night. I was way out of line, and I probably drank too much…It didn't mean anything, okay? It won't happen again, I promise.”

Her tone was anything but apologetic. He eased his body away from hers slightly in turn. “It was as much my fault as yours. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” He looked up into her face, inches away from his own. “You're right. It didn't mean anything, and it's not going anywhere. That's all that has to be said.”

She held his gaze for a few seconds longer, as if measuring his sincerity, then slowly slid her mat back to its original position as Ryan turned back to focus on the building below.

Just after one in the afternoon, a battered white scooter screamed up to the entrance of the building. A young African male hopped off and kicked hard on the door. It was cracked open slightly. A large bag was thrust in through the opening, and the delivery boy received a fistful of rand in return. The money was stuffed down into his dirty jeans before the tires spun in the street and the scooter whined away.

The hours continued to pass as the vibrant sounds of the Malay Quarter drifted over the rooftops from the east. After the few words spoken earlier in the afternoon, Ryan cast two more quick glances in Naomi's direction. Both times he could see clearly the anger and hurt in her face. He was beginning to regret capitulating so easily to Harper's request that she be brought along.

Finally, the air began to cool as dusk settled over the weary city. Ten minutes after the streetlights came on, the heavy door of the warehouse was pushed open. The big man emerged first, the right hand once again shielded from view inside his jacket. He surveyed the street, then turned and nodded as Gray followed him out, pausing only to set the alarm once more. Ryan checked his watch again. It was just after 8:00
PM
. He waited for five minutes after the Mercedes had driven off before standing up on the rooftop, gratefully stretching sore muscles as he shook out a day's worth of inactivity.

“Well, that was time bloody well spent,” Naomi said. Kicking at her water bottle, she watched as it bounced over the surface of the roof, scattering small rocks along the way. Ryan looked over as she leaned down to rub at a cramp in her thigh.

The sarcasm rubbed at his nerves, but he held his temper as he rolled up his mat and packed it neatly into the backpack. “You're right. It
was
time well spent,” he said in a neutral tone. She threw him a withering look and he rose from his crouch to point down at the warehouse. “Now we have some idea of what we're looking at. Gray only has one guard, but he's a professional. Did you watch him get out of the car? He kept the door open and the engine running while he checked the street, and his eyes didn't stop moving the whole time they were in the open, which was about fifteen seconds.”

She looked a little less certain of herself as he went on, seemingly speaking more to himself than to her. “They're careful about setting that alarm. We can't get in at night and wait for them unless I ask Harper to send me somebody from Technical Services. Somehow, I don't think he'll jump at the idea.”

“So what do you think?” she asked.

He shook his head absently as he picked up her belongings and added them to the pack. “We'll keep looking, for now. Time is a factor, but we need to do it right. We'll get an opportunity sooner or later.”

Standing up, he began to walk over to the fire escape, Naomi trailing along dejectedly as she pondered days on end of lying in the heat looking at nothing more than bricks and mortar. She didn't see the small smile that played over Ryan's face as he swung his leg over the edge of the roof.

“You know something?” he said. “I think I'd like to see what's on the other side of that building.”

A
lmost 2 miles above the desert floor east of Tehran, the Mi-26 cargo helicopter swept toward Mashhad at speeds approaching 170 miles an hour. Mashhad, however, was not its destination. Instead, the helicopter would set down at the makeshift airfield south of the Atrak from which March had first entered the country almost three weeks earlier. On arrival, the four auxiliary fuel tanks would be replaced, and the helicopter, designated as HALO by the Soviets who had so thoughtfully provided it, would continue northeast over the border and deep into the sparsely populated floodplains of Turkmenistan.

Jason March, sleeping lightly in a seat reinforced with ceramic plating, was one of two passengers on the flight. The other passenger sat across the wide, empty aisle, and stared out into the impenetrable night as a number of thoughts churned through his mind.

Saif al-Adel was, if nothing else, a pragmatic individual. This mind-set had been constantly reinforced by his discovery of many years ago: that whispered words of friendship could solve almost any problem. Especially when those words were followed by a bullet. Over the years he had taken more lives than he could count, both directly and indirectly. Now, for the first time in his life, he was imbued with the idea that his own future might rest in another man's hands. The thought did not sit well with him.

If he was to choose poorly here, all of his past achievements would quickly be forgotten. The accomplishments were many, and he was proud of each in different ways. He recalled his early years as a volunteer in the fledgling Islamic Jihad movement, one of many ignorant youths shouting slogans in the dusty streets after the assassination of Anwar Sadat.

That he could see the truth of his world at twenty years of age was a constant source of pride for Saif al-Adel.

After that came deeper involvement and growing responsibility as the lesser candidates returned to the mundanity of everyday life that was children, work, and fastidious saving so that they might pretend to be something other than sheep for one week a year on the overcrowded beaches of Quseir.

Saif would rather die than be commonplace. Time and time again he had proven his courage and leadership. He remembered a crowded storage facility on the Indus River, nervous laughter as the command wires were routed up toward the driver's seat on a warm November afternoon. He remembered embracing his subordinate, the man who would drive the vehicle into the embassy at Islamabad, and he recalled the silence that hung over the room with the harsh smell of cigarette smoke as they waited for word of his success.

Thirteen dead on that attempt, but they missed the ambassador to Pakistan. A minor victory, nothing more. In 1996, a major role in the bombing of the Khobar Towers complex, which set the stage for his greatest personal accomplishment to date. After Khalil's unexplained death on a dusty mountain road in Syria, an opening higher in the organization had become available. The success in Dhahran brought the name of Saif al-Adel to the Director's attention. Word filtered down that he had been noticed, that he was to be given operational command for two simultaneous strikes, attacks on foreign targets that would bring the West to its knees.

At first he had made a show of his doubt, and used it to shield his personal desire. Like any man without a conscience, he was a natural actor.
I am far too young,
he had said.
The chance will go to a proven leader.
The commanders quietly praised his modesty and self-effacement. Then the summons came, and it was in his nature to view the choice not as a reward, but as an opportunity. For almost two years afterward he had made the preparations. The painstaking acquisition of almost 1,300 pounds of TNT, the rental and false registration of the numerous storage facilities where it would be stored, the training and motivation of the bombers who would meet Allah without knowing what they had accomplished. All of it lay on al-Adel's shoulders, and it had been a major victory against the infidels. The operation had resulted in 224 dead, including dozens of Americans.

His mind snapped back to the present as the helicopter shook with the power of the twin Lotarev D-136 turbines that drove the massive, eight-blade rotor overhead. All that he had accomplished would mean nothing if the American was not what he seemed. Despite the narcissism that rose to dizzying heights within his own mind, al-Adel was not immune to his own faults. He could see that he wanted to impress the American by granting him the audience he had requested. For that, al-Adel could stand to blame himself. The Director did not appear on a whim; he was constantly on guard against the U.S. soldiers creeping east over the parched landscape, the newest brood of Afghan soldiers loyal to the West, and the inevitable traitors within his own organization. To ensure his presence, a valid reason must be given to justify the risk of exposure.

This he had explained to the American, and the reason was a plan. For Saif, that simple explanation was enough. He had been stunned when the news came that 92 lay dead outside the Kennedy-Warren, and knew at once that he had underestimated the man's capabilities. Al-Adel had greater faith in the American than he would have admitted to.

He believed that the man could get to the president. He also knew that an operation of that magnitude would require the Director's approval. It was on the hinge of this knowledge that al-Adel made his decision. If the plan was not worthy, and the American was not congratulated for his brilliance, then Saif would personally drag him out of the camp and shoot him before receiving his own bullet.

With this comforting thought, Saif al-Adel joined his fellow passenger in a dreamless sleep as the helicopter cut fast through the night toward the shimmering waters of the Caspian Sea.

 

Goddamn Ryan Kealey.
Naomi was on the roof once again, and the sun was just as merciless as it had been the day before. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. She had spent most of the morning cursing Ryan under her breath, while periodically checking to make sure that her radio wasn't transmitting. He had rented the 20-foot catamaran early in the day, but then relegated her to the roof once more after explaining that it wasn't enough to cover one side of the building.

Easy for him to say,
she thought.
He's out on the water with a decent breeze and I'm stuck baking up here.
The silver Mercedes had arrived on cue in the morning and had not moved since. Even the delivery boy had failed to make his sole contribution to the day's events. Naomi felt her body growing numb from inactivity as the minute hand on her watch continued its endless circle.

The hours of silence were painful to her. It would have been better if she'd been able to talk to Ryan, but his orders had been strict: stay off the radio unless you have something to report. She knew herself well enough to admit that Ryan's imperious behavior was not the real reason for her current mood.

She forced his face out of her mind and tried to concentrate on the building below. She felt herself drifting as the hours passed, and it was with a start that she looked up to see the heavy doors of the warehouse crack open. The night had moved in, and a full moon cast a brilliant light down over the empty street, clearly illuminating the face of only one man.

One man. It was the guard, and Naomi watched as he carefully pulled the door closed and locked it behind him. He walked quickly to the Mercedes, unlocked the door, squeezed his heavy frame into the car, and drove away. Naomi felt the excitement rise in her chest as she groped back across the rough surface of the roof for the radio.

 

The cold gray waters of Table Bay lifted the large boat on the gentle swells as Ryan stood at the helm, staring toward the line of warehouses jutting up from the rocky shore. His attention was focused on the only building still illuminated at this late hour, although no motion could be seen from the brightly lit interior.

He was startled back to reality by a sudden burst of static from the radio resting on the instrument panel inside the covered cockpit.

“Ryan, pick up.” He heard the urgency in her voice and reached quickly for the handset.

“Go ahead.”

“The driver's gone,” she said, her excitement penetrating through the harsh static. “He just drove off by himself…Did you hear me? He's gone. What do I do?”

Ryan's mind moved rapidly as he considered the options. “Okay, listen carefully. Go get the jeep and pull it around to the front of the building. Wait in the front seat and pull out the map like you're looking for something. If the driver comes back, hit the Selcall button twice. The radio won't make any noise on your end, but I'll get the message. Then get the hell out of there.” A beat while he thought. “Make sure you bring that pack down with you. You got all that?”

“Got it.”

Ryan slid the radio into his coat pocket and moved quickly back to the stern of the boat. Ripping the tarp off the small rubber dinghy, he hooked up the power cord to the portable crane and started the generator before undoing the tie-downs that secured the smaller craft to the catamaran. Looking up and across the water, he could see that the incongruous French doors tucked into the rear of the renovated warehouse were still open to the cool night air. They'd never get a better chance, he decided.

 

Naomi was racing through a tangled web of dark alleyways, her pounding footsteps echoing loud in the narrow space between the buildings. She fumbled for the keys as she reached the Nissan, tossed her pack into the back of the vehicle, and slid onto the cold leather of the driver's seat. The temperature had dropped rapidly after sunset, and she found herself shivering as she started the engine and pulled the jeep out of the secluded alley.

 

The dinghy bounced over the gentle waves, Ryan wincing at the loud rumble of the 40 hp outboard motor churning up the water behind him. He shut down the motor after a few hundred meters and let the momentum of the boat carry him into shore. Jumping out, he pulled the dinghy up behind him, almost slipping on the wet rocks beneath his feet as he moved up the beach toward the open doors.

 

Naomi turned off the headlights as she turned the corner and braked to a gentle halt on the street opposite Gray's building. The road was still clear as she unfolded the map and nervously fingered the radio lying by her side.
Hurry up, Ryan.

 

Kealey passed through the double doors, the Walther up as he moved into the warehouse. Light from the fluorescent bulbs positioned far above erupted over the white-painted brick walls, reaching down to touch and illuminate a shining floor of lacquered oak.

Stephen Gray, seated behind an immense desk in the center of the room, was reclining comfortably in his chair, sipping at a cut-crystal glass of Chivas. He was startled by a shadow moving over the mirrorlike surface of his desk, and looked up as the dark figure entered the room.

He immediately knew that he would not survive the encounter. His buildings had been raided by the authorities many times before, but this was not how the police came, through the back entrance with silenced pistols and shadowed faces. He began to tremble as his right hand inched toward the second drawer of his desk.

He tried to recall if the revolver it held was loaded.

Ryan moved quickly to control the situation. “Stephen Gray,” he said in a low, calm voice.
Reason,
he thought.
Reason with the man.
“It's nice to finally meet you. I have a few questions, if you don't mind. Stay still and keep your hands on the desk.”

“Fuck you.” Gray's face was twisted in anger and defiance. He started to get to his feet.

Kealey saw that reason wasn't going to get him anywhere. He moved fast around the desk before Gray could stand and put his foot hard into the man's chest.

The chair flipped backward and Gray fell violently to the floor, the air crushed out of his lungs. Gasping for breath, he got to his hands and knees before Kealey's foot slammed up into his stomach.

Gray felt his ribs crack on the second blow, and tried to curl himself into a protective ball as his vision blurred. Despite the nauseating pain, he could feel the barrel of the pistol being pressed into the base of his skull.

“I
want
to pull this trigger,” Ryan snarled. “You have one chance to save yourself.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wrinkled picture, dropping it unceremoniously in front of the businessman's face. “How do you know this man?”

 

The silver Mercedes came fast around the corner, screeching to a halt right in front of the Nissan 4x4. The air caught in her lungs as Naomi reached for the radio and furiously punched the Selcall button. She tried to focus on the map, but the heavy driver was already out of the car, holding a bulging sack of takeout in one hand and tapping on her window with the other. The suspicion was plain in his face before she even began to lower the window.

 

“I swear it's the truth!”

“I don't believe you.” Ryan's finger tightened on the trigger as he pressed the cold metal harder against the man's head. “That's the only name he's ever used with you?”