The American (8 page)

T
he icy, intertwined limbs of the oak and conifer trees climbed high above the narrow side street running north from Niyavaran Park. The very highest points of the branches dangled heavily before yellow sodium lights that spilled down onto wet pavement shining in the cold drizzle. The light did not spread too far, as if it knew that the darkest corners of the city were best left to their own devices, alone and unrevealed.

Except for the hypnotic sound of the gentle rain, the streets of Tehran were silent as the night grew deep.

Ali Ahmedi, twenty-eight years old, six-year veteran of the
Komiteh
, the Iranian Secret Police, was hunched in the doorway of a dimly lit restaurant. The hood of his anorak was over his head, his breath steamed in the air. By his side, he held the Kalishnikov that could be bought for less than thirty American dollars in the markets at the city center. His weapon was better maintained than most, the bolt free of rust, with a light coat of oil. As soon as he was permitted, he would find a warm, comfortable place on the floor inside and clean the weapon again. Ahmedi took pride in his work, a deep pride that left little time for his wife and infant child. He was particularly pleased with his current assignment, despite the inclement weather. Across the street, a second guard was well concealed in a dark alley. The young officer counted himself fortunate; the alley had no overhead cover, and his friend would be well soaked by now.

Behind Ahmedi, past the grimy windows set in stout wooden frames, beyond the tables and chairs of rough-hewn oak, two men enjoyed a simple meal of lamb kebab and boiled rice.

A third guard drifted through the seating area in the foreground, an Uzi submachine gun slung carelessly across his chest. His eyes, though, were constantly moving over the dark shadows of the room, paying particular attention to the swinging door that led to the kitchen in the rear of the building. The two men and the guard; otherwise, the restaurant was empty.

Saif al-Adel pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, a contented expression settling over his narrow features. His face was almost feminine in appearance, with full lips, a long, straight nose, and pale, flawless skin pulled taut over high cheekbones. He took his time speaking, as was his custom; in the dangerous business that was his, one did not last by making rash comments or hasty decisions.

Hamza watched the man carefully. He was ever cautious of his fellow Egyptian's volatile mood swings. They were difficult to catch; the signs could be as subtle as a small inclination of the head, a narrowing of the eyes. For Saif al-Adel, the word volatile held a different connotation than it did for the vast majority of humanity. Hamza had personally witnessed what the other man's silent rage could lead to. Thinking about it now, he was brought back to an incident that had taken place nearly two years earlier….

And could see it still. The hatred was gone at the moment, displaced by the rapture that always followed a successful operation. Hamza could feel it slinking just below the surface, though; for Saif al-Adel, pleasure and murder were born in the same bottomless pit.

“Hassan, my old friend, you are to be congratulated.” The words were soft and sincere. Despite himself, Hamza felt a strong swell of pride at the compliment. “The American is amazingly proficient.” A brief pause. “He is also obstinate, sullen, and evasive. I do not trust him at all.”

The older man could concede that these descriptions were accurate. He had arrived at the same conclusions long ago. He pulled at his ragged black beard while he framed a response.

“He is useful for what he can accomplish, and for what he can tell our soldiers. He is a gifted teacher; I have seen it with my own eyes. A man who is Western in appearance and mannerisms, but can speak numerous foreign languages with local dialects. A man who is able to instruct our fighters on the use of improvised explosive devices, who can demonstrate sniping techniques out to 500 meters without the benefit of a telescopic sight. Most importantly, a man who does not boast, does not condescend when given the opportunity…What would you call such a man?”

The commander drank hot tea and averted his eyes. The answer was clear, but he did not want to acknowledge the truth of it, because if it was true…If it was true, then he was no longer really in control.

“He is an American,” he spat. “He can only be against us.”

“That is not so, Saif.”

“He cannot be trusted.”

“What more can he do?” Hamza asked reasonably. “How many citizens of his own country must he kill before you place your faith in him?”

Silence for a moment, save for the easy footsteps of the guard moving past empty tables.

Hassan did not want to openly challenge the young commander. To do so would be to invite a bullet in the early-morning hours, when he was curled tight against the cold. Loyalty did not carry far when anger was stirred, and one man finally succumbed to heavy eyelids and the pressure of commanding unruly boys who were not yet men. Maybe it would be the knife, held tight against his throat with his arms pinned tight to his body; the end could come in any number of ways. He did not want to take the chance.

“My friend, I understand your skepticism, because I share it.” Hamza studiously avoided the word fear. “However, there comes a time when you must accept your good fortune, and use it to your advantage. It is a dangerous weapon we use, but with care it can take us far. He was a soldier, he was disgraced; that much is obvious…I know what you want. You want a complete history, you want to know this man inside and out. I tell you now, that is not possible. He is an enigma, by definition. We must accept what Allah chooses to give us, and be grateful.”

A small smile, followed by another sip of tea. This was the dangerous time, when the smile could mean anything. Hassan knew why Saif was suspicious. He had questioned the American for three hours, and was told nothing. At one point, the commander held a pistol to the man's head and denounced him, accused him of spying for the West, but still had elicited no reaction. As dawn approached, he had finally given up in frustration. Hamza could see the man's mind working quickly now, cheek muscles twitching as al-Adel pondered his friend's opinion.

The older man thought that his considered statements had been well received.

“Hassan.” The arms spread wide, the palms open in a gesture of reluctant capitulation. “You are correct, as always. I was wrong to doubt a man that you saw fit to bring into the organization. I have always respected your judgment.” This last sentence was delivered deliberately, Saif's eyes burning into Hamza's face. They were genuine, reassuring words, and his subordinate felt the trust that was given him.

“With your approval, I want to give him full control of the operation in Africa.”

“No, no.” The commander's long arms waved the idea away quickly. “We have exhausted our ability to operate in that region. Since the bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, the Americans have considerably enhanced security at their embassies in the region. Most of their buildings are at least 100 meters away from the street, and the exterior windows are now coated in mylar. There are additional personnel and vehicular searches—in short, another attempt would result in far fewer casualties. I won't waste the infidel on a fruitless endeavor.”

“I agree completely,” Hamza said. It was true; the attacks in 1998 had resulted in the deaths of 213 people in Nairobi. It would be difficult to achieve that success again, and any members of the organization involved in the attack would almost certainly be killed by the marines guarding the perimeter.

“There is much to be gained from this strike, my friend. The support of the Iranians will be invaluable in the future. We will have safe refuge, access to new training camps with decent equipment. We will have money, weapons, volunteers. It is a new beginning for us. There is much to be gained. It cannot fail…

“It might interest you to learn, Hassan, that the American was far more forthcoming with information not related to himself.”

Hamza's brow furrowed as he considered these words. He had not been present for the entire interrogation. “What do you mean? What kind of information?”

“Evidently, our friend Shakib stumbled onto some very sensitive material just after the senator's death. All of his documents are now in our Westerner's hands.”

A small smile played across Hamza's face as he lifted his cup. “And these documents are of interest to us?”

“The American says that it is extraordinary information…He believes that we should take advantage of this opportunity, and I am inclined to agree.

“Take, as an example, the idea of a garden. To keep the garden clean, pure, the weeds must be removed. To destroy a weed, you can burn what is visible, pull at the surface growth, do whatever you wish to no avail. It is necessary, always, to kill the root. The root is protected on all sides, but when the soil has been removed, the root is vulnerable. It is possible, my friend, that the soil has now been removed, and the path is clear…”

Hamza watched as a maniacal glint sparked in the flat brown eyes of the man seated across from him. He knew that, as committed to the organization as he was, he would never come close to matching the fanaticism of Saif al-Adel. For this, he was grateful.

“…for the American believes that in just under a month's time, we will have an opportunity to kill the president himself.”

I
n spite of her frequent complaints, University Hospital in Georgetown insisted on keeping Naomi Kharmai two extra days for observation. That was two days too long in her opinion, but the additional time did give her a chance to run down some information about Peter Hale, the man who had signed Kealey's discharge papers. Through discreet inquiries, she was able to find out that he had retired in 2001 despite having been offered command of the Eighth U.S. Army, which was based out of South Korea. It was a three-star position and would have meant a promotion for Hale, a major general at the time. Naomi wondered how the general's retirement might tie in with Ryan Kealey's sudden departure from the military.

It had not been difficult to convince the deputy director that she needed a few days of convalescent leave. Although she hated to appear weak in front of Harper, she needed the time if she wanted to speak to Hale in person. Finding his home address had been a little trickier, but she was eventually able to track it down through an acquaintance at the IRS.

Naomi suspected, rightly, that Jonathan Harper would not give her any additional information about Kealey or March. She wanted to know more about both men, though, so that she could draw her own conclusions. From an early age, Kharmai had been able to recognize this need within herself, the desire to place people and things into neat compartments with clearly defined labels. Often, she was able to convict others based on their actions alone, and when it was done, it was done; a judgment reached by Naomi Kharmai had all the permanence of the sun's place in the universe.

If General Hale wanted to be left alone, he certainly picked the right place for it,
she thought. She had missed the turnoff once, and had to backtrack along the rutted dirt road that was bordered on both sides by ragged trees and bushes. After about ten minutes, she located the dented black mailbox marked only by the house number. Hale's driveway had been recently paved, but was still almost as overgrown as the main road. The branches scraped against the side of her vehicle as she drove deeper into the dense vegetation.

Suddenly the trees were gone and Naomi's rented Explorer broke into a vast field of wild grass. At the very center stood a large ante-bellum mansion. The front was dominated by a white portico that reflected the red light of the fading sun. The portico was held above the ground by four towering Doric columns, which led in turn to a gabled roof sweeping down to end chimneys that occupied both sides of the house. High windows were shadowed by a trellis overrun with fading vines of blue wisteria, Confederate jasmine, and Lady Bankshire roses. Despite the onset of winter, the pleasant smell of the flowering plants was heavy in the air as Naomi parked the Explorer and walked up to the front door.

Her first knocks went unanswered, and trying the door, she found it locked. Moving around to the rear of the house, she noticed a mud-caked red Chevy pickup parked on a bare patch of ground. Walking over to the vehicle, she placed the palm of her good arm on the hood and felt that it was warm, the engine ticking as it cooled.

“What are you doing?”

She whirled at the voice. Standing before her was a large man wearing a faded-red flannel shirt, brown corduroy pants, and muddy hiking boots. His hair was white and his shoulders stooped with age, but his vivid blue eyes seemed to compensate for the physical toll the years had obviously taken on his body.

“I said, what are you doing?” he asked again.

She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Hi, my name is Naomi Kharmai. I'm looking for General Hale.” The man looked her up and down quickly, and then swallowed her small hand in his. She could feel rough calluses running over her own smooth knuckles.

“Well, you found him. What can I do for you?” he asked.

Naomi held out her credentials, which Hale quickly examined.

“I'm with the Agency, and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about some soldiers that were under your command at Fort Bragg,” she said.

Immediately, his face clouded with suspicion.

“I understand completely if you want to call for verification. The number for the switchboard is—”

“I'll get the number. Follow me.”

He walked around to the rear of the house, a shaded, white wooden porch coming into view. Naomi trailed awkwardly behind, the spiked heels of her knee-high leather boots sinking into the muddy ground.

Hale noticed and laughed heartily. “You picked the wrong shoes for Georgia, Ms. Kharmai.” He reached the screen door of the porch and, to her amusement, held it open for her.

“Why don't you have a seat here? I'll be back in a few. Can I get you anything?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you,” she said. Holding her identification by his side, he walked into the main house, disappearing from sight. She turned her attention to the view before her. The sky was something to see after the heavy clouds moving over Washington; ripples of purple, red, and gold were smeared across the orange sky, the sun dipping low on the horizon. The fields behind the house were empty, but far in the distance she could make out several low-slung clapboard buildings framed against a line of gnarled, ancient trees.

She was startled by the sound of the screen door squealing open on rusty hinges. Hale reappeared with a bottle of beer in one hand. He handed Naomi her credentials and eased his weight into a chair of wrought iron across from her.

“Well, you checked out, young lady. I'm a little confused, though. Seems like you could get any information you needed from John.”

“You know Deputy Director Harper?”

“Oh, sure,” Hale responded, an easy grin spreading over his worn features. “He sent us a lot of good people for some operations we ran in Kosovo and, before that, Iraq. Hell of a guy to have in your corner.”

She nodded respectfully and pointed to the buildings in the distance. “Are those part of your property?”

The general nodded in affirmation. “They used to be the slave quarters. What you're looking at is just a little piece of the land attached to this house. There's over a hundred acres beyond those trees there, mostly empty fields. They used to hold corn, cotton, tobacco, anything that would turn a profit. The plantation was built in 1857 by a Confederate colonel who died at Shiloh. It was actually in my wife's family for over a century, until she passed away three years ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Naomi said, with as much sympathy as she could muster. Hale nodded his head sadly.

“I sure do miss her. This is a lot of space for one person.”

Naomi waited the decent interval, but the general beat her to the punch. “So, what kind of information are you looking for? Is this about Kealey?”

Once again she was surprised. “How did you know?”

“It was just a guess. You've seen the file, I imagine. Everything you need should be in it.”

“Not quite everything,” she said. “Why did he leave? I mean, he made major in eight years. Isn't that good, even for a Green Beret?”

Peter Hale laughed and took a long pull from his beer. “First of all, they don't like to be called Green Berets. That's what they wear, not who they are. And to answer your question, yes, that
is
damn good. Ryan Kealey was going places.” The amiable expression faded from the general's face as he looked out across the fields. His voice lowered, as if to reveal a confidence. “It's a damn shame what happened to him. Was there anything in the file about Bosnia?”

“No. Please tell me,” she said. The tinge of desperation in her own voice was disappointing to Naomi Kharmai, but she knew that Hale was probably her only chance for answers.

“To understand,” he said, “you have to have some idea about what was going on at the time. The Serbs were killing the Muslims indiscriminately, without regard to age or gender. It wasn't just murder, it was torture, mutilation, and gang rape. It was genocide on a grand scale. In 1995 alone, it's estimated that 7,000 Muslims were slaughtered, and that's a low-ball figure. The full measure of what happened there never really made its way into the international press, but Europe hasn't seen anything worse since the Holocaust. So you can imagine, it was a very dangerous time for the American soldiers who were stationed there as part of the NATO peacekeeping force.”

Naomi nodded slowly, her gaze focused on the dark buildings in the distance. “Please, go on.”

“Kealey was there in an advisory capacity only, working under the ground commander, General Wilkes. He was a first lieutenant at the time, if I'm not mistaken, based at Camp Butmir in Sarajevo with the NATO contingent.

“Occasionally, Kealey would go out with the SFOR patrols. There was a young Muslim girl who took a particular shine to him; she might have been twelve or thirteen years old. I can't remember her name; someone told me once, but I've forgotten it now. Of course, I wasn't in Bosnia at the time. This information comes from the soldiers who were on patrol with him. Anyway, there was this girl, a pretty little thing from all accounts. She would bring him chocolate, flowers, that sort of thing. I guess it was a schoolgirl crush. Ryan would always stop to talk with her for a little while. The other soldiers used to kid him about it, said he was leading her on. One day, the girl's mother came out of the house crying, screaming at the soldiers. Turns out the Serbian militia found out that the girl was talking to the Americans. You can guess what happened from there.”

“They killed her?”

“If that was all, then it wouldn't have been so bad. They raped her repeatedly, beat her face in so that she couldn't be recognized, and then disemboweled her while she was still alive. Her mother identified her by a birthmark on her leg, and even then she had to look at the body twice to be sure.”

Naomi shivered once, but it was just the cool breeze coming through the screened walls of the porch. The story did not bother her.

“So Kealey started to ask around. The leader of the local militia was a man by the name of Stojanovic. In truth, he didn't count for much at the time, didn't hold a lot of power. Kealey didn't care; all the fingers were pointing in the same direction. In the end, Ryan went to see the man by himself, against the explicit orders of the unit's commanding general.

“They found Stojanovic two days later. He was sitting in a chair, his throat cut from ear to ear. There were three dead bodyguards in the house, each shot twice in the head.”

The tingle started to ease its way up the taut muscles of her back, but it wasn't the story. The story did not bother her, could not break through her defenses. “And this was in 1995? I thought he didn't leave the army until 2001.”

“He didn't. There wasn't enough evidence to court-martial him, and there wasn't a lot of support for it, either, let me tell you. There
was
a preliminary hearing, but it didn't go far. All the soldiers that were interviewed covered for him. Up until that point, Kealey was a hell of a soldier; his evaluations were nothing less than stellar. There was already talk about giving him a company command, but that incident fucked it all up.” Hale laughed, shaking his head. “Excuse my language. You spend enough time around the troops, that's what happens.”

Naomi gave an understanding smile and pointed at his beer. “I think I will have one of those, if you don't mind.”

The old soldier hopped to his feet. “Sure, I could go for another myself.” When he went into the house, she was left alone with her thoughts.
My God, what kind of man is he?
He had risked his life, thrown away a promising career, all over a little girl who he didn't even know…
Who would go to those lengths?
Although she couldn't appreciate the sentiment in his actions, she recognized that Kealey had risen once more in her regard.

Hale was back out the door, handing her a beer. Reclining in his chair, he took another long pull and looked out across the grassy field. Only the very tip of the red sun was visible; it almost looked as though the horizon was on fire. Turning to look at him, Naomi noticed a thoughtful expression on the man's face.

“You know, Bosnia was Ryan's last assignment before he came under my command at Bragg. Obviously, the rumors about him had already drifted my way before he first came into my office to report for duty. In the military, everybody has a story and everybody likes to embellish the facts. It's easy to conjure up some history because no one knows if it's a lie or not, and there's no way to find out. But I wanted to know, so I asked him straight up—‘Did you kill those four people in Bosnia?'”

Naomi waited expectantly. “And?”

The general turned toward her. His face was hard to read. “Ryan didn't say anything. He just stood up, saluted, and walked out. That was when I knew it was true.”

Naomi shivered again, but the air was still…She was glad that she had taken the time to see Hale. The deputy director would never have given her access to this kind of information. For some reason, she really wanted to know the name of the little girl. It seemed important.

“General, there was something else, wasn't there? Something that happened between March and Kealey—”