The American

by Andrew Britton

  “I’d say it’s more than a chance,” Naomi put in. “I mean, look at the facts. Gray owns a shipping company that was used to smuggle arms. One of his ships brings explosives into the States, which in turn are used in a terrorist operation by Al-Qaeda. There must be some direct connection.”

  Harper was nodding slowly. “And I’m willing to bet that Jason March is that connection.” He picked up a second file from the floor at his feet. It was a dark brown folder with no markings that Naomi could see. He handed it back to her. “It’s about time you got a look at this, Kharmai.” Kealey shot her a questioning look, but she ignored it and began to peruse the contents as the DDO explained: “That is a complete history of March… everything we know, to be more specific. There isn’t much more than a 201 file. His records were good enough to get him into the military, and once you’re in, no one looks much further.”

  She looked up curiously. Ryan was staring out into the rain. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “I mean that he didn’t exist until he joined the army,” Harper said. Her mouth hung open as she searched his face.

  “That can’t be right,” she said. “The military looks at your birth certificate, your driver’s license, even your secondary-school records, right? How could he just—”

  “Every piece of documentation that he submitted was an invention.” It was Ryan speaking, and she turned to look in his direction. “Filling out the initial paperwork was the risky part, but even then they don’t look too hard — the army has always been desperate for warm bodies. Once he was in, it was all taken as fact. Airborne, Ranger School, Air Assault, Sniper School, the SERE course — that’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape — SF Assessment and Selection… He got into all of it by the strength of his military record, and he succeeded in everything he did. He was a model soldier. There was no reason for the generals signing off on it to doubt any of his personal history before he came into the service.”

  Naomi detected a bitter edge to Ryan’s words, and her conversation with General Hale came flooding back once again: I just didn’t buy into what Kealey was saying… It sounded paranoid… I should have listened to him, though… I should have listened… She was looking through the file. If anything, March’s achievements were even more staggering than his commanding officer’s. The first page listed his MOS as 18 Charlie, or Special Forces engineer sergeant. In addition to the schools that Ryan had mentioned, Sergeant March had completed EOD (Explosives Ordnance Disposal) and was qualified in both Scuba and HALO — High Altitude, Low Opening freefall parachuting.

  When it came to the list of awards and achievements, though, the DD214 was noticeably bare. The highest award that March had earned was the Meritorious Service Medal. Aside from that, there wasn’t much to speak of.

  “If he was such a great soldier, why didn’t he receive more commendations?”

  Ryan had to think for a minute, as it was a good question. “He did okay; he received all the standard medals as you move through the ranks, and any decent E-7 gets the MSM. It’s just that he rubbed a lot of officers the wrong way, and they’re responsible for approving the awards. He was always separate from his peers, never wanted to be a team player. A lot of people didn’t like the way he acted… It made them nervous.”

  Including you, she thought. But Ryan Kealey had looked deeper into March’s mind, had seen what was truly lurking there long before anyone else. He couldn’t be blamed for what Jason March had done seven years earlier, or for the crimes he had committed since. She handed the file back to the deputy director.

  “Now you have an idea of what you’re going after,” he said.

  She managed to keep a straight face, but thought she saw the corner of Ryan’s mouth lift in amusement. Clearly, Harper didn’t know what kind of investigator he had brought into the fold.

  “I want you two in Cape Town to see what Gray has to say. He has a converted warehouse there that he uses as an office and base of operations. He also owns shipping operations in Durban and Richard’s Bay, but Cape Town is the base.”

  He pointed back to the file sitting on Kealey’s lap. “That should contain all the information you need. As you can imagine, Stephen Gray is not a favored citizen since he beat those charges. We have unofficial support from the South African government to conduct this operation. Translated, that means that they will overlook something, but not anything. You got me this time, Ryan?” His voice was steel as he stared at the younger man.

  Kealey nodded deferentially, which was a source of some amusement to Kharmai until Harper fixed her with the same sobering gaze.

  “Let me also tell you that the local police force hasn’t been brought into the loop, and it’s not going to happen anytime soon. They don’t know who you are… It’s worth keeping that in mind. They won’t hesitate to shoot if they think you’re a threat. I’m not saying this for my own health, okay? The nearest U.S. embassy to Cape Town is in Pretoria, which is over 600 miles away. That doesn’t give you a lot of room for error, so you can’t afford to fuck up, because no one has your back.”

  Jonathan Harper turned in the seat to point something out to the driver as they approached the departure gates for Norfolk International, the wet street hissing beneath the tires as the skies finally opened and rain hammered down onto the roof of the vehicle and the approaching road.

  “I almost forgot.” Harper turned back around over the back of his seat to hand them each folders. “These are your passports and driver’s licenses. Congratulations, you now work in Silicon Valley. It should be a substantial salary increase for both of you, if only on paper,” he said with a grin. “Put anything you need on expenses, but don’t forget who’s ultimately accountable, okay?”

  The smile faded from his face as he turned back to business. “There is a reason that I’m sitting here instead of my comfortable little office in Langley. This situation has the full attention of the director and the president, so it has to have our full attention as well. I’m counting on both of you.”

  The small convoy had been traveling northwest for almost eight hours. They were crossing the Dasht-e Lut, the great salt desert that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. When the foothills of the Zagros had finally appeared in the distance, the sight had inspired the young policeman seated in the passenger seat of the second Land Rover to murmur a brief prayer of gratitude. In front of the policeman was the vehicle carrying the man from Al-Qaeda, the air force colonel, and two of his aides. Behind him was the International 4900 driven by the American, carrying the metal container that was bound for the plant at Arak.

  They had passed through the towns of Nikshahr and Bampur, small groups of children waving excitedly as the vehicles carefully navigated the narrow streets. Four hours later, the city of Bam could be seen to the north, causing a man native to the sprawling municipality to cry out excitedly from the backseat. They had traveled only 50 additional miles since the city outskirts had faded from view.

  Earlier in the day, the startling contrasts of the desert had come as a welcome surprise to Ali Ahmedi, who had, until now, spent every one of his twenty-eight years in the streets of Tehran. His views of the Iranian landscape had always been limited to the jagged peaks of Mount Damavand, the highest point in Iran just north of the capital city. He had never experienced the desert until the trip to Beheshti, the immense white cumulus clouds bright against the brilliant blue backdrop of sky, falling down to the razor edge of the horizon where the sand, stone, and dried-out mud of the kavirs began.

  Now the air was cool, and Ahmedi rolled down the window for the breeze as the stars settled in overhead. Soon they would stop, as travel over the sucking mud of the kavir salt marshes was dangerous enough in the daytime, when the path ahead was visible and a judgment could be made.

  His friend and fellow officer of the Komiteh drove the vehicle. In the rear seat were three of the colonel’s aides. As the hours passed, Ahmedi had listened to them with amusement, at first. Then growin
g impatience, and finally, outright annoyance.

  All they could speak of was the American.

  Their conversation was littered with wild supposition and theory; the American was not an American at all, but a European mercenary; the American was a spy for the Great Satan; the American was a killer of the highest distinction, without peer.

  The last one had some merit, he thought.

  Ahmedi had watched the American fix the man of Al-Qaeda with his movie-star good looks and snake eyes, and then move off easily toward the harbormaster’s office. He recalled that the harbormaster had shouted that the warehouse could not be opened, that a truck must be acquired elsewhere. The American had entered the building of corrugated iron, and the harbormaster had not been seen again…

  No one had dared to enter the office afterward. Ahmedi would have said that the man from Al-Qaeda was afraid of the American, and that the colonel and his aides shared the fear.

  The headlights flashed from the truck behind, and the policeman at the wheel of Ahmedi’s vehicle flashed his in turn. The convoy stopped and the engines died. Sleeping bags were pulled from behind the seats as a cool breeze lifted the loose sand into the black night. It was twelve more hours to Arak. They would resume at first light.

  CHAPTER 15

  CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

  Founded in the mid-seventeenth century by Governor Jan van Riebeeck, Cape Town was first given life as a supply station on the Dutch East India Company’s sea route to the East. Over the years the city flourished, occupied first by the British, and then returned to the Dutch in 1803. By 1806, the port was once more in British hands, and soon became the capital of the Cape of Good Hope Colony. When the Union of South Africa was established in 1910, all administrative proceedings were moved north to Pretoria, but the coastal city continued to expand as the diamond and gold mines of the Transvaal provided enormous and lucrative quantities of raw exports. Now, as both the legislative capital and one of the largest maritime ports in the world, it was easy for Ryan Kealey to understand why Stephen Gray would choose to base his company in the thriving commercial and industrial center that marked the gateway to the African continent.

  They arrived in Cape Town at three in the afternoon after traveling almost 8,000 miles, the sun sweltering overhead as Ryan drove their white Nissan X-Trail deep into the heart of the city. Naomi sat in the passenger seat, a large map spread out across her lap as she navigated the way west on the Strand toward the waterfront. Judging from the expression on her face, Ryan knew she was occupied by more than the directions she was giving.

  “Come on,” he finally said. “You’re driving me crazy with that look. What are you thinking about?”

  She turned in the seat, the concern obvious in her face. “I’m worried about how we’re going to handle Gray. I mean, don’t you think we’re just a bit shorthanded here?”

  Ryan shrugged, his attention focused on the road ahead. “He owns one of the largest shipping companies in the country, so he’s obviously an intelligent man. We’ll try to reason with him. I highly doubt he wants to face extradition; it’s a tough sell, but I’m sure the State Department will make the request if Brenneman makes a point of it. I don’t see the South Africans trying to get in the way, do you?”

  “I guess not,” she said. “What if he doesn’t listen to reason? Turn here.”

  Ryan swung the jeep around a corner, swearing under his breath as he narrowly missed sideswiping a smaller vehicle. He was still adjusting to driving on the left side of the road. “I don’t think that far ahead,” he finally replied, turning to give her a small smile.

  They were driving slowly down the narrow streets of the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, known to the locals simply as the V&A. As one of the Cape’s premier tourist attractions, the streets were lined with expensive stores and their patrons, sunburnt tourists trudging along the sidewalks as they struggled under a common load of cameras, daypacks, and shopping bags. The Waterfront had been restored in the late-1980s, and although many of the buildings had been modernized, some still bore the remnants of Victorian industrial architecture left over from years of British rule. Overall, Naomi thought the effect was quite pleasing as the jeep crested a low hill and the sparkling waters of Table Bay came into view.

  “Slow down,” Naomi said. She looked back down at her map. “Take a right here.”

  Ryan turned onto the next street. They were moving away from the bustling center of the commercial district and into the industrial area. The change was subtle at first, marked only by the diminishing number of people on the streets. It wasn’t long, though, before towering warehouses of red brick and cracked gray cement completely replaced the exclusive restaurants and boutiques of the commercial sector.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked.

  She consulted her map once more and nodded slightly toward one of many identical structures. “That,” she said. Parked outside of the warehouse was a silver late-model E class Mercedes.

  “Kind of telling, isn’t it?” Ryan said. “There can’t be too many of those around.” He looked for guards secreted in the alleys bordering each side of the warehouse, but none was visible. “Do you see anything?” he asked her.

  Naomi shook her head, and Ryan accelerated down the street.

  “What do you—”

  “Hold on a second, I’m thinking,” he said. Although the street was well behind them now, the shapes and orientations of the buildings were held perfectly in his mind as he thought about what he would need to begin a loose surveillance… It was some time before he realized he still had an audience.

  “Sorry, Naomi. What were you saying?”

  “It’s not important,” she said. “I’m more interested in what you were just thinking.”

  He sighed heavily as they moved back through the streets bordering Table Bay. “I was thinking that it can’t be that simple. For a known arms dealer, he doesn’t seem to take a lot of precautions. That’s not realistic, though; he has to have protection, and that means an unknown number of armed guards inside the warehouse, plus some kind of alarm system. The best way is to hit him in transit, but that would never fly with Harper — we’re supposed to do this without making a lot of noise.”

  Naomi didn’t respond for a while, the darkening waters of the bay holding her attention as Ryan drove back into the commercial district, the well-lit storefronts passing by on the right, with an impressive view of the water on the left. She absently watched navigation lights move up and down as a number of ships bobbed on the gentle swells of the Atlantic. “Maybe it is that simple,” she said on reflection.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gray beat the government at their own game — he was caught red-handed and still managed to stay out of jail. Now he’s even richer than before. He might just be arrogant enough to think that he’s beyond their reach.”

  “It’s a thought,” he said. “But we have to be sure.” His eyes involuntarily moved to Naomi’s throat, and he suppressed a shudder at what might have been. “I think we’ve already taken enough chances.”

  She didn’t respond as Ryan pulled their rented Nissan into the Victoria and Albert Hotel’s parking lot. They checked in and opted for a light meal on the patio overlooking the bay. Although both were exhausted, they did not refuse when the waiter brought out a wine list along with the menu.

  The meal was excellent, and made all the more so by the sweeping view of the bay below. It seemed as though the water would have gone on forever were it not contained by the fiery red of the sky and the flat tableau of Mount Table held in silhouette against the fading sun.

  Conversation was uneasy at first, but after a while Ryan began to overcome his initial distaste for Naomi Kharmai. He knew that it was partly her looks and partly the wine, but he found himself gradually warming to her as the night wore on. When he thought about the smirk on her face outside the Kennedy-Warren, he considered her lightning reflexes in the bar in Norfolk. When he recalled her lack of gratitu
de, the memory was quickly followed by an image of salt-stained cheeks and a hurried swipe at warm tears in a brightly lit hotel room. Despite the contradictions running through his mind, he couldn’t help but hold her liquid green eyes when they met his across the table.

  Long after the meal was done, the waiter brought them a second bottle of Bordeaux. Naomi drank one glass very fast, then savored another. They spoke about the flight over, and their first impressions of the African continent. As the light receded over the warm stones of the patio, they found themselves talking about their early years in the Agency, although Ryan was more interested in her years in general.

  “I know it’s impolite to ask,” he said with a boyish grin, “but how old are you, anyway?”

  “You don’t have any cards to play,” she responded with a smile of her own. “I already know how old you are.”

  “That’s true,” he conceded. “You seem to know a lot.”

  “That’s why I’m here instead of my little cubicle at Tyson’s Corner,” she said, her eyebrows arching wickedly. “The director thought one of us should know something.”

  He laughed as he lifted the bottle to pour them both another glass.

  “And how old is your fiancée?”

  “Her age for yours.”

  An amused expression came over her face as she set down her glass and considered. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll just have to trust you on this one. I’m twenty-nine. Your turn.”

  “Twenty-nine?”

  Her smile faltered. “Thirty. But, God, twenty-nine sounds so much younger, doesn’t it?”

  He laughed again and held up his end of the bargain. “Katie’s twenty-four. I know that makes me sound bad, but — well, I don’t really have anything to say in my defense. She was my student, which only makes it worse, I guess.”