Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Aaron Jansen smiled easily and shook his head in mock disappointment. “Corporal, I’m only about two years older than you are. I keep telling you to cut that out. How are you doing?”

  “Just fine, sir, thank you.”

  Another rueful smile. “Well, I guess there’s no convincing you. I’m just going to get some air…Give me about twenty minutes.”

  “Sounds good, sir. Do you have your identification with you?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay, I’ll call it in, then.” The corporal was attentive to detail, which was how he’d earned his position in the first place. He called in the departure time to the operations center and made a note in his log before opening the electronic gate reserved for pedestrian traffic. “See you in a few, Mr. Jansen.”

  “Catch you later, Corporal.” The secretary passed out into the busy street. He turned left from the embassy and walked down Pretorius, trying his best to avoid the crowded mass of humanity that lined the main artery running through the heart of the city.

  The interior of the cave was tall and wide, but not deep. The only lighting was dim, emanating from oil lanterns that hung from the wet stone of the walls. It was also surprisingly warm, perhaps owing to the large number of young Taliban soldiers who were gathered in the dark space. They cradled small arms in their laps and listened intently, apparently oblivious to the discomfort of the rough dirt floor on which they sat. Each weapon had been cleared before they were allowed into the cave. Their collective attention was focused on the man who stood before them, his voice shaking with emotion as the words echoed in their ears:

  “Praise be to Allah, that he has delivered you, the sons of Mohammad, into my welcoming arms. We ask that Allah forgive our wrongdoings, for He in His Greatness knows that the jihad cannot be fought by one man alone, and that we challenge an immoral enemy whose sins are far greater than ours. We bear witness to the atrocities that have been wrought at the hands of the Zionists and those who seek their alliance…”

  “Omin!” The thundering voices were as one, rippling back over the man who beseeched them in a calm, measured cadence.

  “Have our brothers and sisters not suffered? The children of Palestine, persecuted by the murderous Jews, have they not suffered? And where is the outcry, why is there no fatwa issued? The time of Western imperialism is at an end, my friends—”

  “Yaum al akhir! Omin!”

  March pushed his blond hair up under his raised balaclava and sneaked a glance at the men who flanked him. Al-Adel’s lips were slightly parted, the eyes blazing. He was staring wondrously at the man who held the crowd in the palm of his hand. Turning to his right, March saw that al-Zawahiri was wearing a similar expression.

  It was just beginning to dawn on him that he was in an exceptionally dangerous place.

  “They seek to spread their poison, and their arm grows longer with each passing day. We have been chosen by Allah to crush that arm…We have seen the slaughter in Burma, Fatani, Chechnya, and Bosnia Herzegovina. We have seen our homeland run red with the blood of innocents. They have turned their backs on our holy crusade, my brothers—”

  “Aiwa!”

  “They spit their laughter as though we are nothing—”

  “Aiwa!”

  “We ask Allah to guide us in this time of peril, in this time of hardship. He alone knows what we have endured, and He calls out for vengeance, He seeks to incur His Wrath—”

  “Aiwa! Al Baseer, wa tayyibato!”

  “We place our fate in His hands, for He is the Most Capable, and the Light that we seek. My brothers, Allah wept tears of joy when the Americans lost their twin pillars of debauchery in New York, their monuments to greed and the suffering of His chosen people—”

  “AIWA, SHAYKH!”

  March felt a surge of adrenaline at the man’s words, and the quiet assurance with which they were delivered.

  “My word is the truth, and you will hear it now. We will not rest until our Palestinian brothers have driven the Jews into the sea, and the infidel armies have been routed from the land of Mohammad, peace be unto him—”

  “As salamo alaina.”

  “And this is the only path, for it is said, ‘If you meet those who reject, then strike the necks.’ It is Allah’s will, and He stands behind you in all His glory. There will be much rejoicing by our people when the heathens in the West feel the full measure of His Fury, and so it will be until all Muslims live together as one in His Kingdom. Praise be to Allah.”

  “Subhana Rabbi yal A’la.”

  “Go in peace, my brothers.”

  The gathered fighters jumped to their feet, their shining eyes locked onto every movement of the man as they burst into wild applause. They watched in pure adoration as he climbed down painfully from the elevated stone outcropping at the back of the cave, waving to them like a visiting dignitary, and was immediately surrounded by a cluster of bodyguards, trustworthy veterans whose service dated back to the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan.

  The applause continued to grow even after the speaker had turned a corner and was swept from view. Soon it was an incredible wave, the clamorous noise reverberating from the jagged granite walls like thunder.

  Saif al-Adel wiped tears from his eyes and turned to the American. It was a new look, a side of the Arab that he had not yet seen…In this place, March wore the face of the enemy. He braced himself, waiting for the pain of a knife or a bullet from behind, but there was nothing. A surge of relief coursed through his body as he decided that he was safe for the moment. Belatedly, he pulled the balaclava down to hide his face from the crowd.

  “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 Paraná 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 você se está 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.