made… The aggression faded from the eyes of the young men, replaced by a muted fear. Hamza had seen it all.
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.”
CHAPTER 10
BROOKS COUNTY, GEORGIA
In 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,
