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.
