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.
“I trust no one more than Ayman. I have heard on the radio of your victories, and he tells me what you have done. He says there is an arrogance in you…” The Director waited for the American to speak, and seemed pleased when he did not. “That is immaterial to me, in any case. By your actions you have demonstrated your loyalty. Allah’s blessings and salutations be with you, my brother.”
“And with you,” he said automatically.
The infamous half smile appeared at the Director’s mouth. “Do you make a mockery of my faith, American?”
A sharp intake of air, but the awkward moment was free of panic. Vanderveen understood fear, even felt it on very rare occasions. Fear of other men, though, had never entered into the equation. “No, Emir. I only wanted to demonstrate my respect. I apologize if I offended you.”
The apology was ignored. “You speak my language well, but there is something of the Helabja Valley in your accent… or perhaps not. Perhaps I am mistaken.”
A long hesitation, which peaked the interest of his inquisitors. Only the truth, Vanderveen decided. They may know more than they’re letting on. “I trained Kurdish insurgents in the Helabja when I was with the army.”
The Director savored another long sip of tea, and gestured from his canteen cup to the American. Immediately, al-Zawahiri poured another cup, handed it to Vanderveen, and then poured a third for himself.
“I understand that you are reluctant to speak of your past. This is the habit of men who have things to hide.”
“I cannot deny that, Emir. However, the things I have seen, the things I know… They could only prove useful to you.”
This sentence was received with a sudden spark of interest. The Director leaned forward slightly, grimacing at the pain in his chest. He caught the American’s reaction.
“Don’t be concerned, my friend. Your countrymen came close three years ago. Too close, but I have changed my ways since then.”
“They are not my countrymen,” he spat.
The Director lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “No? You fought with them. Is that not so? You killed for them. What else could they be?”
Vanderveen ignored the question. By doing so, he knew that he took a tremendous risk. “I assume al-Adel has told you about our friend Shakib?”
The tall man stared at him for a long time before answering. So the arrogance is there, after all. “I was told that he had some information. Nothing more.”
Vanderveen smiled in satisfaction. “It is much more than information, Emir. It is a means to an end. I have in my possession a two-month advance itinerary for the president of the United States, as well as presidential briefings compiled by the American Secret Service.”
Both men stared at him in shock, unable to conceal their amazement. Al-Zawahiri’s head was swimming with the enormity of the statement. It was a few moments before he could put his finger on what was bothering him: it was the way the man referred to “Americans” with detachment, as though they were a separate breed from himself. But this man was an American, was he not? “Why have we not already heard about this?”
A shrug. “It is not the kind of information that can be passed on lightly. Complete security can only be guaranteed in a face-to-face meeting such as this one.”
“You fail to understand, my friend, that these plans would have been changed after Shakib’s death…”
The physician’s words trailed off when he noticed that the American was shaking his head in disagreement. “These documents were neither found nor suspected to be in his possession at any time. They were returned to their rightful place after Shakib made copies, and the originals were never reported as lost or compromised. Give me a sheet of paper, please, and a pencil.”
Al-Zawahiri dug for the items, which he then handed over. Vanderveen propped the paper on his knee and drew a crude calendar, circling the specific dates as he spoke: “As I said, it is a two-month itinerary, beginning in the month of October. As of last week, the president has continued to meet every major obligation outlined on the schedule. We are now in the first week of November. Unfortunately, circumstances have left us with very little time to act. However… I believe that two-and-a-half weeks will be sufficient, if I move quickly. With your approval, of course.”
“And what is it, exactly, that you intend to do?” the Director asked.
Vanderveen looked up into the calm brown eyes of Osama bin Laden and smiled. “On November 26th, President David Brenneman will be hosting formal negotiations with the French president and the Italian prime minister in Washington. I’m going to kill them all.”
CHAPTER 20
TAJIKISTAN,PRETORIA
Deep in the cold bowels of the Tian Shan mountain range, the man known as the American held his audience rapt with the plan that he had carefully conceived over the previous few weeks. It was a plan that would establish Al-Qaeda’s dominance over world events, as well as providing them with a sponsor nation in Iran.
The plan appealed to his audience for these reasons and more.
The three men who sat in the cave shared a sickness. It was a disease that was never spoken of in plain terms, but once disguised as revolutionary fervor, it became a topic of discussion that could hold their collective attention for many hours. The disease could be seen in their shining eyes, and in the rapturous smiles that creased their faces when they talked about the technical difficulties of destroying a city block and murdering the president of the United States, as well as the leaders of two other nations, all at once.
“The most difficult part of the operation is already accomplished,” Vanderveen said. His Arabic was nearly flawless. Eleven years earlier he had been sent to the excellent Defense Language Institute in Monterey, only to be returned to his unit after three months when his proficiency surpassed that of the program’s director.
At the time, he had modestly accepted the man’s praise and a syrupy letter of commendation. Now, deep in the hellish caves, he made no effort to hide his arrogance. “The Iranian is my only concern… Can he be trusted?”
Al-Zawahiri nodded, staring sadly into his empty cup. The thermos had long since run dry, much to his
