The American (12 page)

As the police officers secured the building, several returned from the back room with pale faces and immediately looked in Kealey's direction. Confusion seemed to rule the day, but it wasn't long before a consensus was reached, and a nervous officer put handcuffs on Ryan Kealey at the behest of the person now in charge, Captain Gina Nolan of the Norfolk Police Department.

“W
hat the hell were you thinking, Ryan?”

Kealey and Harper were seated in the sterile interrogation room at Norfolk Police Headquarters. The irony was not lost on Ryan as the DDO questioned him from across the cold metal table. “I had to pull a lot of strings to get you out of this. I thought I told you to use kid gloves. Does that phrase mean anything to you?”

Kealey's gaze drifted across the bare walls as the other man glared in his direction. “I realize it didn't turn out the way we—”

“Ryan,” Harper's voice lowered, even though the door was closed and there was no one else in the room. “Elgin had a lot to say about you. If he starts talking to the press, even the director won't be able to contain the shit storm. Rightfully, this operation should have landed on the DEA's doorstep. You went too far with him.”

Kealey looked to the upper corner of the room and saw that the camera used to monitor interrogations was disconnected, the wires hanging loose against the wall. He wondered why he had checked. “You said that the president cleared this, John. I did what was necessary.”

“Bullshit!” Harper tossed several photographs onto the table. “Pictures don't lie. The Bureau can't pressure Elgin because we have this hanging over our heads. In other words, we can't force his hand because you took away our only leverage.”

“John—”

Harper held up his hand to silence the younger man. He stared at Ryan intently for a moment before quickly looking away. “Ryan, you went too far,” he repeated. The anger was gone from his voice, replaced by a weary resignation. “The director wants you out, and he's going to get his wish if Elgin doesn't open up. The State Department sent some people over to talk to the little bastard, but so far they're coming up empty. I need you to give me some good news, because I've called in all my debts.”

“The boat that the explosives came in on is called
Natalia
; it's a 25,000-ton container ship registered in South Africa. It has a regular route, making stops in Marseille and Rosslare in the south of Ireland before heading over to our East Coast.” Ryan looked up to catch Harper's incredulous expression. “Jesus Christ, John, I didn't go in there to make idle threats. This is what we needed, and now we have it. We don't have time to waste with gentle persuasion, you said so yourself.”

“Well, why the hell did you keep me hanging on? This might be enough to save you—did he identify March?”

Kealey sighed and shook his head wearily. “I knew he wasn't going to be able to. If Shakib had told March about the situation, then Elgin would be in a dirt-covered hole somewhere and we wouldn't have gotten this far. I told you before, March is not given to making mistakes. He doesn't believe in loose ends.”

The irony of this statement was immediately apparent to Jonathan Harper. Clearly, Jason March's biggest mistake to date was not killing Ryan Kealey on that Syrian hilltop seven years earlier. But that thought had come unannounced, and it was incredibly disloyal. He felt ashamed that he had identified with a killer, even if only for a moment. It went against everything that he valued.

Ryan watched a myriad of emotions cross the other man's face and wondered what he was thinking.

With Kealey's contribution, the tension was gone from both men. It was still an interrogation room, though; the cold gray walls felt closer by the second, the scarred metal desk screamed confessions, and the disconnected camera seemed to watch over everything with an unwavering eye. Ryan was tired of it. He thought of Katie and for a moment felt better, lighter.

“I think I've done enough for today, John. Can you get me out of here, or did you just come down for the conversation?”

A sly grin eased itself across the older man's face. “Who do you think you're talking to, Junior?”

They departed the Norfolk Police Department less than a half hour later, both men down low in the backseat of a Chevy Suburban almost identical in appearance to Adam North's. The heavily tinted windows shielded the occupants from the view of the few reporters savvy enough to stake out the department motor pool.

“I should have asked before, but how's Naomi doing?”

“She'll be fine,” Harper said. “North ran her over to the De Paul Medical Center. They stitched her up okay and gave her something for the pain. She's checked into the Marriott Waterside. That's where I'm taking you.”

“John—” Kealey started to protest, but was cut off just as fast.

“Ryan, you got what we needed. I want you to get some rest, because you'll probably be moving out again tomorrow, depending on what we dig up. Everything else that needs to get done today is on my side of the fence, and if I show up at the DEA division office with you in tow, it's going to cause more problems than it will solve. They aren't too happy with you right now.” Kealey nodded his head in reluctant agreement as the vehicle turned onto Waterside Avenue.

“I'll call for you tomorrow morning,” Harper said as the vehicle slowed to a halt next to the hotel. Ryan moved to climb out, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You got what we needed, Ryan, and all three of you walked out. That's the important thing. Go talk to Kharmai; North said she looked pretty down when he left her.”

“What happened today wasn't her fault, John. It was mine. I told her she could trust me, and then that bastard got to her with a knife…She has a right to be upset.”

“Hey, she's only alive because of what you did for her in Washington, okay? Keep that in mind. She should be grateful to have you around. Go get some sleep.”

Ryan gave a mock salute and Harper couldn't help but smile as the Suburban pulled away from the curb. As he went through the process of checking in, Ryan began to realize how tired he actually was. It was hard to believe he had woken up with Katie just twelve hours earlier.

The elevator stopped on the third floor and he got out, looking down at the scrap of paper that Jonathan had pressed into his hand.
Room 305.
There. He looked down at the dirt on his ragged jeans from where he had hit the floor in the bar, and realized that he probably looked like hell.
Oh well,
he thought,
at least I have a decent excuse.

Naomi Kharmai was curled into a tight ball on the bed, a white cotton bathrobe loose against her bare skin. The room was completely dark, but her eyes were wide open, staring fixedly into the empty space. After North had taken her back to the hotel, she had showered once, then again, and then a third time, the hot water beating down as it burned over the closed wound on her left thigh. Now, with nothing left to distract her, the scene played over and over in her mind. She was moving toward the bar, confidence in her stride, the Glock steady in her hand. She could see her own face from a distance, the fierce determination, the set of her jaw. Then she was facing Ryan, the sharp blade biting into her throat as Elgin whispered filth into her ear:
I'm gonna cut you and fuck you, bitch.

Cut you and fuck you
…She sobbed once, a loud, dry sob that vanished into the empty room. There was a knock at the door.

“Naomi, it's Ryan.” She didn't answer. “Naomi, just let me talk to you for a minute.”

The door handle jiggled, but she didn't get up to let him in. After a minute or so, she heard a strange clicking sound. Ryan pushed his way into the room and turned on the light.

She sprang up, hurriedly wiping hot tears from her eyes. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” she yelled angrily. “If I wanted you to come in I would have opened the fucking door!”

He raised his hands in surrender. She took in his dirty jeans, the black T-shirt tight over his chest and arms, and the most recent addition: a thin, looping scar that ran down the left side of his face. He must have come straight from the police station. She felt something that only heightened her anger and confusion.

“Look,” he said, “I just wanted to check on you. I'm glad you're okay.”

“No thanks to you,” she sneered. “Nice job shooting me, by the way. No harm done…Maybe they'll give you another medal.” Sarcasm usually came easy for her, but it didn't feel right this time, and she felt a small tinge of regret as soon as the words left her mouth.

He stared at her in disbelief. The catlike green eyes were wide in anger, but he could see the glistening tracks down her cheeks and the red irritation at the corner of her eyes. For all of that, he couldn't help himself. “What do you mean, another medal?” he asked slowly.

From the expression on his face, she knew that she was caught. He moved toward her slowly until he was standing only a few feet away. His face was as blank as it had been when he emerged from the stockroom at the bar.

“Listen to me,” he said in a low voice. Naomi took a step back involuntarily. “I'm sorry for what happened to you today, but stay the hell out of my personal life. You have no right to dig into my past. Keep it up, and I'm done looking out for you.”

Then he was gone, disappearing into the hallway. She didn't move for a few moments as a number of emotions passed over her face. Finally, she went to shut the door after him.

S
outheastern Iran, on the Makran Coast overlooking the Arabian Sea.

Far to the north, the peaks of the Zagros can be seen towering over the arid landscape. Apart from the size, the mountains and the land below are almost indistinguishable.

He stood on the black tarmacadam that was sticky beneath his feet. Now easing into November and almost 95 degrees Fahrenheit, the air thick in his nose and mouth. His frustration was exacerbated by the people standing in the near distance, the air force colonel sent by Mazaheri, and the aides who smirked and stood with jutted chins and arrogant eyes as they basked on the fringe of his power. There were the two young members of the
Komiteh
as well, the ever-present AK-47s slung across their chests. Hassan Hamza stood with them, speaking in quiet tones to the colonel, his eyes moving with ill-concealed disdain over the young men who surrounded the senior officer. They had been talking for twenty minutes, and there appeared to be little progress.

The impatience was not visible in March's face or the carriage of his lean frame. He stood quietly and stared out to sea as the argument carried on behind him.

They were in the port city of Bandar Beheshti, less than a 100 miles from the Pakistani border. The men stood in the shade of one of the open warehouses. It was not a large harbor, with only four berths and four jetties, each of which held two mobile cranes. There was an electric evacuator for the discharge of grain from a container ship, and the chain-wheel cranes, of which there were two, rolled well in from the edge of the macadam. A pair of ancient forklifts also occupied the broad expanse of black asphalt.

Besides the four open warehouses, there were two sheltered structures and the harbormaster's office, which was little more than a shed of corrugated iron. Surrounding the port, nothing but razorsharp strands of concertina wire and empty space.

He heard voices rising, and he turned toward the group of men. Hamza was stalking angrily in his direction, the colonel shouting at his back. The Egyptian wiped beads of sweat from his brow as he approached, his mouth curled into a snarl beneath the heavy mustache.

“Those bastards!” he hissed. “They understand nothing. In Tehran, everything is a phone call away. It is not that easy here.”

“What's the problem?” March asked.

“There is no truck. There is no way to move the cargo, but we cannot leave it, not even in the closed warehouses. It is many miles to Arak, it is a mountain pass…We must have a truck.”

“Did you speak to the harbormaster?”

Hamza waved his arms in frustration. “I asked if there was a vehicle in the secure buildings. He would not say…”

Hamza stopped talking. The laughter of the colonel's aides was shrill in his ears. The gleaming eyes had moved away from his face and were focused on the office that lay across the stinking heat of the asphalt.

 

Less than five minutes later, Jason March emerged from the dull metal structure. He was wearing a faint smile. A small silver object caught and reflected the sunlight as it dangled from the fingers of his right hand.

“A key. So there
is
a truck,” Hamza said as he joined March at the locked sliding door of the second warehouse.

“If there was not a truck, then that is what he would have said,” was the flat response.

Hamza stared at the harbormaster's building and noticed that the colonel and his aides were doing the same. The laughter had stopped, and the aides silently sulked around the Iranian officer like scolded children. The heavy door was lifted to reveal the vehicle, an International 4900 4x2. March hopped into the cab and began to dismantle the plastic housing surrounding the steering column. The engine roared to life a few minutes later.

“Unfortunately, he only had the key to the warehouse,” March explained. “It will be an inconvenience, but only a minor one.”

Hamza did not reply, only turning once more to look at the office that was like a mirage in the heat of the afternoon.

A technician had accompanied the group, a former dockworker who was skilled in the use of a mobile crane. The 20-foot container waited patiently on the second jetty, the ship having departed many hours ago. The truck was reversed onto the jetty, the container was loaded. It would be a long journey, but they were not expected for several days. They had all the time in the world.

 

Ryan Kealey woke to the ringing of the phone on the nightstand. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand, he picked up and answered with the other. Looking out of the window, he could see dark clouds hanging over the bay and hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance.

“Ryan, it's Harper. I'll meet you and Kharmai out front at ten. Be ready for the airport—we got a hit. I think you're going to like this.”

“Okay, I'll be downstairs.” He hung up and went into the bathroom. He had fallen asleep almost immediately after entering his room the night before, but after showering and shaving, he was beginning to feel halfway human again. There was a tap at the door just as he finished getting dressed.

Naomi stood in the hallway. Her face was nearly contrite, but not quite. She looked almost as stunning as she had the day before, wearing a thin cashmere sweater and a pair of dress slacks to cover the bandage on her thigh. Her face was drawn, though, and her eyes shadowed as though she had slept poorly. She started to speak and then hesitated. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Come on, I'll buy you breakfast.”

He couldn't tell if that was supposed to be some kind of apology, but he shrugged and followed her down to the ground floor. The restaurant seemed to be pretty decent, and he was surprised to see that it was almost completely empty. They took a seat as far away as possible from the other guests, and soon he was enjoying a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. When she ordered only a blueberry muffin, he smiled and she caught it.

“What's that look for?” she asked. “I'm on a diet.”

He shook his head. “You know a diet is the last thing you need,” he pointed out. “And I resent you making me say that, by the way. I'm engaged, you know.”

She grinned and pushed her plate away. Leaning forward in the chair, her long fingers moved uncomfortably close to Ryan's as she spoke. “Listen, I apologize for last night, but only to a certain extent. I don't think I'm getting fair treatment here. It took quite a bit of digging for me to get up to speed on information that you and the deputy director should have been willing to give me up-front.” He didn't answer and she went on. “The whole point of this is to track down Jason March, but you haven't told me the first thing about him. I know that you were a soldier, Ryan. I know what he did to you and your men.”

He closed his eyes and tried to contain his reaction.
How did she find out?
It was immediately clear to Ryan that he hadn't given Naomi Kharmai enough credit. The only question was what to do about it now. He opted for conciliation.

“It seems like you know everything,” he said. It was a struggle to keep his voice light. “What else can I tell you?”

Naomi thought she was fairly adept at gauging mood, and sensed that now would not be a good time to mention Bosnia. Shrugging her shoulders, she reached over to steal his glass of orange juice. “Well, I'd like to know what we're trying to accomplish. Clearly, March is associated with the Iranians and Al-Qaeda, so they're definitely working together. We know what the Iranians want. What about Al-Qaeda—do you think they're going after the same thing?”

Ryan shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “If they use a nuclear weapon, or even manage to acquire one, then they're finished. They'll lose most of their state-sponsored support due to fear of sanctions imposed by the U.N. or, even worse, American military retaliation. I'm sure these thoughts wouldn't readily occur to Al-Qaeda's leadership, but that's the reality of the situation. They've made a lot of contradictory statements about their attempts to purchase nuclear material.”

“What about Iran?”

“Well, if we find out that Iran has a weapon, they can just claim it's for national defense. Then they'll make some minor concessions to make it easier to swallow. The OSCE and the U.N. won't like it, and neither will we, but the North Koreans have already discovered that we're willing to let a lot slide as long as you keep it on your side of the fence. That's why Brenneman is so intent on stopping them before they get that far. Once they have a weapon, our options obviously become more limited.”

She smiled and popped a piece of muffin into her mouth. “It's pretty clear that you're not an expert on foreign policy,” she said.

“That's true enough,” he replied with a grin of his own. “But the fact remains that Al-Qaeda is more likely to retain their grassroots support and the flow of small arms and money into the organization if they stay away from the biological and nuclear side of things. Otherwise, they'd be asking for more trouble than they can handle. If I had to guess, I'd say that they're helping Iran with
their
nuclear ambitions.”

“In exchange for what?”

“It's hard to tell. They might not even have come to an agreement yet,” he said. “It could be money, political asylum, arms—it might even be something as simple as safe passage through the country. For that kind of help, though, I would say that they'll expect a lot in return.”

“That makes sense.” Naomi finished her juice and peeked at her watch. It was almost ten. “How do you think March fits in?”

Ryan didn't answer as the waiter approached with their check. He waited until the bill was settled and they had collected their coats before picking up the thread. “You read the file, so you know what he is.” She hadn't read the file, but didn't stop to correct him. “His appearance and training allow him to blend in perfectly here. He might even have been able to bring some international connections to the table. For any stateside operation, March is going to be their best bet for success. Also, he has a lot to teach the young recruits. They won't use him unless there's a high probability that he'll come back alive. Believe me when I say that Al-Qaeda gets stronger every day he's involved.”

“That's a scary thought,” she murmured.

Ryan nodded his head in agreement. “I know.”

 

The black Suburban was parked along the curb, a gentle mist of rain falling around them as they hurried from the hotel entrance into the warm interior of the truck. Harper was waiting in the front passenger seat. As soon as the doors were shut, the vehicle moved off into traffic. Ryan handed the deputy director a carryout cup of coffee from the hotel's restaurant, and the older man nodded his appreciation.

“We came up big on the
Natalia
, Ryan,” he said. “It belongs to a man by the name of Stephen Gray. Does that ring a bell?”

Kealey scanned his memory. “Vaguely. Owns a shipping company, right? He got into some trouble when one of his boats was picked up on the way to Northern Ireland with a cargo hold full of weapons.”

The DDO tossed the file he was holding into Ryan's lap. “One and the same. It caused a lot of problems because the weapons were high grade, a thousand 40mm automatic grenade launchers still in the packing grease, eight thousand rounds of ammunition, crates full of Vektor 7.62mm tripod-mounted machine guns. All of it was manufactured by a division of Denel Arms, in which the government holds a majority share. As you might expect, the Brits were furious. There was a lot of speculation that Gray was stockpiling weapons to sell to the highest bidder, but he beat the charges on a technicality.”

Naomi's eyes opened wide and Ryan looked up sharply. “That's a problem,” he said. “If any of that is true, then there's a good chance that Al-Qaeda has access to some serious firepower.”

“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—”