The American (20 page)

Ambassador Martins stood up and moved to his desk. Unlocking one of the drawers, he came back to the seating area with a small tin box in his hands. Placing it gently on the coffee table, he took his seat once again.

“After our meeting this morning, my people began tracking down William Vanderveen's surviving relatives. Only one could be found on his father's side: Deborah Poole, neé Vanderveen, the general's sister. She's well on in years now, but she was more than willing to talk with the young man who came out to interview her. And she gave him this.”

The ambassador produced a small silver key and unlocked the box. Then he turned it so that Naomi and Ryan could see the contents.

Kealey leaned forward and picked up the first document. After unfolding the stained, torn paper, he began to read.

Ryan finished the letter and handed it over to Naomi. Selecting another from the box, he read through it quickly. The content was much the same.

“My God,” Naomi murmured after a moment. The ambassador cleared his throat gently, causing both his guests to look up.

“Needless to say, the American support never arrived. It was an Agency operation from the start, black on black. Washington was never involved. Of course, once Congress found out about it, they quickly put an end to things. Officially, the Senate voted to stop all U.S. aid to anti-MPLA forces on the 18th of December 1975. In truth, however, the damage was already done. Once Vanderveen's column reached Benguela, the MPLA launched a massive counterattack. The rebels had Cuban troop reinforcements and Soviet artillery on their side, whereas Vanderveen was struggling with unreliable supply lines and political indecision in Pretoria. He was forced to pull back his army on the 10th of November. During this time, his letters to Julienne became increasingly bitter, particularly with respect to the Americans.

“Five days later, the general's helicopter was hit by small-arms fire as it left a camp just south of Cubal. Francis Vanderveen and twelve other soldiers died in the ensuing crash.”

“Unbelievable,” Naomi said softly. Ryan said nothing. He could guess what was coming next.

The ambassador paused for a moment to let the information sink in. Finally, he said, “There were some communication issues that made notification impossible. It wasn't until two weeks later that the widow was informed. The defense minister broke the news himself, I'm told, in light of Vanderveen's rank and stature. I suppose it turned out to be too much for Julienne. As I said, she was already devastated over her daughter's death. Losing her husband must have been the final straw. She committed suicide that same night. According to Mrs. Poole, it was also the last time anyone saw young William in Piet Retief.”

Naomi shook her head slowly. Ryan remained silent. He was beginning to put the pieces together in his mind, but he wanted to hear the ambassador say it first.

Martins studied them each in turn. “Unfortunately, this is where the facts end. Anything else is pure speculation, but I have an opinion, if you'd like to hear it.”

Naomi nodded once. “Please, Ambassador.”

“I think there's a good chance that William Vanderveen saw these letters,” Martins said, gently resting a hand on the small tin box. “I also think that he probably had something to do with his sister's death, not to mention what happened to the young man she was seeing. I believe William may have taken what he wanted from his father's words, because doing so would have been a good deal easier than shouldering the blame himself. In my opinion, Will Vanderveen found exactly what he was looking for in the United States: an outlet for his rage. And he's not going to stop until everyone knows how he feels.”

F
or Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai, South Africa had yielded its secrets, and had nothing left to offer. As their meeting with the ambassador drew to a close, Gillian Farris began to make the arrangements for their return to Washington. When the embassy car was ready to depart for Johannesburg International late that afternoon, her hand rested in Ryan's for a very long time. Gillian was sorry to see him go.

Naomi fell into a deep sleep on the short ride south, leaving Ryan alone with his troubled thoughts. He wasn't sure how to proceed. As his mind struggled for answers, Naomi's words came back to him, but with a taunting edge that had been absent in her spoken voice:
“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…”

The name was important to Kealey because it offered some small measure of relief from the feeling of impotence that had plagued him for years. Now that he had the truth, though, he wasn't sure what to do with it.

It had become clear to Ryan during the ambassador's recitation that William Vanderveen blamed the West—or more specifically, the United States—for what had happened to his family. It was also clear that Vanderveen had joined the army of a country he hated for only one reason: to learn the skills that he would ultimately twist to use against his unsuspecting benefactors.

With this thought, Ryan found his thoughts drifting back to Vanderveen's intentions in Washington. Needless to say, it was a huge risk for the man to return to the city, so whatever he had planned would have to be worth that risk. Stephen Gray's final words echoed in his ears with the steady rhythm of a dripping tap:
The shipment has landed in Washington…He already has what he needs.
The last shipment to arrive in Washington was an unspecified amount of explosives. Would he be arrogant enough to try the same thing, perhaps sneaking it ahead of the increased security at the ports?

Could it have come in on the
same
shipment as the first explosives that were used?

In his former life, Vanderveen had been a highly skilled Special Forces engineer. As such, he had the patience and the specialized knowledge to carry off a successful attempt on the president's life. Ryan thought the man would fall back on what he knew, despite his sniper training at Benning. He decided that he could only trust his instincts, since he had no proof either way.

He tried not to think about what might happen if he was wrong, or if he was right but not fast enough in putting it together.

As he leaned back in the comfortable seat and tried to follow Naomi's example, Ryan decided that it was time to pay Thomas Elgin another visit.

 

As the Boeing 747 carrying the two CIA officers lifted into the clear night sky above the lights of Johannesburg, Will Vanderveen emerged from the depths of the Tian Shan mountains, following Ayman al-Zawahiri into the quiet hollows of the surface caves. The ground was littered with cots and sleeping men. The stench from their unwashed bodies filled the air, despite the cold and the open space.

“You will get 45,000 U.S. dollars for expenses, then,” al-Zawahiri said in a low voice. “In five installments of 9,000 dollars each, all to the same account.” A small frown moved over his face. “We will need Mazaheri to move it.”

Vanderveen continued as though he hadn't heard. “Make sure that the funds are routed through Western Europe, preferably England or France. American banks are required to report lump sum deposits of 10,000 dollars or more to the government. By keeping the deposits under that amount, we remove some of the risk, but there is still some danger in using the one account. Unfortunately, I have very few complete identities. Creating a full legend takes time, which is the one thing we don't have. In less than a month's time, the itinerary will be useless.”

They moved out of the caves and into the clearing, walking quickly through the cold night air toward the massive canvas tent and the steady hum of the generators.

“Will he keep to the schedule?”

“He has so far.”

“And you think it can be done?”

“There are no guarantees, but we will never have a better opportunity. I believe it can be done.”

The Egyptian did not respond as they moved gratefully into the stale warmth of the tent. The radio operator pulled back the curtain and waved for his commander's attention. A moment later, al-Zawahiri was calling for the American.

Vanderveen walked into the cramped room and took the proffered sheet of paper. He scanned it quickly, but one name stood out from the rest. He stared at it in disbelief.

“Kealey.”

“You recognize this name?”

“Yes,” was the strained response. “Where did this come from?”

“The information came out of South Africa. We have somebody in the embassy there.”

“Is he reliable?” Vanderveen asked.

“Completely. He works for money…They are usually the best,” al-Zawahiri said. A brief pause. “Does this present a problem?”

Vanderveen did not respond for a long time. “No…no problem.”

“Perhaps it would be better for us to remain in contact, so that we can inform you of his movements.” This was said with some insistence.

“No, he won't be staying in Africa. Besides, it's too dangerous. We can't risk everything on a phone call—I can't even begin to guess at the NSA's capabilities, especially in the D.C. area. You won't be hearing from me until it's over.”

Al-Zawahiri did not respond. Instead, he turned to stare at the radio operator, who quickly stood up and stepped outside. Only then did the physician turn his attention back to Vanderveen. “That is unacceptable. We need Mazaheri's people to move the funds. He will want assurances.”

“There are no assurances.” Vanderveen was growing impatient. “We've been over this already—”

The other man held up a placating hand. “You will be given a number to call. The minister has an asset in Washington who will handle the finances. We have few people skilled in that area since Zouaydi was taken in Madrid. It is not a question of the money, you understand. It is a question of trusting you with an operation of this magnitude. Mazaheri will never relinquish total control…The Iranians have a great deal at stake here. Even if you are successful, we will have accomplished nothing if they can be directly linked to the assassinations.”

Al-Zawahiri fell silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression passing over his blunt features. Finally, he said, “You will make contact twice a week from the time you return until the day of the operation itself. You will be told when to call before you leave. I can negotiate nothing less than that. You will not be expected to divulge your specific movements, but they must know of any problems you encounter. This contact will benefit you as well: they will arrange for additional funds and documents should the worst come to pass.”

Vanderveen knew that was a lie. The Iranians would deny everything if his cover was blown. They wouldn't lift a finger to help him if it all went bad, but he needed their help now, and he needed safe refuge when it was over. He had no choice but to play along.

“Fine. Is Mazaheri's man in Washington?”

Ayman al-Zawahiri smiled gently. “Who said anything about a man?”

Surprise registered briefly in Vanderveen's face. It was almost beyond belief that Mazaheri would entrust something as important as operational funds to a woman.

“She is a valuable asset, and she is trusted,” al-Zawahiri continued. “That is all you need to know.” The smile faded. “This is not a request. If you fail to call at the specified times, it will not matter if you succeed. Do you understand?”

Vanderveen nodded once. “I will do as you ask. And I will succeed.”

There was a long, awkward silence. It was difficult for the physician to believe that the American was willing to commit such an act against his own people, especially for nothing more than a secure place in the organization. In the end, though, he had no choice but to support the man. It was the Emir's wish, and carried no less authority than a command from Allah Himself.

“Good. Tonight, you rest. The helicopter will return in the morning. And then, my friend, it's up to you.”

 

Ryan Kealey had been in Washington for only two hours when he was called back to Virginia to the director's office at Langley. He was sore and tired from the long flight, and his anger was exacerbated by the fact that he wouldn't be getting back to Katie anytime soon.

Jonathan Harper was already waiting in the spacious room, reclining in one of the chairs scattered around a low table. The DCI was sitting opposite him, and the two men stopped their conversation when Kealey stepped through the mahogany doors.

The director stood and extended his hand, a stocky man whose considerable girth was well concealed by the tailored Ralph Lauren Purple Label suits that he favored. “Bob Andrews, pleased to meet you.”

Kealey returned the handshake. “Same here, sir.”

For his part, Andrews dubiously eyed the man who stood before him. He'd heard many things about Kealey, and the man's appearance seemed to coincide with his reputation. He wore heavy Columbia hiking boots, dark jeans, and a threadbare crewneck sweater of marled gray cotton. His face was deeply tanned from the African sun, even more so than usual, and the jet-black hair was a little wild. Taking all of this in for the first time, the director had to remind himself again of the man's achievements.

Andrews gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Take a seat, Ryan. Congratulations on your results in Africa.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I appreciate your coming in to see me today,” the director said, as though Kealey had had a choice in the matter. He gestured to the cups resting on the table in front of him. “Coffee?”

Kealey nodded his thanks and moved to pour coffee and dump cream into one of the cups. Meanwhile, the director had lifted what Ryan thought to be his personnel file and was skimming through the contents. “Let's see…eight years with the army, retired as a major. DFC, three Bronze Stars, two Purple Hearts. Impressive. Action in Kosovo and the Gulf. Two years in the 1st SFOD…” Andrews looked up from the file with a questioning look. “Delta?”

Ryan nodded as he sipped at his coffee. Andrews lifted an eyebrow and turned his attention back to the file. “Then you were on the army's Security Roster, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. I signed a waiver when Director Harper recruited me. Otherwise, my 201 would probably still be buried somewhere at Bragg.” He knew that the DCI would understand what he meant. Although the army keeps the vast majority of its personnel files at Human Resources Command in St. Louis, the 1st SFOD-D is given special dispensation to store records pertaining to its operators in a highly secure facility at Fort Bragg.

Andrews closed the file and tossed it onto his desk. “And an Intelligence Star, to round it all out. These pages show you've racked up quite a few achievements, Kealey,” he said, drumming his fingers on the closed file. “Unfortunately, this means that I have to take your opinion seriously.”

Ryan looked over to Harper, whose face remained expressionless.

“You brought down a lot of heat for that stunt you pulled with Elgin, you know. That still hasn't blown over, but I'm willing to put it aside for now,” the director continued. “You think Vanderveen's going after the president. Tell me why.”

Kealey shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then went on to relay his brief conversation with Stephen Gray, and the man's final parting words.

“I admit that it sounds worrisome, but is that all you've come up with?” Andrews asked, the skepticism heavy in his voice.

“Sir, we know for a fact that Vanderveen is tied in with the new Iranian regime. He's been linked to Al-Qaeda as well. I mean, we have tape of him meeting with some of the highest ranking people in the organization. It doesn't get any more ironclad than that. Now, consider these facts: Senator Levy, Iran's biggest opponent on the Hill, is assassinated in broad daylight after assuring the Washington press corps that the weapons program in Tehran will be shut down. Then we have Michael Shakib, a known Iranian affiliate whose cell phone records show that he placed a call to a cloned phone less than three minutes before the rocket attack. After the Justice Department tracks him down, he blows himself up rather than risk being taken alive. Why?”

Andrews glanced at Harper, a perplexed expression moving over his face. “Because that's what they do, Kealey. It's part of the conflict for them. Killing as many people as possible, spreading fear, and creating terror are their primary goals—”

Ryan held up a hand to stop him. “Maybe so, sir. But think about this: what if Shakib did it, at least in part, because
he couldn't risk breaking under interrogation
?”

Harper shot an inquiring look at Kealey, but Andrews didn't notice. “You're saying he passed on information we don't know about? Something related to the president?”