Andrew Britton - The American

“The colonel was impressed with you, but not with Hassan. He was described as ‘poorly prepared,’ and ‘weak when confronted by a lesser man, a man with no authority.’ The colonel is Mazaheri’s son-in-law, and as such has the minister’s ear and his respect. I would gladly cut the man’s throat and watch him choke for breath, but Mazaheri is the key to Al-Qaeda’s future, and so he must be humored…”

March saw the arrogance in Hamza’s walk. Mere words, a false promise had given the man steel in his backbone when before there was none. He watched the soldiers lift their weapons as one. There was the terrible moment of comprehension as Hamza extended his arms, desperately throwing his palms out at the rifles pointed in his direction, screaming that it was a mistake. There was the distinctive crack of a single Kalishnikov, followed by the steady rhythm of automatic fire. There was the sight of flailing limbs as bullets ripped through his outstretched hands and into his face and chest.

The firing stopped. Hassan Hamza lay dead on the ground, streams of blood already running out from underneath his body in thin rivulets, seeping down into the cracks of the stone as the soldiers cleared their weapons and resumed their conversation. Mazaheri was still walking. He hadn’t turned at the sound of gunfire, nor had he flinched when the reports echoed back over the mountains.

When al-Adel turned to look at Jason March, there was no evidence of grief in the commander’s face. “To ensure the future of the organization, I would let these animals kill my brother. When you came to us, it was as a volunteer. You had neither my trust nor my respect. Now you have my respect. You’ve earned that much. Bear in mind, though, that you can only fail me once… Remember what happened here. It is a good lesson.”

Peering into the American’s eyes, he saw nothing that might hint at fear or indecision. Instead, he saw a strength that rivaled his own. Saif al-Adel knew that the man would not take the words personally, and was pleased.

What he heard next, though, shook the commander to his very core.

“You want what I can achieve. In return, I want you to take me north.”

A lengthy silence ensued. “Why?”

“You know why.”

CAPE TOWN

They began watching the warehouse just before dawn on the third day.

With only two people, it would have been impossible to follow Gray away from the building. Kealey knew that their faces would too quickly become familiar, and security around the businessman would be heavily increased if they were spotted. He wanted the chance to isolate Gray if at all possible. The lost hours in the man’s schedule grated at Ryan, but he was reasonably satisfied with their coverage of the warehouse. It was secluded and quiet. Approaching vehicles could be heard long before they turned onto the narrow street running through the maze of industrial buildings that marked this forgotten district of the Cape.

The previous day had been well spent. The shops on the Strand had provided Ryan with better equipment than he could have hoped for. At a small sporting-goods store he had found a good set of Rigel 2350 night vision binoculars. These he purchased, along with two cushioned sleeping bag mats and a backpack. He also stopped at the local CNA grocery store to pick up a case of bottled water. For the other items that were needed, Ryan put in a call to Pretoria. From there, the request was forwarded to Langley and approval was given. Just past three in the afternoon, as Ryan and Naomi were finishing lunch in awkward silence on the terrace, the delivery was made by diplomatic courier. The parcel, opened in the privacy of Ryan’s hotel room, contained the Tait Orca encrypted radios and earpieces that he had specifically requested.

It also contained a P22 Walther handgun complete with a 5" modified barrel, the extended muzzle threaded for the heavy Dalphon suppressor that lay next to the weapon.

Ryan didn’t need the radios or the pistol yet. They had parked the Nissan several hundred meters away and approached from the north, winding their way through a labyrinth of buildings before reaching the aluminum fire escape of the building opposite Gray’s. Naomi was shivering violently as they climbed the ladder and settled in on the roof, sliding their way forward to find the best view of the warehouse below. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the silver Mercedes glided up next to the curb. Ryan checked his watch: 7:15 AM. Gray seemed to be fairly consistent in his habits.

They watched as the driver got out of the vehicle and walked around the car, looking up and down the street as he moved. He was a large white man with a shaved head, a neat goatee, and more fat than muscle. His poorly fitted suit stretched at the seams, and even at a distance, Kealey could spot the bulge beneath the man’s left armpit. The passenger door was opened and the second occupant of the vehicle stepped out onto the street.

It was Ryan’s first look at Stephen Gray. He was small and neat, deeply tanned, and clean-shaven, with a full head of closely trimmed silver hair; the man wore his wealth well. Ryan watched the driver walk several steps ahead of his charge, the right hand held beneath his jacket as his eyes searched the surrounding buildings. The front door to the warehouse was pulled open, and Ryan could see the big man pause inside the threshold as though disarming a security system. It was clear that the driver knew his job. It would be better if he was poorly trained, but Ryan knew that it could have been worse. He was relieved that Gray didn’t seem inclined to travel with a large entourage, as was the habit of so many other rich men.

Once the door closed behind the two men, the warehouse was still for hours. No movement could be seen through the small metal-framed windows at the front of the building. As the sun rose and beat down on the pebbled surface of the roof, Naomi began shifting her body impatiently and casting little glances in his direction. Finally, she sidled over next to him slowly.

“Can I talk?”

“Quietly,” he said.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Her body was very close to his.

“Until nightfall.”

Ryan heard her mumble something under her breath, and turned to look in her direction. She was drinking bottled water, and a few drops spilled down onto her chest. His eyes involuntarily followed the path of the drops, moving down from her face to the thin sheen of sweat on the graceful curve of her neck, and then over small, firm breasts straining against the damp cotton of her T-shirt. He caught himself and looked away quickly, forcing his attention back to the warehouse below. He angrily wiped sweat out of his eyes and drank from his own water bottle.

Naomi was watching him carefully. She edged a little closer, so that their legs were touching and her shoulder was pressed lightly against his. “Listen,” she said in a low voice. “I’m sorry about what happened the other night. I was way out of line, and I probably drank too much… It didn’t mean anything, okay? It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Her tone was anything but apologetic. He eased his body away from hers slightly in turn. “It was as much my fault as yours. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” He looked up into her face, inches away from his own. “You’re right. It didn’t mean anything, and it’s not going anywhere. That’s all that has to be said.”

She held his gaze for a few seconds longer, as if measuring his sincerity, then slowly slid her mat back to its original position as Ryan turned back to focus on the building below.

Just after one in the afternoon, a battered white scooter screamed up to the entrance of the building. A young African male hopped off and kicked hard on the door. It was cracked open slightly. A large bag was thrust in through the opening, and the delivery boy received a fistful of rand in return. The money was stuffed down into his dirty jeans before the tires spun in the street and the scooter whined away.