Andrew Britton - The American

The hours continued to pass as the vibrant sounds of the Malay Quarter drifted over the rooftops from the east. After the few words spoken earlier in the afternoon, Ryan cast two more quick glances in Naomi’s direction. Both times he could see clearly the anger and hurt in her face. He was beginning to regret capitulating so easily to Harper’s request that she be brought along.

Finally, the air began to cool as dusk settled over the weary city. Ten minutes after the streetlights came on, the heavy door of the warehouse was pushed open. The big man emerged first, the right hand once again shielded from view inside his jacket. He surveyed the street, then turned and nodded as Gray followed him out, pausing only to set the alarm once more. Ryan checked his watch again. It was just after 8:00 PM. He waited for five minutes after the Mercedes had driven off before standing up on the rooftop, gratefully stretching sore muscles as he shook out a day’s worth of inactivity.

“Well, that was time bloody well spent,” Naomi said. Kicking at her water bottle, she watched as it bounced over the surface of the roof, scattering small rocks along the way. Ryan looked over as she leaned down to rub at a cramp in her thigh.

The sarcasm rubbed at his nerves, but he held his temper as he rolled up his mat and packed it neatly into the backpack. “You’re right. It was time well spent,” he said in a neutral tone. She threw him a withering look and he rose from his crouch to point down at the warehouse. “Now we have some idea of what we’re looking at. Gray only has one guard, but he’s a professional. Did you watch him get out of the car? He kept the door open and the engine running while he checked the street, and his eyes didn’t stop moving the whole time they were in the open, which was about fifteen seconds.”

She looked a little less certain of herself as he went on, seemingly speaking more to himself than to her. “They’re careful about setting that alarm. We can’t get in at night and wait for them unless I ask Harper to send me somebody from Technical Services. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll jump at the idea.”

“So what do you think?” she asked.

He shook his head absently as he picked up her belongings and added them to the pack. “We’ll keep looking, for now. Time is a factor, but we need to do it right. We’ll get an opportunity sooner or later.”

Standing up, he began to walk over to the fire escape, Naomi trailing along dejectedly as she pondered days on end of lying in the heat looking at nothing more than bricks and mortar. She didn’t see the small smile that played over Ryan’s face as he swung his leg over the edge of the roof.

“You know something?” he said. “I think I’d like to see what’s on the other side of that building.”

IRAN,CAPE TOWN

Almost 2 miles above the desert floor east of Tehran, the Mi-26 cargo helicopter swept toward Mashhad at 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.