Andrew Britton - The American

It was some time before they banked east over the valley floor 3,500 meters below. The descent took the heavy aircraft shuddering down through dark gray cumulus clouds, a light rain washing over the armored plating as the weight of the helicopter settled onto the struts of the landing gear. The monstrous blades continued to slice the air overhead as the passengers climbed down from the elevated cabin. Al-Adel gave a hand signal to one of the two pilots through the cockpit glass, and both men moved away from the craft as power to the engines was increased and the helicopter lifted once more into the air. Then it vanished into the black clouds and they were alone.

March pulled the hood of his anorak up to shield against the freezing rain that had already seeped its way down his neck and under his thin pullover. A vehicle was waiting for them, a Russian-made UAZ-3151. Al-Adel had his rucksack on the muddy ground, his hands buried deep in the bowels of the pack until he found what he was looking for. His eyes were bright when he lifted the Garmin handheld GPS receiver for March to see.

“The Americans would dearly love to get their hands on this. I imagine they would pay a great deal of money for the information it contains. Tell me, what would that money mean to you, my friend?”

Jason March fixed his steady gaze on the other man before speaking. “If you think I came this far to betray you for money, then you are the fool, Saif.”

“We shall see.” A smile spread over the Egyptian’s face as he held out his hand. “Give me your pistol.”

March hesitated, and the smile turned into an impatient sneer. “Give me your pistol or I’ll shoot you where you stand. Even if you survive the bullet, you won’t last long — the temperature is already below freezing, and the wolves are always hungry in the winter.”

Reluctantly, March handed over his Beretta. “And your pack.” March gave him that as well, and watched as the other man perused the contents. Satisfied, Saif al-Adel stood and gave him a questioning look. “Food and water? Where are these plans you speak of?”

March smiled and tapped his own head gently with two fingers. An incredulous look spread over the commander’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a cold gaze. “Then I hope you have a good memory, my friend. A very good memory indeed, because your life depends on what you have to say today.” He threw the rucksack back toward the American, but held on to the Beretta. “Get in the jeep.”

“And where are we going?”

Al-Adel turned east toward the jagged spires of the Tian Shan mountains. “Up there,” he said.

Ryan had called the embassy in Pretoria from the catamaran with a request for transport. There would be hell to pay when Harper found out, but it was the only option open to him. He had briefly considered making the trip without Agency assistance, but knew that the consequences would be far worse if they were intercepted by the police without official cover. In that situation, he wouldn’t have put it past Langley to completely disavow any knowledge of their presence in South Africa.

In fact, he wouldn’t have expected anything less.

Despite the fact that they had nowhere else to go, Ryan realized they couldn’t stay out on the water. The first police officers on the scene would take in the vehicles left on the street and the shattered doors leading out to the beach, and then rightly conclude that an escape had been made by boat. Police cutters would be dispatched with orders to board every small craft in the vicinity, and the larger docks around the bay would be sealed off. Even now, approaching the private dock of the Victoria and Albert Hotel, he could hear the sirens screaming on the other side of the bay.

Looking down at his watch, he estimated that they had at least seven hours to kill, even if the embassy car carried diplomatic plates and traveled south unimpeded as fast as possible. After docking and securing the catamaran, he found blankets in a storage compartment beneath a seat at the stern. These he stuffed haphazardly into his backpack along with more bottled water, sacrificing space for speed. Finally, he turned his attention to Naomi.

She was sitting on a hard wooden bench just aft of the cabin, hugging her knees against her chest and watching him intently. As he walked toward her, though, she pulled away from his outstretched hand.

“Naomi,” he said, impatience in his voice. “There’s no time for this. If you don’t follow me right now, we’re both going to spend a lot of time in a South African jail. You know I wouldn’t hurt you. Gray had a gun — he would have killed us both without thinking twice.”

After a moment she held out her hand without speaking. Ryan pulled her up off the bench and they stepped onto the dock, walking hand in hand past the bright lights of the V amp;A hotel and into the empty streets beyond.

The steep roads leading out of the valley gave them the most trouble as the jeep, lacking 4WD capabilities, continued to slide toward the precarious edge of the path. Several times March felt his heart in his throat as the jeep drifted in the deep mud toward the brink and a plummeting drop of several hundred meters to the valley floor. He was terrified of mountains and precipitous slopes, a fear that dated back to his childhood. He felt the cold sheen of sweat on his body and hoped that they didn’t have far to go. Fortunately, they soon moved away from the lip of the valley. The route smoothed out when they reached the cut-granite roads leading into the mountains.

Although the heater was going full blast, the air was bitterly cold in the higher regions, pushed along by a howling wind that whipped over the stone outcroppings and drove the frigid gusts through unseen apertures in the vehicle’s frame. As the elevation continued to climb, the rain turned to sleet, and then to a driving snow that made progress even more difficult.

“Do you see that?” March followed al-Adel’s finger to a small stone structure perched on a rock outcropping at least 100 meters above the road. The building blended into the surrounding mountains so well that he would never have seen it on his own. “It is one of our observation points — only one of several. This is the only passable mountain road for 10 kilometers in any direction. That is why this place was chosen. If the Americans come, we will have ample time to evacuate the camp.”

“It’s a good location,” March conceded. He could see that there were other advantages as well; even those cruise missiles with the greatest range, the Tomahawks and the Harpoons, would not be able to reach the landlocked base from the North Sea. Additionally, incoming aircraft would be forced to cross the airspace of numerous countries in order to mount an attack. It would be difficult to get the consent of each government to do so. “It must be hard to direct the organization from here, though.”

Al-Adel nodded in agreement. “The unit commanders have been delegated a great deal of responsibility. Approval for missions is now granted by myself, or by Abu Fatima. You would know him as al-Zawahiri. He is a great man — I have known him for almost twenty years.”

The Egyptian fell silent as he consulted the Garmin navigation system once more. “We’re almost there,” he said. The space between the jagged rocks bordering the path began to narrow, and March could faintly hear the low rumble of a diesel engine over the screaming wind. Soon the outline of a track vehicle appeared through breaks in the snow, and then the formidable sight of a 100mm turret-mounted main gun pointed down the road in the direction of the approaching jeep. Al-Adel slowed to a stop and waited as a young man climbed out of the rear hatch and trudged heavily through the snow toward their vehicle, holding an AK-74 rifle and a portable radio. Several words were exchanged between the guard and al-Adel in rapid-fire Arabic, and then the young soldier spoke into his radio.