Andrew Britton - The American

“He will see you now, American. Saif, you are needed above. Your presence is not required here.”

March did not turn to humor himself with al-Adel’s stunned expression, although he dearly wanted to. Instead, he took a deep breath to calm his shaking hands and took his first tentative step toward the light.

Ryan was instantly wary when he and Naomi sat down across from Ambassador Martins. The man was clearly disturbed about something.

“I hope you two slept well.” They both watched as the ambassador poured coffee with a shaking hand. “I apologize,” he said, “but the inquiries I put out this morning have not yielded positive results.”

He cleared his throat and went on. “That is not to say we have not learned anything. The problem is that we’ve underestimated just how dangerous this man really is. I’ve already forwarded copies of the information we gathered to the FBI and the Justice Department. I thought they needed to see it right away.” The ambassador pushed a folder across the table, which Ryan immediately picked up and opened. “Those are photographs of William Vanderveen as a young man. There aren’t many — apparently he was somewhat camera shy. We couldn’t find many people to corroborate that statement, though, because…”

Ryan could see right away that March and Vanderveen were the same person. He was so lost in the photographs that he almost didn’t catch the ambassador’s awkward pause. “Because what, sir?”

“Because everyone in his immediate family is dead.”

Naomi choked on her coffee, but Ryan didn’t notice. His attention was completely focused on Martins.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Martins continued. “There was never any concrete evidence that Vanderveen was responsible. Our closest guess is that he fled the country in 1981. I can’t tell you what he did after he arrived in the States, but the South African government has been very cooperative in piecing together their records. Their only stipulation was that the information didn’t go public, and I said we were more than happy to agree. This story could be extremely embarrassing to the army, not to mention the country as a whole.”

“I need to hear it all, sir.”

And so the ambassador began.

The bolt-hole was small, far too small for three people to stretch out comfortably. The two men inside were each seated on an olive green military cot. The two cots were positioned next to a small space heater, and al-Zawahiri pointed to a third when Vanderveen entered the room. He took a seat and waited patiently. It was not his place to speak first.

The physician pulled a thermos from a pack on the hard dirt floor. He proceeded to pour hot tea into a metal canteen cup, which he then handed to his superior. Vanderveen watched as the cup was gratefully accepted by unsteady hands.

The man took a sip of the warm liquid and smiled weakly, finally looking up at his guest. “We find small pleasures here… They are the only kind to be had.”

Will Vanderveen nodded his understanding, but did not speak. Al-Zawahiri was looking at him with something approaching approval. Vanderveen wondered what had caused the sudden change of heart.

“I trust no one more than Ayman. I have heard on the radio of your victories, and he tells me what you have done. He says there is an arrogance in you…” The Director waited for the American to speak, and seemed pleased when he did not. “That is immaterial to me, in any case. By your actions you have demonstrated your loyalty. Allah’s blessings and salutations be with you, my brother.”

“And with you,” he said automatically.

The infamous half smile appeared at the Director’s mouth. “Do you make a mockery of my faith, American?”

A sharp intake of air, but the awkward moment was free of panic. Vanderveen understood fear, even felt it on very rare occasions. Fear of other men, though, had never entered into the equation. “No, Emir. I only wanted to demonstrate my respect. I apologize if I offended you.”

The apology was ignored. “You speak my language well, but there is something of the Helabja Valley in your accent… or perhaps not. Perhaps I am mistaken.”

A long hesitation, which peaked the interest of his inquisitors. Only the truth, Vanderveen decided. They may know more than they’re letting on. “I trained Kurdish insurgents in the Helabja when I was with the army.”

The Director savored another long sip of tea, and gestured from his canteen cup to the American. Immediately, al-Zawahiri poured another cup, handed it to Vanderveen, and then poured a third for himself.

“I understand that you are reluctant to speak of your past. This is the habit of men who have things to hide.”

“I cannot deny that, Emir. However, the things I have seen, the things I know… They could only prove useful to you.”

This sentence was received with a sudden spark of interest. The Director leaned forward slightly, grimacing at the pain in his chest. He caught the American’s reaction.

“Don’t be concerned, my friend. Your countrymen came close three years ago. Too close, but I have changed my ways since then.”

“They are not my countrymen,” he spat.

The Director lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “No? You fought with them. Is that not so? You killed for them. What else could they be?”

Vanderveen ignored the question. By doing so, he knew that he took a tremendous risk. “I assume al-Adel has told you about our friend Shakib?”

The tall man stared at him for a long time before answering. So the arrogance is there, after all. “I was told that he had some information. Nothing more.”

Vanderveen smiled in satisfaction. “It is much more than information, Emir. It is a means to an end. I have in my possession a two-month advance itinerary for the president of the United States, as well as presidential briefings compiled by the American Secret Service.”

Both men stared at him in shock, unable to conceal their amazement. Al-Zawahiri’s head was swimming with the enormity of the statement. It was a few moments before he could put his finger on what was bothering him: it was the way the man referred to “Americans” with detachment, as though they were a separate breed from himself. But this man was an American, was he not? “Why have we not already heard about this?”

A shrug. “It is not the kind of information that can be passed on lightly. Complete security can only be guaranteed in a face-to-face meeting such as this one.”

“You fail to understand, my friend, that these plans would have been changed after Shakib’s death…”

The physician’s words trailed off when he noticed that the American was shaking his head in disagreement. “These documents were neither found nor suspected to be in his possession at any time. They were returned to their rightful place after Shakib made copies, and the originals were never reported as lost or compromised. Give me a sheet of paper, please, and a pencil.”

Al-Zawahiri dug for the items, which he then handed over. Vanderveen propped the paper on his knee and drew a crude calendar, circling the specific dates as he spoke: “As I said, it is a two-month itinerary, beginning in the month of October. As of last week, the president has continued to meet every major obligation outlined on the schedule. We are now in the first week of November. Unfortunately, circumstances have left us with very little time to act. However… I believe that two-and-a-half weeks will be sufficient, if I move quickly. With your approval, of course.”

“And what is it, exactly, that you intend to do?” the Director asked.

Vanderveen looked up into the calm brown eyes of Osama bin Laden and smiled. “On November 26th, President David Brenneman will be hosting formal negotiations with the French president and the Italian prime minister in Washington. I’m going to kill them all.”