Andrew Britton - The American

“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?”