The American. Andrew Britton

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      The ancient Ford Cortina moved steadily through the darkened streets of Mashhad, stopping at various locations, sometimes for several minutes at a time, before moving off again unexpectedly with a sudden burst of speed. Although hundreds of volunteers would have jumped at the chance to drive Hassan Hamza about the city, he placed trust only in his own instincts, and rightfully so; he had seen many other experienced operatives die at the hands of the American Special Forces by exercising less caution than was necessary in their chosen profession. The American seated next to him had not spoken since leaving the heavily guarded two-story residence northeast of the city center. Hamza wondered what was running through the other man’s mind.

      After forty-five minutes had passed, Hamza decided they had not been followed. In any city in Afghanistan, he would not have attempted such a meeting, but he felt reasonably secure in this part of northeastern Iran. He turned abruptly into a dusty alleyway, the sedan clattering to a stop between buildings of pale stone.

      “Follow me. You have nothing to worry about,” he assured the other man. He handed the American a woolen watch cap. “Put this on.”

      March pulled the material down low over his blond hair, which, if left uncovered, would be immediately noticed and stored away for future use by the city’s many inhabitants. Given the chance, the people in this area would eagerly criticize the decadent West; however, he was aware that they might easily change their tune when presented with a generous reward for information. Such was the fickle nature of humanity, March knew. Most people would gladly sacrifice their principles for money.

      The two men moved quickly down the alley, and then past a row of dilapidated, low-slung brick buildings. March noticed that the street was unusually dark, the bulbs in the streetlights above having been either removed or destroyed. Despite the late hour, an old woman wandered down the uneven street in their direction, her gait unsteady. She averted her eyes as she passed the two men, another fact that was not lost on the American. He decided that the organization had taken substantial measures to ensure their security in this area, perhaps even to the point of bribing people house to house. Certainly, the local officials would have been well compensated for their cooperation.

      They stopped at the fifth house on the left. March hesitated before pushing through the wrought iron gate, sensing that something was amiss. Hamza’s easy smile did little to alleviate his sudden fear. As his acute senses suddenly focused, he picked up a silhouette in his peripheral vision. A sniper lay prone on the low roof of the building, the rigid bone of his eye socket just millimeters from the scope of a Russian Dragunov rifle.

      March was impressed by the man’s discipline, but thought the weapon far too large and difficult to maneuver in an urban environment. He personally would have opted for the Galil with its folding stock, but never would have suggested it to the man on the roof. He almost laughed out loud at the idea of an Arab militant using a weapon manufactured in Israel.

      Approaching the door, two more guards suddenly entered his line of sight, AK-47 rifles held down by their sides. The men tensed momentarily as they approached, then quickly relaxed as Hamza spoke with one of the guards in hushed tones. A portable radio was lifted to lips cracked by the harsh sun, words were exchanged, orders issued. Moments later, the door swung open and the two arrivals were hustled inside.

      Jason March waited, his back aching in the uncomfortable wooden chair. The past few days had been tedious: nonstop travel under assumed identities, the constant fear of discovery, the constant apprehension. Only now was it coming to a peak; he felt as though he was about to be tested, and his answers would determine not only his place within the organization, but whether he would leave this building alive or not. Through his supreme confidence, March retained a measure of caution. He had come too far to throw it all away now.

      Low voices outside the door announced his visitors before they pushed into the room. Hamza entered, quickly followed by a surprisingly tall, gaunt individual whom March recognized immediately. The man had made few changes to his appearance despite the leaflets dropped by army helicopters that offered a reward in excess of 25 million dollars for his apprehension.

      Saif al-Adel cursorily examined the person who had abruptly stood upon his entrance into the room. He was instantly suspicious, as the man’s appearance seemed to embody Western decadence in its entirety. The eyes, on the other hand, told a different story altogether, the hatred visible deep within the vivid green irises. It was this hate he wanted to explore. Soon he would have the answers he needed to proceed.

      CHAPTER 6

      WASHINGTON, D.C. • CAPE ELIZABETH

      It had taken all her powers of persuasion, but Naomi Kharmai was finally able to liberate the personnel file from Jonathan Harper’s protective care. It lay closed before her now, although she had already examined it thoroughly. Naomi sipped at her tea in the deserted café as she recounted the information she had learned about Ryan Thomas Kealey. He was thirty-three years old, the last three of which had been spent in the Central Intelligence Agency as part of the Special Activities Division. Within those three years, the file confirmed that he had been awarded the Intelligence Star for courageous action in the field.

      She considered this award for some time. Although the circumstances that had resulted in the conference of the medal were sealed, Naomi recognized immediately that Kealey must carry a fair degree of influence within the Agency as a result of his actions. She had noticed earlier, with some surprise, that he was on a first-name basis with Deputy Director Harper. Perhaps this also explained why Ryan was not attached to the CTC; certainly, they would have eagerly recruited him given the opportunity.

      The file also recorded his activities before joining the Agency. Kealey had left the U.S. Army as a major in 2001 under pressure from Special Forces Command. Naomi took that to mean the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whose approval would have been needed in order to indict a soldier with Ryan Kealey’s background. The 201 military record cited numerous awards: the Distinguished Service Cross, the Legion of Merit with one Oak Leaf Cluster, the Bronze Star with two Oak Leaf Clusters—the list went on and on. Kharmai knew little about military decorations, but was aware that this man would be held in high esteem by anyone wearing the uniform.

      Naomi could see that he was educated as well, holding a bachelor’s of science in business administration from the University of Chicago. His graduate degree had been awarded by Duke University in 1994. By that time, Kealey was already a first lieutenant fresh out of Special Forces Assessment and Selection, soon to be followed by successful completion of the Q course at Fort Bragg.

      Unbelievable, she thought. He had achieved the rank of major in eight years, and that time included two years attached to another unit, the 1st SFOD-D, which she did not recognize. That was phenomenal advancement. The man was obviously being groomed for high command. She wondered what Ryan Kealey could have done to derail such a successful career.

      She had a sudden insight and flipped open the file to the last page, looking for the signatory: MG Peter Hale, USASFC. With or without Harper’s authority, Naomi Kharmai decided she would find a way to talk with Kealey’s last commanding officer.