Harper finished the thought. “Which means we could be looking at a serious problem. I get the feeling that March would be able to tell us a lot right now.” He turned to look directly at the other man. “Where is he?”
“Out of the country, no question.” Ryan’s response was quick and definitive. “He would have had prior arrangements in place; he knew that once we had a positive ID, he would have no chance at moving through any standard point of embarkation. On the other hand, he wouldn’t take the obvious route out anyway.
“It sounds impossible, right? The assassination of a well-guarded politician in Washington, D.C., during daylight hours. There was definitely a huge amount of risk involved, but there are Metro stations all over the place, including one right behind the Smithsonian. Hell, there’s at least eight different ways to leave the city from Union Station alone. He counted on the heavy tourist presence on the Mall despite the weather, and he set up just outside the security perimeter for the White House. He probably scouted out the locations of the countersniper teams, at least those with fixed posts. Maybe that information was provided to him…It’s difficult to say. In short, he hasn’t lost a step. You can’t count on him to make any mistakes.”
CHAPTER 5
IRAN
The young woman leaned back against a late-model Range Rover and shivered slightly in the cold night air as she watched the small plane approach through scattered clouds. She wore the long black chador that was customary dress for the female populace, although her head covering was pushed back to reveal lustrous black hair framing her oval face. The woman reasoned that this small violation of her country’s stringent standards of dress could be easily forgiven in her lonely surroundings. The makeshift airfield was located almost 5 kilometers south of the Atrak River, a major perennial that cuts through the desolate coastal plains extending from the Caspian Sea. This portion of Iran was virtually deserted, and so made an ideal landing spot for the aging multiprop Cessna, which was making its final descent after having left Azerbaijan three hours earlier under a false flight plan.
Once the plane rolled to a stop on the compact dirt of the runway, the exterior door swung open and a sole passenger emerged, carrying only a duffel bag in his right hand. She watched with interest as he carefully climbed down from the elevated fuselage and moved toward her. From his youthful appearance, she guessed the man was in his late twenties, early thirties at most. He walked with a crisp, confident stride that propelled him effortlessly across the perilous surface of the desert sand.
“Hello,” she said. Then, in rapid Farsi, “My name is Negin. I will take you the rest of the way. I have been instructed to ask if you are carrying any weapons—you will be searched on arrival.”
“I’m unarmed. How far?” he asked in kind. Although she had been told the man understood the language, it was still a little unsettling to hear her native tongue spoken so fluently by a foreigner.
“Less than two hours. They are waiting for you,” was her response. Fifteen minutes later, the Range Rover emerged from the dark expanse of the desert and turned onto the cracked asphalt of the main road to Mashhad, speeding east toward the holy city as the stars burned far overhead.
Mashhad is the capital of and the largest city in the Khorasan province of Iran, home to approximately two million souls. His hosts could hardly have selected a better location for this meeting, March thought, as the very name of the city means “place of martyrdom.” One would have to search long and hard to find a community more virulently opposed to Western culture. Although he had few doubts about his own abilities or capacity for survival, he might have feared for his safety were it not for the presence of the other men seated around the simple wooden table before him.
An amusing thought suddenly occurred to him: despite his recent atrocities, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency would probably greet him at the airport with open arms and a suitcase full of cash were he to sacrifice the people in this room. The occasional looks of distrust that were cast in his direction were enough to convince him that he was not the only one to envision this scenario.
Most, however, were uncomfortable meeting his eyes and chose to stare down at the notepads on the table or to distant corners of the room.
His real name was not Jason March, nor did they know him as such. It was, however, the pseudonym he had been identified with most over the years. On a hilltop overlooking the Syrian coast seven years earlier, March had proven his loyalty to these men and their cause. None, however, was aware of this fact, and he did not volunteer the information. About the man seated before them they knew very little, except that he could accomplish anything. This was the only statement made about the American that was not disputed.
“You achieved a great deal in Washington, my friend. I trust the contact we provided was to your satisfaction.” The speaker was an Egyptian national, Mustafa Hassan Hamza. Despite having been sentenced to death in absentia by an Egyptian court in 1981, he had remained active within the organization. After the invasion of Afghanistan by American forces in late 2001, he had narrowly escaped the country with his life. The subsequent decimation of Al-Qaeda’s ranks had resulted in rapid promotion for the man who now held the rank of assistant commander within the Islamic terror network.
“I was impressed with your source’s efficiency and dedication,” March replied honestly. He did not give compliments freely. “It is a shame that he will most likely be discovered by the FBI; in fact, this may have already occurred. They can be quite efficient in their own right.”
“Do you have any recommendations?” the Egyptian asked.
“Through our mutual friend in South Africa, I have already provided your source with the means to evade capture. As I said before, I do not think you will be disappointed by his commitment to this organization.”
Hamza appraised the man seated before him with increasing admiration. Once again he was reminded of how fortunate he was to have such a powerful weapon at his disposal, not to mention the inherent propaganda value of an American working against his own country. Nevertheless, his lack of knowledge about the man’s past was a constant source of worry for Hamza. How long could a man commit treason on such a grand scale before his conscience rallied against him?
Another thought ate at him occasionally, though he had all but dismissed it: how far would the Americans go to plant someone in his organization? He did not think they would kill one of their own greedy politicians, but deep down he was aware that this was not necessarily true, and the doubt was a heavy stone in his stomach. There were people within the Western intelligence services who were very much like him, in that they did not consider themselves bound by law or moral imperative. Hamza himself had often been heard to say that these few exceptional individuals posed a greater threat to the organization than the entire might of the American military combined.
The Egyptian did not betray any of these thoughts, his face an impassive mask. He turned to another man seated directly across from him, who had not spoken for the duration of the meeting. “Minister Mazaheri, thank you for being here this evening. I believe you have news to impart.”
The newly appointed minister of intelligence and security nodded and went on to address the group, his eyes focusing intently on each face from behind simple steel-framed spectacles. “His Excellency is most pleased by what you have accomplished. He was angered by the American accusations, and wishes to thank you for the actions you have initiated against them. Tomorrow he will issue a statement declaring his intention to reopen the nuclear facility at Natanz.” This revelation brought murmured approval from the small group of men around the table, the few who were trusted enough to be told of this development.
“Of course, production is already well under way. Recently installed gas centrifuges have dramatically increased the speed of the enrichment process, and our heavy-water reactor at Arak is currently producing weapons grade plutonium. We have, however, encountered several difficulties.