that his considered statements had been well received.
“Hassan.” The arms spread wide, the palms open in a gesture of reluctant capitulation. “You are correct, as always. I was wrong to doubt a man that you saw fit to bring into the organization. I have always respected your judgment.” This last sentence was delivered deliberately, Saif’s eyes burning into Hamza’s face. They were genuine, reassuring words, and his subordinate felt the trust that was given him.
“With your approval, I want to give him full control of the operation in Africa.”
“No, no.” The commander’s long arms waved the idea away quickly. “We have exhausted our ability to operate in that region. Since the bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, the Americans have considerably enhanced security at their embassies in the region. Most of their buildings are at least 100 meters away from the street, and the exterior windows are now coated in mylar. There are additional personnel and vehicular searches—in short, another attempt would result in far fewer casualties. I won’t waste the infidel on a fruitless endeavor.”
“I agree completely,” Hamza said. It was true; the attacks in 1998 had resulted in the deaths of 213 people in Nairobi. It would be difficult to achieve that success again, and any members of the organization involved in the attack would almost certainly be killed by the marines guarding the perimeter.
“There is much to be gained from this strike, my friend. The support of the Iranians will be invaluable in the future. We will have safe refuge, access to new training camps with decent equipment. We will have money, weapons, volunteers. It is a new beginning for us. There is much to be gained. It cannot fail…
“It might interest you to learn, Hassan, that the American was far more forthcoming with information not related to himself.”
Hamza’s brow furrowed as he considered these words. He had not been present for the entire interrogation. “What do you mean? What kind of information?”
“Evidently, our friend Shakib stumbled onto some very sensitive material just after the senator’s death. All of his documents are now in our Westerner’s hands.”
A small smile played across Hamza’s face as he lifted his cup. “And these documents are of interest to us?”
“The American says that it is extraordinary information…He believes that we should take advantage of this opportunity, and I am inclined to agree.
“Take, as an example, the idea of a garden. To keep the garden clean, pure, the weeds must be removed. To destroy a weed, you can burn what is visible, pull at the surface growth, do whatever you wish to no avail. It is necessary, always, to kill the root. The root is protected on all sides, but when the soil has been removed, the root is vulnerable. It is possible, my friend, that the soil has now been removed, and the path is clear…”
Hamza watched as a maniacal glint sparked in the flat brown eyes of the man seated across from him. He knew that, as committed to the organization as he was, he would never come close to matching the fanaticism of Saif al-Adel. For this, he was grateful.
“…for the American believes that in just under a month’s time, we will have an opportunity to kill the president himself.”
CHAPTER 10
BROOKS COUNTY, GEORGIA
In spite of her frequent complaints, University Hospital in Georgetown insisted on keeping Naomi Kharmai two extra days for observation. That was two days too long in her opinion, but the additional time did give her a chance to run down some information about Peter Hale, the man who had signed Kealey’s discharge papers. Through discreet inquiries, she was able to find out that he had retired in 2001 despite having been offered command of the Eighth U.S. Army, which was based out of South Korea. It was a three-star position and would have meant a promotion for Hale, a major general at the time. Naomi wondered how the general’s retirement might tie in with Ryan Kealey’s sudden departure from the military.
It had not been difficult to convince the deputy director that she needed a few days of convalescent leave. Although she hated to appear weak in front of Harper, she needed the time if she wanted to speak to Hale in person. Finding his home address had been a little trickier, but she was eventually able to track it down through an acquaintance at the IRS.
Naomi suspected, rightly, that Jonathan Harper would not give her any additional information about Kealey or March. She wanted to know more about both men, though, so that she could draw her own conclusions. From an early age, Kharmai had been able to recognize this need within herself, the desire to place people and things into neat compartments with clearly defined labels. Often, she was able to convict others based on their actions alone, and when it was done, it was done; a judgment reached by Naomi Kharmai had all the permanence of the sun’s place in the universe.
If General Hale wanted to be left alone, he certainly picked the right place for it, she thought. She had missed the turnoff once, and had to backtrack along the rutted dirt road that was bordered on both sides by ragged trees and bushes. After about ten minutes, she located the dented black mailbox marked only by the house number. Hale’s driveway had been recently paved, but was still almost as overgrown as the main road. The branches scraped against the side of her vehicle as she drove deeper into the dense vegetation.
Suddenly the trees were gone and Naomi’s rented Explorer broke into a vast field of wild grass. At the very center stood a large ante-bellum mansion. The front was dominated by a white portico that reflected the red light of the fading sun. The portico was held above the ground by four towering Doric columns, which led in turn to a gabled roof sweeping down to end chimneys that occupied both sides of the house. High windows were shadowed by a trellis overrun with fading vines of blue wisteria, Confederate jasmine, and Lady Bankshire roses. Despite the onset of winter, the pleasant smell of the flowering plants was heavy in the air as Naomi parked the Explorer and walked up to the front door.
Her first knocks went unanswered, and trying the door, she found it locked. Moving around to the rear of the house, she noticed a mud-caked red Chevy pickup parked on a bare patch of ground. Walking over to the vehicle, she placed the palm of her good arm on the hood and felt that it was warm, the engine ticking as it cooled.
“What are you doing?”
She whirled at the voice. Standing before her was a large man wearing a faded-red flannel shirt, brown corduroy pants, and muddy hiking boots. His hair was white and his shoulders stooped with age, but his vivid blue eyes seemed to compensate for the physical toll the years had obviously taken on his body.
“I said, what are you doing?” he asked again.
She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Hi, my name is Naomi Kharmai. I’m looking for General Hale.” The man looked her up and down quickly, and then swallowed her small hand in his. She could feel rough calluses running over her own smooth knuckles.
“Well, you found him. What can I do for you?” he asked.
Naomi held out her credentials, which Hale quickly examined.
“I’m with the Agency, and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about some soldiers that were under your command at Fort Bragg,” she said.
Immediately, his face clouded with suspicion.
“I understand completely if you want to call for verification. The number for the switchboard is—”
“I’ll get
