March on that tape, John, I’m positive. If we can place him here during the attack, well, that’s another question. It would help if we had some witnesses to talk to. If their stories match up, then we might have a foundation to build on.”
Harper nodded his agreement and turned to the only other person in the room, a small young woman seated on the other side of the coffee table. “What did you turn up in the interviews, Naomi?”
“Nothing new from the civilians, sir, but the Secret Service has already consulted with their person on the scene. They’ve faxed me a copy of her account. She only got a brief look, but it’s enough to confirm the other descriptions: Caucasian male, late twenties to early thirties, medium height, lean build. More importantly, she was the only witness confident enough to pick someone out of the photographs. Iran doesn’t have an embassy here in Washington, of course, but they do have a special-interest group located in the Pakistani embassy. Our people were watching the building five minutes after the attack, and there was no real fluctuation in traffic in or out.
“That’s the bad news. It’s going to be tough to stick this to the regime in Tehran. However, it’s possible, even likely, that this new government has direct ties to Al-Qaeda. If we can dig something up there, we would definitely have a silver bullet to hand to the U.N.”
Harper was looking thoughtfully out the window as she spoke. When he swiveled back in her direction, he nodded briefly and gave her a polite smile. “Thanks, Naomi. Would you mind excusing us for a moment?”
She didn’t move for a couple of seconds, then stood up without looking in Kealey’s direction. “Of course, sir.”
“I take it she’s cleared for this.” Ryan asked after she had left the room and closed the heavy door behind her, perhaps slightly harder than necessary. On the other side of the wall, a light flashed red next to the door frame, announcing that they were not to be disturbed.
Harper nodded wearily. “Naomi Kharmai. From what I’m told, she’s a rising star in the CTC,” he said, referring to the Agency’s counterterrorism department. “She’s finishing up her master’s in computer science at GWU. From London, originally, but she speaks four languages, including Arabic and Farsi. That’s why she’s in on this. Otherwise, I’d probably get someone with a little more experience.”
Ryan wasn’t surprised to hear that Kharmai was British. The accent was a dead giveaway, but there were other factors to take into account. Although the CIA depended on foreign assets for much of its hard intel, many were also brought in as full-time employees at Langley, especially in recent years. Of course, they underwent a rigorous security screening before they were offered positions, and even then, they were periodically checked up on by the internal Office of Security. Most of the Agency’s foreign-born recruits were never aware that they were lightly surveilled by their own employer from time to time, without regard for rank or seniority.
“Do I have to ask who Lawrence identified?”
Harper shook his head and pushed an 8 x 10 across the coffee table. When Ryan picked it up, he found himself staring at the same person in the videotapes. It was the man he knew as Jason March.
“Obviously, we’ve known about this for some time,” the DDO was saying. “There’s more, of course; one of ours was attached to the Special Forces team that cleared those caves. In addition to the videotape, he bagged some papers that had been partially burned. They were shipped directly over to our embassy in London. Technical Services didn’t get much, but the senator’s name came up as a possible target. That was enough to get him a protective detail, for all the good it did.
“If it is March we’re dealing with, then we’re in serious trouble, Ryan. Can you imagine what the reaction will be if word gets out that an American national is that high up in Al-Qaeda? There will be chaos, pure and simple. It’ll be a field day for the media…This guy makes John Lindh look like a boy scout.” Jonathan tapped his pen methodically against the sleek finish of his desk as he considered. “Kharmai’s pretty quick, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s quite a leap, from Iran to Al-Qaeda, and she doesn’t know about March or his involvement, if in fact he was involved.”
“I’d say it’s a safe bet, John,” Kealey said. “And it’s definitely cause for concern. As you said, Senator Levy’s name was known to Al-Qaeda, and Levy just happened to be the most outspoken critic of the Iranian hard-liners. If Al-Qaeda is being directly supported by the new regime, then they’re going to have access to the money and equipment needed to pick up where they left off.”
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
