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. The IAEA has its suspicions, as always, and is insisting on access to our facility in the south. This proposal is rapidly gaining support within the U.N. El-Baradei can be quite persistent. Additionally, we have been forced to import some of the components needed for the carbon casing and injection core. It will be difficult to bring these materials into the country without alerting the Americans.”
The Iranian leaned forward, resting his hands on the rough surface of the table. His face was twisted in hatred when he spoke again. “This new resolution implemented by the West will set back the program by ten years or more if it is allowed to continue. For years we have survived only through the greed of European oil companies who regularly undermined the American sanctions. Now it appears that the French are starting to fall into line, as are the Italians…It is the opinion of my government that there is only one way to dissuade them from supporting these latest measures.”
Hamza absorbed these comments silently, one hand carefully grooming his thick black mustache as he considered this statement. “A large-scale attack on U.S. soil. Many American deaths. Extensive news coverage and public backlash. These are the things that you need to cause a division, to break their will.”
Ali Vahid Mazaheri nodded in agreement. “What do you suggest?”
“There are many options,” Hamza said. “First, a suitable target must be found. Everything depends on the target. A decisive strike will shatter the coalition; however, we may need assistance from His Excellency in mounting such an operation. Your government has seen how effective Al-Qaeda can be, even in our current weakened state.” He sent a respectful nod in the American’s direction. “Our Western friend has taken many risks that have once again brought us to the attention of the world. Speed is critical at this juncture if we wish to cause immediate disarray in the American leadership.”
The minister inclined his head slightly, a small smile etching its way across his face. “An interesting proposal. What do you require?”
“At first, nothing. Merely your support.”
“You have it. My country is in your debt, and it shall be repaid many times over. I will convey your proposal to His Excellency.”
“You have my gratitude. I am confident that we shall both prosper from this agreement.”
Hamza smiled and stood, as did the Iranian minister. Both men shook hands and then embraced, causing the small group surrounding the table to break into spontaneous applause.
Jason March stood to the side, his face wiped clean of any emotion. Inside, though, he felt a wave of pleasure ripple through his body as a vision of Washington ablaze seeped its way into his mind. The image of fire erupting from the windows of the White House was so powerful that Hamza had to speak his name several times before he snapped back to reality.
“Yes, what is it?”
Hamza
