“That’s true enough,” he replied with a grin of his own. “But the fact remains that Al-Qaeda is more likely to retain their grassroots support and the flow of small arms and money into the organization if they stay away from the biological and nuclear side of things.
Otherwise, they’d be asking for more trouble than they can handle.
If I had to guess, I’d say that they’re helping Iran with their nuclear ambitions.”
“In exchange for what?”
“It’s hard to tell. They might not even have come to an agreement yet,” he said. “It could be money, political asylum, arms—it might even be something as simple as safe passage through the country.
For that kind of help, though, I would say that they’ll expect a lot in return.”
“That makes sense.” Naomi finished her juice and peeked at her watch. It was almost ten. “How do you think March fits in?”
Ryan didn’t answer as the waiter approached with their check. He waited until the bill was settled and they had collected their coats before picking up the thread. “You read the file, so you know what he is.” She hadn’t read the file, but didn’t stop to correct him. “His appearance and training allow him to blend in perfectly here. He might even have been able to bring some international connections to the table. For any stateside operation, March is going to be their best bet for success. Also, he has a lot to teach the young recruits.
They won’t use him unless there’s a high probability that he’ll come back alive. Believe me when I say that Al-Qaeda gets stronger every day he’s involved.”
“That’s a scary thought,” she murmured.
Ryan nodded his head in agreement. “I know.”
The black Suburban was parked along the curb, a gentle mist of rain falling around them as they hurried from the hotel entrance into the warm interior of the truck. Harper was waiting in the front passenger seat. As soon as the doors were shut, the vehicle moved off into traffic. Ryan handed the deputy director a carryout cup of coffee from the hotel’s restaurant, and the older man nodded his appreciation.
“We came up big on the Natalia, Ryan,” he said. “It belongs to a man by the name of Stephen Gray. Does that ring a bell?”
Kealey scanned his memory. “Vaguely. Owns a shipping company, right? He got into some trouble when one of his boats was picked up on the way to Northern Ireland with a cargo hold full of weapons.”
The DDO tossed the file he was holding into Ryan’s lap. “One and the same. It caused a lot of problems because the weapons were high grade, a thousand 40mm automatic grenade launchers still in the packing grease, eight thousand rounds of ammunition, crates full of Vektor 7.62mm tripod-mounted machine guns. All of it was manufactured by a division of Denel Arms, in which the government holds a majority share. As you might expect, the Brits were furious. There was a lot of speculation that Gray was stockpiling weapons to sell to the highest bidder, but he beat the charges on a technicality.”
Naomi’s eyes opened wide and Ryan looked up sharply. “That’s a problem,” he said. “If any of that is true, then there’s a good chance that Al-Qaeda has access to some serious firepower.”
“I’d say it’s more than a chance,” Naomi put in. “I mean, look at the facts. Gray owns a shipping company that was used to smuggle arms. One of his ships brings explosives into the States, which in turn are used in a terrorist operation by Al-Qaeda. There must be some direct connection.”
Harper was nodding slowly. “And I’m willing to bet that Jason March is that connection.” He picked up a second file from the floor at his feet. It was a dark brown folder with no markings that Naomi could see. He handed it back to her. “It’s about time you got a look at this, Kharmai.” Kealey shot her a questioning look, but she ignored it and began to peruse the contents as the DDO explained: “That is a complete history of March . . . everything we know, to be more specific. There isn’t much more than a 201 file. His records were good enough to get him into the military, and once you’re in, no one looks much further.”
She looked up curiously. Ryan was staring out into the rain. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I mean that he didn’t exist until he joined the army,” Harper said.
Her mouth hung open as she searched his face.
“That can’t be right,” she said. “The military looks at your birth certificate, your driver’s license, even your secondary-school records, right? How could he just—”
“Every piece of documentation that he submitted was an invention.” It was Ryan speaking, and she turned to look in his direction.
“Filling out the initial paperwork was the risky part, but even then they don’t look too hard—the army has always been desperate for warm bodies. Once he was in, it was all taken as fact. Airborne, Ranger School, Air Assault, Sniper School, the SERE course—that’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—SF Assessment and Selection . . . He got into all of it by the strength of his military record, and he succeeded in everything he did. He was a model soldier. There was no reason for the generals signing off on it to doubt any of his personal history before he came into the service.”
Naomi detected a bitter edge to Ryan’s words, and her conversation with General Hale came flooding back once again: I just didn’t buy into what Kealey was saying . . . It sounded paranoid . . . I should have listened to him, though . . . I should have listened . . .
She was looking through the file. If anything, March’s achievements were even more staggering than his commanding officer’s. The first page listed his MOS as 18 Charlie, or Special Forces engineer sergeant. In addition to the schools that Ryan had mentioned, Sergeant March had completed EOD (Explosives Ordnance Disposal) and was qualified in both Scuba and HALO—High Altitude, Low Opening freefall parachuting.
When it came to the list of awards and achievements, though, the DD214 was noticeably bare. The highest award that March had earned was the Meritorious Service Medal. Aside from that, there wasn’t much to speak of.
“If he was such a great soldier, why didn’t he receive more commendations?”
Ryan had to think for a minute, as it was a good question. “He did okay; he received all the standard medals as you move through the ranks, and any decent E-7 gets the MSM. It’s just that he rubbed a lot of officers the wrong way, and they’re responsible for approving the awards. He was always separate from his peers, never wanted to be a team player. A lot of people didn’t like the way he acted . . . It made them nervous.”
Including you, she thought. But Ryan Kealey had looked deeper into March’s mind, had seen what was truly lurking there long before anyone else. He couldn’t be blamed for what Jason March had done seven years earlier, or for the crimes he had committed since. She handed the file back to the deputy director.
“Now you have an idea of what you’re going after,” he said.
She managed to keep a straight face, but thought she saw the corner of Ryan’s mouth lift in amusement. Clearly, Harper didn’t know what kind of investigator he had brought into the fold.
“I want you two in Cape Town to see what Gray has to say. He has a converted warehouse there that he uses as an office and base of operations. He also owns shipping operations in Durban and Richard’s Bay, but Cape Town is the base.”
He pointed back to the file sitting on Kealey’s lap. “That should contain all the information you need. As you can imagine, Stephen Gray is not a favored citizen since he beat those charges. We have unofficial support from the South African government to conduct this operation. Translated, that means that they will overlook something, but not anything. You got me this time, Ryan?” His voice was steel as he stared at the younger man.