Kealey nodded deferentially, which was a source of some amusement to Kharmai until Harper fixed her with the same sobering gaze.
“Let me also tell you that the local police force hasn’t been brought into the loop, and it’s not going to happen anytime soon.
They don’t know who you are . . . It’s worth keeping that in mind.
They won’t hesitate to shoot if they think you’re a threat. I’m not saying this for my own health, okay? The nearest U.S. embassy to Cape Town is in Pretoria, which is over 600 miles away. That doesn’t give you a lot of room for error, so you can’t afford to fuck up, because no one has your back.”
Jonathan Harper turned in the seat to point something out to the driver as they approached the departure gates for Norfolk International, the wet street hissing beneath the tires as the skies finally opened and rain hammered down onto the roof of the vehicle and the approaching road.
“I almost forgot.” Harper turned back around over the back of his seat to hand them each folders. “These are your passports and driver’s licenses. Congratulations, you now work in Silicon Valley. It should be a substantial salary increase for both of you, if only on paper,” he said with a grin. “Put anything you need on expenses, but don’t forget who’s ultimately accountable, okay?”
The smile faded from his face as he turned back to business.
“There is a reason that I’m sitting here instead of my comfortable little office in Langley. This situation has the full attention of the director and the president, so it has to have our full attention as well. I’m counting on both of you.”
The small convoy had been traveling northwest for almost eight hours. They were crossing the Dasht-e Lut, the great salt desert that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. When the foothills of the Zagros had finally appeared in the distance, the sight had inspired the young policeman seated in the passenger seat of the second Land Rover to murmur a brief prayer of gratitude. In front of the policeman was the vehicle carrying the man from Al-Qaeda, the air force colonel, and two of his aides. Behind him was the International 4900 driven by the American, carrying the metal container that was bound for the plant at Arak.
They had passed through the towns of Nikshahr and Bampur, small groups of children waving excitedly as the vehicles carefully navigated the narrow streets. Four hours later, the city of Bam could be seen to the north, causing a man native to the sprawling munici-pality to cry out excitedly from the backseat. They had traveled only 50 additional miles since the city outskirts had faded from view.
Earlier in the day, the startling contrasts of the desert had come as a welcome surprise to Ali Ahmedi, who had, until now, spent every one of his twenty-eight years in the streets of Tehran. His views of the Iranian landscape had always been limited to the jagged peaks of Mount Damavand, the highest point in Iran just north of the capital city. He had never experienced the desert until the trip to Beheshti, the immense white cumulus clouds bright against the brilliant blue backdrop of sky, falling down to the razor edge of the horizon where the sand, stone, and dried-out mud of the kavirs began.
Now the air was cool, and Ahmedi rolled down the window for the breeze as the stars settled in overhead. Soon they would stop, as travel over the sucking mud of the kavir salt marshes was dangerous enough in the daytime, when the path ahead was visible and a judgment could be made.
His friend and fellow officer of the Komiteh drove the vehicle. In the rear seat were three of the colonel’s aides. As the hours passed, Ahmedi had listened to them with amusement, at first. Then growing impatience, and finally, outright annoyance.
All they could speak of was the American.
Their conversation was littered with wild supposition and theory; the American was not an American at all, but a European mercenary; the American was a spy for the Great Satan; the American was a killer of the highest distinction, without peer.
The last one had some merit, he thought.
Ahmedi had watched the American fix the man of Al-Qaeda with his movie-star good looks and snake eyes, and then move off easily toward the harbormaster’s office. He recalled that the harbormaster had shouted that the warehouse could not be opened, that a truck must be acquired elsewhere. The American had entered the building of corrugated iron, and the harbormaster had not been seen again . . .
No one had dared to enter the office afterward. Ahmedi would have said that the man from Al-Qaeda was afraid of the American, and that the colonel and his aides shared the fear.
The headlights flashed from the truck behind, and the policeman at the wheel of Ahmedi’s vehicle flashed his in turn. The convoy stopped and the engines died. Sleeping bags were pulled from behind the seats as a cool breeze lifted the loose sand into the black night. It was twelve more hours to Arak. They would resume at first light.
Chapter 15
CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA
Founded in the mid-seventeenth century by Governor Jan van Riebeeck, Cape Town was first given life as a supply station on the Dutch East India Company’s sea route to the East. Over the years the city flourished, occupied first by the British, and then returned to the Dutch in 1803. By 1806, the port was once more in British hands, and soon became the capital of the Cape of Good Hope Colony.
When the Union of South Africa was established in 1910, all administrative proceedings were moved north to Pretoria, but the coastal city continued to expand as the diamond and gold mines of the Transvaal provided enormous and lucrative quantities of raw exports. Now, as both the legislative capital and one of the largest maritime ports in the world, it was easy for Ryan Kealey to understand why Stephen Gray would choose to base his company in the thriving commercial and industrial center that marked the gateway to the African continent.
They arrived in Cape Town at three in the afternoon after traveling almost 8,000 miles, the sun sweltering overhead as Ryan drove their white Nissan X-Trail deep into the heart of the city. Naomi sat in the passenger seat, a large map spread out across her lap as she navigated the way west on the Strand toward the waterfront. Judging from the expression on her face, Ryan knew she was occupied by more than the directions she was giving.
“Come on,” he finally said. “You’re driving me crazy with that look. What are you thinking about?”
She turned in the seat, the concern obvious in her face. “I’m worried about how we’re going to handle Gray. I mean, don’t you think we’re just a bit shorthanded here?”
Ryan shrugged, his attention focused on the road ahead. “He owns one of the largest shipping companies in the country, so he’s obviously an intelligent man. We’ll try to reason with him. I highly doubt he wants to face extradition; it’s a tough sell, but I’m sure the State Department will make the request if Brenneman makes a point of it. I don’t see the South Africans trying to get in the way, do you?”
“I guess not,” she said. “What if he doesn’t listen to reason? Turn here.”
Ryan swung the jeep around a corner, swearing under his breath as he narrowly missed sideswiping a smaller vehicle. He was still adjusting to driving on the left side of the road. “I don’t think that far ahead,” he finally replied, turning to give her a small smile.
They were driving slowly down the narrow streets of the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, known to the locals simply as the V&A. As one of the Cape’s premier tourist attractions, the streets were lined with expensive stores and their patrons, sunburnt tourists trudging along the sidewalks as they struggled under a common load of cameras, daypacks, and shopping bags. The Waterfront had been restored in the late-1980s, and although many of the buildings had been mod-ernized, some still bore the remnants of Victorian industrial architecture left over from years of British rule. Overall, Naomi thought the effect was quite pleasing as the jeep crested a low hill and the sparkling waters of Table Bay came into view.