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stride that propelled him effortlessly across the perilous surface of the desert sand.
    â€œHello,” 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œLess 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 the cracked asphalt of the main road to Mashhad, speeding east toward the holy city as the stars burned far overhead.
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    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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDo you have any recommendations?” the Egyptian asked.
    â€œThrough 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