Flash Point (58 page)

Sami was shocked. America had made a deal with the most cold-blooded killer he had studied. He had never known. “That
is
dealing with the devil.”

“We did what was in
our
interests. Just like we’re supposed to.”

Sami wanted to say something else. There was so much to say, so much to think through. “But that’s where you met Efraim, at Munich. Chasing the Red Prince.”

“Yes.” He could see the light going on in Sami’s head.

“And the whole time, you knew who it was and where he was and had made a deal with him.”

“He came to this very building. Often. Came up the elevator, just like you do. Had coffee with the Director.”

“Impossible!”

“Not impossible.”

“And the whole time, Efraim was trying to find him? To kill him?”

“Yep.”

“And you never told him.”

“No, I didn’t. He must know it now. Kissinger published it in his memoirs.”

“Maybe now it’s payback time.”

“I don’t think so,” Kinkaid said, obviously having already thought of that. “I wanted
you
to know that I know what I’m doing. I know everything you know about Israel and a lot more. And I know a lot more about what we have done, and haven’t done.”

Sami relaxed noticeably. “It’s not pretty, is it, this intelligence stuff.”

“Sometimes it’s beautiful. And other times, it’s very ugly indeed.”

“I just don’t want our pilots to fly into a trap.”

“Neither do I,” Kinkaid said. “You need to know that I take all that, and more, into account. It’s all a matter of judgment. It’s why my hair is getting gray.
Your
job right now is to determine whether the Sheikh has another place. Somewhere he might flee to before we get him. We have to anticipate.”

“Sure,” Sami said. “I don’t think there is any other place, but I’ll give it some thought.” He turned to go, and stopped. He looked back at Kinkaid. “I misjudged you. I’m sorry.”

“There’s one other thing you should know.”

“What?”

“Pollard wasn’t recruited by the Mossad.”

“Right,” Sami said, unbelieving. “It was LAKAS or something like that.”

“LAKAM,” Kinkaid corrected him. “
Lishka le Kishrei Mada
. The Hebrew acronym for the Israeli Defense Ministry’s Scientific Affairs Liaison Bureau.”

“And the Mossad had nothing to do with it.”

“Actually they didn’t,” Kinkaid said, smiling.

“You buy that?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever,” Sami said, unconvinced again.

“But remember when we confronted Israel about Pollard they protested that the Mossad never spies in the U.S.?”

“Yeah.”

“They do.”

“The Mossad?”

“Al. Hebrew for ‘above.’ A secret group within the Mossad unknown to even the vast majority of the Mossad. They operate in New York, Washington, D.C., wherever they want. Active spying.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are right. You can’t believe anything they tell you.”

“And?”

“And our objective isn’t to
believe
them, it is to line up things so their interests are the same as ours. Then when they act in their interests it is to our benefit. So let me do that and quit trying to out-think me.”

Sami was reeling. “I had no idea.”

“Exactly. But I like your tenacity. I like your hunger for the truth. Just give the rest of the people in your family the benefit of the doubt until you have a really good reason not to. It’s the only way you’ll survive in this business.”

The Gunner stood on the flight deck in his khaki pants, red Jolly Rogers ordnance shirt, and red flotation vest. He had his goggles on and his helmet was strapped tightly under his chin. He took being on the flight deck very seriously. He had seen too many people killed, friends who had walked into turning props, been sucked into jet intakes, cut in half by a broken arresting gear cable, or simply blown over the side by invisible jet exhaust, never to be seen again. Most of it had happened at night, when there wasn’t any moon, like tonight.

But the Gunner was so excited about the ugly plane that was taxiing to a stop in front of him he could be forgiven for paying just slightly less attention to the constant dangers. He was surrounded by his ordnancemen who were as excited about the COD in front of them as he was. A new weapon to an ordnancemen was like Christmas to a young child.

Gunner Ruben Bailey’s division wanted to be there to see the COD and its cargo, but he had kept the number of men down — limited to those he needed to move and load the cargo.

The Gunner and the red-shirted ordnancemen stood just forward of the island. The COD, the last airplane of the recovery, stopped directly in front of the island.

The plane captain hurried to the wheels and put the chocks in place to keep the aircraft from rolling, then grabbed the tie-down points and secured the plane to the deck with heavy, steel chains. She hurried back out to where the pilot could see her and gave him a thumbs-up, then brought her hand across her throat while pointing at the number-two engine, telling him to shut it down. The turboprop engine shuddered quickly to a stop and she gave the signal to shut down the other one.

The Gunner and the rest of the ordies moved around to the back of the COD. The ramp came down slowly, finally touching the deck. The Gunner and his men hurried into the belly of the plane, where two GBU-28s were exposed for all to see — ready to go, an all up round, as they called it, assembled by the Navy ordnancemen on the Naval Air Base at Sigonella, Sicily.

None of them had ever seen a bomb this big. This long. It was almost 20 feet long and smooth, almost polished smooth. It looked just like it should — an eight-inch Howitzer gun barrel. Eight inches of course being the size of the shell that could pass through it. The barrel itself was ten inches in diameter. The ordnancemen were impressed. The bomb was painted a flat, dark, olive green, as most bombs were, but the surface was smooth, unlike most bombs which were rough. It was high-quality steel and all business. The ordies at Sigonella had put the wings on the bomb — the airfoil group, as well as the CCG, the Computer Control Group — the guidance in the nose, as well as the strong back, the part that allowed it to be connected to the airplane.

The Gunner studied the wheels of each dolly with his flashlight, measuring the numerous nylon straps with his eyes. After assuring himself that they wouldn’t roll, he ordered his men to break it down. The Gunner yelled to leave no doubt about what he had said.

Four of the Gunner’s ordnancemen grabbed each MHU-191 skid on which each bomb rested and began carefully moving the bombs out of the plane, tying one down to the flight deck with steel chains. The ordnancemen gathered around the other bomb, pushing the massive weapon slowly down the rolling flight deck to the waiting F-14.

Everyone on the task force agreed Kinkaid was worn out. He hadn’t slept in three days. He stared at the computer screens in the task force’s room, but saw nothing. They had made no progress toward finding the men responsible for the open murders of Americans in Italy, Washington, Paris, London, and Naples and Kinkaid was disappointed with their performance. The murder in Washington had officially been handed over to the FBI, but the unit assigned was based at Langley, a rare example, though more common now than ten years before, of coordination between two services who had a history of rivalry.

But all the fusion, all the cross comparison of data from numerous sources had come up empty. They had no idea who the murderers were. At least as individuals.

“Joe. Phone.”

Kinkaid took the handset. “Kinkaid.”

“It is Efraim.”

Kinkaid recognized his voice before he heard the name. “Efraim, how are you? What’s the answer?”

“Right to business, is it?” Efraim asked, sounding disappointed. “Answer to what?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’ve been working on your behalf only to be greeted by unfriendliness?”

Kinkaid sighed. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

“War can do that to you. It makes many people tired. I too, am tired.”

“So, what’s the answer?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said, or what your young Turk has implied. I’m troubled. But it has made me wonder. What if the United States is getting Israel to do
its
dirty work?”

“Oh, hell, Efraim. What are you talking about? I don’t have time for this.”

“Maybe the United States does not want to risk its counterterrorist Special Forces operatives. Maybe it wants to risk Israel’s, instead. Is that possible?”

“No. It’s not possible. It’s stupid. If we need do it ourselves, we will. I thought it would be the
best
way, in fact. As I recall, you are the one who discouraged me from sending one of our people.”

“Yes, I expressed my concerns. I fear I am becoming as paranoid as you, my friend.”

Kinkaid waited for Efraim to go on. He wasn’t going to beg.

“We’ll do it, but it has to be on our schedule,” Efraim finally said.

“What is the schedule?”

“Tonight.”

“We’re going to have to work fast.”

“It must occur at four local time. When there is no moon.”

“Local, meaning at the site of the target?”

“Yes.”

“What is that Zulu time?”

“Three hours ahead of London.”

“How will our pilots know if your man is in fact designating the target?”

“They will know.”

“What if he’s not there?”

“He’s already there.”

“Thank you, Efraim.” Kinkaid was in fact grateful, but he was also uneasy. Too many unknowns.

“You are very welcome. Consider it a payment for the tragedy that befell your pilot in Israel. Our chance to give you your vengeance. An eye for an eye.”

“Tell your person to do as described unless I contact you. Can I reach you at this number for the rest of the evening?”

“Yes. I will be here all night.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he said, hanging up. Kinkaid looked at Sami, who was listening very carefully. “Maybe we’ve earned our keep after all.”

Sami nodded. “If he’s really there.”

The sun was just setting west of the fortress at Alamut. It was a day like so many before in the mountains of northwestern Iran. The men who followed the Sheikh were doing as he had demanded, searching far and wide for any hint of those who would do them harm or to find the first indication that the Americans were on their way. The Sheikh knew the Americans would come. It was a question only of how and when.

Farouk and the squad of Assassins in their black head gear and flowing robes worked their way over the hills five miles from Alamut, across the valley floor. They had climbed over these rocks thousands of times as boys, and now as young men. They knew these hills intimately.

They were fatigued from the month of turmoil that they had been through. They had intended to stir things up, but hadn’t expected to generate a war. They fought their fatigue and tried to maintain their intense focus during their search, but they knew there was no one here. They would have seen them approach. There was no place for an army unit to hide in this rocky terrain. Farouk slid down an enormous boulder and landed at its base. He looked around carefully, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder.

The second squad member slid down the same way, and the rest followed. The last man slid down the huge rock face slightly more to the left than the others had. As he neared the bottom his boot scraped against the rock next to the boulder and he heard a different sound. Farouk noticed it too. He looked at Farouk, who nodded. Farouk watched him unsling his AK-47 and point it at the second rock. Farouk motioned for the remainder of the squad to spread out while the eager young Assassin walked carefully toward the rock and touched it with his hand. It was cloth. Amazingly rock-likelooking cloth, but cloth nonetheless. The man pressed it and the cloth bent under his pressure. Whoever had somehow constructed a fake rock out of cloth, it wasn’t a friend.

Farouk motioned for his men to stand back and fired at the rock. The bullets tore through, leaving small black holes where they had passed through the thin cloth. He waited. Nothing happened. One of the Assassins went forward and placed his face against the cloth trying to see through one of the bullet holes. He was thrown back from the cloth as several M-16 bullets struck him in the face.

Bullets tore through the fake boulder in both directions as the Assassins returned fire at the unseen enemy. Another Assassin fell to the ground screaming in agony from a bullet that had torn through his jaw, the others continued to fire wildly at the boulder.

Inside the man changed clips on his M-16 and waited for them to come closer, listening to the cautious footsteps. He knew he had no hope of escape, but he also had decided long before coming on the mission that he wasn’t going to be taken alive.

Farouk knew he had to be aggressive. He indicated to the other squad members that they prepare to fire together. They all pointed their rifles at the boulder and Farouk gave them the sign.

The man inside began firing methodically through the cloth just before the Assassins. When another Assassin fell the squad fired back with a fury. Inside the cover bullets ripped through the man’s body, throwing him backward. His M-16 clattered against the rock floor of the hideout. Farouk raised his hand to tell his men to cease firing; they waited in silence.

After a few minutes, he approached the decimated shell. He and another man finally tore it from the ground and looked inside. The dead man lay on the ground surrounded by food, electronic gear, weapons, and other items that the squad did not recognize.

They moved closer carefully, their rifles on him, making sure he was dead. Once certain, they looked around to see if there was anyone else, examining a few nearby boulders for another camouflage cover. Farouk was proud of their success in killing the spy, but at the same time he was worried. Someone knew about Alamut. There could be others. The Assassins searched the man’s gear but nothing had any identification marks. The man on the ground was a mystery. No rank, no uniform, no identification of any kind. He could have been be from anywhere.