Flash Point (8 page)

“He’s too fast,” Wink said, seeing the danger building. If Vialli got his nose too low with too much speed on the plane, it didn’t matter what he did, he would be dead. He would be unable to pull out before hitting the water, and he would be outside the ejection envelope. Even if he realized what was happening and tried to eject, it would only mean that he would die in his ejection seat instead of sitting in the airplane.

Woods waited as long as he could before keying his mike for the front seat radio. “
Boomer! Throttle back! You’re too steep
!”

The nose of the F-14 turned up suddenly as Boomer was startled into action by the shock of the unexpected voice of his section leader. He pulled hard and cloud-like water vapor appeared on the tops of the wings from the pressure. He leveled out at about the height of the flight deck, seventy feet off the water, still way too low, but pulling up quickly to follow Woods.

Woods shook his head and rolled back in on the spar. “
One’s in
,” he transmitted.

“
Two’s off
,” Boomer transmitted, well after he should have.

“He sure dicked that up,” Woods said.

“Hasn’t he ever strafed the spar before?”

“Maybe not. We’d better watch him.”

“We’d better tell the Skipper about that.”

“No, I’ll handle it.”

Vialli followed Woods religiously through the remainder of the runs on the spar. They cycled through the gunnery pattern again and again, shooting their bullets in fifty-round bursts, until they were both out of ammunition. “
One’s winchester
,” Woods said after his last run.

“
Two’s winchester
,” Vialli replied, following him up again.

“
Victory 201, flight of two exiting the pattern directly overhead, Boss
,” Wink said.

“Roger, 201. Good shooting.”

“Fifteen minutes till we have to be overhead,” Wink reminded Woods. Wink looked back to see Vialli closing in to join up.

Woods accelerated away from the carrier and climbed to fifteen thousand feet. “Let’s woodshed our wingman a little,” Woods said. Without warning, he jerked his plane to the left and hit afterburner. He had waited until Vialli wasn’t looking at him, and Vialli didn’t notice until he was nearly a half-mile away. Vialli turned to catch up. Woods came out of afterburner and turned sharply into Vialli. “
Fight’s on
,” he said over the squadron frequency, the universally recognized declaration of the commencement of voluntary air combat. Woods loved air-to-air combat, and loved taking advantage of his unsuspecting wingman. A few more times like this and he wouldn’t be unsuspecting again.

Sami looked around the conference room. He was just starting to get to know the other members of the task force. All were members of the CTC, the Counter-Terrorism Center of the CIA. The CTC had been in operation for years on the ground floor of CIA Headquarters in Langley. There were two hundred men and women permanently assigned to the CTC, and their cubicles were separated by “streets.” Signs hung from the ceiling that spoke volumes of what they were about: Abu Nidal Blvd, and Tamil Tiger Terrace, and Osama bin Lane, named after Osama bin Laden, one of their greatest and longest running frustrations.

Sami had walked through the area a few times before, but only to answer a specific question. He was not a member of the CTC. He was just an analyst from the Middle East Section who happened to research emerging terrorist groups. But Kinkaid knew about him. He had insisted on Sami and Cunningham joining the new task force.

The conference room that had been set aside for it was in the middle of the CTC, surrounded by people who spent every waking minute tracking terrorists and dreaming of the day when another one would be caught or somehow defanged.

Sami’s analysis was still raw, and might be shown to be ridiculous at any moment. He was uncomfortable briefing anyone about it. He didn’t even know what he believed yet. It was just speculation. But Kinkaid had looked ill when Sami had first brought his ideas to him. He had insisted he tell the task force immediately.

He wasn’t sure exactly how to begin. Almost all of his work ended up in reports or memos. He had never given a brief to anyone from the DO, the Directorate of Operations, the ones who actually went out into the world and put their lives on the line to accumulate intelligence or effect things. He felt like the water boy to the football players.

The task force had assembled early. They had a 7:30 a.m. meeting scheduled, but Kinkaid had asked them all to be there at 6:30 to hear Sami. They were interested, but skeptical. They drank coffee and sat in their chairs around the large table, waiting. Kinkaid signaled Sami, who got up from his seat in the front and walked to the podium.

“As some of you know, I’ve been looking at emerging terrorist groups in the Middle East for a long time. My job is to recognize a new group before they know they’re a group. You get all kinds, the young boys who have delusions of grandeur, people who want an Islamic state, people who hate the West, or Israel, or the ones who want money and are trying to figure out what they need to say to get that. You’ve heard about them all.”

“Right,” one of them said, encouraging him to go on.

“As you know from my preliminary memo, I read a report from NSA the other day about an intercept—”

“What kind?” someone asked.

“Cell phone.”

“Where?”

“Eastern Lebanon.”

“What did it say?”

“Nothing, really—”

Kinkaid didn’t like the exchange and prompted Sami. “What about it gave you concerns?”

“A name.”

“What was that?”

“A man was talking about a meeting. To discuss Gaza. Clearly a reference to the attack.” Sami looked around and went on. “He talked about a time and place, which didn’t make a lot of sense, but then, signing off, the man on the other end was talking to someone else. Like he’s got to explain who he’s talking about. It’s a little hard to hear, they think because he put his hand over the phone, but he said ‘Sheikh al-Jabal.’ “

Ricketts, slouched in his chair, said, “So?”

“It’s the name of a legendary leader of the eleventh century. Others later used his name to sort of carry on a tradition. Marco Polo even met his successor, who carried the same title. He called him the Old Man of the Mountains. But the name he called himself is the same name that has been passed down through the centuries, Sheikh al-Jabal. He started an empire from a fortress in western Iran called Alamut. They were called the Hashasheen.”

“Hash smokers? When?” Ricketts asked, suddenly hearing the “eleventh century” part of what Sami had said.

Sami looked at his notes. “To be exact 1090.”

“What the hell does—”

Kinkaid cut him off. “You think I asked him to tell you this because it has nothing to do with what we’re doing?” Kinkaid’s look shut him up.

Kinkaid nodded to Sami.

“So this guy gets boys, twelve years old or so, and raises them to adulthood in his gardens. Big fortress, gardens, the whole thing. Calls it paradise. Then when it’s time for one of them to kill for him, he just tells him he will return to paradise if he does the killing—”

“Tie it in,” Kinkaid said.

Sami Haddad looked at their eyes, which showed both interest and skepticism. “The Hashasheen were formed during the Crusades. They terrorized the Crusaders, killing many of them, but staying out of the typical battles. They would sneak up on the Crusaders and cut their throats. They were the forerunners of modern terrorists. Born killers, who would gladly die for the cause, which is defined by the current Sheikh al-Jabal.

“They basically disappeared, but there have always been rumors of their existence, all the way from Lebanon, to Egypt, to Iran, to Pakistan. This is the first time since the early nineteenth century that someone called himself Sheikh al-Jabal. That time they fought for Napoleon’s interests in the Middle East for money. So if this is new, and he is what he claims to be, it could be huge trouble. They have no friends. They’ve always been ostracized by Muslims too. They’re considered heretics. So they don’t trust anyone. Unless you grew up with them, you’re the enemy.”

Kinkaid looked at their faces. They weren’t sure what to think. They’d never heard of anything like it. Kinkaid spoke first. “If for some reason this guy is the one who started the fight in Gaza, he’s way ahead of where our knowledge is. We’re playing catch-up. Ricketts, we got anything that can get close to these guys?”

Ricketts was more at home in a foreign country disguised as a beggar than in a conference room with a bunch of eggheads. It showed. “Not right now.”

One of the officers to Ricketts’s right spoke quietly. “What’s this about hashish?”

“Nothing about hashish. It’s what they were called, the Hashasheen. It has nothing to do with the drug — “ Sami answered, but was interrupted again.

“Then why were they called that?”

“It’s a mystery. Some think it is because they did use hashish. But the best explanation I’ve found is that Hashasheen is close to the Arabic word for guardian. These guys consider themselves not only the guardians of Islam, but the guardians of the Middle East, from invaders and infidels.”

“They call themselves that?”

“Yes. But Hashasheen sounds like another word in English and other languages,” Sami said. “Assassin. It’s where the word assassin comes from. These guys invented assassination as a political tool.”

The room was quiet as the task force members pondered what he had said.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Kinkaid declared. He looked at Ricketts. “You getting any HUMINT?” Human Intelligence, information from people. Spies.

Ricketts sat silently before answering. “A little. Nothing useful yet.”

“Keep working it. Need any help?”

Ricketts shook his head.

Vialli stood in front of the church of San Marco in Venice. He looked at his watch. He had told Irit in his e-mail that he would be there at 11 a.m.; but she hadn’t replied. It was now 9:30; the large square was quiet. A few people wandered around, vendors pushed their carts, and people walked to work at the shops around the square, which was nearly empty. It was cold and damp. Pulling up the collar of his brown leather jacket, he exhaled and watched his breath. It was the same color as the sky and the river to his left.

“Hi, Tony.”

Vialli spun around at the sound of Irit’s voice. “Irit!” he said, surprised. “How did you sneak up on me?” He reached for her, not sure what to do. He gave her a side hug.

She rose on her toes and kissed him softly on his cheek. “As soon as I came into the square I saw this American staring at the church with his hands in his pockets. Who else could it be?” She smiled.

“I’m conspicuous?” he asked, feigning injury.

“You may look Italian, but you look more American.”

“What can I say?” he said. “Look at this church. It’s made out of tile.”

“It’s not made of tile, it’s just that the outside is tiled.”

“That’s what I meant.” He looked down at her. “I asked Sean to come along this morning. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Sure. He’s very nice. By the way, I have to go back to Trento by this afternoon.” She saw his disappointment as soon as she had said it. “I’m sorry. I just have to get back.”

“Why?”

“I just have to be back.”

“No problem.” He studied her face, reacquainting himself with her. She was even prettier than he had remembered, but not as tall. “I kind of wanted to go on a gondola ride, if it isn’t too cold.”

“Okay,” she said. “We can sit close together to stay warm.”

“Here he comes,” he said, running down the four steps to wave at Sean from across the square. Irit followed behind him.

Woods saw them and walked down the middle of the colorful square. “Hey,” Woods said to them. “Sorry I made you late.”

“Actually, you’re early,” Vialli replied.

“Hello,” Irit added.

“So what’s the plan?” Woods asked.

“Do the gondola thing.”

“Cool. Where do you want to go?”

“Just drive around. See the buildings, you know.” Tony looked at the sky. “I just wish it would clear up. It’s kind of cold.”

“It’s okay. Let’s do it. Then we can get a cappuccino or something.”

They walked back across the square toward the canal that ran parallel to the face of San Marco. Vialli said, “I spotted some gondola guys over here.”

They all followed. The sky was breaking up and blue was showing through the wispy cloud cover. The chop in the canal had settled down and the cold biting wind began to grow quiet. They arrived at the edge of the water, which was nearly level with the square. “How do they keep the water from flooding?” Vialli asked.

“It does flood,” Irit replied. “The city is slowly sinking and it gets worse every year.”

“Nothing like sinking and being surrounded by water.”

“How about this one?” Irit said, pointing to a large black gondola.

Vialli shrugged. She spoke rapid Italian to the man and they stepped in at the middle of the boat while the driver held it steady with his oar. They walked carefully to the back of the gondola and were about to sit down when a wave from a passing motorboat rocked the boat roughly. Irit stumbled, catching herself with her hand on the seat. Vialli grabbed the side of the gondola and steadied himself. He had begun to move aft again to sit down when he noticed Irit’s right hand. She had only her thumb and middle finger. It looked like a claw. The rest of her hand was gone. He felt a cold knot in his stomach as he stared at it, unable to avert his eyes. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before — he had been with her for hours over several days in Naples and had never noticed her right hand. Vialli looked at Woods. He had seen it.

Irit quickly withdrew her hand and turned to sit facing forward. She looked into his face as he avoided her look. He sat to her left and leaned into the red padded seat back. Irit spoke again in Italian and their gondolier moved them quickly away from the landing.

They sat in silence as the boat moved quickly down the canal. Vialli found himself breathing harder than usual. He watched the passing buildings, feigning interest, to avoid looking at Irit. After several minutes passed awkwardly, she spoke to him softly. “Does it make that much difference?”