Intercept (37 page)

Ali stayed frozen for a full minute and then began once more his advance, more careful now, tip-toeing across the ground, and then making a sudden and brutal lunge at Mack, ramming his right forearm around the former SEAL commander’s neck and squeezing the windpipe with all of his strength.

Ali stood six-foot-four, a tad taller than Mack. He knew to raise Mack’s left-arm up into a harmless high position and then keep throttling the windpipe until he received a sign of submission. He was not, however, prepared for Mack’s right elbow, which came around with the ramrod power one of the steel-drive rods on a steam locomotive.

The back of that right elbow exploded on the side of Ali’s head, almost cracking his skull. And a fraction of a second later the left elbow made the same arc and crashed into the Pakistani’s left temple.

The speed and animal strength of his quarry had stunned Ali, but not taken him out of the fight. With his brains zinging, he somehow hung on to Mack’s neck, and the big Navy SEAL moved into Phase Two of this classic U.S. Special Forces maneuver.

He leaned forward, and, through his own wide-apart ankles, he clamped an iron-grip on the back of Ali’s lower right leg, hauling him off balance, straightening up and then crashing back, lying, as it were, in the Pakistani’s lap.

Now both were on the ground. Ali had let go of Mack’s neck as he tried to save his backward fall. But it was too late. Ali was down, on his back, and his straight right-leg was jutting through, beneath Mack’s crotch. And the SEAL had a hammer-lock on the back of Ali’s ankle. He was, in effect, sitting astride Ali’s right thigh.

Ali winced backward, and Mack leaned back and heaved, ripping the hip joint out of its socket. Like all SEALs, he’d practiced this with a fight-partner a thousand times, and it never failed. The main difference between hard training and this was the defeated SEAL would tap twice on the victor’s back, signifying that he was helpless. This present attacker would not walk unaided for a minimum of eight months.

Mack sprang to his feet, placed his right boot on Ali’s neck, and said quietly, “Okay, pal. Now tell me, who the fuck are you?”

In a long and colorful career in combat, Ali had never been in such pain, nor so utterly amazed at any turn of events. He just lay there, drifting toward an agonized unconscious state, trying to focus on the face of this monster, who had, he knew, completely disabled him.

Mack reached down and yanked the pistol from Ali’s belt. And the Pakistani militant was lucky he was not Ben al-Turabi, because if Mack had recognized him, he would have shot him straight between the eyes. One terrorist at a time, two at a time, or altogether, it would have made no difference to Lt. Commander Bedford.

As things were, he drew back and hurled the handgun into the middle of the wood, to a place where it probably would never be found. He stared into Ali’s face, and recognized only that he was gazing at someone from the Middle East, perhaps an Arab, more likely a Persian or a Pashtun.

But just then two things happened. Both bad. Ali passed out with the pain from his wrecked leg, and heading down the blacktop drive was some kind of a ramshackle black pick-up truck. Mack could see there were two people in the front seats, but there could have been more in the rear.

In reality, he was just witnessing a couple of Mike’s team on their way to the shops in Torrington, to buy the green paint and overalls. But he didn’t know that. So he turned away from the stricken Ali, and headed back into the woods since he wanted to avoid being fired at by terrorists with AK-47s.

It had, he decided, been a confusing incident. His brief was simple: to take out Ibrahim Sharif, Yousaf Mohammed, Ben al-Turabi, and Abu Hassan Akbar. Right now he had no idea whether they were in the house or anywhere near Mountainside Farm. He did not even know if this Faisal al-Assad was in the house, nor indeed whether Faisal even knew the four men he was after.

That would take more investigation. But not now. It was far too dangerous for him to remain on this property, unarmed, in broad daylight, having
maimed one of their guards. There were probably too many of them, all heavily armed, and his orders were to work quietly, in complete secrecy.

Mack watched the truck race by. It turned right along the road toward Torrington, and would very soon pass his own parked black Nissan. Mack hoped they would not remember it, and, glancing back at the property, he exited the woods and turned in the same direction along the road as Mike’s fertilizer truck.

He was unaware of the significance of the vehicle. But, out of habit, he watched it through the glasses as it disappeared, and he wrote down the registration number in his notebook, noting also that it was a
Dodge Ram, with Massachussets registration, and that it was old, black, and muddy.

Then he walked back along the deserted road to the Nissan and looked forward to a cup of tea in the Blackberry River Hotel, right there by the fire, as darkness descended across these cold mountains.

 

BY 4:30 P.M.
Ali had not showed up at the farmhouse. Mike’s boys had phoned in from Torrington and said they had not seen him guarding the wood when he they drove by. At 5 p.m., Ibrahim formed a search-party to coincide with the arrival of the others.

He sent three of his team down to the front woods, where Ali was extremely easy to find since he was yelling his head off from a spot fifty yards along the post-and-rail fence, right by the duck hide. He’d been there for around ninety minutes with his leg now swollen to the size of a New Jersey pumpkin. He was freezing cold, in overwhelming agony, unable to move, and embarrassed beyond belief.

They drove the truck along the field and manhandled him onto the flatbed as carefully as possible. They drove him back to the house and listened while he explained what had happened. But his information was poor; he was not even certain he would recognize his attacker again.

Ibrahim conducted a brief conference with Yousaf and Ben and Abu, during which they accepted that Ali could not be admitted to an American hospital. There would be questions, requests for his name and address. And when he could not answer, an inevitable call to the police. He could not leave here. But neither could he stay while he was in this kind of medical state, feverish, screaming, and unable to move on his own. At 5:40 p.m., Abu Hassan walked into the main room of the farmhouse and shot Ali dead with two shots to the back of the head.

“God speed unto Allah,” intoned Ibrahim, and four of the group picked up the body, took it outside, and dumped it in an outhouse. It was an ignominious end to a brave but foolish young man.

 

AS ALL THIS WAS GOING DOWN
at Mountainside Farm, Mack Bedford was pouring his second cup of tea. He had changed his shoes, removed his parka, and was reclining in a fireside chair. He was reading a magazine, half-heartedly looking at the ads for winter vacations, when he came upon one that brought back vivid memories.

It was a tour of the Holy Land, a place where he had once served, assisting with the training of the Israeli Defense Force. It listed the stops—the Sea of Galilee, the Dead Sea, parts of Jerusalem, and south to Bethlehem and Hebron, and then the other historic town in the Negev Desert, Be’er Sheba, with its layers of history. The town where Abu Hassan had committed mass murder at the 2004 bar mitzvah.

Mack and some of his colleagues had loved Hebron. Although it was in Israel, it had one of the most naturally Arabian centers anyone could imagine. Mack remembered the sight of farmers, coming into the market with their produce in great panniers strapped to the flanks of their camels. He remembered the sheep and goat herders, and the
casbah
with its pottery, sculpted olivewood, and colorful glass.

He and his men had been taken by Arabs to see the town’s huge Islamic school, home to almost two thousand students. He could recall immediately the warmth and generosity of the local people, their delight if any of the SEALs knew even a smattering of Arab words.

He remembered the fresh fruit, especially the pale, sweet Hebron-grown peaches, treasured throughout the Middle East. But most of all he remembered the gigantic edifice of the Tomb of the Patriarch, which dominated the city from its high and windy hill. Mack would remember until the day he died the feeling of pure humility he experienced when they told him that inside those mighty sandstone walls was the last resting place of Abraham, in the Land of Canaan, where he forged his Covenant with God.

He could, almost, remember the quotation from Genesis, which was engraved on a plaque: “And the Lord said unto Moses,
‘
I have heard the cry of my people in Egypt, for I know their sorrows, and I have come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians, to a land flowing with milk and honey. To the place of the Canaanites.’”

He smiled at the memory of the guys from Foxtrot Platoon, SEAL Team 10, who’d been with him in Hebron. Chief Petty Officer Frank
Brooks, PO Billy-Ray Jackson, and Gunner Charlie O’Brien. They were all gone now, killed by an illegal missile fired by terrorists across the Euphrates River.

Mack put down the magazine and sipped his tea. He had some serious thinking to do, mostly involving what might happen when someone finds the guy with the broken leg. Right now he was amazed at how much he suspected, but how little he really knew. And he tried to distil his knowledge, and indeed his plan.

Who now owned Mountainside Farm? Could it now be occupied by the four men he was supposed to kill? And how could he find all this out without getting himself killed? There was also the question of what they were up to—and how it all might tie in to a potential hit on “Abe’s Place,” wherever that may be. He took another long look at the big-scale local map that Aimee Cutler had given him. There was the $875,000 farm with its clear view of Haystack Mountain. There was Torrington, and there was Route 44, which ran right past the hotel. He had spent little time checking out the land beyond his ops-area, especially the mountains between here and the New York State border.

The lettering that marked these mountains was printed sideways, running along the length of the peaks. Mack turned the map to read it and then sat, bolt upright, almost capsizing his Earl Grey tea, as he read the words before him: “Canaan Mountains.”

Canaan! He’d just been thinking about that—the ancient town of Mamre in the desert, now known as Hebron, where the Jews first came to Israel. Now here was its twin, a small town in Connecticut, also called Canaan, right in the middle of the mountains.

Mack knew this was a Damascus moment, “kinda like that Greek son - ofabitch in his bathtub.” The Greek word “Eureka !” entirely escaped him, for the moment at least. But Mack knew, he was, at last, on to something. He was closing in on Abe’s Place. That meant he was closing in on the terrorist target. And, if he wasn’t wildly mistaken, Ibrahim, Yousaf, Ben, and Abu Hassan were already in Mountainside Farm, or on their way.

He stood up from his chair and walked over to the receptionist, who was reading the paper. “Ma’am,” he said, “can you tell me if there’s an important school or college in the town of Canaan?”

“Well, there is one,” she replied, “But it’s nearer to here than the town. Canaan Academy. It’s a very expensive boarding school, like Choate, or St. Paul’s.”

“Hmmm,” said Mack. “I never heard of it.”

“Well, it’s a kind of specialist place, I believe,” said the girl. “It’s somehow attached to a Judaic Study Center. I think the students are mostly Jewish, and rich. It’s really a boys’ school, but I think there are some girls there.”

“Is it big? I mean not just a place for a coupla dozen potential rabbis?”

The girl laughed. “Hell, no,” she said. “It’s huge. I think there are about a thousand students. We never see them here. I think they are allowed into Canaan about once a semester or something.”

“Aside from that, they keep ’em locked up, right?” said Mack.

“Guess so. Keep those guys hammerin’ away at the Old Testament.”

Mack chuckled. “Where is it exactly?”

“Straight along the main road out here—that’s Route 44 toward East Canaan. About two miles, on the right. Big entrance, stone pillars, with lions on ’em. Iron gates, long drive. Can’t even see the school from the road.”

Mack planned to visit the following morning. But right now he had a long night ahead of him. He retreated to his room for a hot shower and a glance at the television news channels. He guessed, correctly, that the usual menu of bombs, death, shootings, failed medical care, cancer, rape, misery, and remorse mostly delivered by reformed beauty queens who smiled in the wrong places, would depress the hell out of him.

The hotel was a warm and cheerful place, and Mack wore just an open shirt with his light blazer down to dinner. He ordered a beer at the bar and then settled down to a grilled swordfish steak, which he loved, along with French fries and spinach. He’d listened for years to health-fanatics telling him there was a danger of too much mercury getting into the swordfish population. But he’d never heard a Maine fisherman agree with that, and they knew a lot more about deep-water fishing than anyone else.

And those swordfish were often caught in the turbulent tidal rips of the Grand Banks fishing grounds, eight hundred miles off the northeast coast of the United States. Mack never understood how there could possibly be mysterious drifts of chemical mercury out there as he dove with relish into his perfectly grilled white fish.

He had a fresh fruit salad for desert, with just a single scoop of vanilla ice cream. Then he sipped a large black coffee for a half-hour, and watched the end of the Yankees playoff game. As a loyal Red Sox fan, he hoped the Yanks would get beat, and was irritated when they won 9-1.

At 11 p.m. he returned to his room and changed back into his outdoor gear, adding a woolen Navy scarf and gloves. Waiting for the upstairs corridor to be empty, he slipped out, down the stairs and out of the back
door, not wishing to be seen looking like a renegade from a mountain rescue team. Not tonight.