Final Flight (27 page)

They stared at each other, thinking of David and the
year the team had spent tracking leads and sifting
information, chasing a will-o”-the-wisp. “We will
never,” Judith said, “ever find Colonel Qazi
sitting quietly in a public place two days in
a row, just waiting for us to walk up and assassinate
him by the numbers-one, two, three, bang bang
bang-not if we hunt him for a thousand years. He’s
too clever. And you know as well as I do, we
don’t have enough people to tail him effectively. It would
take a dozen to do the job properly. We’re
lucky if we know where he is three hours a day,
give or take five kilometers.”

“If the Italians catch us. . .” The blond
man gestured upward. “You know that! God in heaven.
. . a hotel! Full of people! Taxis with radios
parked in front. Police everywhere.” He
fell to his knees and stretched out his arms to her.
“Qazi’s here in Naples with his own team. If
we’re patient, we might get them all.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s too
clever. And too dangerous. At the first hint that we
are closing in-the slightest hint that he’s being
followed or observed or his movements noted-he’ll
slip through our fingers. . . again. We’ll come away
empty if we don’t grab the chance when we get
it.”

“Call Tel Aviv. Clear this with the Old
Man.” As badly as the Old Man wanted
Qazi, surely he would not approve such a risky
operation.

“I already have.” Joel slumped. “Get up off
your knees,” Judith said.

“The position doesn’t become you.” She turned
to the window and looked across the rooftops at the
Vittorio. “We were so close in Tangiers.
He was aboard that ship.” Beyond the hotel, several
miles out on the sea, the long low silhouette of the
United States was a darker blue against the hazy
vagueness of the sea and sky. On the horizon beyond,
slate gray clouds were just visible. “He’s
interested in the carrier.” She balled her
fist and tapped gently on the window frame.
“We’re so damned close.

We’ve never been this close.”

“What about this American naval officer?
Tarkington? What does he want? Where does he
fit in?”

“He just wants my body.”

“Oh.”

She whirled. “Watch your tone of voice,
faggot,” she snarled. “Some men do like women’s
bodies. That’s why you arrived in this world.”

The blond man threw up his hands. “Hey, I
just asked. If you want him, that’s fine with me. I
won’t lose any sleep. Just as long as the mission
isn’t compromised.”

Judith waved her hand angrily, dismissing the
subject. He approached her and put his hands on
her shoulders. “I’m sorry for you that I am the way
I am.

“Oh, Joel.” Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Be sorry for us.” She pressed her face against
his shoulder.

“What would you like to do today?” Jake Grafton
asked his wife.

“You’re not going to the ship?” Shock.
Amazement. “I’m going to stay right here with you this
livelong day. I may not even get out of bed.”

He tossed the sheets away and examined her
nude body critically.

“It’s already ten o’clock, lover. Do you think we could
still get breakfast from room service?”

“You’re a remarkably well preserved
specimen of womankind. Care to share any of your
love secrets with an admirer?”

Callie pushed him onto his back and sat
astride his midriff. The face looking up at her
wore a boyish grin. She bent down and began
to nibble on his neck.

He picked up the telephone. “Room
service, please. . . Send up two large
orders of ham and eggs. Extra toast and a pot of
coffee.” He gave them the room number and
cradled the phone. “They say they’ll bring it up in
about twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” she whispered into his ear.
“That’s barely enough time to cover today’s love secret,
Jacob Grafton. But I’ll try.”

It was noon before they were out on the street, casually
dressed and strolling hand in hand. “Let’s go catch
the ferry to Capri.”

“Again? Judith and I went over there yesterday.”

“Why not? You’ll have more fun with me along.”

“Ha! Don’t be so egotistical.” They
turned the corner and began walking toward the ferry
terminal.

“What did you and Judith talk about all morning?”

“Well, we discussed young American naval
officers and their distressing attitude toward women.
And how they must be handled so delicately to avoid
bruising their fragile egos. And we discussed our
education and careers, and I told her about meeting you in
Hong Kong seventeen years ago, and….”

When she stopped speaking Jake glanced at her.
She was chewing her lower lip.

“And what?”

“There was something troubling about the whole conversation.”

Callie slipped her hand from his and hugged herself as
she thought aloud. “She’s the perfect American
career girl, living a fantasy life in Paris.
She doesn’t let it go to her head, isn’t
celebrity-conscious, spends her money wisely,
never drops names.

“Where is she from anyway?”

Callie stopped dead and turned to face
him. “That’s it! She’s a nonnative speaker!
She says she’s from New England and has a slight
accent to prove it. But she isn’t.”

“Does that mean English is not her first
language?”

“Precisely. She acquired English as a
youngster, but there are still subtle traces of her first
language-the way she articulates certain
syllables, for instance-that she hasn’t eradicated.
I could hear them but it didn’t register.” She
gestured impatiently. “I accepted her as an
American, so I didn’t listen.”

“What was her first language?”

Callie the linguist walked along deep in thought.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she said at last.

“Perhaps her parents were immigrants who didn’t
speak English.”

“That’s rare these days, unless you’re Chicano.
But no, she didn’t learn English at age six
when she started school. I think she started later, as
a teenager perhaps. The later in life you acquire a
language, the more difficult the old patterns of
articulation are to change. Many people can never rid themselves
of an accent.”

They queued for ferry tickets, then
stood in the holding area and watched the ferry glide
in past the quay where passenger liners and launches
for the United States docked. The pilot brought his
vessel into her slip with just the right amount of
closure. The lines and gangplank went over and the
passengers from the island disembarked, then the crowd on
the wharf streamed aboard.

The ferry was halfway to Capri, and Jake and
Callie were standing on the bow with the wind in their faces
when she said, “It’s a Semitic language, I
think. Arabic or Hebrew.”

It was noon when Ali came to the terrace where
Qazi was sitting. He had been watching the
squirrels on the lawn.

“Jarvis says the trigger is ready.”

“Take him back to his room and lock him in.
Keep someone in front of his door.”

“Of course.

“Are Youssef and his men resting quietly?” They
had been at the villa for three days now, and Qazi
insisted they remain awake all night and sleep
during the day. The first day, they had slept little.
Yesterday they had slept better.

“They appear to be asleep. I think the lack of
sleep finally caught up with them.”

“Then they will be rested for tonight. And the pilots?”

“Resting.”

“Very well. Check the guards on the perimeter.
They must report any-and I mean any-vehicles
whose drivers do anything but drive straight past. The
assault will be hard and fast with no warning, if it
comes.

And the guards will be the first to die.”

When Ali was out of sight, Colonel Qazi
walked the hundred paces to the villa’s garage.
The man lounging in front of the door nodded to him as
he went in. Qazi closed the door behind him and
shot the bolt.

He walked slowly around the interior of the
building, checking the windows to see that they were
properly curtained, ensuring the other door was
locked and the loft apartment was empty. Three vans
sat in the garage bay.

Qazi extracted a small tool pouch from his
pocket and opened it on the workbench. The trigger
device was housed in an oblong gray box that sat
on the floor by the bench. He quickly unscrewed the
four screws on the face of the timer, which was a
remnant of a modern electric clock, complete
with liquid-crystal display. The faceplate came off easily,
exposing a circuit board and an amazing amount of small
wires.

Three small screws held the circuit
board, and when they were removed, the board slid
partially out of the timer to the limit of the attached wires.
He stared at it a moment, then took a piece of
paper from his wallet and consulted it. Using a small
pair of wire cutters, he snipped two wires
and a diode from the circuit board. Two months
ago he had destroyed eight clocks trying
to identify this diode. Not trusting his memory, he
had sketched a diagram. He had already performed this
little operation upon the other six triggers, which were still in
North Africa.

He carefully returned the board to its position
inside the timer and inserted the three little screws. In
less than a minute he had the faceplate back
on.

He stood on the workbench and felt along the top
of the interior wall, where the plasterboard ended and the
rafters sat on top of the studs.

Yes, the drywall extended a few inches above
the stud. He placed the tool kit there and climbed
down, then used a handy automobile
polishing rag to obliterate the faint heel mark on
the workbench.

He climbed the stairs to the loft apartment. The
scrap of paper from his wallet, the diode, and the
bits of wire went into the toilet. As the water
closet was refilling he heard noises in the
garage. Someone was downstairs.

“Colonel.” It was Ali.

The diode was still in the bottom of the toilet bowl.
“I’m up here.”

Qazi reached into the water and retrieved it. No
towels! Ali was running up the stairs. Qazi
wiped his hand on the back of his trousers, dropped
them, and sat down on the toilet seat.

“In here.”

Ali’s head popped through the door. “A car has
driven slowly by the access road twice. Four
men. They were looking.”

“Put four men on the rooftops, out of sight.”
Ali disappeared back down the steps. Qazi
wrapped the diode in toilet paper and dropped it
in the water. It swirled away as the oil gurgled.

Ali was pointing out the rooftop positions to four
men armed with assault rifles as Qazi approached
the terrace. “No shooting until you see
their weapons,” he told them. One man climbed a
tree to get on top of the parking garage. Two more
went through the villa to the attic exit to the roof. The
fourth used a ladder to reach the top of the guesthouse
directly across from the villa, then Ali took the
ladder away.

Colonel Qazi sat on the terrace and Noora brought him a pistol, a silencer, and a glass of iced tea, then went back inside. Her
station was with Jarvis. The rest of the men were still sleeping with their weapons beside them.

Qazi pushed the button and the magazine slipped
from the grip of the Browning Hi-Power. It was full.
He screwed the silencer to the barrel and replaced the
magazine, then chambered a round. After lowering the
hammer, he tucked the weapon into his belt behind
him.

Then he adjusted the volume on his two-way
radio and laid it on the table. The guards and Ali
also had radios and would use them in an emergency.

It is pleasant here in the dappled shade of the
giant trees, Qazi reflected, with the short
lawn grass stirring ever so gently to the breeze.
The air smelled of flowers, which were still blooming in the
beds around the house and walks. He filled
his lungs and exhaled slowly. Very pleasant.

Even the pervasive traffic sounds were absent in
this pastoral setting.

All he could hear were leaves rustling under the
wind’s caress.

A large yellow-and-black butterfly settled
on the toe of his shoe and gently stirred its wings.
A shaft of sunlight fell upon the shoe, making the
insect’s wings appear luminous, almost transparent.

Such a place the Prophet must have envisioned when
he described paradise-“a garden beneath which a river
flows.” And his listeners in their tents under the merciless
sun, amid the sand and rock, had known the truth of his
message. Yes, paradise will be green and flowering,
with pools of clear water and abundant grass and
majestic trees that reach deep into the earth and drink
of Allah’s bounty. And the believers shall spread their
rugs on the grass in the shade of the trees and make
their prayers to Allah, the all-merciful,
all-compassionate.

Truly, man loves best what he has not.

The stars had begun to fade one by one. Time dragged
on slowly. Then he realized he could distinguish the
outline of the top of the escarpment from the lighter
black of the sky. Even as he watched, the relief
became bolder and the ky beyond began to gray.

He left the camel and crawled toward the edge.
The wadi below was still nshrouded in darkness. Behind him he
heard the camel rise, then urinate, oaning against the
rag around its muzzle.

He stared expectantly into the wadi, trying
to distinguish features as the astern sky changed from
gray to a pale, thin blue. He listened intently,
rying to hear something, anything, but all he could hear was
the pounding of his heart. Finally the top of the sun
flamed the stones around him. The All was still
impenetrably dark.

He saw the flash in the wadi and heard the
bullet slap the stone near him precisely the
same instant. Then he heard the shot, a flat
crack that oomed off the rock and died leaving a del
silence. He couldn’t fire back because he might
hit the camel. He backed away from the edge and
felt his ringing cheek. A piece of stone or shard of
lead had caused it to bleed. So this how it feels!