Blaze of Glory (11 page)

“Sir?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Moyer. He’s one of the most decorated spec ops men in the Italian military. Granted, you haven’t trained together, but he knows his stuff. I don’t want you or your men busting his chops. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir. No chop busting. It’s just that—”

“Save it, soldier. We’re on the soil of an ally and about to do covert work in their cities. This is the deal. No debate. No exceptions. Understood?”

The team response was immediate, if unenthusiastic: “Hooah.”

“Go ahead, Major.”

The Italian stepped to the front of the room and eyed each man. Moyer returned the look and would have bet a month’s pay each of his men did the same.

“Welcome to my country, gentlemen.” He hit the word my like a drummer strikes a base drum. His English came easily and with the kind of perfection that made Moyer guess the man spent a good deal of time in the U.S. or the UK. “As you know, there has been a substantial increase in human-carried bombings in Europe. We have had several in Italy. This is a matter of great concern, but not something we cannot handle ourselves.”

“Then why are we here?”

Moyer heard the humor in Rich’s jab. Apparently De Luca didn’t. Neither did Colonel Tyson, who shot a look at Rich that Moyer was sure would set the big man’s clothing on fire.

“I assure you, it is not my choice, but certain factors have influenced my superiors’ decisions.” De Luca seemed to force the words over a tense jaw. “You were briefed about El-Sayyed. Our president has indirect connections with the man’s family.”

Moyer crossed his arms. “And he needs an out?”

“If by ‘an out’ you mean a valid deniability factor, then yes. It is his desire to remain above any conflict and its results.”

“What does that mean?” Jose sounded suspicious.

Moyer answered before the Major could. “It means if we kill El-Sayyed, the president can say it wasn’t done by the Italian military.”

“Ah. This way we get blamed. Works out nice.”

Colonel Tyson cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

De Luca closed his eyes for a moment, and Moyer half-expected him to click his heels together and chant, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Moyer pursed his lips to keep the corners of his mouth from rising. If the man was going to tag along, he might as well know what kind of men he was dealing with.

“Our intelligence organizations have been monitoring Internet traffic using sophisticated algorithms to filter e-mail, blog posting, audio and video transmissions, as well as other key factors. The process is similar to what is used to monitor suspected terrorist cells. We have recently intercepted a video conference between a place on the North American continent and an area not far from Rome. We have, over the last few weeks, intercepted similar communications as well as e-mail directed to El-Sayyed.”

He placed his hands behind his back as if standing at ease. “The transmissions are heavily encrypted. We cannot say where in North America the connection was made, but intel analysts suspect Mexico. We had more luck on this end. We have an address.”

De Luca began to pace. “The Italian source is tied to a mansion in the country east of Roma. El-Sayyed’s plane is still parked at the airport and under twenty-four-hour surveillance. We’ll know the minute it moves.”

“So what do you think El-Sayyed is up to? Is he using Italy as a base of operations?”

“Sayyed has been in and out of Italy five times in the last two months. We have tracked the flights of his private jet in Europe. Naturally our ability to follow him in Middle East countries is problematic.”

“But he’s here now?”

De Luca gave Moyer a curt nod. “As of this morning. As to what he is up to, I fear he plans on bombing one of our historic monuments or churches. Working with the kind of extremist he does makes us think that he plans on detonating one or more bombs at a Christian shrine. Rome is the home to Christianity, as you know.”

J. J. coughed.

“Is there a problem, Sergeant Bartley?” Tyson’s question carried some heat.

“No, sir. No problem at all, I just thought Christianity began in Jerusalem. That’s where the first church was founded and—”

“Save the history lesson, son. We have more important matters before us.”

“Yes, sir.”

De Luca tapped his lip, then continued. “Let me be more specific. Rome is home to the Holy Roman Church. The Holy Sea is here and is the center of faith for a billion Catholics. Rome is filled with historic churches and sites that would be a tempting target for Muslim extremists.”

“Do you think they might try something at the Vatican?” Moyer asked.

“Perhaps, but the Vatican is one of the best guarded 110 acres in the world. It is a country unto itself and under the complete control of the Catholic Church. The Swiss guard, who protect the buildings and his Holiness himself, are some of the best trained soldiers in the world. The Vatican also has its own police force.”

“Yet thousands of tourists visit the grounds daily,” Moyer said. “We’re dealing with suicide bombers here—human precision bombs. What’s to keep one or more such bombers from strolling in with the other tourists?”

“It is possible, but access to the most valuable areas is limited. Since we confirmed El-Sayyed’s presence, we have asked that the Holy Father be kept away from open areas, windows, and people who have not been cleared by their security. The Vatican has released a press report that his Holiness is spending time at Castel Gandolfo outside of Rome.”

“That’s where the Vatican observatory is,” Rich said.

Moyer and the others looked at him.

“What? I read a lot.”

“It is true. One of the two observatories run by the Church is in Castel Gandolfo.”

“There are two?” J. J. asked.

“The other one is in Arizona,” Rich said. “It operates in conjunction with the University of Arizona. . . . Okay I’m done.”

“Bottom line is,” Moyer said, “we have no idea where they will strike. All you have is speculation.”

“Speculation and the mansion where El-Sayyed has been hiding.”

Moyer looked to Tyson. “So what’s our next step?”

“You go pay El-Sayyed a social call.”

That made Moyer smile.

FOR THE FOURTEENTH TIME Delaram donned a tailored vest full of PE-4 explosive and ball bearings. The latter was a recent addition. Although she didn’t need to be told, they told her anyway: the ball bearings would become fiery shrapnel, killing and maiming anyone within a hundred meters of her or the other women. Not that it would matter to her. Once the bomb went off she would know nothing but oblivion. No doubt some of the women believed in heaven, but not her. She was a John Lennon philosopher imagining no heaven and no hell.

The vest hung low on her, the rounded bulk of explosives resting just above her pelvis and pressing against her stomach. Once covered in a robe she would look like any pregnant woman in her third trimester. The irony ate at her. She would pretend to be a woman about to give life; then a button-push later she would become an angel of death.

Delaram looked around the large basement. Two long worktables ran the north and south walls. In the center of the room stood eight women of various ages. Two looked to be no older than high school students; five were in their early twenties; one looked to be her grandmother’s age. Although their ages were different, their expressions were the same: bone-melting terror. Tears lined the faces of most. A few looked numb, their minds having shut down. Delaram understood. She had to fight to keep from giving in to emotional shock. It was a fight she was losing.

Running her hand along the smooth exterior of the vest, she thought about the death resting on her belly. She would never know pregnancy; never hold a child to whom she had given life.

Would there be children there? Would she kill them? Would she leave the “lucky” children crippled and bleeding in some street or building? Disguised as a pregnant woman, would she kill a woman truly with child—a woman with a mind filled with the great possibilities of the future?

“You have done well, Delaram.”

She cut her eyes to see the thickly built man with dark skin and neatly trimmed goatee with streaks of gray. Under the dim light of overhead fluorescents, the man looked jaundiced. She didn’t know his name, nor did she care to know.

He set his hands on her shoulders, let them linger, then pulled on the straps. “The fit is better. The payload hangs naturally. How does it feel?”

“How does it feel? It feels like a bomb strapped to my body. How is it supposed to feel?”

He frowned. “Fear is normal, but you must remain strong. You are doing a brave thing. You will be a martyr. You will spend eternity in glory and—”

“I’m not Muslim.”

“Christians have martyrs too.”

“I’m not a Christian either.”

His mouth dipped toward his shoulders. “You are worse than an infidel.”

Delaram chose not to respond. A stone would provide better conversation than this man.

He stepped to the rack of clothing situated to one side and removed a maternity dress. “Put this on. I want to make certain the detonator switch fits the inner pocket.

“Do you mean this thing?” Delaram lifted a push-button switch wired to the plastic explosive in her vest.

“Of course.”

A half-thought passed through Delaram’s mind.

She pressed the button.

CHAPTER 14

DELARAM EXPECTED TO FEEL nothing. Not this scorching pain racing from her face, down her neck, and to her knees—which buckled under the impact. She lay on the cold basement floor staring into the lights above—lights that blurred and dimmed.

“Nasser!”

Delaram thought she was seeing the world through translucent, fogged glass, the kind used in bathrooms to protect privacy. A man stood over her, bent at the waist with his arm in the air. It took a moment for her to realize he was about to send a jaw-breaking punch to her face. Just as the arm began to move, another figure appeared. The punch never arrived.

After several blinks Delaram’s vision improved and she saw goatee-man with his fist in the air, stopped by Abasi.

“The fool thought the bombs were active. She tried to detonate it. She tried to kill us all.” It was the man Abasi called Nasser.

“That’s why we take precautions.”

“She deserves punishment.”

“Of course she does, but not her face. A bruised and swollen face draws unwanted attention. She must look normal.”

Nasser threw an angry glance at Abasi as if he blamed him for the world’s problems, then the mask of fury faded. “Not the face?”

“That’s right. Leave her face alone. And remember: we need her.”

A smile crossed Nasser’s face. He nodded, then kicked Delaram in the thigh. He kicked her again.

Someone screamed. It took Delaram a moment to recognize her own voice.

IN SOME WAYS MOYER preferred urban missions. He and his team were fully trained in traditional warfare, hand-to-hand combat, and some had been schooled in technical and electronic attacks. Battle had morphed over the years. As a boy, he had watched the television shows
Combat and Rat Pack
with his father. Those black-and-white episodes were his first introduction to the Army. His father never served in the armed forces, prohibited by a congenital hip problem. Still, he instilled in young Moyer the need to have principles worth fighting for. An extremely patriotic man, Moyer’s father imparted a love for country to his only son.

That parental teaching budded in those old television shows. Growing up, he often relived episodes of a small band of men who fought Germans as they worked through forests and bombed out streets. At the age of eight, Eric Moyer became an Army man.

Ten years later, and two months out of high school, he was sharing a barracks with other shaven-headed young men enduring boot camp at Fort Benning.

Ranger training almost killed him. Long days with little to no sleep, living daily under a 90-pound rucksack forced more and more soldiers to drop out, but Moyer determined to persevere even if it meant he was the last man standing. The more difficult the training, the more he loved the Army. No masochist, he hated the pain but loved what the pain made of him.