Blaze of Glory (12 page)

Then came tours in Panama, Kuwait, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Each mission gave him opportunity to grow as a soldier and a leader of men. Like most career soldiers, he came to hate war and love service. He didn’t become a soldier to kill; he became a soldier to protect people and ideals precious to him.

Spec Ops gave him new training and a new way to wage war: small teams doing tactical, surgical work. Small actions often negated the need for major battles. Such was this mission.

The satellite map on the table, provided by a U.S. satellite, showed a mansion surrounded by acres of open ground. The house sat by itself. Surrounding the expansive property was farm land. The nearest house was two miles away.

“As you can see, we have very little cover.” De Luca pointed to the image of the home. “The house has windows on all sides.”

Moyer stared at the photo. “We have to go in at night. Any idea how much electronic security they have?”

De Luca pulled a thick roll of architectural drawings from a cardboard tube and spread it over the satellite photo. “These are the architectural drawings with inspector notes. Our building department is very demanding and thorough.”

Moyer’s eyes drew in the details. He said nothing as he studied the plans. Finally, he shook his head. “The house is enormous. There’s gotta be, what, twenty thousand square feet spread over two floors and a basement?”

“Twenty-thousand-two hundred. The CEO of a major bank in Italy built it. The global recession of 2009 did him in. He declared bankruptcy and left the country. The house went up for sale, but very few people can afford such a villa. The property was seized by the bank and they rent it to businesses for corporate retreats. It sits empty most of the time.”

Moyer nodded. “The house is wired for security, and we have to assume that El-Sayyed may have added more.”

“It would be wise to do so.”

The door to the room opened and Rich poked his head in. “Trucks are loaded, Boss.”

“Good, round up the team. It’s show-and-tell time.”

“Will do.”

EL-SAYYED STUDIED THE DIGITAL photo he had received over the Internet. He waited for the guilt to come, the remorse, the pity, but the emotions never arrived. No surprise. He handed the picture to Abasi. “Give it to the girl.”

“Delaram.”

El-Sayyed waved his hand. “Names are unimportant. She is still capable of carrying out our task?”

“Yes. Tony took care in administering her punishment. She might limp some.”

“Give her something for her pain. We don’t want her to think we are animals. The transportation?”

“All is ready, just as you ordered. We can leave at any time.”

El-Sayyed stood. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Tony will drive me along the main road and into the city in case there are eyes on us. My leaving will provide a distraction. You take the women down the back roads. Drive until you are sure you are not being followed. Keep your eyes turned toward the heavens.”

“To Allah.”

“I was thinking of helicopters, Abasi.”

DELARAM SAT IN THE back of the Italian-made minibus holding a picture Abasi had forced her to see. He didn’t force it on her at first. Instead, he loaded all the women onto the bus then passed the photo around. Some of the women gasped, others turned away. The printed photo made its way to the back of the bus where Delaram sat, leaning against the window, trying to ease the pressure on her bruised thigh.

She took the photo certain she could feel no more physical or emotional pain. In the photo she saw her mother sitting on the floor cradling her father’s head in her lap. His left eye was swollen shut and dried blood clung to his nose and lips.

Delaram envied the girl who committed suicide.

ALDO GRONCHI CAUGHT A glimpse of his image in the tinted glass of the police boat. His eyes lingered on the dim reflection. He was a vain man and made no apology for it. Tall, smooth dark skin, serious eyes, and a mouth quick to smile, he knew he was what the Americans called a
babe magnet.
He resisted the urge to pose for himself, tempting as such an action was. He was on duty, and the only thing he loved more than himself was his role as a captain in the Naples police department. Ten years on the job, he had risen quickly through the ranks. Good looks, good humor, quick wit, and unflagging courage meant he would climb many more rungs of success’s ladder. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he was
Capo della Polizia.

He would face no danger today. The task for this early evening was to analyze the ability of his men to patrol the Bay of Naples and the smaller bays that served as home to the hundreds of pleasure craft and yachts that plied the cerulean waters of the famous city.

Gronchi raised binoculars to his eyes and scanned the many hotels that lined the shores. Blocks of commercial buildings and homes covered the slope upon which the city of more than a million people had been built. He was proud of the city and its rich heritage. Less than seventy years ago, Allied pilots bombed the city repeatedly until they had broken the back of Fascism. He thought about how things changed. During that same time, Japan attacked the U.S., bombing Pearl Harbor to the brink of nonexistence. Now Americans competed for Japanese cars. They also traveled to Italy by the droves to take in its history and charm.

Such was the heritage that forced Gronchi to work fourteen-hour days for the last month.

“See anything?” A young officer stepped to Gronchi’s side. He was shorter than Gronchi’s six-foot-two yet weighed considerably more.

Gronchi gazed at the man. “Your green tint clashes with your uniform, Lorenzo.”

The man shrugged. “I am not much of a sailor.”

“Perhaps a little food would help you. I believe the captain brought sardines for lunch.”

Lorenzo’s tint darkened, but he didn’t complain. Disappointed, Gronchi returned the binoculars to his eyes. “Did you make the contacts as I asked?”

“Yes, sir. We will have our final briefing with the navy this evening at nine o’clock.”

“Good. The sniper posts?”

“All established per your orders.”

Gronchi lowered the glasses. “Did you double-check the sight lines along all streets near the hotel?”

Lorenzo nodded. “Several times. We can observe the entrance from ten different positions; street access from a dozen additional points. The hotel staff has been checked, and only those with the cleanest records will be working tomorrow.”

“I want undercover officers in the mix: kitchen, maid service, front desk, food services, everywhere.”

“The hotel will be empty except for the G-20. There will be no other guests.”

“I know that, Lorenzo, but we will err on the side of caution. No one walks into that building without having his identification checked.”

“Understood, sir.”

Gronchi shook his head. “Our careers rest on doing this right, Lorenzo. Allow no room for failure.”

“The arrival of twenty of the world’s leaders to our city is an honor and a great reason for concern.”

“I hear it was the American president who wanted the meeting moved here from London. I suppose the suicide bombing in London forced his hand.”

“It is a wise decision,” Gronchi said. “The Brits are having trouble keeping their own backyard safe. Besides, Naples is small enough to make full security possible, but large enough to provide trained men and military.”

“The fact that the American president is a student of history must have provided greater motivation. Is he still planning to visit Pompeii?”

“Yes, and Castel del Ovo, the Palazzo Reale and the National Library, the Cathedral of San Gennaro, and the Church of San Domenico Maggiore, where Saint Thomas Aquinas lived and taught. Someone should tell him he is the president of the United States, not a tourist.”

“Historians are passionate about history, Capitano.”

“His passion is our pain. Even his Secret Service director is beside himself.”

“He told you his concern?”

“No, I saw it in the man’s eyes. He is uncomfortable with the extra stops.”

“Who can blame him? President Huffington seems to get whatever he wants.”

Gronchi gazed at Mount Vesuvius in the distance. “It’s our job to make sure he doesn’t get more than he wants.”

CHAPTER 15

“WHATCHA GOT, DATA?” MOYER whispered the question into the small boom mike hung over his ear and taped to the side of his face.

No response.

Moyer looked to his right. Zinsser appeared green through Moyer’s night vision goggles. Without the electronic goggles he wouldn’t be able to see Zinsser or any other member of his team. Too little moonlight, especially when each man wore black from head to toe, including balaclava masks. With the goggles, Zinsser’s image was distinct but otherworldly. Moyer could see the man looking through the handheld FLIR. The Forward Looking Infrared device was the latest in technology, able to “see” through most walls.

“Data, do you copy?” Moyer saw the man snap his head around.

“I gotcha, Boss.”

“Report.”

Zinsser’s word came over in a whisper. “I’m getting nonspecific heat sigs from some of the rooms, but no targets.”

Moyer gazed at the mansion. He and his team had parked a quarter mile off the access road, hiding the two vans they had traveled in from Camp Darby. The drive had been long, and most of his team took advantage of the time to sleep. After concealing the vehicles they had marched through the surrounding woods. They found no perimeter security. Moyer was grateful for that but guessed that the easy part was over. They divided into teams of two. Moyer ordered De Luca to stay with him, making Moyer’s team a band of three. Zinsser earned a hero’s medal, but he was untested with Moyer’s team. De Luca seemed well trained, but Moyer had not seen him in action. That made them both rookies as far as he and his team were concerned.

“Colt, report.” Colt was at least a quarter mile to the east.

“I got nuthin’, Boss,” J. J. answered. “No movement in the backyard . . . maybe I should say back acreage. I can see through a half dozen windows. No movement. Same lights are on per last report.”

“Roger that, Colt. Shaq, you got anything for me?”

“Negative, Boss. A cemetery has more action.”

“What cemetery do you hang out in, Shaq?”

“Can it, Colt.” A mental image of the property and house formed in Moyer’s mind. His team had set up a three-point surveillance perimeter, allowing them to eyeball every part of the property and building.

“Junior, you got anything on audio?” In his mind, Moyer could see Pete Rasor aim a directional mike at the villa.

“Nada, Boss. I’ve been straining my eardrums, and the most I hear is the house cooling and what sounds like a water heater firing up. No voices, no snoring, no television, or radio.”

De Luca lay on the ground next to Moyer, binoculars pressed to his eyes. He lowered the high-powered glasses and, on one elbow, put his mouth closer to Moyer’s ear. Whatever the man wanted to say, he didn’t want it going out over the radio.

“You’re doubting our intel, aren’t you?”

“Something’s not right. That’s for sure.”

“I assure you, our people are very good.”

“Ease up, Polo. No one is blaming you or your intel team for anything. You do enough missions you learn nothing goes according to plan.”