Terminal Rage (19 page)

A large, naked man with olive skin, and short, frizzy white hair was face-down on the bed, with his hands spread open in front of him and his ass pumping in and out. His hairy body was glistening with beads of sweat. There was someone underneath him at the receiving end of all that thrusting, but eclipsed by the size of the man on top.

Rodriguez and his agents moved closer to the bed, but the people in it remained oblivious to their presence. Lost in bliss. The outline of a pink chiffon negligee under the big man was now visible. And the smell of a seductive female perfume lingered in the air. As they hovered closer behind the bed, the passionate moans became louder.

He pointed his gun straight at the big man
’
s head.

“FBI! Freeze! Hands on top of your head.”

The man on top jumped out of his position and fell on the floor by the bed, kicking the lamp to its side.

Fernway switched on his flashlight to compensate for the fallen lamp and pointed at the naked man who was frozen like a possum. He had a long white beard, a huge belly, and an erect penis that was quickly deflating. His eyes scanned the room wildly and he placed his hands on his head obediently.

The other person in the bed in the pink negligee turned over to face them.

A younger man in his mid-thirties, wearing a blonde wig and full makeup on his face.

He sat up with his eyes forced down, before he too raised his hands slowly and put them on top of his head. He couldn
’
t get himself to look at the agents.

Rodriguez roared at the drag queen in bed, his gun pointing at his face. “State your name!” There was no answer. He shouted again over the music from the laptop.

“I won
’
t repeat it a third time. State your name now!”

“Mounif Ilham,” he finally whispered, then broke down in muffled tears, still unable to look them in the eyes.

Rodriguez turned his gun to the older man on the floor. “And who are you?” He had already figured out the answer from the man
’
s resemblance to the numerous FBI archival photos they had of him. But he had to be sure.

“Hassan Ghazawy.”

Rodriguez was right. The man on top was no other than the sixty-eight-year-old imam of the Lancaster Community Mosque.

SEVENTEEN

Sunday, November 6—9:15 a.m.
Mediterranean Sea, Italian Air Space

S
mythe was tempted to sleep during the flight from Qena to Naples, but resisted. There were four tough-as-nails US Special Forces watching over the two handcuffed Jordanians sitting at the back of the Gulfstream. A short nap wouldn
’
t have jeopardized the safety of the operation by any stretch of the imagination, but Smythe was self-conscious and knew dozing off would diminish his newfound credibility with the Delta guys.

After the adrenaline rush from the close call with the Egyptian police helicopter, the flight to Naples was a quiet, reflective one for Smythe. The only interaction among the seven men in the cabin happened about fifteen minutes into the flight, when the Canadian copilot came through with hot beverages and small breakfast boxes. It was surreal to watch towering American Special Forces hand-feeding convicted terrorists slices of buttered toast smothered with jam and peanut butter, and holding up hot cups of tea to their lips. Nabulsi and Madi devoured every morsel of what was given to them.

The private jet was an improvised solution negotiated by Ambassador Blake Wagner at the eleventh hour, courtesy of an American mining company that owed him a favor. Finn Simmer had security concerns about chartering a private Egyptian plane. And the SCAF generals expressed no interest in helping out with a military flight, but did offer the expedited authorization to fly over Egyptian airspace, which otherwise would have taken many days to secure. The only option was to call upon a trusted source. The Canadian crew of the Gulfstream IV was already security-cleared. They regularly flew US politicians and diplomats traveling with the senior executives of Oromine, the gold mining company that owned the jet.

The Captain
’
s deep voice broke the silence in the cabin. “Gentlemen, we
’
ve just been cleared to land. We should get you on the tarmac in the next twelve minutes—a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule. It
’
s going to be a little bumpy in the descent, so buckle up.”

The legal implications of what would happen once the plane touched Italian soil were precarious in Smythe
’
s mind. Even though Nabulsi and Madi had been hastily pardoned by the Egyptian state, they had left the prison with nothing in their possession to indicate their identities. They were free, but they were also stateless.

Their passports had been confiscated upon their conviction and turned over to the Jordanian government when the two men were sentenced to death. Any Jordanian national wishing to travel to Italy required a valid passport and a single-entry visa to the Schengen States. The visa application process was at best a tumultuous one with an uncertain outcome, even for honest and upright Jordanian citizens. Convicted criminals, on the other hand, stood no chance of being granted entry.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, the American ambassador in Rome had requested from the Italian foreign minister to turn a blind eye to the passengers of the Oromine Gulfstream jet when it landed. Probably without explaining why two convicted Arab terrorists would be on that flight. But Italy was a staunch ally and a reliable friend. There was no need to divulge more information than was needed. There would come a time when the Italians would cash in on the favor and ask their American allies to turn a blind eye to a dubious proposition of their own.

The Italians were to allow the private jet to land and then taxi to a remote strip on the northeast end of the Naples airport. Once it was on the ground, immigration authorities were to suspend any standard procedures. A Knighthawk helicopter from the US Naval base in Naples would be waiting nearby, ready to transport the passengers to the location of the exchange. Only after the chopper departed would the crew of the Gulfstream call in the Italians to request immigration processing.

The captain had not exaggerated the extent of the turbulence before landing. As the plane dipped into what had looked to Smythe like exquisite cloud formations from a higher altitude, the body of the twin engine started to rattle and oscillate, spiraling wide every now and then. Rain thrashed diagonally on the windows and the clouds were getting thicker and darker.

Smythe glanced back at Nabulsi and Madi, wondering what was going on through their minds with the prospect of freedom now looming closer. Madi
’
s eyes were shut. He whispered verses from the Koran. The turbulence seemed to be unsettling him. Nabulsi, on the other hand, had the calm of a man reborn. There was a light in his eyes and half a smile that hadn
’
t left his face since breakfast was served on the plane.

For the first time since he had laid eyes on them inside the secure holding wing of the prison, Smythe pondered their involvement in the 2005 massacre. He had read Nishimura
’
s briefing of the negotiations with the suspect, Seth, who described them as pawns in a more complex criminal web responsible for the attacks. But Nabulsi
’
s body language was exuding a different truth. Smythe thought about what he had heard him telling Madi earlier during the helicopter ride from the prison to the airport. He was gloating.
I told you they would not abandon us
. Who were
they
? In whose loyalty did Nabulsi invest such deep faith for salvation, which now seemed to be paying off?

Smythe thought of the victims of the attack and their families. The horrific images that had popped up on his phone right after he was assigned the task of freeing and exchanging the Jordanians. His stomach cramped at the sight of Madi
’
s new-found confidence. He pondered the fate of the hostages in Manhattan. He thought of Julia Price. And the hundreds of children in the daycares who would face imminent death if he failed to do what he was about to embark on. Everything had a price.

It was still pouring when the Gulfstream touched the ground in Naples. Despite a population of three million people, the city’s airport was tiny. No major airline cared for Naples enough to make it a hub. Smythe had been through here a number of times trying to bust some seriously bad people, and roughly shared the feelings of the major airlines who had snubbed the depressed, crime-infested city.

A few minutes after touching down, the plane came to a complete stop at a secluded northeastern part of the airport. Smythe spotted
a stationary Knighthawk helicopter h
idden behind an abandoned shipping container, about eight hundred feet from the
plane. This was their ride to Scampia Park, where the Jordanians would be exchanged for Julia Price. Smythe was immediately unsettled about the location of the chopper. He had wanted it positioned closer to the jet so they could board the helicopter fast. Now they would have to walk on foot for a while, which would leave them exposed. And the Jordanians were slow.

Smythe leaned forward to speak to the captain, who was about to turn off his instruments. “Any chance of getting us closer to the chopper?”

“That
’
s the designated spot the Italians gave us. The helicopter has to be a safe distance away from us for lift off. Afraid that
’
s pretty much it.”

“I guess we
’
ll just run hard in this damn rain. Thanks. You guys saved the day.”

The captain smiled and lowered his eyes. Smythe shook his hand.

“Remember, Captain—if the Italians ask, you were here to pick up Vernon Mayer, the CFO of your company, who changed his mind and has since decided to stay a little longer in Naples.”

“Got it.”

Smythe
’
s cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.

“Smythe. Who is this?”

“Lieutenant Randy Edmondson. I am lookin
’
straight at your Gulfstream. It sucks you have to walk in the rain, right?”

“It does indeed, Lieutenant. Why so far?”

“I got her as close as possible to where the Italians said you
’
d stop. We need a safety buffer between us for lift off.”

“Thanks. How many are you and how long have you been here?”

“Twenty minutes, give or take. A crew of four, as usual.”

“Anything in the vicinity while you
’
ve been here we need to worry about?”

“Negative, here. But there is something else the men and I are concerned about.”

Smythe took a deep breath. “What?”

“Anytime a helicopter flies in to pick up private jet passengers, the paparazzi get alerted and go bananas.”

“Who tips them off?”

“Air traffic control must have someone on the take. Welcome to Naples, Agent Smythe.”

“Of course. And the risks?”

“If they
’
re sure it
’
s an A-list celebrity, they send a bird and trail them
’
till they land. They
’
re after photos and footage.”

“And if they
’
re not sure?”

“They usually don
’
t bother. But sometimes out of nowhere they take an unhealthy interest—just in case there
’
s a story. And when they do, it
’
s dangerous. We had a couple of close calls in the past with some of these fuckers.”

“Any chance it could happen today?”

“Right here on the tarmac they
’
re not allowed to touch us, so I wouldn
’
t be able to tell you until we
’
re in the sky. But we just heard on the radio a
Stelle Elicotteri
bird landed here. They
’
re a media charter used by the news networks. Could be nothing. But it could be everything.”

“What happens if they tag us?”

“Well, that
’
s a problem. We
’
re landing in a public area in the heart of Naples, with no backup except for the Delta guys with you. Italian police are not in on this action, right?”

“Right. And I want it to stay that way.”

“Then the last thing we need is a chopper trailing us. It
’
s not a nosy photographer I
’
m worried about. But if they start wondering why we
’
re landing in a public park on a Sunday, and they happen to have a television crew with a satellite linkup—well, you get the picture.”

Smythe glanced at his watch. They were less than thirty minutes away from the deadline. “We need a backup plan then.”

“We can scare them off if they get too close. Pull rank and tell them this is an official US Navy flight and demand they clear our space. But it always comes with the risk of intriguing them further.”

“I sure hope you can handle the situation if it gets to that.”

“Well, we can always fire some rounds at them and hope it does the trick.”

Smythe waited for the punch line or some indication Edmondson was joking, but there was pure silence at the other end of the line.

“Fire at a civilian aircraft over a heavily populated urban center? Are you out of your mind, Lieutenant?”

“Don
’
t shoot the messenger, Special Agent Smythe. I
’
m just giving you all the options we have, then it
’
s your call. My orders are to assist you by any means necessary to complete your mission. And if you order me to shoot them down, I
’
ll fire first and wonder who I shot later.”

Smythe
’
s mind shot back to the episode with the Egyptian police helicopter. “No one
’
s going to be shooting at anyone
today, Edmondson. Let
’
s exclude that as an option altogether. If we are intercepted by the paparazzi, I
’
ll take care of it there and then. See you in five, Lieutenant.”

Two of the Delta Force operators armed with M4A1 carbine rifles disembarked the Gulfstream to secure the perimeter. They
gave hand signals to indicate the all clear. Nabulsi and Madi exited the plane, sandwiched by the two other Special Forces, and then Smythe. Edmondson and his crew fired up the controls of the helicopter when they saw the men approaching.

Despite the rain and dark clouds, it was balmy outside. They ran across the tarmac towards the Knighthawk. Nabulsi and Madi struggled to keep up, and about halfway Madi dropped to the ground and started to hyperventilate. The Delta Force operator closest to them swung his gun backwards, picked up the collapsed Jordanian, and slung him on his shoulder before sprinting hard towards the finish line. “Keep going, keep going!” When they got there, he carried Madi inside the bird and laid him down.

Smythe kneeled to check on him.

“Will he be all right?”

“I think so. Probably too much excitement for one day.”

The helicopter ascended fast over Naples. The Delta Force men and the Navy guys greeted one another. Once all the polite camaraderie between the uniformed men was done with, Smythe signaled to the most senior of the Special Forces operatives to start the briefing.