by E. L. Pini
“Great! So now it’s retracing-our-steps time. Follow him back through the Frankfurt Airport cameras, and from there back to wherever he was before that, and the one before that, and the one bef—”
“Yeah, gotcha.” Nora cheerfully cut me off. “Let me get to work already, jeez.”
20.
“Luigi, I’m starving. Feed me.”
He parked the car in a lot crowded with trucks, taxis and motorcycles.
“Osteria della mamma,” he presented.
“What? Your mom’s place?”
He laughed. “Just say the word, and make my mother the happiest woman in Italy—unfortunately, she’s in Milano. This is a small osteria, mostly truck drivers and porters, all look like they’re related to you. You’ll feel right at home.”
The restaurant looked like a kibbutz mess hall thirty years ago: greenish laminated tables, silverware with plastic handles, water bottles recycled from old wine bottles. The place was jam-packed, and uncharacteristically silent for this type of Italian eatery. Most of the patrons seemed happily occupied.
We sat at one of the tables. “No menu?” I asked.
“Here you eat what they give you,” said Luigi. I decided to submit—it’s not like I had other options. A thin, stooped waiter around ninety years old placed a cold water bottle on our green Formica, followed by a large bowl of thick dark olive oil and a small tomato salad with crushed garlic and green chili peppers. We dipped our thick sourdough slices in the bowl and devoured the bowl in under a minute. I gazed at it mournfully, but Luigi made it clear that we would receive no more. The waiter returned, this time with a stainless-steel tray covered with translucent pink slices of prosciutto crudo, garnished with roquette and parmesan. It was by far the best prosciutto I’d ever had. The pasta ragù was nice. The house wine, served in a carafe, was excellent, no-frills and to the point, like a table wine is supposed to be.
Only when we’d arrived at the secondo did Bruno bother to inform me that this was, in fact, the house specialty. We received a beautiful bistecca alla fiorentina. Steak the size of a tablecloth. We stopped talking and joined the other patrons in their focused, joyous and now understandable silence. I was about to bid a sad farewell to the final bite, when some unrecognizable noises from somewhere behind me began to grow louder.
“Something up?”
Luigi pointed toward the old TV set hanging in the corner. Someone had turned up the volume. Sirens, the crackling of fire, cries for help. The GIGN—the French Gendarmerie’s tactical unit, in their black combat gear and ski masks—were establishing a perimeter to fend off potential attackers, who by now were long gone. Various officials in bright yellow vests were running around, getting in the way of the firefighters and paramedics. The short clip repeated several times, until a terrified young reporter sent us back to the studio, where the anchor dramatically declared: “Paris is under attack, for the first time since the Nazi invasion in World War Two. And like it was then, this is an attack on the French culture and way of life.” Cut back to the scene, where the young reporter had pulled herself together and fixed her hair. “Over twenty dead,” she was saying, “among them children.” She signaled to the cameraman to zoom out for a wide shot, and then picked up a crumpled teddy bear and broke into tears. Children this time.
I felt nauseous and pushed away the plate with the last slice of steak just when the broadcast cut back to the studio. The anchor solemnly spoke about a recent report from Al Jazeera, linking the bombings in Rome, Saudi Arabia—and now Paris—to the Yemenite Al-Qaeda division, operating from the Hadhramaut region.
“Two days ago,” added the anchor, “the Israeli Air Force attacked in Sudanese territory, on the border of the Sinai desert, destroying a missile convoy apparently headed from Hadhramaut to the Gaza Strip.”
Some degree of satisfaction mixed in with the nausea. Now that Bruno’s leak was public knowledge, the Saudi prince would undoubtedly get the message. We silently drank our espresso. We waited for other diners who’d arrived about when we did to start leaving. We left the ancient waiter a generous tip and took off.
21.
By the time we got to the motel, the little bar had closed. The guy at the reception desk was happy to help. “This is exactly why I keep an electric macchinetta,” he said. After a polite refusal, he agreed to take a tip for letting us borrow the coffeemaker. He even threw in a ten-ounce bag of coffee.
We made it to the room, I took off my shoes and we got to work. Although scenario B was the most appropriate response to Anna’s request for extraction, I went over the other options again.
A—Non-urgent self-extraction. Anna would leave the country for some personal reason, possibly a medical convention we’d arrange. The problem here was mostly logistical in nature—Anna would need transportation to the Port Sudan airport, and that could only be provided by Imad—no time. This was no longer an option.
B—Immediate extraction (low-intensity)—we’d flip the kill switch on the solar farm’s power supply. An “Italian” crew would be summoned, arriving via helicopter through Saudi Arabia, “fixed” the malfunction and left with Anna snuggled up in the chopper. This was our current plan.
C—Aggressive extraction (high-intensity)—two squads of five Matkal fighters each and an auxiliary extraction force in reserve. A full-blown combat operation on Yemenite soil. Impossible.
We both knew that plan B was the only real option, and we’d both familiarized ourselves with every single detail. There was just one problem—this was not a plan you would generally execute with a two-man force and a pensioner pilot. Luigi noticed my concern. “You and me, boss. We’re gonna destroy those fucks.”
In the face of this compelling argument, I could do nothing but lay out the plan of action and go over it for the sixth time.
Firepower: The deal was that the pilot would provide four 9mm Glocks with silencers and four MK-10 rifles, ten magazines for each firearm and another spare ammo crate, four frag grenades per person, four smoke grenades to provide cover during takeoff. Four flat, easy-deployment landmines. Four ceramic vests. The Italian punk insisted on a rocket launcher. Fine by me.
Schedule:
04:00—Takeoff, Leonardo da Vinci Airport. Qatar Airways flight 663.
09:00—Land at Djibouti–Ambouli airport.
10:00—Get to the American facility. Change into energy company coveralls. Equipment check.
14:00—Lunch. Another equipment check. Albert kills the solar farm’s power supply.
14:25—Luigi calls Shabwah and lets them know we’ll arrive at 17:30. The hospital’s director, Dr. Anna von Stroop, is meeting us there—most likely accompanied by Husam, who’s armed with a 9mm Glock, a MK-10 and a tactical knife.
18:00—Luigi strips one of the more distant panels and asks for Husam’s assistance. Anna sprints toward the chopper. After I make sure she’s safety aboard, I join forces with Luigi.
18:25—Luigi and I overpower Husam, disarm him, cuff him to one of the devices and tape his mouth shut. If he seems like too much of a threat, we neutralize him.
18:45—Sundown. Luigi deploys the landmines and blocks the access route.
18:53—Takeoff.
By the time we were done quizzing each other, it was 1 a.m., and we had an hour before we were supposed to be at the airport. The motel was thankfully within spitting distance of it. We had thirty minutes to nap and clear our heads. I lay back on the bed and Eran came, like he always did before an op, to go over the plan with me and wish me his usual “good luck, Dad.” I closed his eyelids and kissed them.
Anna also came to visit. Her image was inflated into an extreme close-up, laughing gleefully, a thin trail of blood trickling from the right corner of her mouth. Just as I was finally drifting off to sleep, Verbin showed up, squeezing into my mind. Honey, I told her, I have to finish this project first.
“Ristrrrrretto,” Luigi
declared, drawing out a rolling r.
Opening my eyes, I saw him standing over me wearing a hardhat and a Green Energy Systems coverall. He handed me a steaming mug.
“Did Nora call? Any progress?” I asked, rising from the bed.
“We’ll get out update once your fucking doctor is extracted.”
“Say again?!”
“Her words, boss,” he raised his hand defensively. “I’m just the messenger.”
22.
By 3 a.m., we’d gone through tickets and passport control. I walked into the VIP lounge wearing Dr. Schultz’s suit, a coverall and hard hat in my carry-on. The large espresso machine expelled a cloud of steam with a loud hiss. The drowsy barista had only just turned it on to face the day.
“Ristretto,” I ordered.
“To go?” asked the barista, already holding a paper cup.
I glanced at my watch. “No, no cardboard. A cup.”
He smiled, warmed the cup on the steam from the machine, and pointed questioningly at the TV. I nodded. The little guy turned on the TV, and the monitor burst into a cacophony of sirens, fire and black smoke. We both froze, staring at the screen; a Red Crescent ambulance whined as it entered the frame. The camera panned to the reporter, who was describing a bombing in the American embassy in Riyadh. Multiple casualties, including a security squad of Marines.
“Saudi Arabia this time,” said the barista. His worried face seemed to relax somewhat, and he pursed his lips. “They recently blew up a restaurant, right here in Rome. Twenty-two dead, you’ve heard.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t… I haven’t heard.”
“Twenty-two dead,” repeated the barista, slapping his rag on the counter and rubbing frantically, as if he could scrub away the foulness that clung to the world. My serial killer strikes again. Someone up there’s looking out for me, keeping the Saudis nice and pissed. Knowing O’Driscoll, the minute he finds the bastards, he’ll strangle them with his bare hands. Honestly, I’d hoped they’d do more. The more they acted, the more likely it was that we’d catch them.
I left the lounge and boarded the magnificent, spotless Qatari airliner. I settled into my seat and went down the stairs for the customary tour of the plane. I smiled at Luigi, who was down in coach, reading an Italian newspaper and chewing gum. I went back up to business, collapsed into my seat and took my shoes off, mentally preparing for the utter boredom of a Muslim—and therefore sober—five-hour flight. Again, I went over the plan, thinking up unexpected secondary scenarios (these days they call them “ancillary”), and finding solutions. The further I dug into the smallest details, the clearer it became that, while God might be in there somewhere, it was I, Avner Ehrlich Ne’eman, father of Eran, who would determine the final outcome. The more troubling conclusion was that any dangerous surprises would, most likely, be Anna’s doing.
Five hours passed, nearly imperceptibly, as I ruminated. The pilot thanked us on behalf of the crew for choosing Qatar Airways and took the opportunity to ask us to respect the local culture and customs. He also mentioned that a hot air current from the Sahara had caused a dust storm, currently swirling near the landing area. The locals refer to this storm as “the yellow devil”—local legend tells that a demon lives at the heart of the storm, and he will not rest until he is appeased with a proper sacrifice.
Despite the devil, we landed on time. By 11:00 we’d left the airport, ahead of schedule. A good start.
23.
A small Yemenite was waiting for us, holding a sign reading “Dr. Schultz and Mr. Napolitano, GES.” We followed him into a Subaru taxi. He sliced through the thick yellow clouds like a getaway driver. About thirty minutes in, even the tips of antennae disappeared, along with the rest of civilization—we were deep in the bowels of the yellow cloud. The driver pulled a keffiyeh over his face, Luigi lowered his dust goggles onto his eyes, and I suffered in silence.
Suddenly, the driver broke right, off the road and into the dunes. I was terrified we would lose the time we’d gained. He stomped the gas pedal into the floor, and the taxi flew, skimming the dunes like a hovercraft. Occasionally we’d bump into the sharp crests of the dunes with a hard jolt, prompting the driver to laugh ecstatically, raise four fingers in the air and yell, “Four by four!”
We continued our mad joyride across the dunes, steadily gaining altitude, until we dove past the crest of a large dune and straight down a steep slip face, the end of which was obscured by the dust. Several more minutes of soaring in the yellow dust, and the Yemenite came to a screeching halt mere inches from a worn-down black helicopter, parked at the bottom of the valley with the rotor spinning. I noted our pilot’s wise choice of location. We bid the driver farewell and boarded the chopper.
“You—Luigi.” The pilot pointed, yelling over the racket. “You—Avner, me—Jule.”
Crazy Jule was a small, bald fellow in his sixties. He wore round John Lennon sunglasses and looked more like a schoolteacher than anything, although beneath this timid exterior lay tattoos of the Night Stalkers’ centaur, and more impressively, the largest number of successful extractions in the Night Stalkers, working with the Navy SEALs, the Marines, Delta Force, and anyone better at killing than at being killed.
He gave a thumbs-up to signal takeoff, politely asked us to buckle our seat belts, and rose into the yellow cloud.
“As a general rule of thumb,” said Jule, “we try to avoid flying when the yellow devil’s around.”
After about an hour of flying in the dense yellow dust, he took us down, landing his chopper above a beautifully concealed facility. The CIA doesn’t fuck around. Even a close inspection wouldn’t reveal the Predator UAVs hidden inside, waiting to be sent on their targeted assassinations. The roofs of maybe twenty hangars protruded just inches above ground level. We descended into one that turned out to be a mess hall.
A machine at the entrance wrapped our shoes with disposable overshoes. We went into the restroom and washed our hands and faces. The mess hall was well lit and air-conditioned, filled with both civilians and uniforms. None of them awarded the unfamiliar newcomers a second glance. Jule got us stainless-steel trays and silverware. We skimmed past the salads and loaded our plates with burgers, deep-fried chicken, home fries and little packets of ketchup and mayo. It all paired well with the Budweiser that Jule graciously provided. The coffee, unlike the rest, was awful.
When we’d finished eating, I changed into my green coveralls. Jule put my suit in a plastic bag and promised I’d get it back, cleaned and pressed, when I returned. In the meanwhile, Luigi set up a connection to Digital Albert and received confirmation that the power to the farm was cut. He and Albert went over the process to restore power, one last time. I called Dr. von Stroop and informed her in Italian that we’d arrive on time, maybe even early. She sounded cheerful and energetic.
We went back out into the valley between the dunes and unloaded the weapons and ammo crates from the chopper. Luigi commenced a quick function check, testing each weapon in turn. I walked Jule through the structure of the solar farm and the plan of action. Luigi was his usual strict self, insisting on also testing a randomly selected frag grenade and a landmine he’d triggered with a shot. I told Jule I didn’t expect his assistance in case shots were fired, apart from self-defense. He smiled and nodded. I handed him an envelope with ten grand, as agreed. He refused. Apparently Abrasha had already handled his fee.
Jule nodded appreciatively as we collected and buried the empty shells and packages from the function check. Luigi asked for some more mines and rocket launchers. Jule shook his head, saying that we were already nearing the chopper’s weight capacity, and this storm could cause low atmospheric pressure that would harm the engine output.
We flew south in the yellow mist. At 17:30, we were an estimated twenty minutes from target. Then, suddenly, a thud. The chopper shook slightly. I looked to Jule, who raised his hand to signal that everything was
fine, adding that a bird had probably hit the rotor.
But then there was another thud, and the rotor stuttered. Not a good sound. Jule scanned the dashboard. Other alarms began to chirp and wail, and there was a great deal of orange and red among the lights on the dashboard—neither of which boded well for us.
The helicopter was losing altitude.
“Shit!” spat Jule. “Losing pressure in the manifold. I’m taking us down!”
Jule somehow landed the chopper like a leaf on a pond, softly and safely. He unbuckled from his seat, twisted around and raised a single finger. “Now, no questions. Do exactly as I say and we might actually make it on time. Avner, under your seat, there’s a red suitcase, a diagnostic computer. Get it.”
I bit down the bitter thoughts at the front of my mind and passed him the suitcase. He pulled out a network cable and plugged it in under the dashboard. Froyke had once said that the difference between a good fighter and a dead fighter was focus, the ability to concentrate on the mission, the enemy, ignoring everything else.
“Luigi, there’s a blue suitcase under yours, toolbox, says SIGNET. Get it.” As Luigi was pulling it out, Jule was switching through various windows and tabs on the computer. Luigi stood behind him, ready for his next task, and I went through alternate scenarios, including calling on Ran’s reserve force. Each scenario was worse than the last. The thought of Anna being tortured for information kept barging in on my attempts to plan alternatives.
“Air sensor, fucking air sensor, the filter’s blocked. Luigi! Blue cardboard box in the back, left side, air filter.” Jule skillfully unscrewed and disassembled several layers of plastic and metal to pull out the old air filter, now rendered an opaque yellow, and shook some of the sand out of it before placing it in the new filter’s box. “Green air pressure tank in the back. Left.” I leaped into the rear of the chopper and brought the air pressure tank. Jule shoved it into the manifold and released air pressure in a loud, shrill whistle. He then lifted the tank and, without awarding it a second glance, tossed it to the back. I managed to catch the flying hazard. Jule reassembled everything and rebooted the diagnostics computer.
