He opened the other three boxes in order and conducted the same evaluation of each of them. “The Stinger?”
The tall man motioned to a metal cabinet at the end of the room where the smoke had drifted from his cigarette. Madani, Khalida, and Ismael opened the cabinet and pulled out the distinctive aluminum box. They watched Ismael’s face as they opened the box to reveal a beautiful American Stinger missile that looked as if it had been manufactured that day. Ismael’s heart jumped. Madani took it from the case and handed it to him. He rested it comfortably on his shoulder.
“Turn it on,” Madani ordered.
Ismael threw the switches by feel. His hours of practice on the Belgian Stinger training device in Khartoum made him completely comfortable with the actual missile. The low hum of solid-state electronics and their displays was audible to Ismael but not the others. He looked through the eyepiece and its siting reticle. The display was crystal clear and intuitive. He envisioned a Blue Angel airplane above him, a thousand feet away in his sites. He took his finger away from the trigger, turned off the missile, and placed it gently back in its container. “Perfect,” he announced.
Madani nodded and looked at the tall man. “You have posted guards?”
“Of course.”
“You have enough weapons to defend yourself in case someone tries to break in?”
“More than enough.”
“Do you have our weapons?”
“In the back storage room.”
“Excellent. Get them.” The man hurried away. Madani saw Khalida touching the Stinger, running his hand along its smooth tube, trying to read the English writing along the sides. The man returned and put several weapons on the table. Two other men placed more automatic rifles and hand grenades there. Madani said to the tall man, “I do not need to emphasize the confidentiality that we seek, do I?”
“Of course not.”
“If someone were to learn about this, it would be very bad for us all,” he said softly.
“I understand.”
“Especially for you.” Madani picked up one of the AK-47s and placed the banana clip into the weapon. He pulled back the slide and let it slam home, loudly placing a bullet in the chamber.
“Yes. We understand.”
“Good. We will be in touch. Do nothing until you hear from me. We will be back to pick up the trucks—” Madani stopped. He looked up the stairs at one of the warehousemen. “Who is he?”
“One of ours.”
“He was listening.”
“Of course. They are all listening.”
Madani stared at the man, who was obviously afraid. “Come here!” he yelled.
The man came down the steep stairs and stood in front of Madani.
Ismael watched.
“What is your name?”
“Omar.”
Madani spoke to the tall man without taking his eyes off Omar. “How long have you known this man?”
“Just shortly. We needed another man. I asked around, and he offered.”
“How do you know he is not an informant?”
“He has not left here once since arriving. He has had no chance to inform. Why do you antagonize him?” The tall man frowned.
“He was listening. With bright eyes, trying to remember what he was hearing.”
“How do you know this?” the tall man protested.
“Why did you offer to work here?”
Omar spoke. “I needed the money.”
“How much are you being paid?”
Omar hesitated. He had never asked. “I don’t know. I never asked.”
“You did this for money, and you don’t know how much you are being paid?”
“I’m sure it will be fair. He is a fair man.”
Madani saw the fear in Omar’s eyes. “Go back upstairs. Now!” Madani yelled. “And stop listening! From now on you don’t even look at me!”
Omar turned obediently and hurried toward the stairs.
Shots from Madani’s AK-47 rang out and echoed around the small warehouse. The man fell into the stairs, mortally wounded. “He was a spy,” Madani announced.
The tall man ran to the fallen man and saw he was beyond help. He turned toward Madani in fury. “You knew nothing about him!”
“Neither did you!” Madani replied. “Get him upstairs. Put him in the freezer.” He removed the clip from the AK, pulled the slide back, caught the remaining bullet, and replaced it in the magazine. He placed them carefully on the table. “We will be back.”
The tall man nodded reluctantly as two of his other men dragged Omar up the stairs.
Madani, Ismael, and Khalida left the small warehouse and walked slowly back toward the subway station. It was dark and quiet in the neighborhood. There were no sounds except a distant noise from cars and one loud motorcycle. As they approached a deep recessed doorway one block from the warehouse, Ismael heard a whispered voice in Arabic.
“You are alone,” it said.
Madani heard Hafiz as clearly as Ismael did, and made no acknowledgment. But they all knew now they had gone in and out of the warehouse without being followed. This Hafiz was showing himself to be very resourceful and valuable, Ismael thought, feeling more secure than he had since their arrival in Paris.
* * *
Stovic hurried down the ladder from the 03 level to the VFA-37 ordnance shop on the 02 level aboard the Harry S. Truman. He could feel the ship moving under his feet, the reassuring gentle motion of a giant. As an officer in the Ragin’ Bulls he had been the ordnance division officer, in charge of the ordnancemen—those in charge of weapons and missiles. Now with the Blues, the Boss had given him the responsibility of going back to the same people to find the flares they needed. Stovic knew it was his burden anyway. He was sure the other pilots felt the same way. They wouldn’t need flares if it weren’t for him.
Tension had been building ever since the FBI had met with the team in Arizona, ever since they sat in the Boss’s room with the noisy air conditioner and learned that a killer was after them, but it wasn’t really them, it was him. They had all tried to pretend it didn’t matter. But he knew, and they knew, it did matter. He could read the conflict in their eyes; the solidarity and brotherhood and steadfastness but also the doubts, the insecurity, and the obvious answer—Stovic could just step down. Or disappear. But they all knew it would be unmanly to ask him to. The better thing would be if he just recognized what they all knew. But he wasn’t quitting now. Not when he had a chance to get the man who had killed his brother.
He opened the door to the ordnance shop and looked around. He spoke to one of the men. “Petty Officer Wilson, where’s your division O?”
Wilson looked up quickly, recognizing the voice. “Hey, Lieutenant Stovic. How have you been?”
“Great, thanks. You have a division O?”
The men looked at him with amusement. Wilson spoke. “Sure, but I’ve never seen him down here.”
“One of those.”
“Yes, sir. One of those. Anything we can do for you, sir?”
“I’m in the market for some flares. Skipper has already authorized it, I’m told.”
“We’ve got enough flares for an Italian soccer match,” Wilson said. “I’ll load them aboard your airplane myself.”
“Thanks. I’ll put our guys in touch with you.”
“Yes, sir. Happy to help.” Wilson stopped him. “Can I ask you something, sir?”
“Sure,” Stovic replied.
“Which kind of flares do you want?”
Stovic smiled. “I guess I figured we only had one kind. I don’t recall us having a lot of options when I was the division officer.”
“There are about five types, sir, and we only have one or two. Do you know which ones you need?”
“I guess I don’t.”
“What’s the threat?” he asked.
Stovic didn’t really want to say, but he had to. “Handheld SAMs. Not sure which ones, so probably need to cover Russian and . . . American made.”
Wilson looked perplexed. “American made?”
“Stinger.”
“Ouch,” he said. “That makes it harder.”
“I’ll say. But frankly, I didn’t think about which flare we’d need. Where’s the secret supplement that shows the flare types by threat?”
“It’s in the safe.”
“Would you get the Gunner to give me a call? We need to pull that out and see if we’ve got the right ones. We’re playing catch-up right now, and I’m not sure we’ve got enough time if you guys don’t have them.”
“We’ll turn the ship upside down, sir. We’ll find the right ones for you. They’ve got to be on board somewhere.”
“Thanks.” Stovic took out a piece of paper and wrote a number. “Here’s the phone number of my stateroom. If you could get him to call me right away, we can start finding out how big a problem we have.”
“Will do, sir.”
Stovic turned and rushed up the ladder toward the ready room.
* * *
The other four men had left at odd intervals over the last fifteen minutes. They had gotten their brief from Rat and knew what they had to do. Rat put on his windbreaker against the fresh rain that was falling and stepped out of his Paris hotel into the 18th Arrondisement. He assumed Ismael would at least pass through the district at some point; it was inconceivable they would use all imported help. He had memorized Ismael’s photos. He had long ago distributed copies to his team. They all knew exactly what to look for, including likely disguises, facial hair, haircuts, bleach, all the ways of changing one’s appearance.
He waited outside the Metro for two of his men. His expert eyes searched the faces of all the people streaming out of the Metro stairway behind him. He wore wool slacks, Italian shoes, a black mock turtleneck with a sport coat, and designer glasses. He looked like a sophisticated European businessman.
He saw his two men come out of the subway but did not acknowledge them. He turned and walked up the sidewalk like a man going to an appointment at a local restaurant, an adventurous restaurant off the beaten path that had been recommended to him by the CEO of an Albanian shipping company. The sounds and smells were distinctive and placed him back in North Africa, where he had been so many times. On the other side of the street was Robby with his now closely cut hair and the gait and accent of an Ethiopian. Behind him was one of Robby’s squad, a short, squat Argentinean-American who spoke French with the distinctive accent of a Spaniard.
No one who wasn’t with them could possibly know they were conducting a sweep of the street, looking for Ismael or any hint of him. Rat walked with steady determination, looking around only once in awhile, as if walking through a neighborhood that didn’t interest him very much. Robby and his man were still across the street, behind him.
They were now in the heart of the 18th Arrondisement. The lights were dimmer and less reliable. The establishments were peeling and in disrepair.
He walked by a man squatting on the sidewalk and stepped around him. The man looked up at him and made eye contact, then quickly averted his eyes. Rat felt it but continued walking, trying not to look back at the man. He raised his hand to his glasses, marking the man on the sidewalk.
Robby looked from across the street and took a quick photo with the digital camera hidden in the plastic shopping bag dangling from his left hand.
* * *
The captain stopped the enormous carrier in the glassy Atlantic Ocean. One of the ship’s motor whaleboats was quickly lowered into the water with its white canvas cover. It would be the center point for the air show. All the people on the carrier who weren’t on watch and could otherwise be spared had been given exactly one hour off and invited to the flight deck to observe something that had never before occurred—a Blue Angel air show in the middle of the ocean for a private audience. The six blue jets were catapulted off the deck, and three thousand men and women hurried onto the flight deck behind them. The sun was brilliant and high in the sky. The ocean was dark blue, slightly darker than the jets coming from the right of the carrier, the direction the bow was pointing.
The pilots in the diamond formation crossed from right to left in their first pass. The sailors and officers of the Truman smiled and cheered as the air show got under way. The announcer, #7, Lieutenant McKnight, was on the 5MC, the PA system built into the flight deck at every corner. It was the loudest PA system imaginable, designed to be heard over jet noise and through sound-protective helmets. It was usually used by the Air Boss to yell at someone: “Get out of the catwalk!” or “Heads up on the flight deck, props and jets are turning!” They had turned the 5MC down slightly so that Knight’s announcements didn’t deafen the audience. Knight stood on the flight deck in uniform. He stared at the crowd through his aviator sunglasses with his back to the ocean. Directly behind him the motor whaleboat kept its position as the center point of the show. The admin officer stood behind him with a handheld radio, keeping Knight on time to the second.
With his head unmoving, never looking for the Blue Angels in the air, Knight began his narration in exactly the same way he always did: “Goooood afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!”
Stovic hovered three miles away and watched the diamond formation approach the carrier from its bow, to the right of the officers and sailors standing on the flight deck. He began playing the tape of the air show in his mind. It allowed him to go through each step as if he had done it a thousand times, and he could concentrate on the smallest details; it gave him comfort and pushed everything else out of his mind.
He spotted Oden five miles away as he began to position himself for the takeoff “dirty roll.” Stovic waited, then began his descent toward the water. Their normal altitude—twenty-five to fifty feet over the runway—was raised to a hundred feet so they wouldn’t be below the crowd. The carrier deck itself stood seventy-five feet above the water.
Stovic simulated streaking down the runway on his own takeoff, then as he reached the aft end of the carrier did his first maneuver of every air show. He pulled back hard on the stick and rocketed up away from the ocean. The moist air condensed into white vapor on top of his wings and spilled off behind him. He pulled away from the earth and watched the carrier recede in his rearview mirror.
On their next pass Stovic turned quickly toward the deck of the carrier. He spotted the motor whaleboat at the center point and judged that they would pass almost directly over the top of the boat. He picked up Oden, now head-on to him on the horizon. He aimed directly at Oden and waited until they were less than a half mile apart, when he took a very minor offset from Oden to ensure they had sufficient distance to avoid hitting. He kept his throttles completely forward, just short of afterburner, giving his jet sufficient power to push him to six hundred knots. They closed quickly, and he heard Oden’s familiar transmission: “Hit it!”
Stovic threw the stick to the right. He went into a ninety-degree angle of bank—a knife-edge pass—at exactly the same time Oden did. They passed exactly parallel to each other directly over the center point. It was as close to perfect as such a pass could ever come. He heard the call, and he leveled his wings and pulled up as the Blue Angel diamond came back around to perform its next maneuver in front of the Truman crew.
For Stovic it was a glorious day, the reunification of everything he loved in the Navy. He was able to fly his jet off a carrier with his friends in a private air show in front of his family. As he rolled over on his back and looked at the ocean, he pulled the G forces once again that kept him coming back, and headed toward the ocean. He fought the thought that began to intrude in his conscious mind, that perhaps this would be the last time he would ever finish an air show with the Blues.
* * *
The Emergency Committee had been formed, and several members from each of the seemingly endless and overlapping French security and military organizations were now present at the first coordination meeting. The large conference room in the Ministry of Defense was humming. Most of the people knew each o
ther and enjoyed getting together. They greeted the American FBI special agents and spoke to them in French or occasional English, but never enough for Lew and Patricia to get a good feel for what
was going on. Present were representatives of the gendarmery—the French police—and their counterterrorism strike team, the GIGN—Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. Also, represented by a tall dark officer, the Police Nationale and their equivalent group, the GIPN, Group d’Intervention de la Police Nationale. François and Elizabeth were there for the DST, and to the surprise of many, also represented was the equivalent for intelligence outside the country, the DGSE—Direction Général de la Sécurité Extérieur.
The Shadows of Power Page 25
