“Yes, I live in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. I’m down here for a few meetings.”
Neither man asked what kind of meetings.
“Carlisle?” The other man studied her. “Carlisle as in Army War College?”
“Yes.”
Chaplain Bartley said, “This is my nosey brother, J. J.”
They exchanged pleasantries.
“Listen, some of us go out for lunch after service. Since you’re from out of town, maybe you’d like to join us. It’s nothing fancy, just five or six people sitting around a sandwich shop telling lies and jokes.”
Tess grinned at the chaplain. “Lies? Are chaplains allowed to tell lies?”
“When a chaplain does it, it’s called a sermon illustration.” His smile was broad. “Come on and join us. It beats sitting alone in a hotel room watching television.”
Tess agreed and J. J. offered to drive. Three hours and one tuna on rye later, Tess began to fall in love.
Prior to that moment, Tess had only her aging parents to worry about; now she had one more. J. J. captured her with his wit, his intelligence, his commitment, but most of all his faith. Tess spent her days surrounded by rugged, good-looking men, but she needed more. She needed someone with spiritual depth. J. J. had that by the truckload.
Over the months he spoke of his admiration for his teammates and team leader Eric Moyer. They were rough, crude, and often insensitive, but they were also brave, loyal, and committed to making their country safe and the world a little more evil free.
Two months into their courting, J. J. told her how the team lost a member on their last major mission. He left out many details such as the man’s name, where he died, and why they were there. The details didn’t matter; she saw the sorrow in his eyes and felt the pain in his soul.
Tess pushed back the covers, unfolded her legs, slipped on her robe, and walked to the sliding glass door that overlooked the hotel’s courtyard three stories down. An alabaster moon hung in a cloudless sky. In the distance a siren wailed. The rumble and roar of eighteen-wheelers traveling nearby making early morning deliveries rode a gentle breeze.
Tess sat in a balcony chair and gazed at the moon. It looked peaceful in its orbit 240,000 miles away. It also looked lifeless.
A moment later Tess began to pray.
CHAPTER 7
THE ALARM NEXT TO Jerry Zinsser’s head came to life, blaring a heavy-metal tune that threatened to liquefy his brain. The sudden noise activated his instinct and he pushed off the bed, fists clenched, and arms ready for a fight. It took five seconds for him to realize he was in his own bedroom. He quieted the alarm and stood in the dark. The numbers on the clock told him it was 0300, just as he had set it.
His head pounded; his stomach churned like a pan of acid over a blazing stove. He glanced at the bed. The covers had not been pulled back. He had no memory of how he got on the bed. He smacked his lips and grimaced at the taste of scotch residue.
Moving to the bathroom, he stepped to the toilet and vomited. It was a horrible feeling but better than the dreams he’d been having. After his stomach settled, he rinsed his mouth, then stared in the mirror. “You are one lousy piece of work, Zinsser. Someone should flush you.”
His eyes drifted to the old double-edged razor he used to shave every morning. Electric razors were for sissies. He thought of the razor and how it had belonged to his father. He thought of the thin, sharp-edged blade inside—then he thought of his wrists.
It wouldn’t take long. If he used hot water on his wrists first, it wouldn’t even hurt. He thought of his legless, one-armed friend in the hospital.
Zinsser clamped his eyes shut.
He felt himself swaying. That or the room was spinning. He couldn’t tell the difference.
He forced his eyes open. It was time to begin The Routine.
In the kitchen he started a pot of high-octane, African coffee. While the coffeemaker did its job, Zinsser drank a large glass of orange juice, then went to the treadmill he kept in his bedroom. He stripped to his underwear, then, barefooted, stepped on the device and started it. For ten minutes he walked at a slow pace, just two-and-a-half miles an hour. Once convinced he wouldn’t topple over, he upped the speed to a fast walk. Five minutes after that he was jogging. Every step hurt; every stride was a struggle, but that was the point. The pain helped him dig his way out of the hangover.
Two miles later he stopped, consumed two cups of coffee, then slipped under the stream of cold water in his shower. The water felt icy on his skin. He shook. For the first ten minutes he thought his bones shivered as well.
The fog that draped his mind began to lift. By 0500 he felt functional and very nearly alive. By 0645 he could face himself in the mirror.
“Time to be a soldier.”
He started for his front door, set a hand on the knob, then stopped. A foggy, thin thought stroked his subconscious. Turning from the door he moved to a China cabinet once owned by his mother. It looked like walnut but he knew it had been hastily made of poplar in some factory in the Midwest and stained to appear like the more expensive wood.
The high-backed cabinet had two shelves above a flat top, two pull doors at the bottom, and a single locked drawer. He removed his keys from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. Slowly he pulled it open. Inside rested the silverware his mother so prized. Time and inattention had left the silver tarnished and charcoal gray. Silverware didn’t concern him. What lay just to the right did: a Colt 1911A1 pistol. The handgun had belonged to his grandfather who, as a twenty-year-old, carried it in several battles of World War II. It was dark and bore the scars of years of existence.
Papa Carl had given it to Zinsser as reward for graduating from basic training. The old man died six months later. Zinsser lifted the weapon and ejected the seven-round clip from the handle. The stubby bullets looked as fresh as when he placed them there five years before.
Papa Carl told fantastic stories of shooting Germans with the gun. As the man grew older and age began to eat at his mind, the stories changed from Germans to Japanese to Koreans. It didn’t matter. Zinsser knew his grandfather had served his country for four years without complaint. So what if he couldn’t remember when he was eighty.
The weapon felt heavier than it should; felt warmer.
Zinsser pulled back the slide and racked a round into the chamber.
The gun began to shake in his hand. He corrected himself. It was his hand that shook.
“Maybe this time . . . Now would be good; now would be perfect.” If he didn’t show, they would send someone to retrieve him. It would be a shock to find his body, but at least he wouldn’t stink up the apartment with his rotting corpse. A lousy last image, but men like him didn’t get to choose the last thing they saw in this life.
He lifted the .45, placed it to his temple, and fingered off the safety. His hand shook more. That wouldn’t do. What if he missed? What if the gun moved at the last second leaving him brain damaged but alive?
He lowered the weapon and rethought his actions. Then he lifted the collector’s item again and placed the muzzle in his mouth. He tasted gun oil. He thought he tasted gunpowder.
Details mattered. The .45 had to be angled just right. Too shallow and he’d blow a hole in the back of his neck but might continue to live. Or die slowly. Too steep and he would only succeed in removing his face.
He pushed the muzzle to his palate. The front site scratched his gums.
His finger moved the trigger a millimeter then stopped. He relaxed, inhaled deeply through his nose, then again applied pressure to the trigger.
Seconds became minutes.
Do it. DO IT!
Tears streaked his face. He couldn’t. God help him, he couldn’t.
He removed the gun from his mouth, reset the safety, replaced the weapon in the drawer, and shut it.
Zinsser pulled his gear together, loaded his car, and started for Fort Jackson.
EZZAT EL-SAYYED WORE A black polo shirt, tan pants, and a pair of Salvato
re Ferragamo Python Loafers. At $900 the shoes were not his most expensive pair, but he was dressing down for this occasion. Still, it only seemed right to wear Italian shoes in Italy.
The Mercedes E moved through the streets of Rome easily. It should. El-Sayyed’s chauffer was one of his most trusted guards and had spent the week before his arrival driving these streets, familiarizing himself with the intricacies of every avenue, memorizing every turn and every possible place of ambush.
The Saint Bernadette Hotel stood ten stories and catered to traveling executives. It wasn’t the most luxurious facility in the city, but it offered enough amenities to keep CEOs of mid-range businesses content, and the attention lavished on patrons by the staff made it a popular place to stay. For El-Sayyed its location, off the main street, and its reputation for employees who didn’t ask questions and knew how to look the other way made it a suitable choice for a brief meeting.
Tony Nasser drove by the front entrance slowly, his eyes directed to a spot ten meters further along the walkway. A dark-skinned man leaned against the façade of the adjoining hotel. He was tall, thin, and seemed more interested in the cigarette he was smoking than the passing traffic. El-Sayyed knew better. As the Mercedes rolled along the man on the sidewalk raised his head, took a long draw on the cigarette, and blew the stream of blue smoke into the air. He then dropped the butt to the ground. It was the signal El-Sayyed hoped to see. He saw Nasser give a small nod. Before they had passed the man’s location, he pivoted, walked to Saint Bernadette’s front doors, and entered the lobby. Nasser drove on.
After driving side streets for ten minutes, the Mercedes arrived at the curb in front of the hotel. A young man in a red uniform stepped to the car and opened the back door. El-Sayyed exited. Nasser was by his side before the attendant could close the door. A second man in a yellow shirt and jeans appeared at El-Sayyed’s side. He was of average height, and his build stretched the shoulder stitching of the sport coat he wore. The three men walked into the building.
The lobby sported a hand-painted ceiling showing ancient Romans doing whatever Romans did. El-Sayyed ignored the marble floor, the hand-crafted counter with a short line of people checking in, and made his way to the elevators. Brass doors parted, and three men in uniforms of pin-striped suits exited. El-Sayyed and his men filled the elevator. The cigarette-signal man joined them.
A bald man with a billiard-ball build started to enter the elevator cab but changed his mind when Nasser raised a hand. El-Sayyed smiled, shrugged, and stroked his mustache.
The elevator doors closed.
“You are satisfied with the room, Abasi?” El-Sayyed asked the signal man.
“Yes, sir. They arrived ten minutes ago. I searched the room before their arrival and swept for listening devices. The room was clean, but they’ve been alone in the room. I would assume you are being recorded and videotaped.” He paused. “I do not trust these men.”
“Do you trust anyone, Abasi?”
“My mother and you, El-Sayyed.”
El-Sayyed placed a hand on Abasi’s shoulder. “How is your mother? Is she still ill?”
“She died yesterday.”
El-Sayyed turned to his employee. “May Allah give you peace.”
“He has, sir. Allah is merciful.”
El-Sayyed turned to Nasser. “After our meeting, Tony, I want you to arrange a plane for Abasi. Give him what he needs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are too kind, El-Sayyed, but I prefer to finish our mission. I can go home after our work is done.”
“Take the month to be with your family. Celebrate the life of she who gave you life.”
“I will, sir.”
The elevators parted. Nasser and Abasi exited first, searching the corridor. Each had his hand under his jacket. Only after Nasser gave his approval did El-Sayyed exit.
They walked down the hall, Nasser and Abasi in front, the other guard behind El-Sayyed. Abasi stopped ten feet from the last door on the left. Only Nasser approached. Anyone could shoot through a hotel door.
Nasser knocked and stood with his arms to his side. Two seconds later, the door swung open.
“Is he here?”
Nasser didn’t answer. He entered the room and exited sixty seconds later. He motioned for El-Sayyed to enter. Abasi stepped over the threshold first—one last effort to provide protection. The moment El-Sayyed entered, a brown-skinned man exited and stood next to the door. El-Sayyed’s third guard did the same.
The room was small compared to those El-Sayyed knew existed on the top floor. Luxury wasn’t required. He planned to be out of this room in five minutes.
A man with black hair, a round face, and a globe-like belly sat in a chair by the window smoking a cigar. El-Sayyed had no doubt the smoke had originated in Cuba. Standing to either side like bookends were two well-muscled men.
“You have kept me waiting, El-Sayyed. Again.”
“Security has its price, Michael.” He wondered, as he had many times before, if Michael was the man’s real name.
“You disrespect me when you make me wait. You are a rude man.”
Nasser took a step forward. Michael’s guards took a similar step. El-Sayyed placed a hand in front of Nasser. “Insults from infidels mean nothing, my friend.” He turned his attention back to Michael. “Shall we get down to business? I would like to do this quickly. I always leave these meetings feeling unwashed.”
“Unwashed, is it?” Michael looked at his men. “The towel-head thinks we pollute him.” They said nothing. Michael rolled the cigar between his fingers and squinted through the smoke. “My brother—for reasons I don’t understand—likes you. He has asked me to tell you he is very happy with the test run.”
“How has he shown his gratitude?”
Michael nodded at the guard to his right who reached behind the chair and removed a metal briefcase. He set it on the desk in the room and opened it. Stacks of euros filled the case. “Ten million as agreed, although that is little more than a child’s allowance to a wealthy man like you.”
“The money means nothing to me, but I accept it as proof of your brother’s sincerity. You may thank him for me.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
The guard closed the case and pushed it toward Nasser. Nasser didn’t move.
“Does your brother have another message for me?”
Michael took his time answering. He stared at El-Sayyed and puffed on the cigar. El-Sayyed grew impatient.
“If you were man enough to grow a beard, my friend, you’d look like Fidel Castro.”
“Thank you. He was very successful.”
El-Sayyed laughed. “He became dictator of a small island nation and ruled over it until its people barely survive. There are greater successes to be had.”
“This is why you do this? You risk so much for a dead ideology?”
“It is far from dead, and I take no risks. Now, does your brother have a message for me?”
Again, Michael refused to answer.
El-Sayyed motioned for Nasser to take the case. “We are done here. Tell your brother two things. First, our business is now concluded; second, he has a fool for a brother.”
El-Sayyed turned to leave.
“Wait.” Michael rose. “We move forward.’”
El-Sayyed gave a slight bow. “You may tell him, I will continue the next step. May Allah bring you to the light of Mohammed.”
“Yeah? Well, vaya con Dios to you too.”
CHAPTER 8
THE AIR FORCE C-37A went wheels-up from the Columbia Metro Airport at 1215 hours and skated into a black sky, passing through gossamer clouds on the way to its cruising altitude, which Moyer had been told would be 41,000 feet. Shortly after reaching altitude, the pilot would settle the craft at a brisk 600 miles per hour.
Moyer sat in one of the white leather seats near the entrance doors and enjoyed the sensation of flying upward at a forty-five- degree angle.
“I gotta ask, Boss, who’d ya ha
ve to kill to get this ride?” Shaq sat in the seat across the narrow aisle.
“You like this better than flying cargo on a transport plane?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t you?”
“Sure beats commercial airlines.” Moyer’s seat was turned so he faced the back of the modified Gulfstream V. He saw seats for twelve passengers—plush leather seats, some with a simulated wood burl table between them. His team took six of the seats; three of the five flight crew took some of the other seats. Two of those were officers, one was an Airman Fifth Class, or First Class, or Third Class—he never could keep the Air Force’s rank system straight. At any rate, he was an enlisted man.
“I take it the Army has finally realized how valuable we are and has rewarded all our fine and sacrificial efforts.”
Moyer looked at his second in command. “That or they’re picking up some dignitary to bring back.”
Rich tapped his teeth in thought. “Nah, it’s because we’re special.”
The C-37A was one of nine such craft used by the Air Mobility Command in Illinois. Usually reserved for high-ranking government and DOD officials, the C-37A was an unexpected ride. They would be crossing the Atlantic in style. If he had to spend ten hours confined in a metal tube, this was the kind of tube he’d choose.
Ten minutes later the pilot’s voice poured from overhead speakers. “All right, gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude nearly eight miles up. It looks clear ahead so feel free to move around the cabin. Please keep your lap belts fastened while seated in case we encounter clear-air turbulence . . . or I decide to do a few barrel rolls.”
“Funny guy,” Rich said.
“And for our Army passengers, please, no walking on the wings.”
“Oh, this guy should go on the road.” Rich chuckled despite his sarcasm.
The airman approached Moyer. “It’s good to have you and your team aboard, Sergeant Major. I’ve been asked to offer you and your men lunch and something to drink.”
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