Cloudburst (16 page)

They watched for nearly two hours before the senior NSA official left with a recorded copy of the events and two Marine guards. Their destination was the White House.

Benina

A rough thud signaled the connection of a passenger ramp to the forward port cabin door.

Captain Hendrickson loosened his tie and sat ramrod straight in the seat to stretch his back. It was aching like hell. He couldn’t stand the lumbar supports, and the stress of the situation wasn’t helping. That was all right. He would make it home, and when he did the overstuffed armchair, neglected for so long, would find itself with a permanent user. He could fish and hunt in the stream and hills of his beloved Maine, and spend the rest of his quiet retirement with his even more beloved Anita. For now, though, he would endure the nightmare that was unfolding around him through the cockpit windows. Endure and conquer.

‘Tell them to open the door,” Hadad commanded from behind.

Buzz chewed on his lip. The captain saw this, knowing that it was hard for his first officer to accept what was happening. He was not a man who accepted the thought of captivity with glee, having evaded the Vietcong for weeks after his F-4 was downed.

“Cap-tan … The door. Now!”

Hendrickson lifted the cabin phone and waited for the buzz to be answered. “Who is… Millie? Open the port number one. I know. I know. Just go ahead. It’ll be okay.” He hung up.

Seconds later there was a minor vibration and an annunciator signal as the door was opened. Other than that it was quiet. The four engines were idle, the aircraft receiving system power from a GPU—Ground Power Unit—whose distant hum was negligible.

*  *  *

Michael Alton craned his neck to see over the seat before him. The occupant of that seat was also trying to see.

“Michael… what is it?” Sandy Alton’s voice was hushed.

He didn’t answer right away, but what he could see made his neck hairs stand on end.
Why?
he asked himself. Unconsciously, he squeezed his wife’s hand.

“Sweetheart …” Her tone was now almost pleading.

He lowered his body back into the seat. “Men with guns.”

“Oh God.”

He eased his touch on her hand. Her voice was almost a whimper, very soft and breathy. He wanted to say something, but what? There was nothing he could do.

*  *  *

Wael was first in. The two flight attendants recoiled at the sight of him. Arabic men were smaller in stature, at least those that they had seen. Not so Wael. His build was that of a tank and reached six feet five inches. In green fatigues, replete with black infantry boots, he looked especially menacing, the Uzi in his hand completing the picture. His most terrifying trait, though, was yet to be made apparent.

The barrel of his weapon directed the two attendants back toward the galley. One of them said something, but Wael spoke only Arabic. He continued to wave them back.

Abu followed Wael in and went directly to the stairs, giving the passengers to the rear only a quick look. They were surprised, he thought, not frightened. The eyes of one woman near the door caught his, asking a question without words. She was older, yet pretty in the way American women were. He could have communicated well with her, if he had wished, thanks to his three years at the American University in Cairo.

At the top of the stairway he found an empty lounge. Each of them had flown on identical aircraft as part of their training for the mission. The Americans, like most Westerners, were fascinated with their own comfort. Huge planes with two levels. And the furnishings! Spacious chairs and tables between them with holders for the glasses of alcohol they always seemed to need. Abu wondered if there was a bath or—what did the Americans call them?—a hot tub. It would not surprise him.

Abdul must be downstairs now. The shouts were echoing up the staircase in his throaty voice. Abu smiled, but it faded quickly. It was really happening.

He went to the cockpit door, its face similar to the wall around the frame. He knocked gently, as if on a friend’s door.

Hadad opened it. Abu stepped in, crowding the cockpit. He flashed a look at the two pilots, the one on the right not turning to face him. The other, a blond man, met his look.

“Soldiers, Hadad?” Abu asked in Arabic.

“Yes, of course,” the answer came in rapid Arabic. “Old soldiers,” Hadad finished in pronounced English.

Abu, impressed by the size and opulence of the aircraft, was not so affected by its electronic gadgetry. It was a jumble of things which he did not understand. Flashing lights and…televisions? Abu found himself shaking his head.

“I am glad you are here, my friend,” Hadad said, reaching into one of the Velcro-closed pockets on the vest. There was an audible click, and he released the thumb switch, letting it drop and hang by its short connecting wire.

“Cap-tan, Number Two…stay in your seats.” The Uzi was trained on them as a warning as the hijackers left the cockpit. The door made a metallic sound as it closed.

Hadad unfastened the two hook closures on the front of the vest and leaned back. The weight of it made it slide easily off. He set it on one of the lounge seats near the cockpit door.

“Is it heavy?” Abu’s brown eyes were fixed on his comrade.

“Very.” Hadad let the mini Uzi drop awkwardly on its strap to his elbow as he reached up to rub his neck and shoulder. The muscles were not sore, but the skin was. “The loading went well?”

“Perfectly.” Abu waved his friend’s hand away and reached, straight-armed, to massage both of his shoulders. Hadad let his head fall back and roll in a circular motion. The kneading felt good on his aching flesh. It had been less than three hours and already the weight was a bother. That angered him. He realized that he should have been more physically prepared for the mission. He could relax now, though. He was among friends.

“Thank you.”

“Is it better?” Abu pulled away and slung his own Uzi, a full-size model, on his left shoulder.

“Yes, much.”

Abu motioned to the cockpit. “Will they cooperate?”

“They will. The number two is arrogant…a Marine. But he will do as I say.” Hadad swept his hand before them, looking around. “Look at the power we have over them. All of the pitiful souls below are ours.” He almost laughed. “And, my friend, the Great Satan will do as we wish.” His confidence in his performance was high. Not only his enemies required convincing.

A scream was heard from below, and shouts in rapid-fire Arabic.

“Abdul and Wael are moving the passengers back, out of the first-class section,” Abu explained.

A thin smile formed on Hadad’s face. “It sounds as though Wael is himself.”

“He is motivated,” Abu commented, knowing that Wael’s massive frame was matched by his sometimes maniacal demeanor. “How long will we stay?”

The men had not been together for a month. “We will leave here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Is there any word on the colonel?”

Hadad wiggled his shoulders, bringing his weapon back up. “I have not heard anything.”

“So, it has begun,” Abu declared.

“Yes, my friend, and there is much to be done.” Hadad went to the stairs, then turned. “Remember, we have a funeral to attend.”

Abu nodded.
Indeed we do.

Los Angeles

Not quite two days ago.

So much had happened in such a short time. Art knew his agents were working their asses off to keep the answers coming in. The picture they had painted so far was an accurate representation of the assassination, and Art’s report was faithful to their efforts.

The two shooters, Harry Obed and his still unidentified co-conspirator, had come in on separate flights to LAX from New York early Thursday past, and before that from Paris. Passenger records identified the partner as Benny Obed, but that was slim. Harry was fingered by the use of his American Express card to rent the car, and confirmed by the clerk who had rented it to him. She remembered him as friendly, comfortably well dressed, and Middle Eastern-looking. Fortunately she was good at labeling accurately. His friend was Middle Eastern, too, she had recalled. He was quieter, but still seemed nice.

From the airport they went to a motel in Pasadena, the Squire Inn. It was a nice place; Art had checked. No hourly rates or fresh sheets at check-in. Apparently the men had left Friday and made a stop somewhere before heading downtown. It was this trip that puzzled Art, warranting a ‘reasons unknown’ tag where it was mentioned in the report. Mileage records from the rental agency and the car’s odometer narrowed the trip’s distance down to within a five-mile corridor from LAX to Pasadena. The side trip might have been to pick up the weapons, or they might have been waiting for them at the motel. The latter was unlikely, though. It would have provided too direct a connection since someone, presumably Marcus Jackson, would have needed to rent the room in advance and place the weapons there. The charge slip itself negated part of that supposition, showing that Obed had rented the room. Art silently thanked his maker for credit cards and the ease of tracking their use.

The rest was educated conjecture, supported by the available physical evidence and eyewitness accounts. The shooters had obliterated most of the evidence with themselves. Forensics and ATF had determined the type of explosive and the presence of a timing device. A one-centimeter piece of metal was all they needed to prove that. Art thought those guys were witch doctors.

“You guys were bold little bastards,” he said aloud. The report was finished. He drove the last period on the paper with purpose. Carol would pick that up, as she always could. His anger or frustration always manifested itself with deeply embedded punctuations in his writing. She would tell him to stop stressing himself out, then pinch a fleshy cheek. Carol reminded him of his grandmother, who had died many years before. She was a sweet and gentle old woman, originally from Boston, who had moved south to Alabama early in life. Later she raised Art when his mother left. He was only three at the time, hardly old enough to remember what she looked like. That was a step up on his father, who hadn’t even stuck around for his birth. By all rights he should be in prison, or himself an absentee father. But he wasn’t. His grandma taught him fairness, and right from wrong. Some people might take those lessons for granted, figuring that it was a given that all children were taught similar lessons. Maybe most were, but in the South when Art was growing up the lines between these beliefs were sometimes foggy, and often nonexistent. Learning violence and hate by example would have been easy had it not been for her.

He smiled to himself, still staring at his legal pad and remembering. She had pushed him hard. Oh, so hard! Hard with words, and pointed fingers, and sometimes, with a switch. She had made him work hard in school, and play with equal energy with his friends. And when it came time to think about college her words were simple, poetic, and straightforward.
“Arthur,”
she had said,
“I have never told you you were ugly, but you are certainly not pretty. And I have never, ever called you stupid, but most assuredly you are not a genius. No one is going to make your way for you.”

That old lady,
Art thought.

The phone buzzed. “Yes. Thanks, Carol.” Art pushed the finished report aside. “Eddie, g’morning.”

“Ungodly hour to say something like that. Get some sleep?”

The lack of it reminded Art that he felt like shit. “Not enough. I don’t know if there is such a thing as enough right now.”

“Well, boss, it’s my turn.
Bingo!
Shari came through. We’ve got a whole new barrel of pickles now.”

“Lay it out, Ed.”

“Harry Obed is one Mamir Khaled, a Palestinian. And we’ve ID’d his partner: little bro Nahar Khaled. Shari faxed photos of both and we ran the pictures by the rental agency clerk. Let me tell you, boss, she was not a happy camper being roused out of bed at one A.M. Anyway, she confirmed that Nahar was the second guy.”

“So that puts them together at the airport.”

“And the motel,” Eddie added. “The desk clerk was certain it was both of them.”

“I guess we can expect confirmations from the airlines in Paris, here, and New York on the second ID. But what about before that?”

“Nothing. Interpol, Brits, Frenchies…zippo. Israeli intelligence had to go through their national police.”

“Huh?”

“Punks, boss. That’s what Shari called them. They were picked up a few years back for throwing stones and shit during the West Bank uprising. Intifada, they called it. They weren’t real troublemakers, just followers. Lots of kids were doing it. It just happened the Israelis decided to come down hard on the protests that week, so it was a quick trip across the border to Lebanon.”

Art tapped the desk. “Deported. That could piss one off.”

“Yep. So we’ve got two young brothers forcibly removed from their family and their home. Shari says the latter is sometimes more devastating to the West Bank Arabs than having to leave their families. It’s the same thing the whole Palestinian culture has been subjected to. You know, that Israeli friend of yours is a smart fella. He looks at reasons for what he’s supposed to help prevent.”

It was good info, but not enough for a complete picture. “It’s more than we had before, but aside from America being responsible for all the world’s ills, what was their motive? Hell, there are hundreds of people—whole families—deported every month since the Intifada began. Why attack us? Why not do something against the Israelis? They could have done more damage in a suicide attack there. I saw a tape a while back of a suicide attack in southern Lebanon. The terrorist had his car filled with five hundred pounds of TNT and another hundred pounds of nails. So this guy had his pals film him with a video camera from a rooftop as he drove by an Israeli army truck loaded with troops and blew himself up.”

“Boss,” Eddie interjected.

Art paused. “Yeah?”

“They had a motive. Remember the picture?”

“Sure.”
No…

“The little girl. About a month after the Khaled brothers were deported there was another protest… a big one. An American cruiser made a port call at Haifa and a whole slew of demonstrations broke out. Some were pretty violent, Shari said. American ships have stopped at Israeli ports before, so who knows why it was that one to cause an uproar. The West Bank, Gaza, even Jerusalem. Anyway, the Khaled boys’ mother and little five-year-old sister just happened to be near one of the demonstrations near their home when the Army moved in to break it up.”