The Hand of Christ (47 page)

“
Can you find him?”

“
I have my ways, Michael. When we finish this thing in Rome let me put my ear to the ground and see what I can find out.”

“
Jimmy, there is not much that would make me happier in the wake of this mess. First, let’s focus on saving the Pope’s ass. But, when we get back, I want that man’s name.”

“
Consider it done; I’ll see to it myself, Michael.”

Michael released Jimmy, and the two former special operations teammates walked toward a pair of jet fighters that sat looming at rest at the far end of the hanger; the McDonnell Douglas (now Boeing) F-15E Strike Eagles stood ominous and powerful on their landing gear. The pilots of the two Strike Eagles stood next to their planes; each was already appropriately dressed for the overseas flight.

One of Jimmy’s men said, “Sir, here’s your gear.”

Jimmy grabbed the flight suit and helmet from one of his men and the other gave a set to Michael; the two men quickly donned the suits.

I wish I could earn frequent flier miles for all these damn flig
hts. Michael’s thought was an attempt to disguise his uneasiness with flying, Jimmy knew him better.

“
Still hate being airborne don’t you?”

“
Is it that obvious?”

Laughing, Jimmy responded, “It’s written all over your face; you know these things don’t come with barf bags. If you upchuck, you’re just gonna have to swallow, but you should be used to that by now.” Jimmy laughed at Michael.

Michael zipped up the front of his flight suit and was about to put on his helmet, but before he did he said, “That’s right, go ahead and laugh you big goon. Let’s see who’s laughing in Rome when you are begging for my help.”

Later, Michael would hate that he uttered these words of sarcasm.

With his helmet secured on his head and the helmet’s darkened visor up, Michael asked Jimmy, “By the way, how did you get your hands on two F-15’s with such short notice?”

“
I called in a favor, a really big favor. These boys,” Jimmy pointed to the two pilots, “were on a training flight to the Mediterranean, I just cashed in some chips. They will deviate to an airstrip outside of Rome to drop us off. I have a car waiting for us there.”

“
You must have had a lot of chips.”

“
Don’t even ask, you’d be begging to pay me if you only knew.” Jimmy gave Michael a slap on the back and spat out a quick, “Godspeed, Michael, see you in Rome.”

The two men climbed into the 4
^th
generation jet fighters followed by the two pilots.

Sitting nearly eighteen feet above the ground, Jimmy and Michael sat in the seat rear of the pilot. Each man secured his own harness and each pilot ran through his cursory pre-flight check. A loud thud startled Michael as each plane was hooked to one of two medium sized towing vehicles. With a jerk, the two fighters rolled forward and were pulled out from the hanger and onto a road leading to the runway. Jimmy’s men were at the wheel of a “follow me” vehicle and towed the fighters out of the hanger. At the proper moment, once the fighters were properly positioned on the tarmac, Jimmy’s men unhooked the fighters.

One man stepped forward and gave the signal for each pilot to fire up the two Pratt & Whitney F100-229 Turbofan engines of each F-15.

Two Air Force ground guides had been waiting for the planes and issued the hand signals that instructed the pilots to move the jets onto the 11,000 feet long runway.

Oh, shit! Here we go,
thought Michael.

As soon as the planes were straightened out on and pointed down the Porous European Mix (PEM) asphalt runway the afterburners roared to life and catapulted them almost instantly into the sky.

The gravitational forces of the two hundred and fifty-four meters per second climb were fierce, but nowhere near what Michael had felt on the Shadow. In his earpiece he could hear Jimmy shouting out a gleeful, “Woo-hoo!”

That man will never change
, Michael thought.

Soon, both fighters had leveled out at its service ceiling near sixty thousand feet. Equipped with conformal fuel tanks and three external tanks each, the F-15E Eagles would be able to fly the men nearly three thousand miles before needing fuel. Jimmy had made the arrangements; the training flight would add to the pilots’ necessary flight hours in order stay on active status with the fighter, but also included the need to make the pilots current with their respective ratings on mid-air refueling.

Today, that would be done by a KC-135 Stratotanker.

The planes were bearing mostly east on their 5566-mile trek to Italy. The jets were leveled out and screaming on a path toward the holy city at 1650 miles per hour, just above mach 2.5; almost two hours had passed when Michael could feel the jet slowing down.

He heard a crackle in his earpiece and the voice of the pilot sitting in front of him, “One-Four-Niner this is Alpha Five Charlie and Delta; we have you in sights, settling at two-five-zero knots. Lowering to four-five-thousand feet.”

The boom operator stationed at the rear of the flying KC-135 Stratotanker turned his attention to the console in front of him and went to work as the two F-15’s settled in behind and just under the massive plane.

The Stratotanker is powered by four CFM-56 turbofans that sit underneath the thirty-five degree swept one hundred and thirty-five foot wingspan. The boom operator felt the powerful engines slowing to match the speed of the fighters, and at the precise moment – when their speeds matched – the operator entered a series of commands on the console and then manually extended the flying boom out of which trailed a shuttle cock shaped drogue. Mating it expertly, first with the lead jet, and then with the trailing one, the operator refueled both planes.

During the entire time, Michael kept his eyes shut tightly imagining anything but the delicate aerial coitus happening overhead.

Chapter Forty-Seven

85 Viale de Moschea

The Mosque of Rome

The signs that signaled an impending storm had been obvious to the Imam. Rome’s tormenting climate had long ago stopped being a mystery to the holy man; the many years that he has spent in its confines had taught him much about the city – too much.

The ominous hallmarks of another bleak day were there and could be easily read. He peered through the small oval window as the wind blew cold outside. The trees of the wooded hillside bent and swayed under the swirling gusts, not able to choose otherwise. He could smell the coldness of the coming day as it sharply penetrated his nostrils. His aging bones ached from the change in pressure.

Silently, the Imam cursed Rome as he massaged his arthritic hands. He watched out of the window as the growing light – added by the slow rise of the sun – outlined the bulbous and rumbling clouds that hung shallow in the sky overhead. The clouds were thick and impenetrable and refused to allow in enough of the rising sun to warm the chilly morning air. He knew it would be like this the entire day.

Fitting
, thought the Imam, as if their god somehow knew.

He did not take the privilege of sleeping through the night, there would be plenty of time for rest soon enough. From the moment the assassin laid his head on his pillow, the Imam stood firmly in the very spot where he still stands. His path had been revealed the moment he had found the assassin hunched over the ablution fountain.

The Imam’s mission was to make sure that no one followed the assassin, that no danger was present. The assassin was a gift from God; the assassin was his reward for having been made to suffer for so many years in Rome. The Imam saw god’s rational quite clearly. Only he knew Rome so well, only he could provide the assassin a safe place, and only the assassin could trust him.

He felt honored to have been chosen as the assassin’s protector, but deeply ashamed that his many years of frustration had caused him to question his god’s divine intelligence.

Privately, the Imam questioned the reasons to build such a large mosque in Christianity’s version of Mecca. Many times nearly left Rome’s forsaken land; a small bag with his most personal possessions was still packed at the foot of his bed. But something always seemed to pull him back, not allowing him to leave. He was very aware that his faith had grown weak and this sickened him. It was time to atone; this was to be his chance for forgiveness.

He would not fail the assassin

He would not fail Allah.

Incessantly, he bore his gaze out of the window and onto the sloping grounds of the mosque, and faithfully watched for any sign of danger. All night he protected the assassin; now, the first glimpse of morning arrived.

A smile cracked the corner of one side of his mouth.

It was time.

A quiet knock on the door aroused the assassin from his deep slumber. A crease of light penetrated the frame of the door as the Imam opened it and walked into the room.

“
The morning has blessed us by coming once more.”

Slowly the large Persian rose, setting his feet onto the cold marble floor. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled; opening his eyes fully, he looked at the Imam. The small man was wearing his best robes of the finest Egyptian white silk that was interwoven with golden fibers.

The Imam cast a knowing look upon him.

The assassin stood; the low light glistened off of his massive and powerful chest. The Imam quietly marveled at the sculpted and statuesque physique of the assassin as the muscled Persian put on his shirt. He motioned to the assassin to come outside of his sleeping quarters while thinking to himself that Allah had chosen a worthy man.

“
First, we will pray and then we shall enjoy one last meal together,” instructed the Imam.

The assassin nodded and followed the Imam.

The H-shaped prayer hall was empty; side-by-side, the two men stood and faced in the direction of the qibla. With the purest khushoo, the devotion of the Imam and the assassin to Islam vibrated as they recited the two raka’ah required to complete the Fajr Salat: the prayer conducted only between dawn and sunrise. Each unit of prayer started in the qiyaam: the men standing. In unison, they prayed honoring one of the main pillars of Islam. In the sujud, the holy man and the assassin recited while their foreheads, noses, hands, knees, and toes simultaneously pressed against the ground.

When they were finished with their Salat, they ate. Neither said a word until the last bite was consumed.

When finished, the Imam delicately set down his fork and looked with admiration at the assassin.

“
Go, gather the rest of your things,” instructed the holy man.

The assassin rose and did as he was told and without question. In the Imam’s sleeping quarters, he put on his light jacket and then reached into its pockets. He felt the policeman’s gun and radio sitting in the pocket on the left side. Reaching into the right inside pocket, he pulled out the manila envelope and opened it. He knew that the pen would still be there but wanted to see it; when he saw it, he looked to the heavens. Outside of the sleeping quarters, the Imam waited.

The two men eyed one another silently for a moment.

The holy man pulled the assassin close to him and then kissed each of his cheeks. He looked at the assassin with genuine love, and said, “I will remember you well as will all of our brothers and sisters, now go Hashshashin and do not look back as you walk your path.”

The assassin’s voice was deep and level: “I am Mahmoud Farhad Rahim; it would please me if you were to remember me by my given name.”

Reaching up to the killer’s face with both of his hands, the Imam caressed his cheeks; in a soft voice, he said, “With a great pride I will remember it well, Mahmoud.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Autostrada Azzurra

Rome, Italy

The engine of the alpine white Porsche GT2 emitted a deep growl that seemed to start just beneath the passenger seat – where Michael sat rigid – and then vibrated throughout the depths of his body. Jimmy was behind the wheel of the fast moving car and throttled the exquisite piece of meticulous German craftsmanship expertly through the winding roads of the Italian countryside highway. The landscape flew by as the sun peeked above the horizon, losing its colors in a blend of pastel brush strokes; the blurred and colorful images framed by the car’s passenger window could have been mistaken for a Monet.

As it screamed toward Rome at well over two hundred kilometers per hour, the Porsche felt like it was gliding on ice with only a barely perceptible feel of the rubber on the road. Michael tightly gripped the interior door handle as Jimmy smiled like a twelve-year old boy on a roller coaster. Looking down at the car’s shifter, Michael saw that another gear was available, and really hoped that Jimmy wouldn’t need it.

“
This son of a bitch is something ain’t it? God damn I love German cars! If I could sleep with it I would marry it!”

Michael said nothing and Jimmy depressed the chrome accelerator further to the floor as they hit a straight section of road.

“
Goes zero to sixty in 3.6 seconds on the stock 530 horsepower engine; I’ve got this one fitted with some extra juice; about 150 extra horses worth. This little darling can hit sixty in under three ticks of a minute. Man, I love my job!”