“Could she recognize you?”
“No. I was fat and sixty-five years old for that appearance.” He handed the binoculars to Ali, who trained them on the girl at poolside.
When Qazi received the glasses back, he swung them to the Graftons’ balcony. So Farrell and Mrs. Grafton had side-by-side seats on the flight from London. Very interesting.
The colonel climbed down from his perch while the ex-CIA agent, Sakol, examined Judith Farrell with the binoculars. He fingered the focus knob. After a glance, he placed the glasses back on the table. “I’ve never seen her before — Mossad, CIA, or GRU.”
“It is also possible she is what she seems to be,” Qazi said with finality.
“Or she could be one of those amateurs that the Americans are using these days instead of the CIA professionals,” Sakol retorted as he resumed his seat. “Perhaps she delivers autographed Bibles and cakes shaped like keys.” He yawned and stretched.
“We’ll check her room,” Qazi said. “It would be an honor to have an opportunity to steal a Bible signed by a president.” He turned to Ali. “What did you learn last night about security and antiterrorist precautions aboard the ship?”
“They have armed marines at the enlisted landing on the fantail, and on the officer’s brow. Four fifty-caliber machine guns, two on each side of the flight deck, are manned by marines around the clock. Planes are scattered around the flight deck so there is no room for a helicopter to land. The radio masts that surround the flight deck are kept in an up position. Lights are rigged around the ship so that swimmers and small boats cannot approach at night unseen.”
“And the communications?”
“He got it all,” Sakol sneered. “Your sadistic, camel-fucking assistant enjoyed every minute. He had a hard-on the whole time. I thought his cock was going to rip his zipper out.”
Ali’s right hand moved toward the pistol he carried in his trouser pocket, since it was too hot to wear a jacket.
Qazi waved his hand at Sakol. “Enough, Sakol. Enough. I can’t let Ali shoot you just yet.”
“The little prick wouldn’t enjoy just shooting me. He would first want to—”
“Enough!”
“I’m going to get some sleep,” Sakol said. “You perverts figure out how you’re going to rape the world. Put Ali near the crotch.” He went into the bedroom and slammed the door.
“He will betray us,” Ali said.
“Perhaps, given the opportunity.” Qazi sighed and stretched. “Are we on schedule?”
“It will be very tight. I am returning to Africa this afternoon. Noora should return with me. We will need her to handle Jarvis.”
“Three days. We must be ready to go in three days. The Americans might sail at any time.”
“Their reservations are for another seven days,” Yasim reminded them.
“The American government could order the ship to sail at any time in response to events in Lebanon. This would be an excellent time for those Shiite fools to behave themselves, but one cannot expect miracles. We must seize this opportunity before it escapes us.”
“Then we must make some changes.”
“Yes.” Qazi rubbed the back of his neck. Ensuring the painstaking accomplishment of a myriad of small details was the foundation of a successful clandestine operation, and the reason Colonel Qazi was still alive after twelve years in the business. He insisted Ali and his other lieutenants exhibit the wholehearted enthusiasm for detail he preached. Unanticipated events would occur in spite of every precaution, but the less left to chance the better.
“Tell me about the communications.”
Jake left the hotel at eight A.M. with four other officers he met in the lobby. All were attired in civilian clothes. Walking down the Via Medina together, they still drew glances from pedestrians and kamikazes zipping by on motor scooters. American sailors on liberty were no longer authorized to wear their uniforms ashore due to the terrorist threat, but their nationality was obvious to everyone, especially when they opened their mouths. Another regulation decreed without even a nod toward reality, Jake mused. He began to perspire as he walked. The exercise felt good after so long without it.
They turned left when they reached the Piazza Municipio and walked down the divided boulevard toward the harbor. Behind them, across the top of the boulevard, was the Municipal Building. On their right the Castel Nuovo jutted upward into the dirty-white morning haze. On the side of the seven-hundred-year-old structure Jake could see a shell impact mark, perhaps a scar from World War II. It appeared as if a shell with a contact fuse had gouged a shallow hole in the stone and the shrapnel had ripped out gouges which radiated in all directions from the center crater. Jake wondered how many wars and sieges and shellings the castle had withstood.
The little group threaded their way through bumper-to-bumper morning traffic to the gate to the quay. The carabinieri on duty gave the little group a salute and received smiles in reply.
They joined other officers and men waiting for the ship’s launch. As they chatted they watched the ferries getting under way for Ischia and Capri. People boarded the vessels through the stern, then each moved slowly ahead as a man on the bow took in the anchor cable and, a hundred yards from the quay, the anchor itself. Now the screws bit the water in earnest and the wake began to spread. As each ferry departed, people on the stern waved heartily to the Americans.
When the officer’s launch arrived at half past the hour, Jake stood with the boat officer and coxswain amidships rather than sit in the forward or after passenger compartment. He had never gotten used to riding these small craft in the chop beyond the breakwater.
The launch plowed the oily, black water and stirred the floating trash with its wake as it passed the bows of four U.S. destroyers and frigates moored stern-in against the breakwater. At the masthead of each ship the radar dishes rotated endlessly. Most of these ships were part of the flotilla that accompanied and protected the United States. At the piers on the other side of the harbor, on his left as the launch made for the harbor entrance, ships of the Italian Navy were moored. Just visible in the haze beyond them was the rising prominence of Mount Vesuvius.
Jake looked aft, over the stern on the boat. Buildings from prior centuries covered the hills behind the Castel Nuovo and the Municipal Building. At the top of the most prominent height stood a magnificent stone castle. This was Castel Sant’Elmo, now a military prison. The flanks of the hill between the Municipal Building and Castel Sant’Elmo formed the oldest, poorest quarter of the city, the tenderloin known to generations of American sailors as “the Gut.” The bars and girls there had entertained seafarers for centuries, and the punks there had rolled them and left them bleeding for at least as long.
Even with its smart new residential and shopping districts, Naples remained an industrial port city, not pretty, not spruced up for tourists, but a city of muscle encased in fat and smelling of sweat and cheap wine. It was an old European city that modern Italian glitz and new Roman fashion had yet to transform.
He watched the features of the city merge into the morning haze as the boat bucked through the swells beyond the harbor entrance. The natural breeze was magnified by the boat’s speed, so the perspiration dried on Jake’s face and his stomach remained calm. He even traded quips with the boat officer, a young F-14 pilot in whites.
Gulls looking for a handout swept over the launch, almost close enough to touch, their heads pointed into the prevailing wind, out to sea. On the boat’s fantail the Stars and Stripes crackled at attention.
It was a good feeling, Jake reflected, seeing the gray ships lying there at anchor in the sun with the sea breeze in your face, the coxswain wearing his Dixie cup at a jaunty angle to prevent it from being blown off, his white uniform incandescent in the sun. This was the part of his life Jake would miss the most, this carefree, tangy adventure with the world young and fresh, life stretching ahead over the waves toward an infinite horizon.