“Assassinated,” Sami said. The others listened. “So who was the target?”
Kinkaid replied, “You can’t know from that evidence, but the communiqué makes it pretty clear. Sami?”
“Right,” Sami said. He stood and switched on the overhead projector, placed the acetate of the communiqué on it, and turned on the light. The beautiful Arabic script was projected onto the large screen in the front of the room. “This was received this morning by several wire services and our embassy in London. You all have a translation of it in front of you.” They glanced at the papers lying on the table. Some picked them up. “The translations from the wire services aren’t bad, but there’s more to it. First, I want you to note that this is handwritten. Beautifully. Someone took great care in writing this. There are no errors of spelling, or punctuation, or grammar, or even syntax. That implies several things: We’re dealing with someone who is very educated, and very careful. My guess is that this document went through many drafts, probably before the events it discusses. It also shows that the person doesn’t care if he is identified. Like English, only perhaps more so, Arabic script writing is very characteristic. You can recognize someone’s hand, or style, fairly easily. My sense is that he doesn’t care.”
He placed a pencil on a line in the middle. “The content is equally interesting. The gist of this communiqué is that they are the ones who conducted the attack on the Israeli bus, and they also are the ones responsible for the Gaza crossing attack. They note… here” — he pointed to some Arabic — “that they left their American weapons in the van in sequential serial number order for easy identification. We knew that because the Mossad sent us those pictures. Those photos have not been released to the press, and those not involved in the attack would have no way of knowing about the serial numbers. This is their means of authentication.”
“Or they could have inside information from Israeli intelligence,” Nicole added.
“Or Palestinian intelligence,” Cunningham said.
“Other than those two possibilities, it shows they were involved,” Sami replied.
Sami read on to himself, then spoke. “Here’s the heart of it… ‘We are the Assassins. Israel is an intolerable sore in the region and must be eradicated. We are everywhere, but will never be seen. We will never rest until Israel is no longer. The bus attack was necessary and important. Ask Israel why, if you want to know the reason.’ “ He looked up. “Frankly, I’m puzzled. Why would Israel know the reason for the school bus attack? Anyway, they go on. ‘The American was an unexpected gift. His presence on the bus confirms that Israel is the puppet of America and America is just the most recent Crusader to try to take over Islamic land.’ “ He read on to himself for a moment, then stopped. “The rest is pretty predictable, condemns the Palestinian Authority of Gaza as a bunch of traitors, condemns the West, the usual.”
“So,” Ricketts said. “At least they’ve identified themselves. And it’s not the usual. Very different. The Assassins…” he said. He looked at Sami. “Is it signed?”
Sami looked down at the document even though he already knew the answer. He was annoyed at himself that he hadn’t mentioned it already. “Yeah. Sheikh al-Jabal.”
Ricketts sat up. “That’s your guy, right? The one from that NSA track?”
“That’s him.”
11
Woods sat in the front row of folded chairs in the forecastle. It was jammed with aviators in their khaki uniforms and flight jackets, sitting and standing around the enormous anchor chains that disappeared through the deck beneath them. The entire Air Wing was there to honor Tony Vialli and to extend their sympathy to his family, or what passed for his family in the Navy, his squadron. As his roommate, section leader, and best friend, Woods was the one expected to play the unofficial role of grieving next of kin.
But Woods didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t want to hear a bunch of awkward phrases and silly comments like so many other memorial services. He tried to concentrate on the final words of Father Maloney, who was completing some sort of Catholic service. Vialli was, after all, Catholic, or at least close enough for a government chaplain to say whatever was usually said at these services. Woods was certain Vialli had never attended a Catholic service on the ship, and he was quite sure Lieutenant Commander Maloney couldn’t have picked Vialli out of a lineup.
Woods barely noticed the playing of the Navy hymn, the plea for God to guard and guide the men who fly… in peril in the sky. He barely noticed the final prayer, the last words of farewell and the clatter of chairs being pushed back slightly on the hard, gray steel as the Air Wing officers got to their feet. They stood in groups, talking low and moving around aimlessly, but no one left. The rite of passage wasn’t quite complete until there was some conveyance of sorrow. No one seemed to know exactly what was expected, or what was enough, but at some point enough of whatever it was was exchanged and people began getting ready to leave.
Woods had been to lots of memorial services for pilots who had hit the ramp, or flown into the water, or simply disappeared into the night. He’d made the same comments as those now standing around him. But this was all wrong; everyone was behaving as if Vialli was just another accident victim, as if fate had reached down and touched him, his time being up. We never know when any of us is going to go…
“No!” Woods yelled, stepping back from some of the pilots milling around him. “Don’t you get it?” he said to the entire group, gaining attention. “We all stand around here like we’re used to this. Like Tony’s death was an accident. It’s not the same!” he said loudly.
Some of the aviators looked at each other wondering if Woods had finally cracked. Too much pressure, maybe even responsibility. Rumor had it he knew where Vialli was going and could have stopped him, but didn’t.
The ship moved up and down perceptibly under their feet as the awkwardness of the moment froze it in time. No one could leave. It would have been a slap in the face to Woods.
“This wasn’t an accident!” Woods’s gray eyes flashed. “He didn’t have a bird strike, or run out of gas — he was murdered!” He drew out the word as if speaking to someone who was not quite with it.
The VF-103 Operations Officer said in a quiet voice, “We know that, Trey. We know that.” He looked around to see if he was speaking for the group. “But there isn’t much we can do about it. We all feel really bad about Boomer. He was a great guy. A talented guy. But we can’t exactly go after whoever did this on our own.”
Woods took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with exhaustion. “But we’ve got to do something.”
“We’d love to,” the officer responded. Others murmured their agreement. “And when you figure out what that is, you let us know. We’re behind Boomer, and we’re behind you.”
Woods turned away from the crowd. The Ops O nodded to the others and the crowd began to file out the two doors around the enormous anchor chains. Woods walked toward the bow. He could see the milky gray water out of the small porthole. Waves strove to become whitecaps but fell just short. Slowly Woods realized a voice had been calling his name for some time, but he didn’t want to hear more tripe about how sorry someone was…
“Lieutenant Woods?”
Woods glanced over his shoulder and saw Father Maloney. Great, he thought. Just what I need. He said nothing.
“Lieutenant Woods, may I have a word with you?” Maloney asked.