“I don’t have any research. I have a bunch of history which may be interesting one day or may just make me look stupid.”
“Talk to me, Sami. Bounce it off me.”
Sami didn’t want to talk about it yet. It was too easy to say too much. But he needed someone else’s input. “The oldest secret society in the world. But they disappeared a long time ago.”
Cunningham thought about it for a moment. “You’re thinking maybe not?”
“Maybe.”
“Because of one transmission?” Cunningham asked.
“That’s what started me thinking. Now I’m seeing other things I hadn’t noticed before.”
“You haven’t told anybody?”
“No reason to yet. I may be out of my mind.”
Cunningham sat on the corner of Sami’s desk. “Maybe it’s time.”
Sami wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to overstate it.
“Want me to set up a brief with the section head?”
“I think I’ll bring it up at our meeting this afternoon.” He glanced at the pictures again. “What did the Palestinians say about the weapons?”
“American-made M-60 machine guns, American TOW missile launcher.”
“Anybody trace them?”
“Actually, yes. Funny you should ask. The guns still had the serial numbers on them.”
Sami frowned. “Why would they do that? And they left them in the van? They didn’t care if anyone found them?”
“Nope. Like they wanted them to be found.”
“Could they trace them?”
“Yeah. Easy. United States Marine Corps. In Lebanon. After the barracks were blown up they were never found. There has always been a suspicion a bunch of weapons ended up with the Druze in Beirut.”
“Druze?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure Druze?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Haddad didn’t reply. He glanced at the NSA report. “The signals were from Lebanon, and the Druze… I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“Better bring it up at our meeting.”
Woods stood by the track in the Naples train station where he was supposed to meet Vialli, his reluctant co-tourist for the day. He had convinced his roommate to go with him to Pompeii. He glanced up again, scanning the crowd for Vialli, as he tried to open the triangular box of Toblerone chocolate he had just bought with Italian money, a piece of paper that had so many zeros on it it looked like monopoly money.
Woods checked the time. The big clock at the end of the track, past the engine, was five minutes behind his watch. Typical Italian efficiency. Can’t even keep their clocks right. He had been in the Naples train station dozens of times. This was his fourth cruise to the Mediterranean, two with his first F-14 squadron, and one other with this squadron, VF-103, the Jolly Rogers, the ones carrying on the decades-old tradition and name of the most famous fighter squadron in the Navy. Woods loved their whole image, the tails with skull and crossbones, the traditional pirate flag. He was proud to be a Jolly Roger. And with this squadron and the one before, he knew Med cruises meant going to Naples, one of the finest ports in the Med, and the home of the Sixth Fleet.
He had been through this train station leaving on a ten-day skiing vacation in Switzerland, and for trips to Rome, to Venice, and to Paris. He was comfortable traveling in Europe even though he didn’t speak any foreign languages. He had always taken advantage of the leave he accumulated to see Europe while in the Med. Few other officers did, so he often traveled alone.
Woods took his wallet from his jacket pocket, pulled out a small, two-inch square sticker, and peeled off the back. He looked around to see if he was being watched. He reached behind him and stuck the zapper — a sticker with the Jolly Rogers logo on it — on the light pole against which he was leaning. He smiled to himself.
Suddenly, he saw Vialli jogging toward him through the train station.
Vialli reached him breathless. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. I didn’t think I’d make it at all. The boat I was on flamed-out. We had to do a mid-ocean transfer to another boat. What a flail.” He glanced at the train. “Did you get the tickets?”
“Yeah. We’ve got to get on,” Woods said, stuffing the Toblerone box into his back pocket like a set of drumsticks and moving quickly to the train.
They climbed up the stairs of a passenger car and walked down the hallway next to the compartments. Woods finally found an empty one, slid the door open, and they stepped in. Vialli closed the door behind him.
They sat down next to the window across from each other. Each had two empty seats beside him. Vialli leaned his head against the top of the vinyl seat and closed his eyes. Woods stared out the window. Vialli could sleep anywhere. Nothing troubled him. He was unflappable. Woods was pulling the bent chocolate box out of his pocket when something caught his eye by the door. A face. Someone had looked into the compartment and then moved away. There it was again. Woods watched the door, and suddenly it opened quickly. A woman stepped in and closed the door behind her.
She glanced at Vialli, who appeared to be sleeping, and sat down in the corner, on Vialli’s side, placing her knit bag on the seat between them.
Woods, his mouth slightly open, tried not to stare — she was shockingly pretty — and nodded an acknowledgment. She smiled at him but didn’t speak. Woods kicked Vialli’s shoe, rousing him. Vialli sat up, baffled, looking at his squadron mate. Woods glanced casually at the woman, and Vialli followed the direction of his friend’s eyes.
“Hi,” Vialli said to her, no longer baffled and wasting no time. He brushed his hair back with his hand.
She looked past him out the window at the gray Naples morning. The train had picked up speed and was rocking softly sideways. She sat quietly with her hands on the armrests at her side. She wore a dark blue, loose-fitting flowery cotton dress, and had long, brown curly hair. Her dazzling light brown eyes had streaks of green and yellow in them. An even tan accentuated her outdoor, fit look. Vialli thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Are you Italian?” Vialli asked.
She glanced at him momentarily, then turned her eyes back to the window. The door suddenly flew open and the conductor came into their compartment. The train rocked, and the conductor leaned against the door to steady himself and free both hands. Addressing the woman in Italian, he stuck out his hand for her ticket. She smiled, handing the conductor her ticket with her left hand and speaking to him so rapidly that Vialli couldn’t recognize any of the ten Italian words he knew.
She had a lovely smile, and her eyes sparkled as she joked with the conductor. He took the rest of the tickets and left the compartment.
Vialli shifted his gaze from the door to the woman, feeling his stomach tighten as he watched her. Woods studied Vialli and could tell his friend was about to do something rash. He tried to get his attention to discourage him. No luck.
“Do you speak English?” Vialli asked her.
Again, she didn’t respond, not even to acknowledge that he had spoken. “Sprechen-sie Deutsch?” he asked.
Woods wondered what Vialli planned to do if she answered him, since Vialli didn’t speak German. He leaned forward and gave Vialli a raised-eyebrow look.
Vialli gave him a look back, a “What?” look.
The woman transferred her gaze from the tranquil Mediterranean to her fellow traveler. “Nein,” she replied coolly, finally.
“I don’t speak Italian,” he said, happy to have gotten some response.
She gave him a cool smile and crossed her legs. She reached into her bag, pulled out a paperback book, and began to read. Vialli sighed audibly and looked out the window at the scenery he had seen so many times from the other side, on the sea. Suddenly he turned his head back toward her and looked again at the book she was reading. Hemingway. In English.