“There is nothing more to it,” Jibril said. “You need only the coordinates and a precise time. With that, the rest is fully programmed. Simplicity itself. But know that once the final command is sent, we will have no control. Everything is autonomous at that point.”
Khoury nodded, satisfied.
“Still … there is one thing I don’t understand,” Jibril said hesitantly.
Khoury remained silent, inviting him to continue.
“If our target is in Israel, why is the initial point so far to the south?”
Khoury stood and backed away from the workstation. He clasped his hands behind his back and began a tight pattern of pacing. “It is time for you to know our target, Fadi. Indeed, it is only thanks to your work that we have this opportunity.” He looked intently at the engineer. “We have a chance to strike a blow as never before.”
Jibril looked fittingly humble.
Khoury lowered his voice. “We are going right to the top, Fadi. Our target is the Prime Minister of Israel.”
Jibril nodded slowly, as if this only confirmed what he had long suspected.
“If it is the will of Allah,” the imam added.
Minutes later Jibril was alone, working on the guidance console in the DC-3. As he typed on the keyboard, he wished he had a connection to the Internet. This morning he had seen a newspaper, a local rant that was nothing more than a twenty-page editorial affair put together and issued by the government. There were, however, occasional reprints of articles from other papers in the region, straight blurbs of factual material that were permitted either by virtue of being innocuous, or because they supported the local view of world events. Jibril had read an article relating to the upcoming Arab summit in Egypt. At the end of the article was a single paragraph mentioning Israel. The government there was seeking to keep a low profile, apparently not wishing to overshadow their Arab neighbors’ attempt at peace. To that end, the Israeli prime minister was scheduled to leave tomorrow for talks in Washington, D.C., and later continue on a goodwill mission to the Far East.
He would, according to the report, be abroad for the next ten days.
Davis covered the twenty miles to the Al Qudayr Aid Station in fifteen minutes. The broiling sun was falling low, almost resting on the western horizon. When he arrived at the barren turnoff, the engine of the truck-slash-breakroom sounded like it had thrown a rod. He skidded to a stop outside the little city of tents, white smoke spewing from under the hood. Davis threw open the door, left it that way, and ran to the tents. He spotted a gathering in one corner, a half dozen people in mismatched scrubs circled around a cot. Davis slowed as he closed in.
He recognized Antonelli, standing in the group with her back to him. He also recognized the patient on the cot. It was the kid who had been with Antonelli the first time he’d seen her. He was beaten to hell, the right side of his face a meaty mess, his hair matted with blood. There was a wicked slash near one temple with fresh stitches. His right arm was in a sling and his eyes were closed, but he seemed to be breathing well enough as a nurse held a wet cloth to his forehead.
When Davis approached, everyone turned to look. Antonelli was the last, and when she turned he got a look at her face. There was a big welt on one cheek and blood under her nose. Her hair was bunched in a tangle on one side, like somebody had taken a handful to get a better grip.
Antonelli didn’t need to say anything.
Davis looked at the young man on the bed. “Will he be okay?” he asked.
She cocked her head. “By the grace of God, yes. I think so.”
He looked her in the eyes and saw a resolute sadness, deep and permeating. But there was also determination, the same tenacity that had been there yesterday. The same tenacity that would be there tomorrow and the next day and fifty years from now.
Davis knew all too well what was brewing inside him, sensations derived from a distinct physiological response. Adrenaline, increased pulse rate, liberation of nutrients — all the things that kicked in as the body prepared itself for battle. When flight was no longer an option. It was a surge Davis usually controlled. When somebody gave him a cheap shot on the rugby pitch or cut him off on the freeway. Those things he could manage. But right now the impulse was something Davis didn’t want to suppress. He wanted only one thing. One shred of information.
He looked straight at the doctor, and asked. “Was it the same guys?”
She gave him a tentative look, knowing the answer but not sure whether to give it. She looked at the medical professionals around the bed, one by one, as if taking some kind of secret ballot. Finally, Antonelli nodded.
“Yes, the very same.”
“You said they had a warehouse?”
She nodded. “A mile north of the airport on the main road.”
That was all he needed. Davis turned on a heel and headed for his smoking truck.
By the time he hit the main road, the engine was running rough. But it was running. Davis turned off the Mack truck air conditioner to ease the load on the V-8, made five miles, then ten. The airport slid by his right window. Davis kept going, the truck’s headlights drilling into a new black night. One kilometer north, just as Antonelli had said, he found what he was looking for. Davis pulled over to the shoulder, left the engine running. Darkness had arrived in full, so he watched through a cloud of steam, the truck’s high beams playing the mist to create a surreal scene.
Jammer Davis was nobody’s savior, no keeper of right or honor. But certain things crossed his line. Things like hitting women and beating up kids. It might have been because Davis had a daughter of his own. Somewhere, Regina Antonelli had a father, and Davis understood how he’d feel right know if he knew what had happened. So there was no quandary. No internal strife or gnashing through moral dilemmas. Davis knew what had to be done. The only question was how, the cold execution of a tactical decision matrix like he’d done a hundred times in his military career.
Rage is not necessarily a bad thing. The blind variety can get you killed, but properly focused and trained with precision, it can be quite effective. Right now, Jammer Davis was focused. His breathing was slow and rhythmic, his muscles relaxed as he stared through the windshield and counted.
There were five.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Davis looked up and down the road to Khartoum. He could see for miles in either direction, and there wasn’t another set of headlights in sight. The road was probably never busy. A surge of traffic now and again, an hour before and thirty minutes after any of the ten or twelve daily flights was processed. But at this hour on a Friday evening, he was completely alone. As were the men he was watching.
Davis had parked next to a guard station, a shack with twin railroad-type crossing gates that were both pointed straight up. The gates looked like they hadn’t moved in years. The barriers were here, Davis supposed, so the military could govern access to the airport in the event of a crisis. But today the control point was unmanned because there was no crisis. Hadn’t been one yesterday. Doubtful there would be one tomorrow. Which led to the larger problem — a contingent of armed men with nothing to do. In a disciplined fighting force, not an issue. Here it was trouble.
Their modest compound was two hundred yards off the main road, central on a patch of desert where the scrub had been bulldozed away to leave a bare scar on the earth. The main structure was well lit, an office no bigger than a double-wide trailer. This was fronted by a heavy canvas awning that formed a makeshift patio, thirty feet of shade for lounging and recreating — where the soldiers were now. Next to this headquarters complex was a rectangular building with corrugated metal sides and a flat roof. A warehouse, apparently, because parked in front was a mid-size truck, the same vehicle he’d seen drive away from the airport two days ago with a load of Regina Antonelli’s supplies. Presently, the cargo bed was covered by a tarp, and underneath a load jutted up at points along the length like so many lumps in a python.