Fatima, though familiar with much Western culture, was not aware of the sect. ‘No.’
Ibrahim said, ‘Suffice to say moderate. Hence, to the armies and the security services of the West you are invisible. You can cross borders and get to targets and not be regarded as a threat.’
Targets, she thought in horror. Her hands quivered.
‘You will be assigned a target in Italy and you will carry out an attack.’
She gasped, and refused the tea Ibrahim offered. He sipped, clearly relishing the beverage.
‘Now we come to the second reason you have been selected. You have family in Tunisia and Libya. Three sisters, two brothers, all of whom, praise be to God, have been blessed with children. Your mother too is still upon this earth. We know where they live. You will fulfill your obligation to us, complete these attacks, or they will be killed — every family member of yours from six-month-old Mohammed to your mother, as she returns from the market on the arm of her friend Sonja, who will die too, I should say.’
‘No, no, no...’
Ignoring the emotion completely, Ibrahim whispered, ‘And now we come to the third reason you will help us in this mission. Upon completion of the assignment, you — and your husband and daughter — will be given new identities and a large sum of money. You will get British or Dutch passports and can move where you wish. What do you say?’
The only word she could.
‘Yes.’ Sobbing.
Ibrahim smiled and finished the tea. ‘You and your family will travel to Italy as refugees. A smuggler I work with will give you details tonight. Once you arrive, you will be taken to a refugee camp for processing. A man named Gianni will contact you.’
He’d risen and left, with not another word.
They’d no sooner landed in the Capodichino Reception Center than Gianni in fact called her. He explained in a guttural voice, clear and still as ice, that there would be no excuses. If she fell ill and could not detonate the bomb, her family would die. If she were arrested for stealing a loaf of bread and could not detonate the bomb, her family would die. If the bomb did not go off because of mechanical failure, her family would die. If she froze at the last moment... well, she understood.
And what should happen but, of all horrific coincidences, her husband had been snatched by that psychotic American! That in itself had been terrible — she loved him dearly — but the incident had also brought the police. Would they find the explosives and phone and detonator that Gianni had left for her? Would they relocate her and her daughter while they searched for Khaled?
Yet he had been saved.
That was, of course, wonderful. Yet it tore Fatima’s heart in two. Because everyone, from Rania to the American police to the Italian officers, had worked so very hard — some even risking their lives — to save Khaled, a man they didn’t know, a man who had come to this country uninvited.
Certainly there were those who resented immigrants but, apart from some protestors outside the camp, Fatima had yet to meet them. Why, look at the woman a moment ago.
Your daughter, she has the hair of an angel!
Most Italians were heartbreakingly sympathetic to the asylum-seeker’s plight.
Which made what she was about to do, two hours from now, all the more shameful.
But do it she would.
If you fail in any way, your family will die...
But she wouldn’t fail. She saw the target ahead of her. Less than two hours remained until the attack.
Fatima found a cluster of unoccupied benches not far from the water. She sat in one that faced the bay. So that no one could see her tears.
Chapter 63
The lead to the Royal Palace had been a bust. Rhyme was sure Gianni had made the call to the Tripoli coffeehouse solely to see how much the police knew and if they were tracking phones. He’d learned that they were and so he’d gone off the grid.
Without any chance of finding him via phones, and no physical leads to Fatima, the team turned to the question of what might the intended target of the bombing be. Speculation, sure, but it was all they had.
Because the refugee camp was near Naples airport, Rhyme and Spiro thought immediately that Fatima was going after an airplane or the terminal.
The prosecutor said, ‘She can’t get a bomb on board an aircraft. But she might cut a hole in the fence, run to a full aircraft about to take off and detonate the device on the runway.’
McKenzie said, ‘These aren’t suicide attackers. They’re remote detonation devices, using cell phones. I don’t see airports. Train station maybe. Less security.’
Rossi called security at Trenitalia. After disconnecting he said, ‘They’re sending officers into the stations. We have our history of domestic terrorism too, like you in America. In nineteen eighty a terrorist group left a bomb in the central train station in Bologna — nearly twenty-five kilos. It was placed in the waiting room and because the day was hot — it was August — many people were inside the air-conditioned room. Very few buildings were air-conditioned in Italy then. Over eighty people were killed and more than two hundred wounded.’
Spiro said, ‘And shopping malls, city centers, amusement areas, museums...’
Rhyme’s eyes were on the map of Naples.
A thousand possible targets.
Charlotte McKenzie’s phone hummed. She glanced at the screen and took the call.
‘What?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Good, good... ’Crypt it and get it to me ASAP. Thanks.’
She responded to the querying glances from the men in the room. ‘We’ve caught a break. That was Fort Meade again. When I sent them Fatima’s phone, the number was automatically checked against the NOI list. That’s Number of Interest. The supercomputers snagged a conversation on that phone a few days ago. The bot heard the word “target” in a conversation between Libya and Naples, where there’ve been recent terrorist alerts. The algorithm recorded the conversation. As soon as I sent the request with her number, the bot flagged the recording and it went to First Priority status. They’re sending it now, the recording.’ She tapped a few keys, read a screen. She hit a button and placed her phone on a table near them all.
From the speaker: the sound of ringing.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice, speaking English with an Arabic accent. Fatima.
The gruff Italian male voice — it would be Gianni — said, ‘It is me. You are in Capodichino?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You’ll be getting the package soon. Everything will be inside. Ready to go. A new phone too. Don’t take this one with you. Throw it away.’
‘I will doing that.’ Fatima’s voice was shaky.
‘Your husband, when he was kidnapped? He told no one anything that would make them suspicious?’
‘What could he say? He knows nothing.’
‘I...’ He paused. There was a great deal of ambient noise — which seemed to be coming from Gianni’s end of the line. He continued, ‘I’m in Naples now. I can see the target. It’s good. At the moment, there are not so many people.’
More noise. Motor scooter engines, shouts. Voices calling.
Gianni said something else, but the words were drowned out. Birds screeching and more shouts.
‘... not so busy now, I was saying. But on Monday, there will be many people. A good crowd and reporters. You must do it at fourteen hundred hours. Not before.’