by Joseph Nagle
He didn’t know his way around Rome, nor to the mosque. He only knew the direction in which it lay; east of the Tibor and of the Park. He was close, he knew it; he could feel Allah course through the pathways of his veins. He scanned his surroundings through the slight slit between his eyelids. The pain that throbbed rhythmically through his head, and with each beat of his heart, forced his eyes to be half-shut. Looking intensely at the landscape ahead of him he saw it; there, in the middle of a wooded setting, the sole minaret of the Grand Mosque of Rome broke the tree lined horizon with a quiet ebullience.
He sighed heavily and thanked Allah; relieved, the assassin stole through the wooded seven-and-a-half acre gift from Rome to the mosque, and made his way there.
Viale de Moschea, the road off of which the mosque sits, was the antithesis of Rome’s ancient and seemingly endless beauty: non-descript, boring, and with no real history, but the assassin didn’t care. Staring upon the mosque he felt a quiet vestige of relief drape over him as if Allah himself was offering comfort.
From the one-hundred-twenty-nine foot minaret, a beacon of new sanity drifted down upon the assassin; he imagined that it was calling to him, beckoning him home. The signature of his homeland’s skyline, the tall spire of light flanked the twenty-meter diameter large central dome, which was surrounded by sixteen smaller lead covered domes that had protruding and articulating, intersecting arches.
The assassin sighed.
Lost upon the assassin, was the purported message of religious collaboration achieved by its designers: Paolo Portoghesi, its Italian architect, and Sami Mousawi, an architect from Iraq. The two men sought to blend the histories of Rome and Islam, and emphasized symmetry and centralization; a quiet message to the populace many thought. The assassin only saw Islam and not the clearly Roman influenced tiles above the vast prayer hall.
As he entered it, he basked in the magnificence of the fifty-million dollar structure whose construction had spanned twenty years and had been sponsored mostly by Saudi Arabia. He was taken in by the Islamic curved pillars and the Arabic arches. They belonged only here, he thought, and not on some infidel theatre surrounded by camera carrying apostates.
Staring upon the edifice, it was inexplicably easier to breathe; he closed his eyes and felt his heart rate begin to slow. The pain in the back of his head began to abate. He was home; quietly he entered the vast prayer hall and basked in the comfort he felt.
The prayer hall was above ground and underneath it he easily found the ablution fountain. There, he immediately and ritualistically began to wash himself. He washed the blood that had dried to his hands and forearms and then moved to his head and face. The water of the fountain tinted to a slight rust color and shamed the assassin for his small but necessary blasphemy.
Behind him he heard the quiet steps of another man; spinning around in defense, he abruptly shivered and retracted to the edge of the fountain when he saw the man. No matter the diminutive size of the white robed Imam before him, the assassin fell back in reverence.
“As-Salamu Alaykum, my brother.”
“Aleykum as-Salaam, Imam,” the Assassin said, and felt waves of new shame overcome him as the holy man came to him and kissed his cheeks.
Peering into the ablution fountain at the newly darkened waters, the Imam tugged at his elbow and led the assassin away from the fountain. While walking, the Imam said, “You have come a long way on your path. Allah has guided you well thus far. Your wound needs attention.”
The assassin did not fight the Imam, instantly regressing to the demeanor of an obedient child.
“I will tend to the injury on your head; it will need to be sewn shut. I have no pain medicine, it will hurt.”
“It is His will,” replied the assassin, “my pain is of little importance.”
“Indeed,” the Imam quietly said. “I have been here for many years unsure of the reason that I must spend the remainder of my life in this wretched land. I have asked God many times to show me my path; His answer has always been one of silence. This had confused me.”
The assassin walked with the Imam not speaking just listening.
“Today, God has answered my years of questions; my confusion is no more: you are here. I know who you are, what you have done. You are the Hashshashin, the man to bring to this world the rightful.”
The assassin froze causing the Imam to stop and turn around to face the killer.
“Worry not, my brother,” The small man stepped close to the assassin showing no signs of fear for the killer. He looked up at the large man and grasped him by both arms. “You are the answer to my many years of faithful prayers. I now know why I was sent here to live among these disgusting infidels. I was sent here to wait for you. Allah has shown you your path and it has led to me. Finally, my own path has been revealed, I knew it from the moment I heard of the first apostate’s death. I am to help you, to be your guide as you walk your final path.”
He listened intently to the words of the old Imam. The man’s words caressed him; for the first time in his life, the assassin cried. He could not fight it. He would not. The tears flowed like the raging dark waters of the river just to the west of the Grand Mosque. He was not embarrassed by his display, thinking not of it as a sign of weakness but a flow of a pride that cannot be explained. He cried for the enormity of his task. He cried for his dead brothers. He cried for Allah.
The Imam understood.
“Come, let’s tend to that wound. I have food, you must eat to regain your strength; it is of great importance. Your final task will be a difficult one.”
The two men walked to the Imam’s private quarters. He shaved the assassin’s head bald and then cleaned his scalp with a warm towel and soap. After he gently dried the man’s head and cleaned it of any remnants of errant hair, the Imam reached for his small sewing kit, threaded its needle and slowly stitched the long gash in the back of the assassin’s head. Without so much as a whimper or slight grimace, the assassin sat through the ordeal focused only on his mission.
“There, it is done. I counted forty-seven stitches, a small price to pay,” the Imam stood. “Stay here, I will bring something for you to eat.
The Imam was gone for a short time and then returned with a large tray of food and pot of coffee. The assassin nearly inhaled, through his famished lips, the lamb shawarma and Arabic roti washing it down with the dark coffee.
Smiling, but eating nothing, the Imam remarked, “Good, very good. Find your strength, tomorrow you will need every ounce of it. Go through that door,” the Imam pointed toward and arched doorway behind him. “Those are my private quarters. Go and sleep, I will wake you at first light.”
Obediently, the assassin rose and walked through the door and fell upon the bed. Satiated in more ways then just one, almost instantly he was deeply asleep.
PART III
Chapter Forty-Six
The Next Flight
Denver, CO
From Michael’s inside pocket, the cell phone – programmed for a European cellular network – spewed the horrible manufacturer’s preset ringtone and startled him. The electronic techno beat reminded Michael of the college raves that he and Sonia used to go to years ago when they both had been studying out east. He hated the music, but she loved to dance.
Quickly, he answered the phone, “Jimmy, is that you?”
“Yeah, Michael, it’s me. Go to Buckley Air Force Base, I have made the necessary arrangements. It wasn’t easy, but I’ve got two birds that are migrating east.”
Two birds? “I only need one, why the overkill?” As soon as Michael asked the question he knew the answer and said, “Jimmy you can’t be a part of this, you can’t go to Rome.”
“Bullshit, Michael, I’m going with you! There is no way I am missing this. Besides, you need me. I’ve got a safe house in Rome. It’s fully equipped with everything that we will need.”
“I can’t let you, man, what if something was to happen to you?”
“Jesus friggin' Christ,
Michael, you wanna wipe my ass, too! I am a grown ass man! Besides, I’ve got to die some day, and I can find no better reason than if it were to save the free world. And be that as it may, I don’t plan on leaving this planet any time soon. Look, Michael, you need me to be a part of this. Why don’t you just stop this John Wayne bullshit and accept that you can’t do this alone? Someone has to watch your backside, and I can’t think of any better person than me. Who else can you trust right now?”
“Fuck, Jimmy, I don’t know.”
Jimmy threw his hands out emphatically, and said, “Tell you what, I’ll cut you a deal. The birds are gratis; consider them a gift for a good day’s work.”
“It’s not about the money, Jimmy, but, oh, what the hell," responded Michael. A small smile turned up at the corner of his mouth, "Let’s go to Rome.” You son-of-a-bitch!
Michael had to concede, fighting with Jimmy was just like when every married guy tries – in vain – to win an argument with his wife: everything he says to his wife, no matter how rational, comes out as just bits of sound to her, and in the end she always gets what she wants.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about, it’ll be just like old times! See you at Buckley – tell the guard at the gate you are looking for Master Sergeant James; he’ll tell you where to go. Oh, before I forget, do you need any weapons?”
“No, I have what I need.”
“I figured as much, but thought I would ask. See you at Buckley.”
Jimmy hung up.
The drive to Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora, Colorado was uneventful and quick. At the front gate, Michael told the guard for whom he was looking. The young Air Force Airman looked at Michael without emotion, and instructed him to take a right at the end of the road. The Airmen told Michael that: “his party would be waiting for him at the hanger adjacent to runway 14/32.”
Given the events of the past twenty-four hours, Michael was not looking forward to getting on another plane but that was precisely what he would have to do.
Painted olive-drab, the double steel-door hanger had as much life in its military structure as road kill. Standing erect before him, the edifice seemed to offer testament to the mission ahead: burdensome, overbearing, and offering no comfort. As soon as Michael pulled his car to the front of the hanger, Jimmy appeared at the large doors and waved him inside. Michael drove his car into the hanger and parked it in an open corner.
Immediately, two men in civilian clothing materialized next to Michael’s car, and one of them opened the car door. They were Jimmy’s men. Michael stepped out of his car and the two men quickly covered it with a dark tarp and pointed him toward the back of the building; they did so without saying a word. Jimmy met him halfway.
Michael and Jimmy men approached one another, and when close enough, Jimmy jumped at Michael and embraced him in a gruff, tight bear hug, and said, “It’s been way too long, I have missed you, man.”
Jimmy sensed that his old-friend didn’t want to spend this time catching up, and went to the heart of the matter. Jimmy asked, “What’s our objective, Michael?”
Michael was still angry from what had just happened to him and his wife and didn’t answer Jimmy’s question, but, instead replied, “A rogue team just tried to kill me and Sonia, Jimmy. They were tethered to a silent Delta and smashed through my bedroom window last night.”
A silent Delta? Oh crap, thought Jimmy, was it possible?
Jimmy stopped in his tracks, so did Michael, and then spat out, “Holy shit, Michael, they were serious weren’t they? Do you know who it was, what did they want?”
“Not serious enough, Jimmy. Two of them are dead. I think they wanted this,” Michael pulled out the ancient book and showed it to Jimmy. His friend eyed the book curiously.
“Jimmy, this was given to me by an asset in Damascus.”
Instantly Jimmy knew under what pretenses Michael received the book, “Your asset was part of the negotiations, the one that was attacked by Hezbollah.”
“Yeah, my asset knew of the assassination of the Ayatollah before it happened, I think he was trying to warn me of it. The assassination was written on a kill list in this book, and before it had occurred. My asset gave it to me just before he died in the attack on the mosque. Our objective in Rome is to find the man that assassinated the Ayatollah; I believe that he is in Rome to kill the Pope next.”
“No kidding? The Pope? Is his name on the kill list, too?” asked Jimmy.
“Yes, it is.”
“Jesus, Michael. There’s no telling what kind of shit-storm that would cause.”
“I will tell you exactly what kind: one country will blame the other, hostilities will increase, and it will lead to the next world war. The people that attacked me wanted this book back. I think that is precisely what they are planning: to start a war.”
Jimmy stared at Michael wearing a look of disbelief.
“Jimmy, there’s more. To answer the other part of your question, the team that tried to kill me, it was Trevor and Chris.”
A numbing buzz started in Jimmy’s cortex and then wildly ran the length of his body, “Trevor and Chris? Oh my God, Michael, this is bad, this is really, really bad.”
“I know; I am having a hard time believing it myself.”
“No, no. That’s not what I meant. Michael, Trevor and Chris came to me; they needed help to quietly acquire some items.”
“Items, what items?” Michael’s temper was starting to boil as he realized what Jimmy was saying. He stepped closer to his friend, and with more authority than before, said, “I won’t ask again, what did you get for them Jimmy?”
Jimmy cowered slightly, and meekly responded, “I am the one that got them that helicopter; it was supposed to be a quiet mission; they said it was only for observation purposes.”
Michael clinched every one of his muscles in anger, snatched Jimmy by the throat, and growled as he slammed him against the wall, and screamed, “Did you know who the target was?”
Jimmy’s men both reached into their jackets, no doubt grasping their weapons. Before the men could pull out their weapons, Michael already had one of his Kel-tec P32 pistols aimed at one of the men and shielded himself from the other with Jimmy’s body.
Jimmy was frantically waving them off.
“No, Michael, no! Hell no! You know how I work, I supply only to US Special Ops – to the good guys – and to no one else, and no questions. Everything is completely untraceable and off Company books. I don’t supply both sides. I thought that it was for a legitimate mission, those two were supposed to be legitimate. Had I known, holy shit, Michael, if I knew that they had gone rogue I wouldn’t have answered the call. Fuck, Michael, I wish you had left one of them alive for me!”
Michael released his grip, “One of them did make it out alive: their Handler, he got away. Do you know who he is?”
“No, everything was conducted by Trevor through secure, standard Company channels, no faces. There were no red flags.”
“Can you find him?”
“I have my ways, Michael. When we finish this thing in Rome let me put my ear to the ground and see what I can find out.”
“Jimmy, there is not much that would make me happier in the wake of this mess. First, let’s focus on saving the Pope’s ass. But, when we get back, I want that man’s name.”
“Consider it done; I’ll see to it myself, Michael.”
Michael released Jimmy, and the two former special operations teammates walked toward a pair of jet fighters that sat looming at rest at the far end of the hanger; the McDonnell Douglas (now Boeing) F-15E Strike Eagles stood ominous and powerful on their landing gear. The pilots of the two Strike Eagles stood next to their planes; each was already appropriately dressed for the overseas flight.
One of Jimmy’s men said, “Sir, here’s your gear.”
Jimmy grabbed the flight suit and helmet from one of his men and the other gave a set to Michael; the two men quickly donned the suits.
I wish I could earn freq
uent flier miles for all these damn flights. Michael’s thought was an attempt to disguise his uneasiness with flying, Jimmy knew him better.
“Still hate being airborne don’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
Laughing, Jimmy responded, “It’s written all over your face; you know these things don’t come with barf bags. If you upchuck, you’re just gonna have to swallow, but you should be used to that by now.” Jimmy laughed at Michael.
Michael zipped up the front of his flight suit and was about to put on his helmet, but before he did he said, “That’s right, go ahead and laugh you big goon. Let’s see who’s laughing in Rome when you are begging for my help.”
Later, Michael would hate that he uttered these words of sarcasm.
With his helmet secured on his head and the helmet’s darkened visor up, Michael asked Jimmy, “By the way, how did you get your hands on two F-15’s with such short notice?”
“I called in a favor, a really big favor. These boys,” Jimmy pointed to the two pilots, “were on a training flight to the Mediterranean, I just cashed in some chips. They will deviate to an airstrip outside of Rome to drop us off. I have a car waiting for us there.”
“You must have had a lot of chips.”
“Don’t even ask, you’d be begging to pay me if you only knew.” Jimmy gave Michael a slap on the back and spat out a quick, “Godspeed, Michael, see you in Rome.”
The two men climbed into the 4th generation jet fighters followed by the two pilots.
Sitting nearly eighteen feet above the ground, Jimmy and Michael sat in the seat rear of the pilot. Each man secured his own harness and each pilot ran through his cursory pre-flight check. A loud thud startled Michael as each plane was hooked to one of two medium sized towing vehicles. With a jerk, the two fighters rolled forward and were pulled out from the hanger and onto a road leading to the runway. Jimmy’s men were at the wheel of a “follow me” vehicle and towed the fighters out of the hanger. At the proper moment, once the fighters were properly positioned on the tarmac, Jimmy’s men unhooked the fighters.