by Joseph Nagle
One man stepped forward and gave the signal for each pilot to fire up the two Pratt & Whitney F100-229 Turbofan engines of each F-15.
Two Air Force ground guides had been waiting for the planes and issued the hand signals that instructed the pilots to move the jets onto the 11,000 foot long runway.
Oh, shit! Here we go, thought Michael.
As soon as the planes were straightened out on and pointed down the Porous European Mix (PEM) asphalt runway the afterburners roared to life and catapulted them almost instantly into the sky.
The gravitational forces of the two-hundred-fifty-four meters per second climb were fierce, but nowhere near what Michael had felt on the Shadow. In his earpiece he could hear Jimmy shouting out a gleeful, “Woo-hoo!”
That man will never change, Michael thought.
Soon, both fighters had leveled out at its service ceiling near sixty-thousand feet. Equipped with conformal fuel tanks and three external tanks each, the F-15E Eagles would be able to fly the men nearly three-thousand miles before needing fuel. Jimmy had made the arrangements; the training flight would add to the pilots’ necessary flight hours in order stay on active status with the fighter, but also included the need to make the pilots current with their respective ratings on mid-air refueling. Today that would be done by a KC-135 Stratotanker.
The planes were bearing mostly east on their 5566 mile trek to Italy. The jets were leveled out and screaming on a path toward the holy city at 1650 miles per hour, just above mach 2.5; almost two hours had passed when Michael could feel the jet slowing down.
He heard a crackle in his earpiece and the voice of the pilot sitting in front of him, “One-Four-Niner this is Alpha Five Charlie and Delta; we have you in sights, settling at two-five-zero knots. Lowering to four-five-thousand feet.”
The boom operator stationed at the rear of the flying KC-135 Stratotanker turned his attention to the console in front of him and went to work as the two F-15’s settled in behind and just under the massive plane.
The Stratotanker is powered by four CFM-56 turbofans that sit underneath the thirty-five degree swept one-hundred-thirty-five foot wingspan. The boom operator felt the powerful engines slowing to match the speed of the fighters, and at the precise moment - when their speeds matched - the operator entered a series of commands on the console and then manually extended the flying boom out of which trailed a shuttle cock shaped drogue. Mating it expertly, first with the lead jet, and then with the trailing, the operator refueled both planes.
During the entire time, Michael kept his eyes shut tightly imagining anything but the delicate aerial coitus happening overhead.
Chapter Forty-Seven
85 Viale de Moschea
The Mosque of Rome
The signs that signaled an impending storm had been obvious to the Imam. Rome’s tormenting climate had long ago stopped being a mystery to the holy man; the many years that he has spent in its confines had taught him much about the city – too much.
The ominous hallmarks of another bleak day were there and could be easily read. He peered through the small oval window as the wind blew cold outside. The trees of the wooded hillside bent and swayed under the swirling power of the wind’s gusts, not able to choose otherwise. He could smell the coldness of the coming day as it sharply penetrated his nostrils. His aging bones ached from the change in pressure.
Silently, the Imam cursed Rome as he massaged his arthritic hands. He watched out of the window as the growing light – added by the slow rise of the sun – outlined the bulbous and rumbling clouds that hung shallow in the sky overhead. The clouds were thick and impenetrable and refused to allow in enough of the rising sun to warm the chilly morning air. He knew it would be like this the entire day.
Fitting, thought the Imam, as if their God somehow knew.
He did not take the privilege of sleeping through the night, there would be plenty of time for rest soon enough. From the moment the assassin had laid his head on his pillow, the Imam had stood firmly in the very spot where he now stands. His path had been revealed the moment he had found the assassin hunched over the ablution fountain.
The Imam’s mission would be to make sure that no one had followed the assassin, that no danger was present. The assassin was a gift from God; the assassin was his reward for having been made to suffer for so many years in Rome. The Imam could see God’s rational quite clearly; to the Imam, this much could not be any clearer. Only he knew Rome so well, only he could provide the assassin a safe place, and only he could be trusted by the assassin. He felt honored to have been chosen as the assassin’s protector, but deeply ashamed that his many years of frustration had caused him to question the divine intelligence of Allah.
Privately, the Imam had questioned the reasons to build such a large mosque in Christianity’s version of Mecca. Many times he had nearly left Rome’s forsaken land; a small bag with his most personal possessions was still packed at the foot of his bed. But something always seemed to pull him back, not allowing him to leave. He was very aware that his faith had grown weak and this sickened him. It was time to atone; this was to be his chance for forgiveness. He would not fail the assassin, he would not fail Allah.
Incessantly, he bore his gaze out of the window and onto the sloping grounds of the mosque, and, faithfully, he watched for any sign of danger. All night he had protected the assassin; now, the first glimpse of morning had arrived. A smile cracked the corner of one side of his mouth.
It was time.
A quiet knock on the door aroused the assassin from his deep slumber. A crease of light penetrated the frame of the door as the Imam opened it and walked into the room.
“The morning has blessed us by coming once more.”
Slowly the large Persian rose setting his feet onto the cold marble floor. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, opening his eyes fully, he looked at the Imam. The small man was wearing his best robes of the finest Egyptian white silk that was interwoven with golden fibers.
The Imam cast a knowing look upon him.
The assassin stood; the low light glistened off of his massive and powerful chest. The Imam quietly marveled at the sculpted and statuesque physique of the assassin as the muscled Persian put on his shirt. He motioned to the assassin to come outside of his sleeping quarters while thinking to himself that Allah had chosen a worthy man.
“First, we will pray and then we shall enjoy one last meal together,” instructed the Imam.
The assassin nodded and followed the Imam.
The H-shaped prayer hall was empty; side by side, the two men stood and faced in the direction of the qibla. With the purest khushoo, the devotion of the Imam and the assassin to Islam vibrated as they recited the two raka’ah required to complete the Fajr Salat: the prayer conducted only between dawn and sunrise. Each unit of prayer started in the qiyaam: the men standing. In unison, they prayed honoring one of the main pillars of Islam. In the sujud, the holy man and the assassin recited while their foreheads, noses, hands, knees, and toes simultaneously pressed against the ground.
When they were finished with their Salat, they ate. Neither said a word until the last bite was consumed.
When finished, the Imam delicately set down his fork and looked with admiration at the assassin.
“Go, gather the rest of your things,” said the holy man.
The assassin rose and did as he was told without question. In the Imam’s sleeping quarters, he put on his light jacket and then reached into its pockets. He felt the policeman’s gun and radio sitting in the pocket on the left side. Reaching into the right inside pocket, he pulled out the manila envelope and opened it. He knew that the pen would still be there but wanted to see it; when he saw it, he looked to the heavens. Standing, he walked out of the sleeping quarters and found the Imam waiting for him.
The holy man pulled the assassin closer to him and then kissed each of his cheeks. He looked at the assassin with genuine love, and said, “I will remember you well as will all of our brothers a
nd sisters, now go Hashshashin and do not look back as you walk your path.”
“I am Mahmoud Farhad Rahim; it would please me if you were to remember me by my given name.”
Reaching up to the killer’s face with both of his hands, the Imam caressed his cheeks; in a soft voice, he said, “With a great pride I will remember it well, Mahmoud.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Autostrada Azzurra
Rome, Italy
The engine of the alpine white Porsche GT2 emitted a deep growl that seemed to start just beneath the passenger seat – where Michael sat rigid – and then vibrated throughout the depths of his body. Jimmy was behind the wheel of the fast moving car and throttled the exquisite piece of meticulous German craftsmanship expertly through the winding roads of the Italian countryside highway. The landscape flew by as the sun peeked above the horizon losing its colors in a blend of pastel brush strokes; the blurred and colorful images framed by the car’s passenger window could have been mistaken for a Monet.
As it screamed toward Rome at well over two hundred kilometers per hour, the Porsche felt like it was gliding on ice with only a barely perceptible feel of the rubber on the road. Michael tightly gripped the interior door handle as Jimmy smiled like a twelve-year old boy on a roller coaster. Looking down at the car’s shifter, Michael saw that another gear was available, and really hoped that Jimmy wouldn’t need it.
“This son of a bitch is something ain’t it? God damn I love German cars! If I could sleep with it I would marry it!”
Michael said nothing and Jimmy depressed the chrome accelerator further to the floor as they hit a straight section of road.
“Goes zero to sixty in 3.6 seconds on the stock 530 horsepower engine; I’ve got this one fitted with some extra juice; about 150 extra horses worth. This little darling can hit sixty in under three ticks of a minute. Man, I love my job!”
Jimmy downshifted, to Michael’s relief, from 5th to 3rd gear as they approached a sharp curve. The engine’s revolutions instantly jumped from three thousand to five thousand rpm’s and let out a happy, high-pitched scream as the down-shifted engine forced the car to slow preparing it to take on the bend ahead.
Michael raised his voice a few decibels above the level of those that came from the motor, he had to nearly shout to be heard, “How long until we get to the safe house?”
Michael was ready to stop the endless need to be in unnecessarily fast moving vehicles and get on his own two feet; he was growing tired of the world speeding by him.
“Not long, we should be to Rome in fifteen minutes,” Jimmy screamed back.
Nine minutes later Jimmy penetrated the narrow stone streets of the holy city; the twenty-inch wheels melted effortlessly onto the road as the active suspension gobbled up the imperfections of the centuries old basalt sampietrini cobblestones. It was nearly blasphemous that the little stones would all soon be gone, replaced by cheaper and easier to maintain asphalt.
As if the Porsche were clamped firmly onto hidden rails, the car seemed almost bored by the attacking centrifugal forces as the two men whipped easily around the playful Fontana delle Rane – the Fountain of the Frogs – in the center of Piazza Mincio, and at a speed well beyond what was required.
Without first slowing down, like a normal person would, Jimmy slammed on the breaks. Jimmy wasn’t normal. Instantly the ceramic composite pads clamped onto the monobloc aluminum calipers and stopped the two-hundred-thousand dollar vehicle – not including its aftermarket extras – in moments.
Michael was thrown painfully forward into the four point harness strapped across his chest, and Jimmy shouted, “Now that’s what I call stopping on a dime!”
“Son of a bitch! What the hell did you do that for?” Michael painfully, and with difficulty, blurted out his question. The pressure from the straps had forced out most of the air remaining in his lungs.
With a wicked grin, Jimmy’s pithy response was to the point, “We’re here.”
The two men stepped out of the car; Michael was happy to be on terra firma and enjoyed a long, overdue stretch. Scanning the Piazza, he was confused by the eclectic nature of the hidden neighborhood. It didn’t seem patently Roman.
Jimmy had effortlessly parked the car underneath a massive overhead arch that connected the two buildings on either side of the street. Standing under the arch, Michael looked up, and was met with an obviously out of place and unusual iron chandelier that hung from the center of the arch and precariously over the street.
The Piazza was filled with fine automobiles: Mercedes, Porsches, BMW’s, and a couple of Bentleys. It was no wonder Jimmy hadn’t worried about sticking out in the GT2, the car barely warranted the flip of an eyelash in this clearly upper class and, by all appearances, bourgeois neighborhood.
Michael couldn’t remove his eyes from the enormous and asymmetric arch under which the car was now relaxing; it contained a plethora of artwork: abundant fading frescoes; sculptures of figures over windows and under balconies; and abstractly jutting lions' heads. Michael walked under the arch and looked back and forth at the buildings to which it was connected.
Odd, he thought.
Odd indeed, there were bees everywhere. Not the annoying honey or bumble type, but carvings; carved into the stone of the facades that surrounded him were bees. Something about them seemed familiar, but Michael couldn’t place it.
Sensing his friend’s contemplation of the unusual Piazza, Jimmy announced, “Coppede.”
“Huh? What’s that, Jimmy?”
Jimmy repeated it, “Coppede. The architect of all that you see here was Gino Coppede.” Jimmy was tapping on a carved column at the base of the arch; there the architect’s name could be seen etched into the stone.
“One guy did all of this?”
“Yep, it was just one guy, except for a few minor things done years later: all of this was just one man’s design. Says a lot about the man doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it, Michael, you are standing in Rome, one of the holiest cities in all of Christianity. Over there you have Byzantine influences, and there medieval,” Jimmy had pointed to two very distinct structures and was now looking opposite of them, “You see those ones on the other side of the Piazza?”
“Yeah?”
“That one has floreale influences of stuffed baskets of fruit, and that one over there,” he was motioning to a massive five story building that stuck out like a really big fat sore thumb in the Piazza, “that is the Palazzo of the Spider. This guy did things outside of normal Roman convention, things that directly opposed the Church’s influence.”
“It must have been before Mussolini and the Lateran Accords otherwise the Church would have held him in check.”
“Not bad, Michael, and I thought you were just some meat-head that’s good with guns. Coppede did most of his work in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s; when the Pope still considered himself a prisoner in the Vatican.”
The building that Jimmy had motioned to was quite busy to the eyes: twisted columns, checkered tiling, brickwork on the higher floors, and travertine blocks at the base. The building was a testament to confusion, and didn’t really tell the beholder where to begin or to end their stare. The ornamentation on the building that caught Michael’s eye the most was the unusual gold mosaic spider web above the building’s entrance; it was the building’s namesake.
“Amazing isn’t it?” Jimmy was walking toward the Pallazo.
Michael raced to catch up, “Is that where we are going?”
“You got it, my home away from home.”
“Jimmy, how do you know so much about this place?”
“Michael, you ain’t the only Special Ops guy with brains, besides I spend a lot of time here.”
The two men walked into the foyer of the Palazzo of the Spider, and Jimmy walked across its majestic large-tiled floor toward a heavy gold encrusted door – not gilded, but what looked like actual gold. Michael reached it first and tou
ched it half expecting it to be faux; it wasn’t.
Michael whistled admiringly and then said, “Some place you got here, this door would probably pay off my house back home.”
“I don’t know about that, but it certainly would pay off a few gambling debts, Michael.”
Jimmy faced the door, withdrew a key from his pocket – the key was gold too – and put it in the keyhole and turned it; the entryway hissed open.
A small elevator, barely large enough for the two of them, took the men to the fifth floor, to Jimmy’s safe house. Once inside and the lights turned on, a large apartment was illuminated and looked as if it were decorated in the Victorian era. The walls of the long and wide hallway ran the length of the safe house and were painted a somber gray. Michael could see that a handful of rooms were bifurcated by the apartment’s hallway.
The two men traversed the corridor passing different rooms of the apartment and were nearing the end of it. The last room they walked by had a large arched and ornate entry, on the other side of which was clearly the parlor. Michael gazed in and could see that the parlor’s walls were marbleized and every inch of the room seemed to be filled with some ornament, statue, or wall hanging. Although not an expert in artwork, Michael did have enough knowledge to be admirably dangerous during cocktail party conversations. Some of the pieces they walked by bore the familiar strokes and styling of Picasso, Raphael, and Renoir.
As they passed the numerous works, Michael suddenly froze in his tracks, what the hell?
Michael was staring at a blood-red and simple sketch that hung on the wall. Almost blending in with the others, he had nearly walked past it without giving it a second thought before realizing what it was.
“Jimmy, is that what I think it is?”
Jimmy looked at the sketch for a moment and then, as if remembering, said, “It is nothing Michael, just some cheap artwork. I picked it up off the street from one of those vendors that sell stuff to tourists. I have no idea what it is, do you?”