by K. J. Howe
“Sorry to crash your party.” Rif assessed the bullet holes peppering the steel walls.
“Thanks for the save.”
“I’m sure you had the situation well in hand.” The dirt and oil smears on her face looked like a nighttime camo paint job gone wrong. He smiled, fighting the urge to hold her and tell her everything would be okay.
“Not really. Prospero Salvatore just took off with the passengers, including the boys.” She looked simultaneously exhausted and fired up.
“What is he doing making a high-risk snatch in the middle of the Libyan Desert?”
“I doubt he’s entering the kidnap business. He must want someone or something on that plane.”
“I radioed Hakan to let him know the 737 is AWOL.”
“It’ll be challenging to track it with the transponder turned off,” she said.
“Yeah, but Hakan will find a way. Meanwhile, Johansson and Brown are mopping up the rest of the area, making sure we didn’t miss anyone.”
“The bastard gave me no choice but to get off the plane. Then he stole it from under my nose.” He could see that her professional pride was hurt, but there was something else, too. “I just keep thinking of Ayan and Jabari.”
Of course. “Hey, those two are full of piss and vinegar—I’m sure they’re going to be fine.” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. “And you did a great job, holding Salvatore off for as long as you did. What were his demands?”
“Madness.” She reached into her pocket and held out the crumpled envelope to Rif. “He wants us to hijack a truck full of Syrian refugees trying to reach Budapest. We need to grab the truck and contact him after we have it. Then he wants us to deliver it to him somewhere in Turkey. The truck for the plane.”
Rif was born in Turkey and had completed his yearlong compulsory military service for his country before heading to West Point. Based in London now, he hadn’t been home in more than a year. From the sound of it, that was about to change.
“If he wants the truck, why hijack the plane?” Rif asked.
“He wants one of the passengers, but wouldn’t say who. I think he’s improvising with the truck, a plan he devised when he realized I was aboard. Reduce the danger to his own organization.”
“Did anyone on the plane stand out to you?”
“Not really—I didn’t have much time to debrief the passengers. I’m assuming Hakan has the analysts digging into their backgrounds?”
“Absolutely. Anyone stand out?”
“Hard to say. The target is likely to have booked the trip well in advance. Prospero tiger kidnapped the pilot’s kids, so it took some planning. He also had a plant on the flight.”
“You get anything from the inside man?”
“He said something about them being ‘Gladio,’ whatever that means.”
“Huh, that’s odd. Operation Gladio was part of a multinational cluster of sleeper militias scattered across Europe, formed to provide armed resistance against a Soviet invasion after the Second World War. I thought they had all been disbanded.”
Thea laughed. “WikiRif strikes again.”
“Hardly—just my obsession with military history. Gladio means ‘sword’ in Italian. NATO, MI6, the CIA, and even the Vatican were said to be involved in creating it,” Rif added.
“Sounds to me like the conspiracy theorists have too much time on their hands.”
“No, no, there’s proof. The organization was exposed in a big court case in 1990 that ripped the lid off the story. The CIA and MI6 denied it all, of course.”
“I know the Cold War was a time of international paranoia, but a modern-day secret army?” she said.
“President Truman himself signed a top-secret order in 1950 that permitted an invasion of Italy if the country went red. The Western nations were that worried about the commies. Hell, in the end the Italian secret service, right-wing militia, the Mafia, and the CIA were all involved.”
She bit her lip. “Fear of the Red Menace made for some strange bedfellows, no doubt about it, but communism isn’t the threat it used to be. Let’s get the analysts working on what the hell Gladio could be up to today.”
Rif turned away to call Hakan while Thea considered everything that had happened since she’d boarded the 737 with the boys. What did a hijacked plane and a truck full of Syrian refugees have to do with a Cold War paramilitary organization, and why was Prospero Salvatore involved? The mafioso was all about the bottom line, as far as she could remember; he was smart, sure, but not an ideologue. What could possibly be worth all this effort? She shook her head, trying to make the pieces fall into place.
Finished with the call, Rif reached into his pocket, pulled out a protein bar, and handed it to her. “How are you feeling?” He knew about her diabetes but tried not to make a big deal of it in case Thea felt uncomfortable; she had hidden her condition from him for most of their lives. Of course, he wanted to make sure she took care of herself, kept her blood sugar stable. She had a habit of putting others before herself.
“Thanks. I’m starving.”
The roar of an incoming C-130 made further conversation impossible. The runway had been cleared so their ride could land. Next stop: Budapest.
Chapter 37
A rush of intense heat made Prospero wonder if this was what it would feel like arriving in hell. The intense g-forces created by the gyrating plane as it funneled down the runway had stretched his skin tightly across his face and made him dizzy, nauseated. Just when he felt he couldn’t take any more, the plane had finally shuddered to a full stop, metal groaning against metal.
Then silence. And the heat. Prospero shook his head, pulling himself together. His pulse was steady, like an underwater heartbeat in his ears. He scanned his body for injury. Other than the pain in his hip from the seat belt digging in, he seemed to be in one piece.
Euphoria filled him. He had once again looked death in the eye and said fuck you.
“Bravo, gentlemen.” He laughed. “Still, let’s avoid any more ‘hot landings’ in the future.”
Both pilots were already flicking switches and scanning the instrument panels. They paused to look at Prospero, but neither one said a word in response.
Prospero unbuckled his seat belt and stood, legs shaky from the nail-biting landing. “Why is it so hot in here? Is the plane on fire?”
Laverdeen checked the gauges again. “I don’t think so. But none of the environmental systems are working, so no air or recirculation. We have to get off the aircraft.”
Prospero nodded and left the cockpit, instructing the flight attendants to try opening the front door. He glanced into the cabin. Everyone had survived, but terrified faces greeted him. Perhaps this was a blessing—the dicey landing would keep the passengers obedient for a while. The sound of the door opening behind him made him smile.
Prospero’s flight crew had seen the landing and wheeled over a set of stairs from a nearby hangar when the plane came to a stop. Even with the position and angle of the downed jet, which had raised the door several feet higher than normal, the crew was more or less able to align the stairs with the opening. He eased himself down the steps gingerly, the first to exit. His hip hurt like a son of a bitch, but he was glad to be alive.
Che spavento! He’d never seen hail like that before, and that purple and green electricity had been something out of a B-movie. But they’d made it, grazie a Dio. They had survived.
The desert heat was insufferable, and his stomach growled. He couldn’t wait to enjoy a long shower and a gourmet meal inside his plane.
Bassam followed him down the stairs, where they met the ground crew. Prospero told his men to enter the plane and start shepherding the passengers onto his Gulfstream. Meanwhile, Bassam tried to reach his men in Jufra but received no answer. Whether or not Thea had managed to escape, they were likely all dead. Bassam was not happy about it, but Prospero wasn’t worried. All that mattered to him was that she’d do whatever it took to save the lives of the two African b
oys. The loss of Bassam’s crew was the cost of doing business. As Machiavelli had said, “Never was anything great achieved without danger.”
The slightly dazed passengers traipsed down the stairs of the 737, carry-ons in hand. Ocean walked beside Ayan and Jabari, avoiding Prospero’s gaze.
Karlsson stopped in front of him. “I need my checked bag.”
“Hand luggage only.” Santo cielo, this was a hijacking, not a connecting flight.
“But I have presents for my grandchildren.”
“Your safe return is the only gift they need. Move.”
Karlsson trundled off, eyes downcast, mumbling to himself.
But the exchange had given Prospero an idea. He turned to Bassam. “Have the crew bring any leftover bags from inside the plane.” He’d be interested to see what Liberata kept in her carry-on.
Rivers and Laverdeen descended the stairs, followed by one of Bassam’s men, the last of the passengers and crew to disembark.
“I did what you asked. Let my kids go.” Dark, puffy bags shadowed the captain’s eyes, and blood from his shoulder wound was crusted in dark clumps on his shirt. All in all, he looked like shit.
“Remain useful, and we’ll see.”
“What kind of monster are you?” Rivers’s face purpled.
“Shut the fuck up and get on the plane.”
Rivers stomped off to the Gulfstream.
Laverdeen lingered. “You don’t need the stress of babysitting all these exhausted hostages. Take me, and let the others stay here. You could give them a satphone to call for help after we leave.”
“How about I start eliminating hostages? That’ll minimize my stress.”
“Thea Paris is going to find us.”
Prospero could tell from one look at Laverdeen’s face that the pilot had more than a passing interest in the kidnap negotiator. “You’d better hope she doesn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t be a hero. It won’t end well.”
Chapter 38
Johann had barely been able to pay attention in class, his mind circling back to his father’s monstrous plan. The sheer number of people that could be wiped out was staggering. Unlike other forms of the plague, which was spread by insect bites, pneumonic plague could be transmitted directly between humans. In just one of the refugee camps Father was targeting, hundreds of thousands of people could be infected in a very short time.
Now he was in the shed behind the school, reluctant to go home. Father had invited the Freiheitswächter over for a meeting tonight, and he wasn’t sure he had the stomach to pretend he was in favor of genocide. Instead, he had his laptop out and was reading online about the Second World War, staring at grisly pictures of concentration camps. That was what mass extermination looked like.
He could never understand why Hitler had wanted to kill all the Jews, homosexuals, and other minorities. Johann thought of those ancestry tests that detailed the genealogical makeup of individuals. Sometimes people were surprised at the results. What might Hitler have found if his DNA had ever been analyzed?
A soft knock at the door.
Fatima.
“Am I interrupting?” Her eyes were tear-stained, red.
“Not at all. What’s wrong?” He closed the screen of his laptop so she wouldn’t see the horrific pictures.
She plunked down in one of the battered wooden chairs and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Remember my cousin, Abdul, who is staying with us?”
“Did he hurt you?” His protective instincts surfaced.
“No, no, nothing like that.” She wiped away tears. “He pulled me aside last night, told me I was becoming too Westernized.”
“He’s religious?”
“Extremely.” She bit her lip. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but he despises people who aren’t of our faith. He’s pushing for my father to send me back to the UAE, telling Papa that I’m of marrying age and need a husband to guide me.”
“Why is it his business?”
“Women in my country have no say in these decisions. The marriage would be arranged for me. To a stranger, probably.”
“That’s terrible. Do you think your father would do that to you or your sisters?”
“I don’t know. It’s probably silly of me, but the worst part . . . would be leaving you.” She leaned over and grabbed his hand.
He intertwined his fingers with hers and squeezed gently. The touch of her skin left him breathless.
“Wait, doesn’t your father support you becoming a doctor? That would be a lot harder back in the UAE, right?”
“He does, but Papa also doesn’t want any shame clouding the family name. Our cousin is very influential back home, and he could make trouble for my family.”
His chest tightened at the thought of Fatima leaving Salzburg, only to be forced into a loveless marriage. “But why does he want to control your life like that?”
“You don’t understand, Johann. Women have no rights in the UAE—I will have to do whatever my husband tells me to, think what he wants me to think. I couldn’t stand being married to someone who wouldn’t let me have my own views, but if I go back, that is exactly what will happen.”
“Then don’t go.”
“If I don’t, Abdul could destroy my family.”
He couldn’t bear the thought of her with anyone else. In that moment, he decided he could trust her. He had to trust her. “Fatima, my father also has hate in his heart. He sells weapons to murderous governments and individuals around the world, but he doesn’t think twice about it. Instead, he blames the world’s problems on Muslims.”
“That’s why he doesn’t want us together, right?”
Johann nodded, embarrassed. “He lost all perspective after my mother died, killed by an Arab driver. And he’s fallen in with some bad people.” He couldn’t bring himself to admit that his father was actually the kingpin, leading the others.
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?”
He hesitated a long moment. “Yes.”
“How dangerous?”
His stomach twisted. He’d never felt so disloyal to his father, but he’d never been this desperate to confide in someone. “I think his intentions are good. He wants to stop terrorism.”
“But . . . ?” She waited.
“He’s blinded by hatred. Instead of focusing on just the individuals who perpetrate terrorist attacks, he has lumped all Arabs together.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you. It’ll only put you in danger.”
“Now you’re really scaring me.”
“It’s all I can think about.”
“If you can’t tell me, why don’t you go to the authorities?” she asked.
“They would never believe me.”
“Isn’t there anyone you can trust?”
His mind’s eye saw Uncle Karl’s dead body. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you’ll have to trust me. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best to help.”
He wavered, weighing the pros and cons of sharing some or all of the nightmare. Then he thought of Father, how telling Fatima would put Vater in jeopardy and threaten to put an end to the only family Johann had left. He’d have to deal with the problem alone.
“Just knowing you’re there helps.” He slid his computer into his knapsack. “Come on, we don’t want to be seen together. You leave first.”
She squeezed his hand again before releasing it. At the door, she turned to look at him. “I grew up in a culture that puts women down. It made me a fighter. And I know that you’re a fighter too.”
Johann hoped she was right. He was in for the fight of his life.
Chapter 39
Prospero stepped out of his Turkish contact’s Mercedes into the sunshine cascading over the snowcapped Pontic Mountains. They had flown into Trabzon and driven to his friend Aslan Barak’s villa, south of Rize in Turkey, a rural region near the Black Sea. He looked forward to enjoying
a cup of the locally grown tea.
While he settled in at the main house, Luciano and Bassam herded the travel-worn passengers into an outbuilding on the property, a large shed with running water. They had followed the Mercedes along the coast in a bus chartered by Bassam in Trabzon. Here, the hostages would be fed, offered the use of a shower, and given blankets. He hoped they’d stay out of trouble until he had gotten his hands on the truck of Syrians; at that point, they would become someone else’s problem. Then he could focus on dealing with the Austrian and, finally, head home to Violetta.
His breakfast had been soured by a report from Bassam’s contacts in Libya. As he’d suspected, there’d been a bloodbath at the airstrip in Jufra. Thea had decided not to accept his offer of a personal escort. No contact from her yet, but she’d get in touch. If she didn’t, he’d be forced to eliminate one of the passengers to show her he was serious—and Liberata would do anything to protect her precious hostages.
Identifying and targeting people’s weaknesses was key. Everyone had them, even him. It was how people faced their fears that mattered. In one of his last conversations with his father, Stefano’s dark eyes had filled with fire as he explained about the autonomic nervous system kicking in—the body sweating, shaking, breathing heavily when under duress.
His father explained that if you could find a way to harness the physiological symptoms instead of letting them paralyze you, fear could work to your advantage. Identify the response, embrace it, and then use the adrenaline while battling your enemy. Prospero had confirmed more than once that the process worked. Stefano had taught him many lessons, some inadvertently, and a critical one involved Enzo Spruilli’s father.
Prospero was seventeen, bored at school, often whiling away the evenings with his friends. He didn’t know much about the family “business,” but he knew his father, Stefano, was a capo di famiglia. For months Prospero been working on Papa to let him quit school and learn the business. This particular evening, he was at home with Stefano, who didn’t want to hear any more nonsense about quitting school.