Terminal Rage

  As expected, the foreign minister agreed. The private jet would land and taxi to a remote strip on the northeast end of the Naples airport, zero questions asked. Once on the ground, immigration authorities would not implement the standard procedures, again playing by the new set of instructions they received from a bigger fish above them.

  Waiting nearby, a Knighthawk helicopter from the nearby US Naval base would transport Smythe and the rest of the group to the location of the exchange. Only after the chopper departed would the crew of the Gulfstream call in the Italians to request immigration processing.

  Smythe buckled up and pressed his forehead against the cold surface of the window. The captain had not exaggerated the extent of the turbulence on the way down. From a higher altitude, the cloud formations below had seemed otherworldly. Far less pleasant when you are flying through them. The body of the twin engine started to rattle and oscillate, every now and then spiraling wide. Rain thrashed diagonally on the windows and thicker, darker clouds engulfed the plane, reducing visibility to zero.

  Smythe secretly observed Nabulsi and Madi, whose undeserved freedom loomed closer. Madi’s eyes were shut as he whispered what were probably verses from the Koran. The turbulence seemed to be unsettling him. Nabulsi was the cooler customer with the serenity of a man reborn and with nothing to lose. Ever since breakfast, a light had been flickering in his eyes and an incorrigible smirk stamped on his face.

  For the first time since he had laid eyes on them inside the secure holding wing of the prison, Smythe pondered the Jordanians’ involvement in the 2005 massacre. Nishimura’s briefing of the negotiations said the suspect had described them as pawns in a more complex criminal web responsible for the attacks.

  Nabulsi’s body language was exuding a different truth now. His confidence was multiplying like an untreated parasitic infection. During the helicopter ride from the prison to the airport Smythe had caught him gloating. They would not abandon us, he had reminded his friend. In whose loyalty had Nabulsi invested such deep faith that was now paying off?

  The victims of the attack and their families began to nudge Smythe’s conscience. Earlier, he had endured the horrific images of the massacre popping up on his phone after he was assigned to the mission. Julia Price, the hostages in Manhattan and the hundreds of children under threat of execution were also open-ended questions. What kind of a world is it where the lives of two murdering terrorists is equal to hundreds of innocent souls? Smythe’s stomach was by now immune to what would nauseate most civilians, but this was different. His job description was clearly to help eradicate human slime, not baby-sit them to freedom.

  The rain poured with relentless force when the Gulfstream touched the ground in Naples. Despite a population of three million, the city’s airport was tiny. No major airline cared for the city enough to make it its hub. Smythe had been through here a number of times trailing high-caliber criminals and couldn’t agree more with the airlines that had snubbed this depressed, crime-infested slice of Italy.

  As planned, the jet stopped at a secluded northeastern part of the airport. Smythe spotted their next ride—a stationary Knighthawk tucked behind an abandoned shipping container, an alarming eight hundred feet away from the jet. He was expecting it much closer for a swift transfer. Now they would be forced to walk for longer than necessary as they lugged the Jordanians. They’d be exposed.

  Smythe leaned forward to speak to the captain, who was about to turn off his instruments. “Any chance of getting us closer to the chopper?”

  “Not unless you want to piss the Italians off. This is the designated spot they gave us and we’re fixed to the ground until your chopper takes off.”

  “I guess we’ll have to run like hell in this damn rain.”

  The captain bit his lips in commiseration and removed his shades to look Smythe in the eye.

  “Wish I could change that.”

  “It’s not your fault. Just remember, Captain, if asked, you’re here to pick up Vernon Mayer, the CFO of Oromine. But as it happens he never made it to Naples on account of—”

  “Him being a smart man?”

  Smythe allowed a tiny smile. “That’s a given, but on account of him being held up in Milan on company business is the official line I’d like you to give.”

  “Got it.”

  “You guys saved the day.”

  He picked up his vibrating cellphone from his pocket.

  “Smythe. Who is this?”

  “Lieutenant Randy Edmondson. I am lookin’ straight at your Gulfstream. Sucks to be you moving in this rain, right?”

  “Why so far?”

  “The Italians are a bit paranoid and require a minimum safety buffer between both aircraft for our liftoff.”

  “I see. How many are you and how long have you been here?”

  “Twenty minutes, give or take. We’re a crew of four, as usual.”

  “Anything we need to worry about?”

  “Nothing major.”

  Smythe inhaled deeply. “What’s up?”

  “Anytime a helicopter flies in to pick up private jet passengers, the paparazzi ‘somehow’ get alerted and go bananas.”

  “Somehow?”

  “Must be someone in air traffic control on the take. Welcome to Naples, Agent Smythe.”

  “Of course. What sort of risks are we looking at?”

  “If they’re certain it’s an A-list celebrity they send a bird and trail them ’til they land. They’re hungry for photos and footage.”

  “And if they’re not sure?”

  “They usually don’t bother. That said, sometimes out of nowhere they take an unhealthy interest just in case there’s a story. That can get pretty dangerous. We’ve had a few close calls in the past with some of them.”

  “Any chance it could happen today?”

  “Right here on the tarmac they’re not allowed to touch us, so I wouldn’t be able to tell until we’re in the sky. But we just heard on the radio a Stelle Elicotteri bird landed here. They’re a media charter serving the news networks. Could be nothing. Could be everything.”

  “What happens if they tag us?”

  “Then we have a problem. We’re landing in a public area in the heart of Naples with no backup except for the Delta guys on your team. Italian police are not in on this action, right?”

  “Right, and I want it to stay that way.”

  “Then the last thing we need is a chopper trailing us. It’s not a nosy photographer I’m worried about. If they start wondering why we’re landing in a public park on a Sunday and they happen to have a television crew with a satellite linkup. Well, you get the picture.”

  Smythe eyed his watch. The deadline was less than thirty minutes away. They couldn’t afford to lose a few minutes skirmishing with news leeches. “We need a backup plan.”

  “We can scare them off if they get too close. Pull rank and tell them this is official US Navy business and demand they clear our air space.”

  “Would that work?”

  “Could, but it always comes with the risk of exciting them further.”

  “I sure hope you can handle the situation if it gets to that.”

  Edmondson was silent for a beat. “We can always fire some rounds at them and hope it does the trick.”

  Smythe waited for the punch line or some indication Edmondson was joking, but all he heard was static at the other end of the line.

  “Fire at a civilian aircraft over a heavily populated urban center? Are you out of your mind, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m givin’ you all the options. My brief is to help you complete this mission by any means necessary. If you order me to shoot ’em down, I’ll fire first and worry about who I shot later.”

  The episode with the Egyptian police helicopter was still raw in Smythe’s mind. “No one’s going to be shooting at anyone today, Edmondson. Let
’s exclude that as an option altogether. If we are intercepted by paparazzi, I’ll handle them. See you in five.”

  Two of the Delta Force operators armed with M4A1 carbine rifles disembarked the Gulfstream first to secure the perimeter. They gave hand signals to indicate the all clear. Nabulsi and Madi exited the plane next, sandwiched by the two remaining Special Forces. Smythe was the last to step out.

  Despite the rain and dark clouds, it was balmy outside.

  The men began to run across the tarmac toward the Knighthawk. In the distance, Edmondson and his crew fired up the controls of the helicopter and slid her open.

  As Smythe had feared, Nabulsi and Madi struggled to keep up. At the halfway mark, Madi tumbled to the ground and started hyperventilating. Almost immediately, the Delta Force operator closest to him swung his gun backwards, picked up the collapsed Jordanian, and slung him on his shoulder like a beach towel, then bolted toward the finish line.

  “Keep going, keep going!” he shouted to the rest of the group, hardly a trace of breathlessness in his voice despite the extra cargo on him. When they got to the chopper, he carried Madi inside and plonked him down.

  Smythe kneeled to check on him. “Is he okay?”

  “He’ll be fine. Too much excitement for one day.”

  The helicopter ascended fast over Naples. Inside, the Delta Force men and the Navy guys greeted one another. Once the polite camaraderie of uniformed men was spent, Smythe signaled to the most senior of the Special Forces to start the briefing.

  “Listen up, men. We’re heading into an unsecured public park with stratospheric crime levels. Local law enforcement is neither providing us cover nor aware of our presence. We have no idea who or what we’ll be going up against. The situation can get ugly fast. Navy guys, y’all in protective gear?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” Edmondson answered for the rest of his crew, his eyes on his instruments.

  “I want you in the bird at all times on standby for evac. Agent Smythe will stay behind with you to secure his subjects until the exchange.”

  Yeah right I will.

  “These two men here, who you can call Mr. Brown and Mr. Viper, will protect the perimeter of the Knighthawk at all times.”

  He pointed to two of his men.

  “This other gentleman here likes to be called Mr. Zeta. He’ll join me as we approach the target to conduct the switch.

  “Navy guys, if we come under fire or if this gets out of hand, evacuate immediately. Do not—I repeat, do not—engage in combat. We can take care of ourselves and the hostage on the ground, but there can be no trace of you here if this spirals out of control.

  “I also want Agent Smythe here geared up in an IOTV and helmet at all times.”

  Mr. Zeta, who had carried Madi from the tarmac, handed Smythe a camouflaged bulletproof vest and protective head gear.

  The copilot turned to the Delta Force commander. “Sir?’

  “Yeah?”

  “What do we call you?”

  “Polly. Polly Samson.” A smirk escaped the edge of Polly’s lips, then spread to everyone else in the chopper but the Jordanians. A brief spurt of laughter reduced the tension by a few degrees.

  Smythe wondered how many aliases these guys had to go through, and how much fun they had with that. He’d been with these four guys since the early morning but he’d been given a different set of names.

  Smythe took Polly aside.

  “I need to be there when we do the exchange. How about if Mr. Zeta stays in the chopper with the prisoners instead? With all due respect to you and your team, my brief requires me on the front line.”

  Polly burrowed through him with blinkless eyes. Smythe knew his actions at the prison had earned him the right to make that request. When they had first met inside the operations room of the south camp in

  Sharm El Sheikh, Polly had sized him up, probably assuming Smythe was another Bureau hack he wouldn’t want by his side if they came under deadly fire.

  “Zeta stays by my side at all times.”

  “But—”

  “You can come with us, Agent Smythe, if that’s what you need to do. We’ll approach the target as a three-man unit.” Polly eyeballed Edmondson and the rest of the crew. “I have full faith the Navy men can handle the prisoners on their own.”

  “Hell, yeah!” the Knighthawk crew erupted in unison.

  “We touch down in T minus 90 seconds,” Edmondson said, “And so far no birds are tagging us, Agent Smythe. All clear.”

  The Parco Scampia was a massive, capsule-shaped park in the middle of a gang-infested area in northern Naples. Built in the sixties, it was uninspired in its design and deficient in its community function as the larger suburb in which it was located. It also happened to be the epicenter of a bloody feud in 2004 between the reigning Di Lauro clan and a splinter group.

  On any given day, the park was a hot spot for illicit activities under the cover of large elm trees at the southwestern edge. Small-time drug transactions, prostitution and every dirty thing in between.

  The Knighthawk landed five minutes ahead of the deadline on a paved portion of the northeastern tip of the park as instructed by Seth. A relentless sky with thick strands of endless rain and frequent explosions of lightning matched the mood inside the chopper. As expected for a Sunday morning, the park was abandoned.

  Smythe got on the phone with Monica in New York with an update on their position. When he hung up, Polly ordered complete silence inside the Knighthawk as well as a ban on radio and cellphone communication. Brown and Viper stepped out and stood vigil in a protective shield around the perimeter of the Knighthawk.

  Six minutes after the deadline and the kidnappers had yet to show up at the designated meeting point.

  “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

  Smythe nodded to Edmondson, although he was now uncertain himself.

  “Shall I call New York again?” he asked Polly.

  The Delta Force commander held his finger to his lips, his eyes widening as he whispered, “They’re here. They’re watching us.”

  Through the tumbling rain and clashes of thunder, Smythe could barely hear the chugging sound of an approaching vehicle. A white van with dark windows veered in from the Viale della Resistenza ring road that wrapped around the park. When it reached the western entrance, it turned right then drove into an empty parking lot painted in red and white stripes like someone had stretched out a giant swirly lollipop on the ground.

  The van came to a stop for a few seconds with the engine still running before moving along until it reached the edge of the parking lot. Once again it slowed down, this time as if the driver was assessing his vehicle’s worth to drop to the paved portion of the park about a foot below.

  After some hesitation, the van took the plunge and proceeded until it came to a complete stop no more than fifty feet from the Knighthawk.

  Sweat dribbled down Smythe’s back and molecules of tension flooded his bloodstream.

  The rising humidity and the protective gear on him only made it worse.

  For a few minutes nothing happened.

  Delta operator Brown was frozen in position ahead of the Knighthawk, his rifle aimed at where the driver would have been behind the tinted screen. His buddy Viper covered the back perimeter in case this was an ambush.

  Smythe didn’t blink, his eyes fixed on the van and his mind impatient that this silent standoff was lasting longer than he cared for.

  Then, in a cautious move, Brown lowered his gun slow and easy and took baby steps toward the target, then raised his hands.

  The headlights of the van were flashed a couple of times.

  He pulled out a small device from his pocket and raised it up toward the windscreen.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Smythe asked, tapping Polly on the shoulder.

  “Scanning for exp
losives.”

  With cool assertion, Brown moved the device from left to right to declare his intention to the van’s occupants. The approval came back instantly in the form of two more blinks of the headlights.

  Methodically, he swept the entire van with his device. There was a very real possibility that there was no one inside and the van was autopiloted from a remote location, which augmented Smythe’s admiration for Brown and his unit.

  “All clear,” Brown said as he retreated to his position in front of the Knighthawk, his voice brimming with a confidence Smythe was craving.

  “We’re good to go,” Polly said.

  Smythe emerged from the helicopter a few steps behind Polly and Zeta as they moved toward the target. The pair of Delta Force men had their guns slung on their shoulders rather than pointed at the van as a sign of goodwill. Smythe wanted to believe they were also carrying concealed guns they could pull out in milliseconds and fire with lethal results.

  The rain was still stubborn even though a few clouds in the horizon had already started to melt. A beam of sunlight tunneled through and offered a preview of better weather later in the day. Perhaps a good omen to temper the tension bubbling in Smythe’s chest. Many good men were blown to pieces in operations like this. You come close to making an exchange only to find it had been an ambush all along. Before your mind has a chance to process the deception, you’re obliterated.

  Polly was about to knock on the van when the door slid open, releasing a stench of leftover food and unbathed bodies like the people inside had been living in it for weeks.

  Inside, a figure dressed in black with a Guy Fawkes mask had one hand locked tight around a woman’s neck and the other pointing a gun to her blindfolded head.

  The driver was also masked but Smythe fixed his gaze on the woman and her captor. Gaunt with a fresh cut on her upper lip, the woman wore a black negligee many sizes too big for her. Multiple bruises adorned her exposed, pale thighs and her wrists and ankles were decorated with chafe marks from being tied longer than was humane.