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“Moro has broken his oath as an officer,” Rapp started. “He’s a traitor plain and simple.” Rapp pointed to the file. “This is just the tip of the iceberg, by the way. If you brought him up on a court-martial he’d be buried under the evidence and ultimately sentenced to death. You can choose to go that route or we can try something else.”
“I’m listening.”
Rapp hesitated only briefly. “I want his head.” His dark eyes never left the general’s. “Two U.S. Navy SEALs are dead because of him, and a family of innocent noncombatants are still being held hostage because Moro has aided and abetted the enemy. If we arrest him he will be court-martialed, and despite the politics of the situation, he will be convicted and more than likely sentenced to death. But as you’ve pointed out, such a trial will severely damage our two countries’ relationship and the image of the Philippine army.” Easing back, Rapp added, “I think both of us would prefer to see this problem dealt with in a more subtle way.”
Rizal thought about this for a minute. He knew exactly what the American was getting at. “What would you need from me?”
Rapp carefully examined the general and then began to lay out his plan. By midmorning the problem would be neutralized and the Philippine people would have a martyr to rally behind in their battle against the Muslim rebels.
17
Cruising at 600 mph the Gulfstream jet made the relatively short hop from Manila to Samar Island in just under an hour, and touched down at an unlit private landing strip near the southern tip of the island. It came to a brief stop at the end of the runway, just long enough for Coleman and his men to deplane, and then raced back down the asphalt and into the star-filled sky.
The four men stood in silence as the roar of jet engines was replaced by the jungle’s nocturnal murmuring. They were still well outside the combat zone, but they all instinctively spread out, each man putting his eyes on a different sector.
They were in jungle fatigues, their faces smeared with greasepaint and their weapons dangling at their sides.
The airstrip and the acreage surrounding it belonged to a Japanese businessman. He’d bought the 1,200-acre plantation and built himself a magnificent home overlooking the ocean and an eighteen-hole golf course for his private amusement. Rapp had his people at the CTC (CIA’s Counterrorism Center) do a few discreet inquiries and discovered that the home was rarely used during the week and was currently unoccupied. There was a caretaker on the premises, but they would be long gone by the time he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and came to investigate.
Two of the former SEALs, Kevin Hackett and Dan Stroble, donned their night vision goggles and moved off in opposite directions, their MP-10 suppressed submachine guns hanging at their sides. Coleman chose not to put on his NVGs, looking off in the distance at the big house on the hill, now washed by moonlight. He took a small pair of field binoculars from his chest pocket to get a closer look at the house. A couple of exterior lights were on, but otherwise the place was black. A single light shone from the gatehouse across the drive from the main house. Coleman studied the structure for a time and was looking at the front door when the caretaker stepped outside. A slight frown creased his brow as he silently hoped their ride would arrive before he had to deal with this problem.
The fourth man arrived silently at Coleman’s side. “The chopper’s on its way in.”
Coleman tilted an ear toward the sky, but heard nothing. He looked down at Charlie Wicker and nodded. He trusted Wicker’s senses more than his own. In fact, he trusted Wicker’s eyes and ears more than probably any other soldier he’d ever worked with. Barely five foot six, Wicker was almost elfish in appearance. He was the best sniper Coleman had ever seen in action and had been handpicked by Rapp for the operation. Wicker was the only active-duty man on the team. Rapp had sheep-dipped him from SEAL Team 6. When they got into position Wicker would be the star of the show.
A full ten seconds after Wicker had alerted him, Coleman heard the thumping noise of helicopter rotors against the heavy tropical air. The MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter came in fast, skimming the tops of the trees and then passing over the heads of Coleman and his men. It flared out immediately like a horse being pulled back in by its reins, its tail landing gear looking like it would hit the tarmac hard. At the last minute the wheel stabilized a mere foot above the ground until the front landing gear came into line. The menacing bird set down gently without the aid of its heavy-duty shock absorbers.
Coleman and his men watched all of this with great interest. They expected the best, and it looked like they’d got it. The bird belonged to the Air Force Special Operations Command. It was part of the 353rd Special Operations Group out of Kadena Air Base in Japan. The specifics of the op had been taken care of on the flight over. Rapp had given Coleman the mission objective and told him to organize the details. Anything he needed was to be routed through General Campbell at the Joint Special Operations Command back at Fort Bragg. Coleman had one request and it was pretty simple, but very important. He asked for the best flight crew available. As evidenced by the failed mission to rescue the Andersons, the most dangerous part of any op was usually the insertion and the extraction.
Coleman stopped just outside the open door of the helicopter and slapped each of his men on the back as they bounded in. When they were all onboard he climbed in and stuck his head into the cockpit. The pilot turned to look at him, his night vision goggles perched atop his black flight helmet in the up position. Coleman handed the man a piece of white paper with a GPS coordinate on it.
“Bring us in low, just above the canopy and we’ll fast-rope down.”
The pilot nodded. Neither warrior attempted an introduction. All parties involved understood there would be no official record of what they were doing. The pilot punched the coordinates into the bird’s advanced Pave Hawk avionics computer and Coleman buckled himself in for what he was sure would be a wild ride.
18
When David entered Monsignor Lavin’s office, the first thing he noticed was caution in the eyes of the normally jovial priest. It was not the sign the Palestinian was looking for. With everything he had worked for hinging on this evening’s meeting, he was growing increasingly nervous as the appointed hour approached. One mistake now, one misread, would very likely lead to a brutal death at the hands of his own people.
Studying the priest with a discerning eye, David asked, “What is wrong?”
Lavin shook his head and said, “Nothing.” He pointed at the door behind him and then looked at some papers on his desk.
Something was amiss, but what it was, David hadn’t a clue. He hesitated briefly and then willed his feet to march him to the door. He had a feeling that on the other side of it something awaited him that he wouldn’t like. When he opened the door his instincts proved correct.
There, sitting in the dim light, in his usual spot, at the far end of the conference table, was Abe Spielman. This time, however, a shadowy figure sat next to him. David could not make out any features, but he didn’t need to. The large bald head and bull-like shoulders could only belong to one man. It was Ben Freidman. The name alone inspired hatred and fear in many. In David’s case, at least, it also inspired a begrudging respect.
In the entire West Bank there was perhaps no other man more loathed than Ben Freidman. As the director general of Mossad, it was Freidman’s job to wage a covert war with Israel’s enemies. The Israeli Defense Forces were in charge of dealing with the menagerie of terrorist groups within the occupied territories in a more overt manner, but it was Mossad’s job to take on the particularly nasty operations.
Freidman had been the chief architect of many such actions over the last two decades. As David’s eyes adjusted to the dim lights, he got a better look at the man. Though they had never met, the two enemies stared at each other with the familiarity of lifelong rivals. Neither spoke and the tension continued to build.
Spielman, nervous that his friend might turn around and leave, offered an apology for bringing a guest. “Jabril, I’m sorry for surprising you like this, but I can explain.”
David’s eyes left Freidman’s and looked at his old friend. He decided, for now, not to reply. Even though he was caught off guard that their little two-person club had a new member, he knew he shouldn’t have been. The information that he had given Spielman during their last meeting was bound to wake up some people at the Institute, as Mossad was commonly referred to by insiders.
Slowly, David walked closer to the two men and grabbed a chair, not the one right next to Spielman, as he normally did, but one a few away. The message was clear; he would listen, but it would not be business as usual. The other thing he hoped to convey was his mistrust of a monster like Freidman. Always the pragmatist, though, David knew the director general of Mossad was a nemesis that the bloodthirsty Palestinian leadership had created. It was a case of action and reaction.
Absent his normal charm, David looked to Spielman and said, “I didn’t know we were allowed to bring visitors. I’m sure I could have found someone to join us.”
