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Rapp, fed up with Moro’s behavior, studied the situation pensively, and then made a quick decision. Clutching the satellite phone, he asked Coleman one simple question.
Coleman relayed rapp’s question to Wicker and waited. Wicker lay in the prone position, completely motionless. His left eye peered through the coated glass of his Unertl scope. He’d already lasered the range to the target and made the adjustments for windage and elevation. He was in a near trancelike state and his heart had already slowed to a meager thirty-two beats a minute. Wicker pulled the trigger back one notch and said, “Say the word.”
Coleman took a quick look through his binoculars to make sure someone wasn’t about to enter the line of fire. Satisfied that no one other than the target was at risk he said, “Take the shot.”
Wicker inhaled a slow steady breath and then stopped all movement. Gently, evenly, his left index finger increased its pressure on the metal trigger. There was the gentlest of clicks and then a thunderous report as the massive fifty-seven-inch rifle let loose its Raufoss grade A round. The crack of the .50-caliber round shattered the calm of dawn and sent every bird in the valley screeching into the air.
One second the general was standing there, yelling at his subordinate, and then in the blink of an eye, he was yanked, as if by some unseen force, off his feet. There was a full second or two of confused inaction as brains tried to process the strange thing their eyes had just witnessed. Only Rapp knew what had happened. He was already moving, not toward the chopper, but in the opposite direction. The force with which the general’s body was propelled to the ground suggested that Wicker’s shot had done the job, but Rapp wanted to make sure, and he also wanted to have a word with Colonel Barboza before things got really ugly. The original plan was to be in the air when the shot was taken, but Rapp had seen an opportunity and taken it.
He reached Barboza just as the general’s aide-de-camp began to realize what had happened. The lieutenant, after all, had the best view of the general’s body. Rapp had his eyes on him as he reached Barboza’s side. He could tell by the look of absolute shock on the young Filipino’s face that it was likely his commanding officer had suffered a mortal wound.
Rapp grabbed Barboza by the arm, pulling him toward the fallen general. In a low voice he urged, “You have to take charge. There are enemy snipers in the hills. Get these men moving and then start chewing some ass.” Rapp propelled him forward and the two men broke into a run.
Barboza’s mind was moving fast, already wondering if this mysterious American knew more than he was letting on. Those questions would have to wait until later, for indeed it did appear that there was a sniper about. And nothing made a professional soldier’s skin crawl more than the specter of an enemy sniper lurking nearby. Barboza had seen enough live combat to know a moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one, so he set a course for the shocked soldier in his path. Gathering speed he literally tackled the general’s aide-de-camp and sent him sprawling across the dew-laden grass. “Take cover, you fool. There is a sniper shooting at us.”
Rapp ran past the fallen body of Moro, taking a quick look to make sure the job was done. The evidence was stark; the entire back half of the general’s head was missing. As Rapp continued along the side of the general’s tent he felt nothing but satisfaction. Moro was a traitor to his country, his uniform and to the best ally his country had ever known. He had spilled American blood to suit his own selfish desires, and now he was lying in an expanding pool of his own. He alone had chosen his treacherous path.
30
David turned sideways on the plush leather seat. He had put a lot of thought into this moment while he’d been driven all over the West Bank. From this position he could better access the knife concealed in the heel of his right shoe.
“Where is Hassan?” asked an agitated Atwa.
David frowned and said, “I want you to know that I am not happy about this. It was he who provoked me. I simply responded in kind, and he being the pea-brained thug that he is decided to charge me.”
“I said, where is he?” snapped Atwa.
David’s fingers felt for the watch on his left wrist. “The last I saw of him, he was lying on the ground unconscious, but not seriously hurt.”
“How?”
“I did it.” David began pressing buttons on the watch. When he pressed the last button he closed his eyes and bowed his head as if he were ashamed of what he’d done.
The explosion rocked the car, catching Atwa completely off guard. As debris pelted the bulletproof Plexiglas, David dug a thumbnail into the heel of his shoe and pried open the secret compartment. Deftly, he snatched a small, sturdy switchblade. Before Atwa knew what was happening, David was on top of him. His left forearm pinned Atwa’s head against the side of the car and the razor-sharp, three-inch blade slashed the older man’s jugular vein deep and clean. Warm blood spurted from the wound and sprayed David in the face. As Atwa brought his hands up to cover the wound on the right side of his neck, David reached around the other side and slashed Atwa’s left jugular vein. A fresh spray of blood erupted, splattering the window.
The director general of Mossad sprang to his feet. Leaning over the desk in front of him he stared at one of the big screens with a maniacal intensity. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to decipher who the two men were who had just left the house. He swore one of them was Jabril Khatabi and there was something familiar about the other man. Before he could make up his mind they were gone, disappearing into the backseat of a parked car. Still on his feet and frowning, Freidman turned to the general on his left and barked, “Target that car!”
Freidman returned his attention to the screen and the parked car, wondering if it were going to pull away from the house. Suddenly, without warning, there was a bright flash and the entire street side of the house appeared to blow outward.
The confused frown vanished as Freidman realized what had just happened. The room quickly erupted in frenzied conversation as tapes were rewound and new commands were barked.
Freidman turned to the general and in earnest said, “Give the Apaches the green light.”
“What about the car?”
Freidman looked back at the screens. All he could see was a cloud of dust and flames. He was fairly certain Jabril Khatabi was one of the men who had gotten into the car, and he had a good inkling who the second man might be. If it was who he thought, he doubted he would get another chance like this. With no reluctance, he said, “Destroy the car.”
The analyst on Freidman’s other side stood up and said, “What about our asset, sir? I’m almost positive he’s in that car.”
Freidman ignored the analyst and looking to the general said, “My order stands.” Ben Freidman would lose little sleep over the death of Jabril Khatabi.
David stepped from the back of the Mercedes into a cloud of dust. His eyes fluttered, but closed immediately, stinging from the cement dust and cordite. When he tried to take a breath the result was much the same. Gasping through tight lips and clenched teeth, he brought his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth and tried again. After taking several breaths he reached back in, grabbed Mohammed Atwa’s body and pulled him into the street. David could see almost nothing and stumbled over several chunks of stone as he dragged the body with him. To his left, through squinted eyes and the haze he could see several pockets of fire where a house once stood. He stepped on something that gave a little and on closer inspection he discovered it was one of the men who had been standing guard at the door.
David dropped Atwa next to the guard and then moved away to the other side of the street and down several doors. According to his agreement with Freidman he would wait around until the Israeli Defense Forces showed up and allow himself to be arrested. He was wondering how long it would take for them to fight their way through the roadblocks, when he heard a horrible shrieking noise. Instinctively, he dove to the ground, knowing what was about to follow.
31
The Philippine army helicopter approached the Amphibious Readiness Group from the west. In the middle of the formation sat the intimidating USS Belleau Wood. Rapp couldn’t wait for his transport to land. The morning had gone from bad, to better, to good, to too good to be true, and then just when things looked like they would all fall into place he was thrown a curve ball. A little more than an hour after General Moro had been nearly decapitated, Coleman called to report an interesting piece of information. Initially, he regarded the news of the Anderson family as a gift, but then Rapp began to see a problem.
