Outside the maintenance hangar, Khaliq Farkas and eight other men in the terrorist cell were putting the finishing touches on the last of the handmade camouflage nettings. Viewed from the air, the specially crafted nylon material blended almost perfectly with the surrounding terrain and completely hid two World War II B-25 Mitchell bombers.
Farkass bombers, one purchased in Colombia and the other in Ecuador, were mechanically sound. They had recently been restored to good flying condition, not excellent, but sound enough to carry out the mission Saeed Shayhidi planned.
One of the Mitchells was painted in brown and dark gray colors while the other one was dull silver. Powered by 1,700-horsepower engines, the sturdy warbirds had a maximum speed of 275 mph. They could carry 3,000 pounds of bombs 1,350 statute miles.
Farkas had just received another coded e-mail from Shayhidi. The hot-tempered and impetuous financier was pressuring him to expedite the operation, but the precious weapons were still being attached inside their containers.
Located in southeastern Switzerland in the Oberengadin, or Upper Inn Valley, surrounded by breathtaking Alpine peaks and deep valleys, Saint Moritz — Sankt Moritz in German — is one of the worlds most famous winter-sport centers. Known for its classical elegance and extensive variety of facilities, it was the majestic scene of the Winter Olympic Games in 1928 and 1948.
After visiting this magnificent village for the first time, Saeed Shayhidi had decided to build one of his vacation homes there.
Perched high on a steep hillside, the 7,8oo-square-foot chalet had wide eaves imported from Italy. Everything about it was custom made. The rooms, hallways, bathrooms, stairs, windows, spa, and doors were all oversized. It had taken an international team of twenty-seven architects, construction specialists, and interior designers the better part of a year to build and decorate the grandiose chalet.
Shayhidi and his entourage arrived shortly after 11 P. M. He promptly ordered the butler and the maid to extinguish all lights and remain inside. The two bodyguards and the butler were posted to stand watch until daybreak. Exhausted and depressed, Shayhidi retired to the master bedroom on the second floor and promptly fell asleep.
The two CIA operatives watching the chalet reported Shayhidi's arrival to the Agency, noting that the home was completely blacked out. They estimated five or six people were in the residence. One of the agents, posing as a writer for an architectural digest, had duped Shayhidi's butler into giving him a tour of the home the previous day. The agent's copious notes and detailed sketches of the imposing chalet were helpful to the special operations forces.
Less than seventy minutes after the analysts at Langley were informed about Shayhidi's arrival, the elite soldiers of Delta Force were boarding their four MH-47D Chinook helicopters at Ramstein Air Base, Germany. Two highly classified missions had been thoroughly planned and practiced. Now it was time to put the arduous training to good use. The powerful twin-rotor helicopters lifted off in the dead of night. Two headed in one direction while the other pair flew toward a second secret destination. Each mission was assigned a primary Chinook and a backup.
Other special operations forces and SOAR flight crews were launching to conduct other clandestine missions. By order of the commander in chief, the Chinooks were being escorted by helicopter gunships.
Saeed Shayhidi was rudely awakened from a deep sleep by deafening explosions and horrific submachine gunfire. Panicked, he knew who the intruders were. How did they know I was here? Have to get away or they'll kill me.
This home, like all of Shayhidis residences, had a built-in escape route. He opened the faux laundry chute and climbed in feet first, closed the outside cover, and dropped into a small room next to a tunnel. He grabbed the prepared stash of clothes, shoes, and money and quickly slipped the shoes on his bare feet.
He could hear more explosions and the staccato sound of submachine gunfire intertwined with yelling and pounding. It sounded like the chalet was being destroyed from within. He heard glass breaking, followed by a huge thud.
Entering the narrow, dimly lighted tunnel, Shayhidi rapidly covered the thirty-five yards to an opening under a small storage shed near the back of his property line.
After crawling out of the tunnel and replacing the wooden hatch, Shayhidi watched through a small window as his home was being demolished. He yanked his clothes on in the darkened shed and returned to the window. Catching his breath, he watched in shock as the soldiers of Delta Force withdrew from his badly damaged chalet.
When the darkened Chinook helicopter levitated into the black sky, Shayhidi saw lights coming on inside his home. He could see smoke pouring from the oversized windows. Most of the glass panels had been blown out. The interior of his marvelous chalet had been virtually destroyed, including the custom-made furniture, the ornate bric-a-brac, and his expensive paintings.
Soon after the departure of the Delta Force soldiers, fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, and assorted media vehicles began converging on the badly damaged residence. His neighbors joined other stunned bystanders as firemen quickly extinguished a small blaze in the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Shayhidi watched while rescue workers and medical attendants carried out the bullet-riddled bodies of the two men sworn to protect him. Unhurt, but still shaking with fear, the buder and maid were led to a police van and driven away.
Shayhidi decided to wait until things calmed down before leaving his hiding place. A half hour after the firemen and police officials left his home he slipped quietly out of the shed and walked several blocks to the Suvretta House. He checked into the mansionlike hotel under a different name and made arrangements to travel incognito to a safe haven. His identity would be closely guarded in his permanently leased suite in France at the La Reserve de Beaulieu.
Pauline Garretson sat in the dark hushed room in the Seattle Air Route Traffic Control Center and concentrated on her radarscope. The screen was growing more congested as the afternoon push was getting under way. Like many other air traffic controllers, she was still on edge after the devastating aerial attacks of recent days. In the recesses of her subconscious, the King Air tragedy in Delaware was Paulines worst nightmare come true.
Garretson, aware she was responsible for hundreds of lives, felt she was working much harder than usual. The notice to airmen (NOTAM) prohibiting flight operations around all nuclear power plants and refineries added another layer of stress to the already demanding job. She was trying to balance her patience with her desire to keep pilots on course and away from potential hazards.
Working a Convair 580 cargo flight originating in Kalispell, Montana, bound for Bowerman Airport adjacent to Hoquiam, Washington, Garretson was surprised by a female voice with a Middle Eastern accent, but quickly discounted her concern. In growing numbers, women were continuing to join the ranks of commercial pilots, aviation technicians, air traffic controllers, and flight attendants, and a small percentage of the newcomers had not mastered the English language. Garretson cleared the Convair to descend and handed the aircraft off to the Terminal Radar Approach Control, or TRACON, in Seattle.
Jared Matus, comfortably ensconced in his chair on the fourth floor of the main terminal building at the Seattle-Tacoma international airport, gave the Convair 580 a vector to avoid other aircraft. "Direct Express Three-Twelve, fly heading two-one-zero for traffic."
"Two-hun-zeeraw, Diweck Express Thee-Hun-Two."
Hearing the voice, Matus had an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. It slowly faded when the pilot complied. After the Convair was clear of conflicting traffic, Matus cleared the flight direct to Bowerman Airport. Shortly thereafter, the pilot canceled her instrument flight plan. She was instructed to squawk 1200, the code for visual flight rules. With other traffic to manage, Matus did not follow the flight of the Convair.