“Yeah, that makes sense, but if not Rome,” said Paul, “where? I mean, it could be any place — Jerusalem, Boston, Paris, New York…”
Silence filled the room as everyone imagined the worst.
Paul slammed his fist on the table. “Damnit!”
“I share your frustration. I wish Ahmed had said more,” Barakah said, “but frankly, I’m surprised he disclosed as much as he did. I’ve been working to uncover his agenda for months. This was the only time the sheik revealed any details.”
Anxiously, Ava looked out a window. The morning sun was cresting Mount Solaro. She cracked her knuckles. “Ahmed implied the bombing was imminent. We’ve got to hurry.”
DeMaj agreed. “What else did he say about the attack?”
She searched her memory. “He said it would be bloody. He said people would be afraid and demand a strong, decisive ruler. He said the infidel leaders had already gathered.”
Ava met Simon’s stare. As one, they said: “La Maddalena!”
Chapter 17
Jess’s mind was searching for options. There must be a loophole, some clever way to escape, but despite her determined exterior, she’d begun to sense it was hopeless. Even if they reached the hedge, the gunmen would follow. Forcing Gabe onward was simply cruel, and the thugs would be on them in seconds. Distracted by despair, Jess misjudged a step. Gabe’s fractured leg brushed the curb and she felt him shudder in pain. With a growl she demanded he keep moving. They took one giant step, then another. The hedge was only six feet away now, but what could they accomplish by struggling? This was absurd. She should ease him down, let him rest. Instead, she elbowed his ribs.
“Two more steps, Gabriel. Don’t surrender! One, two, step!” Her voice had grown hoarse. She doubted Gabe could even hear it. He tottered, smothering her body under his bulk. With a final effort, she braced her legs, shouldered all his weight, and heaved him forward. Falling, Jess’s knee spiked on the gravel. Gabe’s weight forced her to the ground and pain tore through her. Sobbing, she rolled him off her and into the hedges.
She turned onto her back and looked up at the sky. When one of the machine gun — wielding men stepped into view, Jess laughed. “Go ahead and shoot,” she said.
He aimed, then his expression went from pleasure, to confusion, to rage. A second before he fled, her ears registered the welcome wail of police sirens.
It took an hour to refuel the Comanche. Barakah spent the time on the phone with his contacts to alert them to the threat. Ava sat in the study, translating the prophecy. After changing into clean clothes, Paul used Simon’s secure line to contact Ammon and Sefu at the Segev Clinic. He explained Mellania’s betrayal and urged the boys to be cautious. When a confident Ammon announced “I shall protect him,” Paul couldn’t help but grin. Next, he called Jess’s apartment. No one answered, and Paul grew nervous. Then he glanced at the clock and did the math. It was suppertime in Boston, and they’d probably stepped out for pizza. He left a long voice mail explaining the situation and warning that Mellania might have compromised their location. Just as he hung up, Ava came in. Paul considered sharing his concerns but decided against it. She’d be paralyzed with worry, even though there was nothing more to do.
Reading the shadows on his face, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, except that I’ve never heard of La Maddalena. Who’s she?”
Ava sighed. “It’s not a person. It’s an island.”
Paul’s expression was blank.
“Napoleon conquered it. Admiral Nelson used it as a base. Mussolini was held prisoner there, before being rescued by—”
He signaled for silence. “Is it far?”
From the doorway, DeMaj said, “About four hundred kilometers. Just north of Sardinia. Come quickly. We don’t have a second to lose.”
Pacing behind the command desk, Don VeMeli was waiting. He despised waiting. Departure had been delayed too long already. His personal conveyance, an attack helicopter on loan from the army, sat fueled and ready. They could be more than one hundred fifty kilometers away within an hour but, infuriatingly, he couldn’t leave. All morning he’d occupied himself with the trivial tasks that were the lot of a diplomatic division supervisor, his official position. Standing in the background, carefully off camera, he watched his military sycophants and legislative factotums welcome dignitaries, representatives, and the world press. Maintaining a broad smile, Don VeMeli appeared calm and serene, but an ember of concern smoldered within him. Ahmed had not reported. Surely the mission was complete. Why didn’t he call?
Dozens of phones seemed to ring simultaneously. As a buzz of panic spread throughout the communications center, the master realized that Ahmed had failed. Two servicemen sprang from their desks and burst into the office, each jostling for priority. They informed him that numerous security organizations were on the line reporting a possible terrorist threat. Deflecting these calls to his nominal superior, Don VeMeli contacted the Gruppo’s vast network of informants. His spies confirmed the reports, adding that DeMaj and the Americans were flying to La Maddalena by helicopter.
If they’re coming here, he thought, it could mean only one thing: The girl had unlocked the secret. Cursing Ahmed’s incompetence, the Beast barked to his staff: “Contact the air force. Islamic terrorists just hijacked a military helicopter. They must not approach the island!”
Terrified aides backed away from Don VeMeli. None had ever seen him so angry, but after his outburst, La Belva quickly regained his composure. There was still time, he reasoned. The glorious plan would still succeed. He commanded a team of pilots to prepare for action. He knew from Mellania that DeMaj’s helicopter didn’t carry weapons. A heavily armed squadron would intercept DeMaj over Isola Caprera and eliminate him.
Roderigo came into the command center. Confused by all the activity, he sent his master a questioning glance.
“Demand nothing from me,” Don VeMeli said. “What you know, you know.”
The sleek black Comanche hurtled northwest. Simon redlined its twin LHTEC T800-801 engines, pushing the helicopter to exceed one hundred seventy-five knots. Below, the sea churned. DeMaj looked back at his passengers. Ava’s eyes were shut, her face a study in concentration. She was replaying the mashed-up audio file on her headphones. All her energy was focused on completing the translation. Paul drummed his fingers against the radar display. He looked nervous.
“Worried?” DeMaj asked him.
Paul smiled. “Nah. We’ll be fine. Ahmed was bluffing. They can’t have a nuke.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Terrorists have never built one. It’s too complex, too expensive.”
“Yes, but they might have bought a rogue device on the black market.”
“If it’s that easy, why didn’t bin Laden acquire one? He had plenty of money.”
“The main problem isn’t acquiring a warhead; it’s moving it. Years ago, a Soviet airbase commander sold part of his arsenal to the Russian mob, which then resold the WMDs to terrorists. They were caught trying to smuggle the bombs out of the country. It’s difficult to transport fissionable material across an international border. U.S. Customs pioneered a variety of effective techniques to prevent it.”
“Then how could Don VeMeli sneak a bomb into Italy? And how could he get it onto the island?”
Simon looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it was already there.”
“What do you mean?”
“During the Cold War the U.S. Navy established a nuclear submarine base at Santo Stefano. They ran boomers out of there for decades.”