The Flight Risk: Rise of the Mawla

PROLOGUE

W ith the death of Osama bin Laden still fresh on their minds, many Islamic extremist planned to honor him by attacking American Embassy’s in Egypt, Yemen, Tunisia, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Libya. Once again, death and destruction came to fruition on 9-11 via the hands of extremist. Eleven years passed since Osama bin Laden managed his reign of terror on US soil. A devoted follower, Ramez al Libi, concocted his own plan of destruction as his personal remembrance.

Mustafa al-Kahlid stared down the street through his high-powered FLIR night-vision binoculars. These particular night-reading instruments cost thousands of dollars. Sundown was approaching, and he needed to make sure that all of his planning was in place. The binoculars illuminated the darkest of corners. He was sitting on the rustic balcony of the fifth floor of the hotel, about two hundred yards from his target with a perfect view.

The evening was just getting into high gear down in the heart of Pordenone, Italy, a modest river town that had been around since Roman times. The beautiful Italian town was located just southeast of the bustling Aviano Air Force Base, a strategic military base for Eastern European operations for the United States.

The narrow gray brick streets were crowded with olive drab US military vehicles. On every corner, in the heart of town, two or three well-built military police kept vigil. Standing his post was a young army sergeant MP on his first overseas tour. His name was Jim Thompson, he had left behind a wife and young daughter back at the base in North Carolina, and he carried their photos in his upper right pocket. From time to time, he would bring them out and kiss the photos; this was his way of sending his love back to them. Jim was in charge of the detail whose main job was to keep the drunks and rowdies under control and break up any fights. Fights and drunkenness were just a normal part of the weekend ritual; these young men and women were America’s best and deserved to unwind. They did just that.

It was the weekend, and many of the men and women stationed at nearby Aviano AFB were enjoying a little downtime, courtesy of their commanders and friendly locals. One of the hottest places in town was the Club Giovanni. Flashing lights, pulsating music, and free-flowing liquor made it a hot spot. Dancers, drinkers, and lovers packed the club; the majority were US service personnel and single Italian women looking for fun. Folks standing a few blocks away from the club could hear the loud music.

Several blocks from the club, the Bianchi family, including one hundred cousins, grandparents, and friends, were attending a wedding held at Saint Paul the Apostle Church. The church was over 400 years old and had served its parishioners well. The well-worn marble blocks stretched to the sky. The architecture denoted a time long ago when master Italian masons cut the finest stone. The roof and steeple recently renovated were visible from many angles of the city. The elegant wedding service was winding down. Women dressed in their finest clothes paraded out the door. For the most part the men ignored them taking time to discuss the loss of the local football team the day before. As the old church bells rang following the ceremony, the Bianchi family joined the gathered masses outside the old church.

Pia Bianchi, a young girl with beautiful looks, felt like she was walking on a cloud. The wedding of her older cousin had been magical. Her parents would stay late, but she was instructed to take her three younger sisters home. Still, not even an early bedtime could spoil this night. She dreamed of one day meeting her knight in shining armor and having her special wedding at the same church her family had attended for decades. She skipped down the narrow streets with her head in the clouds.

She passed two American service men in their drab olive clothes. Strapped to their sides were very large guns. She had seen them many times before, but her parents had told her not to talk to them. The guns seemed threatening, but the men never used them, and she quickly got used to their presence.

Marissa, Pia’s younger sister, skipped past her and stopped one of the men before Pia could react. Marissa held out her right hand and uttered the only word of English she knew: Candy? Her left hand hung at her side, clinging to Nanna, her bear, which went everywhere Marissa did.

The man she asked was Staff Sargent Jim Thompson. He looked at the girls and pulled out the tattered photo from his army-issued clothing. In his best Italian, he told his new friends that this was his special little girl. The other soldiers and MP’s laughed, Jim had tried his best to maintain his decorum, but the charming young Bianchi girls melted his heart. It made him think of his own three-month-old daughter back in North Carolina.

Pia thought he asked if Nanna was hungry, not understanding his attempt at Italian. Pia grabbed her younger sister and pulled her back. Pia spoke to them in Italian, Momma said we’re not to bother the soldiers.

Marissa pouted. Momma’s not here.

The soldiers jabbered on in English, speaking too fast for Pia to understand. I know Momma’s not here. She put me in charge.

Just ’cause you were in the wedding does not mean you’re the boss of me, Marissa shot back.

Pia pushed her sisters back. I’m the boss of you guys because Momma says so.

Marissa’s face tensed, and Pia knew what was coming. Pia jumped back, narrowly avoiding the kick that Marissa launched at her shin. You’d better stop it, Pia warned.

Or what? Marissa asked.

Or I’ll tell Mom, Pia responded.

Marissa pondered this for a moment. In a huff, she said, Fine.

Pia felt a hand tap her on the shoulder. She turned around to see that the American soldier was crouching and holding out his hand. In his palm sat a Snickers bar. Here, he said. He wanted to charm the four Bianchi girls.

Pia hesitated. Momma had warned them about taking candy from strangers, but the man’s face looked so pleasant and friendly. Besides, it was still in the wrapper. She looked at Marissa and the younger two sisters, whose eyes hungrily devoured the bar. She glanced back at the serviceman and snatched the bar. Thank you, She said in broken English.

He said something in English, but she didn’t understand it. Pia backed away, Marissa hanging close to her right arm, no doubt getting ready to grab the bar. The man stood up, and Pia turned and looked for a spot to divide the candy. Marissa and the other two sat awaiting their treat, and then they skipped off.

They rounded a corner, and Pia decided she could slow down. She came to a halt, and Marissa stopped beside her; the younger girls clung on to Marissa’s pretty white dress, each holding out their hand.

Pia opened the bar and split it down the middle, and then in quarters. She was not exact, and after a brief moment, she decided to give the bigger half to her sister. Momma always gave the bigger half away, and Pia wanted to be like her mother.

Marissa wolfed hers down, and the younger girls took their time. Pia took little bites, savoring the taste. Once they were finished, they continued on, passing by Sargent Jim once again and thanking him in Italian.

The girls spent a few minutes looking at the sights ahead, which included the large disco crowd gathering in front of the club. Sargent Jim used his best Italian and informed the girls he would escort them past the crowd for their safety. Pia agreed.

As they passed Club Giovanni, Pia paused to soak in the sights and sounds. Pia liked the loud, driving techno music that flooded out the door. People poured in and out of the club; most of them wore American uniforms, so Pia decided to keep a close eye on Marissa in case she decided to repeat her earlier stunt.

The music made Pia tap her feet; it was different from the music at the wedding. Pia felt certain that everyone would have liked it better. She figured only a few more years, and her mom might let her go dancing. As for her dad, she was not so sure about him.

As they approached the open door, Pia decided to stop and listen for a moment. She wanted to stay there forever, but Marissa tugged at her hand and whined, Come on. Pia shrugged her off. She wanted to finish the current song before she left.

Just down the street from Club Giovanni sat the Hotel Calcavechia, built in the 1800’s, and completely renovated and now reopened. On the fifth floor in room 507, Mustafa al-Kahlid was sitting by at the window looking toward the club. Another man, sitting at a table by the window, was talking quietly on a cell phone. The other peered through his high-power binoculars and observed the crowd outside the club. The man on the cell phone hung up from his short call. He then looked in his pocket and pulled out a card that had a handwritten phone number scratched on it. He looked closely at the card and then began to dial the number.

Better get away from the window, Mustafa. It’s going to blow to hell shortly.

The man finished dialing the number and waited until he heard a shrill noise connect. A fax machine would make same obnoxious noise.

Mustafa al-Kalid was a trained killer. He was a skinny, wiry little bastard who trained in the Al Qaeda camps on the border between Iran and Afghanistan. His mission was to do what the leader told him to do. He knew that if successful, he would be elevated in the chain of the club.

Within a matter of seconds, a massive explosion rocked the entire street. The fireball was intense as it came through the open window in room 507. The hotel room windows shattered.

Pia had lost herself in the beat of the disco music as the blast thundered, and then everything exploded. Shards of glass tore through her handmade flower-girl dress. The ground seemed to disappear for a moment, and then it rushed up to greet her all at once. The impact caused an explosion of pain to radiate from her right arm, and she felt a strange wetness form around her stomach. All sound had mostly disappeared, her hearing would not come back to her for a few days, only a ringing tone. The pain in her arm gave way to a competing pain in her stomach. She reached down to rub it, and a sharp, stabbing pain shot through her hands. She pulled her hands back, and they were covered with blood. She looked down and saw a large piece of glass sticking out of her stomach, and she began to cry and scream. What had happened to her? Was she going to die? Then a worse thought entered her head: Where were the other girls?

Pia tried to stand, but she could not. She then called for help, but her voice sounded miles away, and no one answered. She cast her eyes about. Where were Marissa and the two little ones? She saw something that looked like an arm, but no one was attached to it. A mute siren wailed in the distance. She briefly thought about lying back and waiting. Surely someone would come. However, she couldn’t wait—she had to find her sisters because she was in charge.

Pia pulled her body up until she was on all fours. She crawled over shards of broken glass and splintered wood. She supposed some of it might have stabbed into her hands and knees, but the funny thing was the pain seemed to be far away. Maybe it disappeared to the same place that the sound went.

Pia crawled for what felt like miles. Other people lay on the ground. Some moaned, and some lay perfectly still. None of them was Marissa. A man in a United States uniform lay motionless on the ground. Pia wondered if he was the man from before. Beyond him, she spotted Nanna. Wherever Nanna went, Marissa went.

Pia inched past the man, trying her best not to look at his face, but she had to know. Was he the man from before? She couldn’t help herself, and she stole a quick glance. His eyes were open, but they seemed to be missing something—they no longer felt friendly or seemed to radiate anything. It made her shudder, and she turned away and focused on Nanna.

Ten feet away, then five—Pia got closer and closer. At last she reached the bear. Red splotches stained its usually white fur. Something clung to its paw, but the thing wasn’t Marissa. It was some sort of monster, a clump of mangled flesh covered in blood and splintered bones. It didn’t even have a face. It wasn’t Marissa. Marissa had a face, Pia was sure of that.

The lights began to dim around Pia. She found it hard to think. Something else had splattered Nanna. She had to find Marissa. Marissa had a face.

Back in the hotel room 507, cries of Allah Akbar rang out. The man who had dialed the cell phone was elated. They both peered out of the demolished window in the direction of Club Giovanni. It was utter mayhem. There were people on the ground, bleeding and dying. Fire and smoke bellowed out of every window. The military police that survived the ordeal were quickly trying to secure the area. Sirens and screaming people ran from the blast area.

Mustafa’s assistant, Jaeel Amadi, began videotaping from his window. Get as many close-up shots as you can, Jaeel, Mustafa instructed. Brother Libi demanded this. I am sure he’ll want copies to go to Al Jazeera.

As soon as they were finished videotaping the horrible scene, Mustafa packed the camera and the two men left the room, looking to exit the hotel as quickly as possible. They decided to split up and meet later at the International Airport in Venice. Their plan was to fly to Cairo and then on to Islamabad, where they would have a rendezvous in a remote, mountainous region of Pakistan with Ramez al-Libi. Libi was one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, and he would be very pleased with their success. Libi was directly responsible for the deaths of nearly a thousand men, women, and children, from Southeast Asia to Europe and Mexico.

Back at the club, the petite white dress worn by Pia, which was handmade by their eighty-five-year-old grandmother, was soaked with blood. She lay motionless on the sidewalk as the panic-stricken survivors ran from the blast scene. Others began looking for any signs of survivors. Marissa, violently thrown fifty feet forward slamming her to the ground, passed out on top of Nana.

Sargent Jim Thompson received head wounds but made it his task to find the Bianchi girls. He quickly located Pia and rushed her to the ambulance that had just arrived on the scene. Pia clung to Nanna. Jim then spotted Marissa just up the street, bleeding from a head wound. He quickly ripped his T-shirt, wrapped her head, and put her in the ambulance with Pia. Across the street, he could see medics attending to the two little ones. He ran over to assess the situation before jumping in the ambulance with Pia and Marissa.

In a remote region of Pakistan, Ramez al-Libi awaited the news. He paced back and forth in his hovel in the remote regions of Pakistan. He had not been able to communicate in his normal manner because the United States had listening devices pointed from outer space on every remote part of the country. He had a sat phone and could use it occasionally in short bursts and in code. He was in a state of depression and desperately needed a bath. Surrounded by a band of rotten individuals who smelled equally as bad, Libi fretted over his dilemma. Compounding the situation was a pack of mules just outside of his makeshift house. He puked regularly from the smell of the animals.

His only reprieve was the satellite smart phone that he had received some days before. He stared at the phone for hours, but nothing was happening. He dared not make a call; if he did, a drone would rain hellfire down on him within a short time. Suddenly he received a cryptic text message from one of the Pordenone blast perpetrators who had the new sat phone number. Libi knew what it meant. Upon receiving the news, he yelled as loud as he could, Allah Akbar! September 11th is a wonderful day. The news of the Pordenone blast sent chills down his spine. He became ecstatic; he even left the hut to kiss one of the mules, a process he would regret moments later. Ramez al-Libi quickly ordered a breakdown of the camp and a move farther up the mountains; he knew they would be tracking his every move.

Back in Pordenone, Mustafa and Jaeel were trying to keep a very low profile. Mustafa and Jaeel decided to split up. Mustafa, kept one eye on the phone and the other on the hallway leading to the elevator. He saw several people scrambling about and trying to figure out what had just happened. They feared that the hotel was the next bombing attempt. Most of the hotel windows had been shattered in the blast. Mustafa looked toward exiting the hotel from the main entrance. He picked up his cadence as he spotted the stairway and scurried down to the ground floor. Mustafa, a trusted operative, had participated in several covert operations in Mexico, Somalia, and Iraq, and he always avoided capture. Raised in the streets of Cairo, a waif by all standards until recruited by a little-known terrorist cell beginning to gain prominence in Egypt, he was destined for Islamic greatness. In Egypt, they took him under their wing and educated him at the University of Cairo, where he became a diligent follower of Ayman al-Zawahiri, at that time the number-two leader of Al Qaeda. Mustafa would soon become the go-to killer.

Jaeel did not have the same extensive education and training as Mustafa. He was a middle operative assigned to assist Mustafa. As the camera operator, he was frantically looking to leave via a back entrance. He would make it to safety. A quick-thinking MP, under the direction of Sergeant Jim Thompson, stationed men at the front of the hotel. Mustafa thought he would be cunning and take advantage of the chaos to escape. As soon as Mustafa attempted to exit the hotel, quick thinking Military Police stationed at the entrance profiled him and ordered him to halt. He was hand cuffed, escorted into a room just behind the front desk, and pushed into a chair within a matter of seconds.

Two other men were sitting in the room, already handcuffed to a metal desk. A burly MP guarded the room with an automatic weapon. His superiors instructed him to remove every item the three had on them, including their cell phones. The two other detainees in the room were an elderly man and a night clerk. The clerk and the old man were in the wrong position at the wrong time. The clerk was going out to view the commotion on the street in front of the hotel; the old man had just delivered newspapers and was heading to his one-room flat on the other side of town.

Mustafa looked at the arresting officers with a menacing stare; he knew he was in deep trouble. As he sat there pondering his fate, he could hear the chatter in the outer room; it was the Americans talking on their phones. He surmised that they were updating their superiors. On the other side of the world, phones were ringing off the hook.

Jack Swift, a high-level manager with the CIA, received the call from Pordenone within twenty minutes of the incident. He was in Texas on a secure phone and had monitored events in Egypt, Tunisia, Libya and Yemen. Swift’s terrorist body count was legend throughout the Middle East.

Swift was now in direct communication with Sergeant Jim Thompson and Commanding General Ray Brooks, who were speaking to him from the local hospital. Swift ordered them to organize the forensic team and to get Thompson’s wounds treated and keep in touch. Thompson told Swift about the Bianchi girls, and it touched a heartstring in Swift. He told Thompson to make sure the family was isolated and taken care of.

Thompson went into action immediately in spite of his own wounds. Sergeant Thompson sat diligently at the bedside of Pia and her sisters until they regained consciousness. By that time, the Bianchi parents arrived at the emergency room. As soon as Pia regained here senses, she immediately hugged Jim Thompson and tried her best to explain the event to her family. Sargent Thompson had Nanna washed in the hospital laundry room, and when Marissa woke up, Nanna was safely in her arms. The news of the death of the two-year-old was more than Thompson could muster. He broke down in tears, the Bianchi family, who were also overwrought with grief, consoled him.

At the hotel, five hours passed before a senior military intelligence police officer made the scene. He entered the room to question the three detainees and quickly dismissed the old man and the clerk. He looked over the passport of the remaining suspect, who was Egyptian by his passport. Another officer looked at the cell phone and scrolled through the recently dialed numbers. He determined that there was probable cause to detain the man at the Aviano Air Force Base, and transported him for further interrogation.

More details were now coming to Agent Jack Swift, who immediately put a rapid-response force into play. He ordered two special agents to Italy; they were airborne within ninety minutes. He wrapped up loose ends and was on his way back to DC; upon return, he would take command of the situation.

In the early morning, hours just before the sunrise over the Eastern seaboard, a nondescript small passenger jet displaying US Air Force insignia gently touched down at Andrews AFB. A black town car with District of Columbia plates met the aircraft, and a tall man in a black suit exited the car to assist his passengers. The bright headlights from the car illuminated the tarmac where the small jet had come to a stop. Three men quickly stepped off the plane carrying oversized black duffel bags and black briefcases. The driver placed their luggage in the trunk and then scurried back into the car, and the vehicle sped away just as quickly as it had arrived. The car was heading for Twelfth and C Street in Washington, DC, the offices of the Department of Homeland Security. Swift worked cross border issues with the agency and maintained an office there. As the car came to a stop in a highly secured basement garage, one of the three passengers got out of the car, grabbed his belongings, and disappeared into an elevator. The car left the building and proceeded down C Street.

Jack Swift liked his work with the agency. His mission was to help lead the US effort to combat terrorism at home and abroad by analyzing the threat, sharing that information with other involved agencies, and integrating all instruments of national power to ensure unity of effort.

In Italy, that fateful night, fifty of the United States’ finest service men and women died in the bombing of Club Giovanni. Three little Bianchi girls, aged four to nine, severely injured by the terrorist attack, would recover. The youngest, a two year old, tragically died from her wounds. The girls had no clue it was September 11th or any idea that terrorism existed in their world.

CHAPTER 1

Washington, D.C.

T he elevator came to a jump stop on the fourth floor, and the lone occupant picked up his black bags and proceeded toward an unmarked office at the end of a long hallway. He was a tall man; at six foot four, he stood above most in the agency, and out of habit he turned and ducked his head to the right ever so slightly as he entered the office door.

Jack Swift was from Whitewright, a small town in North Texas whose population rarely exceeded 2,500. This usually included some livestock in the count so that the town could qualify for additional government benefits. The dirt was jet black. It had thrived as a small farming community forever.

Athletic and good-looking, Jack possessed a natural swagger. He had girlfriends but never married, he felt his line of work would not be conducive for a sustained marriage or a family. His border collie, Mootz, was more than enough of a companion for the time being.

After graduating with honors from Yale University, he went on to the University of Texas for his law degree. Right out of law school, Jack began to work for the Texas attorney general in the special enforcement group, handling gang violence, illegal immigration issues, and border concerns. He became the state liaison to the FBI. It did not take Swift long to rise within the AG’s office to a position of prominence and respect.

Jack joined the CIA just after 9-11. The hierarchy knew Swift’s work from his days in Texas and felt that Jack was a good hire. His first assignment landed him at Langley and he quickly began tracking Mustafa al-Kahlid, Ramez al-Libi, and several other members of the al-Qaeda club. His exhaustive research took him to the hot spots several times a year where he would regularly question detainees. Some were obstinate and some were cooperative.

His line of work took him to Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Southeast Asia, and Mexico; he was always in harm’s way. One day, acting on fresh intelligence, Swift slipped into Reynosa, a quaint Mexican border town, just over the river from McAllen, Texas. As standards dictated, Jack left all of his identification in the States before his departure. He took along a Columbian passport and identification. He knew tensions between the US and Mexico were high. He could not screw up the mission. Jack spoke fluent Spanish, along with French, Italian, German and several Middle Eastern languages. The agency received word that Arturo Gomez, a wanted fugitive and drug cartel leader, was in Reynosa at the home of a fellow cartel chief. Gomez had been responsible for the death of 4 US Border Patrol agents and over 150 Mexican citizens.

Sometime after three in the morning, Jack and his back up arrived across the uneven brick street from the home where Gomez had been located. A poor cook from the home provided the agency with a crude layout of the compound. Rewarded with cash, it was more money that he ever made in a single year. The cook stayed in a hotel room with a CIA agent until Jack’s mission was completed. Jack had determined that it was best to make it a two-man mission. The original plan called for an all-out assault with a large team. Swift felt that the agency did not need the publicity and the anger of the citizens of Reynosa. The huge walled compound covered a city block. As Jack surveyed the outer perimeter, he found the spot the cook indicated would be the best point to scale the outer wall. Jack motioned for the second agent to get the ropes and then instructed the driver to keep watch. They agents and driver had state of the art communication devices in case of a problem. Well-armed with two handguns, two knives and a grenade strapped to their belts they headed for the wall. The white stucco compound, surrounded by a 15-foot wall, would be a challenge. Jack quietly secured a thick rope to the top of the wall on a wooden support beam. The two quickly scaled the wall bringing the rope to the opposite side for their escape. Things in the compound seemed extremely quiet. The second agent would keep back as Jack would make the assault on his own. As he moved to the back of the house and the guest quarters where Gomez would be sleeping, he noticed two armed guards sleeping by the main house. Jack put two fingers up and pointed to the sleeping guards to inform the second agent of their whereabouts. The second agent kept a gun pointed at the guards. Jack arrived at the guest cottage and slowly put his hand on the doorknob to the front door. He was startled to find it unlocked. Jack slipped by the sleeping guards without making a sound. He quietly pulled his Beretta Px4 45 caliber Storm Special. It was equipped with a silencer and laser. Jack spotted the bedroom and heard a loud snoring noise coming from the room. He approached the door slowly. As he surveyed the room, he spotted a half-dressed woman at the foot of the bed. Gomez was sound asleep and snoring at a high pitch. Jack focused his laser on the head of Gomez. Three shots to the head and two to the torso. Blood and brain matter spattered all over the bed. The wet matter hit the woman in the face and she bolted out of bed and begun to scream. He turned and headed for his escape. The woman’s blood curdling scream startled the sleeping security guards who jumped to their feet and made a beeline to the guest cottage. The second agent quickly dispatched the first guard, the second guard made it to the cottage. Swift hid behind a couch as the guard burst into the room guns blazing and pointed to the ceiling. The noise startled two other sentries who came running from the main house. The house guards lighted up the courtyard. Jacks back up headed toward the cottage and began to open fire he took out one of the house guards leaving one who ran toward the side of the house to take cover. Jack managed three shots killing the one guard still in the cottage. Jack bolted toward his escape. As he approached, the point where he originally scaled the wall three shots rang out. The second agent was waiting at the top of the wall. He quickly spotted two other guards headed for Jack. He managed to shoot one of the two. The second ducked behind a large planter and took aim at the two CIA agents. Jack focused on his escape back over the wall. He grabbed the rope and motioned for the other agent to help him. As he began to scale the wall, he felt pain under his right armpit. A bullet that glanced off the inlayed patio brick struck him. He managed with great pain to get over the wall and into the awaiting car that sped away. Jack suffered minor wounds, but was at work the next day.

The news of Gomez’ death spread rapidly. Mexican officials decried the shooting and the actions by the US. The liberal US media tried to make an issue of the killing, no one paid attention. The Mexican cartel chiefs had photo files of various US law enforcement types. They posted pictures of specific agents around Reynosa offering a sizeable reward for their death—they wanted heads on a platter. Jack was not one of the posted photos. None of this deterred Swift from his goal. He got revenge for the deaths of the US Border Patrol Agents and was satisfied.

The CIA Director felt it was time for Jack to get away from the Mexican Border. He was given a special assignment to locate an Iranian nuclear physicist. Dr. Mustafa Ahmadi had been tracked by Israeli Mossad to Sarbandar near Bandar Imam Khomeini, a small seaport town 47 miles from Iraq and 70 miles from Kuwait.

Meier Hadara was one of the best the Mossad had to offer. He was a short bald headed man who looked more like a gift shop owner rather than a vicious trained killer. Jack worked with Hadara some years back in Cairo. Some of the Muslim Brotherhood’s top command was eliminated through the efforts of Hadara and Jack.

Mossad had directed Hadara to track the physicist Dr. Ahmadi and then turn the eradication over to Jack. Hadara documented his every movement even down to when he took a crap. Hadara knew Ahmadi would travel to Sarbandar every two weeks to spend time with his family. The Ahmadi home in Sarbandar was on the corner of a quiet street. Jack spent two days in disguise in Sarbandar making his final plan. The kill was too easy. Ahmadi arrived at his home right on time as Hadara said he would. It was well after dark and no one was around. As Ahmadi slowly exited his aging Mercedes, he moved slowly back to open the trunk to gather his suitcase. Jack took two shots with his PX45 from a distance of ten feet. Ahmadi slumped into the trunk and then Jack pushed the rest of his body inside then grabbed Ahmadi’s brief case and suitcase and then quietly shut the trunk taking the keys with him. Just around the corner, a car was waiting with a driver to take Jack to the Iraqi border. They sped through the town and into the desolate desert avoiding annoying dust devils as they headed for the border and then into Kuwait and safety.

Jack and Hadara met up at a US installation outside of Kuwait City. From there they were flown to Tel-Aviv. They spent several hours debriefing various Mossad Directors and going through material found in Ahmadi’s brief case. A Farsi translator working for Mossad translated all of the information. Of particular interest to Jack was a five page document regarding Iranian National Planning of purchases stolen cesium chloride (CsCl) to make a radiological dispersal device (RDD), or dirty bomb. Jack knew this scenario well. Jack was responsible for