Flash Point

6

Sami looked around the conference room. He was just starting to get to know the other members of the task force. All were members of the CTC, the Counter-Terrorism Center of the CIA. The CTC had been in operation for years on the ground floor of CIA Headquarters in Langley. There were two hundred men and women permanently assigned to the CTC, and their cubicles were separated by “streets.” Signs hung from the ceiling that spoke volumes of what they were about: Abu Nidal Blvd, and Tamil Tiger Terrace, and Osama bin Lane, named after Osama bin Laden, one of their greatest and longest running frustrations.

Sami had walked through the area a few times before, but only to answer a specific question. He was not a member of the CTC. He was just an analyst from the Middle East Section who happened to research emerging terrorist groups. But Kinkaid knew about him. He had insisted on Sami and Cunningham joining the new task force.

The conference room that had been set aside for it was in the middle of the CTC, surrounded by people who spent every waking minute tracking terrorists and dreaming of the day when another one would be caught or somehow defanged.

Sami’s analysis was still raw, and might be shown to be ridiculous at any moment. He was uncomfortable briefing anyone about it. He didn’t even know what he believed yet. It was just speculation. But Kinkaid had looked ill when Sami had first brought his ideas to him. He had insisted he tell the task force immediately.

He wasn’t sure exactly how to begin. Almost all of his work ended up in reports or memos. He had never given a brief to anyone from the DO, the Directorate of Operations, the ones who actually went out into the world and put their lives on the line to accumulate intelligence or effect things. He felt like the water boy to the football players.

The task force had assembled early. They had a 7:30 a.m. meeting scheduled, but Kinkaid had asked them all to be there at 6:30 to hear Sami. They were interested, but skeptical. They drank coffee and sat in their chairs around the large table, waiting. Kinkaid signaled Sami, who got up from his seat in the front and walked to the podium.

“As some of you know, I’ve been looking at emerging terrorist groups in the Middle East for a long time. My job is to recognize a new group before they know they’re a group. You get all kinds, the young boys who have delusions of grandeur, people who want an Islamic state, people who hate the West, or Israel, or the ones who want money and are trying to figure out what they need to say to get that. You’ve heard about them all.”

“Right,” one of them said, encouraging him to go on.

“As you know from my preliminary memo, I read a report from NSA the other day about an intercept—”

“What kind?” someone asked.

“Cell phone.”

“Where?”

“Eastern Lebanon.”

“What did it say?”

“Nothing, really—”

Kinkaid didn’t like the exchange and prompted Sami. “What about it gave you concerns?”

“A name.”

“What was that?”

“A man was talking about a meeting. To discuss Gaza. Clearly a reference to the attack.” Sami looked around and went on. “He talked about a time and place, which didn’t make a lot of sense, but then, signing off, the man on the other end was talking to someone else. Like he’s got to explain who he’s talking about. It’s a little hard to hear, they think because he put his hand over the phone, but he said ‘Sheikh al-Jabal.’ “

Ricketts, slouched in his chair, said, “So?”

“It’s the name of a legendary leader of the eleventh century. Others later used his name to sort of carry on a tradition. Marco Polo even met his successor, who carried the same title. He called him the Old Man of the Mountains. But the name he called himself is the same name that has been passed down through the centuries, Sheikh al-Jabal. He started an empire from a fortress in western Iran called Alamut. They were called the Hashasheen.”

“Hash smokers? When?” Ricketts asked, suddenly hearing the “eleventh century” part of what Sami had said.

Sami looked at his notes. “To be exact 1090.”

“What the hell does—”

Kinkaid cut him off. “You think I asked him to tell you this because it has nothing to do with what we’re doing?” Kinkaid’s look shut him up.

Kinkaid nodded to Sami.

“So this guy gets boys, twelve years old or so, and raises them to adulthood in his gardens. Big fortress, gardens, the whole thing. Calls it paradise. Then when it’s time for one of them to kill for him, he just tells him he will return to paradise if he does the killing—”

“Tie it in,” Kinkaid said.

Sami Haddad looked at their eyes, which showed both interest and skepticism. “The Hashasheen were formed during the Crusades. They terrorized the Crusaders, killing many of them, but staying out of the typical battles. They would sneak up on the Crusaders and cut their throats. They were the forerunners of modern terrorists. Born killers, who would gladly die for the cause, which is defined by the current Sheikh al-Jabal.

“They basically disappeared, but there have always been rumors of their existence, all the way from Lebanon, to Egypt, to Iran, to Pakistan. This is the first time since the early nineteenth century that someone called himself Sheikh al-Jabal. That time they fought for Napoleon’s interests in the Middle East for money. So if this is new, and he is what he claims to be, it could be huge trouble. They have no friends. They’ve always been ostracized by Muslims too. They’re considered heretics. So they don’t trust anyone. Unless you grew up with them, you’re the enemy.”

Kinkaid looked at their faces. They weren’t sure what to think. They’d never heard of anything like it. Kinkaid spoke first. “If for some reason this guy is the one who started the fight in Gaza, he’s way ahead of where our knowledge is. We’re playing catch-up. Ricketts, we got anything that can get close to these guys?”

Ricketts was more at home in a foreign country disguised as a beggar than in a conference room with a bunch of eggheads. It showed. “Not right now.”

One of the officers to Ricketts’s right spoke quietly. “What’s this about hashish?”

“Nothing about hashish. It’s what they were called, the Hashasheen. It has nothing to do with the drug — “ Sami answered, but was interrupted again.

“Then why were they called that?”

“It’s a mystery. Some think it is because they did use hashish. But the best explanation I’ve found is that Hashasheen is close to the Arabic word for guardian. These guys consider themselves not only the guardians of Islam, but the guardians of the Middle East, from invaders and infidels.”

“They call themselves that?”

“Yes. But Hashasheen sounds like another word in English and other languages,” Sami said. “Assassin. It’s where the word assassin comes from. These guys invented assassination as a political tool.”

The room was quiet as the task force members pondered what he had said.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Kinkaid declared. He looked at Ricketts. “You getting any HUMINT?” Human Intelligence, information from people. Spies.

Ricketts sat silently before answering. “A little. Nothing useful yet.”

“Keep working it. Need any help?”

Ricketts shook his head.

Vialli stood in front of the church of San Marco in Venice. He looked at his watch. He had told Irit in his e-mail that he would be there at 11 a.m.; but she hadn’t replied. It was now 9:30; the large square was quiet. A few people wandered around, vendors pushed their carts, and people walked to work at the shops around the square, which was nearly empty. It was cold and damp. Pulling up the collar of his brown leather jacket, he exhaled and watched his breath. It was the same color as the sky and the river to his left.

“Hi, Tony.”

Vialli spun around at the sound of Irit’s voice. “Irit!” he said, surprised. “How did you sneak up on me?” He reached for her, not sure what to do. He gave her a side hug.

She rose on her toes and kissed him softly on his cheek. “As soon as I came into the square I saw this American staring at the church with his hands in his pockets. Who else could it be?” She smiled.

“I’m conspicuous?” he asked, feigning injury.

“You may look Italian, but you look more American.”

“What can I say?” he said. “Look at this church. It’s made out of tile.”

“It’s not made of tile, it’s just that the outside is tiled.”

“That’s what I meant.” He looked down at her. “I asked Sean to come along this morning. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Sure. He’s very nice. By the way, I have to go back to Trento by this afternoon.” She saw his disappointment as soon as she had said it. “I’m sorry. I just have to get back.”

“Why?”

“I just have to be back.”

“No problem.” He studied her face, reacquainting himself with her. She was even prettier than he had remembered, but not as tall. “I kind of wanted to go on a gondola ride, if it isn’t too cold.”

“Okay,” she said. “We can sit close together to stay warm.”

“Here he comes,” he said, running down the four steps to wave at Sean from across the square. Irit followed behind him.

Woods saw them and walked down the middle of the colorful square. “Hey,” Woods said to them. “Sorry I made you late.”

“Actually, you’re early,” Vialli replied.

“Hello,” Irit added.

“So what’s the plan?” Woods asked.

“Do the gondola thing.”

“Cool. Where do you want to go?”

“Just drive around. See the buildings, you know.” Tony looked at the sky. “I just wish it would clear up. It’s kind of cold.”

“It’s okay. Let’s do it. Then we can get a cappuccino or something.”

They walked back across the square toward the canal that ran parallel to the face of San Marco. Vialli said, “I spotted some gondola guys over here.”

They all followed. The sky was breaking up and blue was showing through the wispy cloud cover. The chop in the canal had settled down and the cold biting wind began to grow quiet. They arrived at the edge of the water, which was nearly level with the square. “How do they keep the water from flooding?” Vialli asked.

“It does flood,” Irit replied. “The city is slowly sinking and it gets worse every year.”

“Nothing like sinking and being surrounded by water.”

“How about this one?” Irit said, pointing to a large black gondola.

Vialli shrugged. She spoke rapid Italian to the man and they stepped in at the middle of the boat while the driver held it steady with his oar. They walked carefully to the back of the gondola and were about to sit down when a wave from a passing motorboat rocked the boat roughly. Irit stumbled, catching herself with her hand on the seat. Vialli grabbed the side of the gondola and steadied himself. He had begun to move aft again to sit down when he noticed Irit’s right hand. She had only her thumb and middle finger. It looked like a claw. The rest of her hand was gone. He felt a cold knot in his stomach as he stared at it, unable to avert his eyes. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before — he had been with her for hours over several days in Naples and had never noticed her right hand. Vialli looked at Woods. He had seen it.

Irit quickly withdrew her hand and turned to sit facing forward. She looked into his face as he avoided her look. He sat to her left and leaned into the red padded seat back. Irit spoke again in Italian and their gondolier moved them quickly away from the landing.

They sat in silence as the boat moved quickly down the canal. Vialli found himself breathing harder than usual. He watched the passing buildings, feigning interest, to avoid looking at Irit. After several minutes passed awkwardly, she spoke to him softly. “Does it make that much difference?”

“What?” he replied.

“My hand.” She looked at her feet. “I guess you hadn’t seen it before.” She hesitated, then studied his face. “I’m very good at hiding it. I’ve had time to practice. Some people who consider themselves my friends don’t know, or at least don’t show that they know. But most people are so shocked when they notice that they can’t help reacting.” She leaned forward slightly to look into his eyes. “Like you did. Will it matter? Do you think less of me?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “How could it matter?”

“People react. They can’t help how they feel, and it makes a difference. Will it make a difference with you?”

“No. I just thought you were left-handed.”

“I am.”

“No, I mean naturally left han… never mind.” He looked at a house they were passing. The main door faced the canal, and there were steps leading down to the water directly in front of them. The door was three feet above the water level. “Do you have to take a boat to get to that house? I mean, when the guy goes to work every morning, does he have to take a boat?”

“Some of them do, but most either walk, or some have cars. Many of the houses have streets or alleys behind them in which they can walk or drive. Most cars aren’t allowed in Venice, but some can have them. I haven’t quite understood that yet.”

Vialli sat quietly and watched the houses go by. “I’m sorry I reacted. I thought I was bigger than that.”

Irit smiled at him. “Don’t feel bad, it’s natural. Most people wonder what happened to me. They think I was involved in some horrible accident, and want to pity me. But I was born like this. Nothing I can do about it. I won’t hold it against you. But you mustn’t hold it against me either.”

“How could I hold it against you?”

“Some boys, men, that I’ve dated, cool on me very quickly after they notice. I think they believe I am somehow defective, or worthless…”

“No way—”

“Let me finish.” She sighed. “I know they don’t mean to, but they do. They see me as an incomplete person. It isn’t intentional, but some men can’t get over it.” She looked down again, and was quiet.

Vialli knew she had seen his shock and dismay. He hated himself for reacting at all.

Sean was carefully studying anything that would require him to turn his head.

“There’s more,” she said quietly.

“What?”

Irit sat back and put her head on his shoulder. He moved his arm around her. She spoke softly. “I’m not Italian.”

He pulled back slightly and looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not from Trento. I don’t even live in Italy. My cousin lives in Trento and I come to visit her once in a while. That’s why I’m here. Then I travel around Italy because I love it. But I don’t live here.”

“Where do you live?”

“Nahariya.”

Vialli looked at her uncomprehendingly, his mouth open. “Where?”

“Israel.”

Vialli’s mouth stayed open. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know where to start. “Are you…”

“Jewish?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course.”

“I’m Catholic.”

“I know.”

Vialli stared past her at a small square that was full of shops. The light cascaded out of the shops and reflected on the wet pavement. It looked magical. Gondolas were lining up to unload. “Does it matter?” he asked finally.

“Not to me. Does it matter to you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m not very Catholic.”

She smiled at him for the first time since they’d gotten into the gondola. “I’m not very religious either. My family is not Orthodox or anything.”

“If we see each other would your parents be upset?”

Irit looked at him with her gorgeous eyes. “Probably.”

“Does that matter?”

“A little.”

“Are we going to see each other?”

She shrugged. “That’s up to you. You’ve gotten two surprises today, and I doubt you liked either one very much. It will depend on you, I think.”

Vialli sat in turmoil. “Why didn’t you tell me from the first?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you would find me more interesting if I were Italian. Being Israeli can be quite a burden.”

Vialli considered what he had just heard. “I want to see you again.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Two people who love Italy who aren’t from Italy? We’re perfect for each other.” He watched the boats that passed the other way.

Woods caught his eye. With an immediate exchange of looks Woods asked him if everything was okay, and Vialli told him things were fine. Woods focused his attention back on the sights.

Vialli spoke. “When am I going to see you again?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Where is your next port?”

“Naples I think, but it’s not for a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll be back home by then.”

He breathed in sharply. “This isn’t going to be easy, you know.”

“I know. Most good things aren’t.”

He nodded. “We’re gonna be in Israel in about a month.”

“I know. You told me.”

“I guess that will be it. Our next chance to be together.” He thought for a moment. “And after that, I won’t see you again before we head back to the States unless you can meet me somewhere.”

“I’d like to see you sooner.” She pursed her lips. “I’m going to miss you.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently. She kissed him back.

“You’re amazing,” he said.

She looked at him curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. You’re so… together. You aren’t like all the silly girls I’ve dated. You’re just… different.”

She smiled but said nothing. “I need to get back.”

“You just got here.” He sat up straight as if he had just thought of something. “I’d like you to meet the guys. Want to walk with me to the hotel where we’re staying?”

“I don’t have time.”

“Sure you do.”

The gondola came to a gentle stop where they had started. They climbed out and walked to a café at the corner of the square. They sat down at a worn wooden table, grateful for the warmth.

“What’ll you have?” Vialli asked.

“Cappuccino for me,” Woods said enthusiastically.

Vialli looked at Irit. She shook her head. “I have to get going. I need to get the train back to Trento. I didn’t really even have time for this morning, but I’m glad I came.” She stood up and adjusted her coat with her left hand.

“You sure?” Vialli asked.

She nodded. “Send me an e-mail when you know where you’ll be next. We’ll see if there’s some way to get together.”

“Sure,” he said. He was dying at the idea of her walking away. “Are you going to the train station?”

“Yes. I have about an hour to get there.”

“I’ll walk you,” he said, deciding suddenly. “Okay with you?” he asked Woods.

“Sure. I’m going to go to the admin. I’ll probably just crash. I’m beat.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You going to come back here or go to the ship?”

“I’ll meet you back at the admin.”

“Okay,” Woods said. He finished his coffee quickly and put the cup down softly on the saucer, then looked for the waiter to order another. “It was nice to see you again,” he said to Irit.

She averted his gaze. “Did you hear what I told Tony?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you have your reasons,” he said, not giving her the complete forgiveness she expected.

“There’s really no excuse. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled.

Vialli watched Irit, thankful for the opportunity to observe her as she talked to someone else. “I’ll see you in a while,” he said to Woods, walking out with his arm around her.

“Bye,” she said to Woods as they went through the door.

Vialli took her left hand in his and they walked down the street toward an arching bridge that rose up over a canal. He stopped on the bridge and said, “What time is your train?”

“One o’clock.”

“We’ve still got forty-five minutes. How far away is the train station?”

“It’s a pretty good walk.”

He put one hand on the bridge rail and looked past her. He knew he had to bring it up again. “You could see I was shocked,” he said.

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry about. It happens.”

“I expected better of myself.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to be with me now out of pity or something. Like now. You held my hand. Why?”

Vialli was pierced. “Because I care. Why do you think?”

“So you can show me you’re not holding it against me. And so you can think better of yourself.”

“Come on, Irit. Give me some credit.” He was growing frustrated. He couldn’t say anything right. “I really do care for you. I haven’t felt like this before,” he blurted.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever known.” He turned toward her and touched her face. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, tentatively, unsure of himself, not about how he felt, but about how she would respond. He was afraid. He broke off the kiss before it became a commitment. He kept his face next to hers and put his hands on her waist. She put her hands on his waist at the same time. The bridge was deserted. There was no one to be seen along the road. Two gondolas made their way under the bridge in opposite directions but took no notice of them.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Enough of that. We have to get past it,” she said softly.

He kissed her again and felt her warmth as she pressed against him. He was glad not to have to explain himself anymore. She understood and didn’t hold it against him. She was remarkable. She had forgiven him at a level beyond where he was entitled to it. He kissed her deeply. He put his arms around her and held her tightly as he kissed her, his desire for her growing with every moment.

“We need to get to the train station.”

“Stay the night, here in Venice,” he pleaded.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You said you weren’t working, what’s the hurry?”

“I just can’t.”

He leaned back and looked into her eyes. “Why?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not? What could you possibly not tell me about?”

“It’s personal.”

He studied her. “You still don’t trust me.”

“I absolutely do.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“I want to spend more time with you. This just isn’t good enough. There’s so much to say.” He kissed her again. “There’s so much to do.”

“I know. Next time. I promise. I have to go. Come to the train with me. Ride the train with me,” she said suddenly.

“What? I can’t go to Trento.”

“No, just buy a ticket to one of the stops on the way, then get off, and ride the next one back. You’ll be back in a couple of hours, and we can sit together for a while in the warm compartment. Maybe we’ll have one to ourselves…” She smiled as she took his hand.

“Let’s go,” he agreed finally. “Sounds like just the thing.”