To The Death Part 23

For Captain Abad, this was hugely significant because it meant his ship could dive to six hundred feet and move quietly on her way, far from the prying eyes of the heavily fortified British naval base, which traditionally scours these waters night and day for signs of a rogue submarine-or anything else that might consider stepping out of line.

The Brits, of course, have irrevocable links with Gibraltar and, with their American allies, quietly control the only entrance to the Mediterranean from the Atlantic. Spain has never been very thrilled with this incontrovertible truth and has several times stamped its Iberian boot with anger. In fact, none of the Mediterranean countries-France, Italy, Greece, and the North African group-are crazy about this arrangement.

But the two heavyweights at the Atlantic entrance have never been inclined to listen to anything. Except for submarines. But there was a smile on the face of Captain Abad as he ordered the only soundless creature in the sea to go deep . . . bow down ten-make your speed five, steer course two-seven-zero. bow down ten-make your speed five, steer course two-seven-zero.

Slowly the Kilo ran through the Strait, pa.s.sing deep beneath the ferryboat from Gibraltar to Tangier and then accelerating steadily through the final miles, until the seaway widened to twenty-seven miles between Cape Trafalgar and Cape Spartel to the south. The Atlantic Ocean lies beyond that point on the navigator's chart.

Immediately after they crossed that unseen line on the ocean's surface, Captain Abad ordered a course change, forty degrees to three-one-zero. Ahead of them was a dead-straight 180-mile run across the Gulf of Cadiz to the southwestern tip of Portugal, Cape St. Vincent, and then north up the Atlantic to Ireland.

Ravi enjoyed spending time with the navigation officer, Lt. Alaam. They had each been born in the eastern Iranian province of Kerman, and the Hamas C-in-C liked to hear stories of the land of his birth. But today, when the hectic journey of the submarine had highlighted his concern over his wife, he felt curiously out of place.

Peering over the shoulder of the Iranian lieutenant, he could see on the computerized chart the two most famous capes on the Iberian Peninsula, each of them the scene of a t.i.tanic British naval victory two hundred years ago-Trafalgar, where Admiral Lord Nelson had destroyed the French and the Spanish in 1805, and St. Vincent, where Admiral John Jervis had crushed the huge Spanish fleet eight years earlier. General Rashood felt an instant connection with these names from a schoolboy past. It was an unspoken pride that n.o.body else in this submarine could possibly understand.

And, for the briefest of moments, he wondered what the h.e.l.l he could possibly be doing, surrounded by renegade jihadists, on his way to a.s.sa.s.sinate one of America's most revered naval figures. It was, without question, the most mutinous thought that had ever crossed his mind since he had crossed the line and become a Holy Warrior in the cause of Islam, eight years before.

But, quickly, he pulled himself together, and he thought of Shakira and the merciless way her two very young children had been gunned down by a British Army sergeant in that h.e.l.lhole of a battle in Hebron. And, of course, he knew there was no going back. Not now. It was too late. Much too late. All he could do was to hope his beautiful wife would be awaiting him in Ireland. Because, if she was not there, he now believed there was nothing left for him. Not in this life. Except for blood, sorrow, death, and tears, and a cause he believed might not be won.

They reached Cape St. Vincent at 1900 hours and made another turn to the north, heading out into deep Atlantic water, with three thousand feet below the keel. They ran at twelve knots now, at PD, which meant they would cover close to three hundred miles each day. It was Wednesday evening, July 11, and Shakira should be looking for Ravi on Monday, at the Great Mosque on the outskirts of Dublin.

It was thus essential that the Hamas military commander reach the sh.o.r.es of Ireland on Monday morning, because he would still be two hundred miles from Dublin. And he needed to make that journey un.o.btrusively, attracting no attention, revealing absolutely nothing about himself, leaving no imprint on anyone's memory.

One of the main drawbacks in being a terrorist was the necessity to eliminate your enemy completely. No trace could ever be left; no one could still be walking around with knowledge of you, however slight. Which was why, broadly, Matt Barker had perished.

Ravi understood his own situation as well as Shakira had understood hers. If, during his forthcoming journey across the Emerald Isle, any Irishman tried to get too close, or was too persistent, then Ravi would have no choice. The stakes were too high, the risks too great. It was costing $100,000 just to get him to West Cork. No one must interfere with his mission, however well-meaning.

And again, in this mood of self-examination, General Rashood wondered about his wife. Just what had gone wrong? And where was she? She had not tried to make contact again, but how could she? There was no cell-phone reception deep under the sea. Maybe she had tried. Maybe Shakira had cried out for help. Help that he could not provide. For all he knew, she could be in Guantanamo Bay, being interrogated by the servants of that evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d Admiral Morgan.

This particular thought sent that old familiar ramrod of steely resolve up his spine. If Shakira was in Cuba, he would make sure she was the last person Morgan ever sent there. And then, somehow, he and his warriors would get her out. "Can't this thing go any faster?" he asked Captain Abad.

"Sorry, General. This is top speed. We must be patient. The worst part is over."

1100 Thursday 12 July National Security Agency.

Lt. Commander Ramshawe called Detective Joe Segel down in Brockhurst every day. And both of them were growing increasingly depressed. The detective was heartily sick of chasing the impossible shadow of Carla Martin, and Jimmy was growing more and more concerned for the safety of Arnold Morgan.

He had alerted a.s.sociates at the FBI and the CIA that the admiral would need more security during his trip to England. He had consulted with the Secret Service agents at the White House and requested extra vigilance at British ports of entry through which a would-be a.s.sa.s.sin might pa.s.s.

Jimmy had even had the FBI search through the airport records in Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston for any pa.s.senger who had bought an expensive one-way transatlantic ticket on the night of the murder-either to London, Paris, or any of the big European terminals: Amsterdam, Bonn, Hamburg, Madrid, Rome, Milan, or Geneva. Nothing popped up.

Neither Jimmy nor the FBI gave one thought to Dublin, simply because it's not a big enough onward-journey airport. London probably has twenty international flights going anywhere you could name, anywhere in the world, to Dublin's one. Same with Paris and the rest. One call to Aer Lingus would almost certainly have revealed that last Tuesday morning, a woman named Maureen Carson had turned up at the airport and paid more than six thousand dollars with her American Express card to travel on the 10:30 A.M. flight to Dublin.

Such pa.s.sengers are quite rare, people with no bookings or reservations, only going one way, plainly acting on a spur-of-the-moment decision. Even a bank robber would have found time for preliminary arrangements. Murder can of course be slightly less predictable.

And Carla had slipped through the net, with a lot of savvy and a bit of luck. Jimmy, armed with a lot of facts, but not enough certain knowledge, was unable to close in. There were too many gaps, especially the one in Dublin airport.

The other problem was that no one was very impressed with Jimmy's diagnosis of the situation. Like the admiral himself, it seemed no one could take seriously the vanishing barmaid as some kind of latter-day Mata Hari. Everyone was polite. But no one was convinced of the danger posed by the lady who had journeyed to Brockhurst with one mission in mind.

What really got to Jimmy was the fact that this Carla Martin had plainly succeeded in her mission. In a very few short days, she had moved in, befriended Arnold's mother-in-law, and found, almost to the hour, the time of their departure, their destination, and their hotel. The Australian lieutenant commander, on this unproductive morning, was mildly surprised that Carla, or whoever the h.e.l.l she was, had not managed to come up with the room number or Arnie's breakfast order-so some f.u.c.king terrorist can get in there and poison the b.l.o.o.d.y eggs and bacon.

Those heavily connected facts and thoughts were quite sufficient for Jimmy's antennae to start vibrating. But the clincher was the antiseptic precision of "Carla's" departure. She had carefully erased every detail, sneaked around taking things out of the hotel files, signed for her apartment under a different name, handed over thousands of dollars. And left nothing behind. She had had no car, but there was obviously a 24-hour chauffeur to transport her everywhere: a chauffeur for whom someone was paying, with cash that had not come out of a barmaid's wages . . . not to mention the b.l.o.o.d.y dagger, the one with "Syria" carved on the blade in Arabic. not to mention the b.l.o.o.d.y dagger, the one with "Syria" carved on the blade in Arabic.

Jimmy's montage of facts sounded fine when he had them all together. It was simply one of those conundrums that did not play well to a third party. Too many little things, too much lack of one big overwhelming fact that could not be disputed. On the phone Jimmy could sense people growing more bored by the minute, thinking silently, "Shut up, Jim, the admiral's going to be fine. None of this adds up to an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt on Admiral Morgan."

Lt. Commander James Ramshawe knew better. Or at least he thought he did. He checked the airline schedules to London from Washington on Monday night, July 30. Arnie and Kathy would travel first-cla.s.s on a U.S. airline, the trip arranged by the White House travel department. That would almost certainly be American Airlines, departing 2115, arriving Heathrow around 0830. They'd be at the Ritz by 1015 on Tuesday morning. In Jimmy's mind, thanks to "Carla," a Middle Eastern terrorist organization knew all that as well as he did.

He'd already had the Secret Service call the London emba.s.sy to ensure that the admiral always traveled in a bulletproof car. He'd asked for extra agents, he'd asked the FBI to alert Scotland Yard that there might be an attempt on Arnie's life, he'd had the CIA check in with the British secret services MI-5 and MI-6, just to keep everyone on high alert.

But he was still worried. He needed a bodyguard for Arnold Morgan, an experienced operator who would treat the subject as hair-trigger dangerous, as Jimmy himself did. And he did not know such a man, not one who would be available to drop everything and go to London with Arnie and Kathy. Everyone was so stretched these days, and the military would not have sufficient personnel to help out. Everyone was too busy chasing the G.o.dd.a.m.ned insurgents in Iraq, Iran, or Afghanistan.

But he would not give up. He realized, alone above all other high-placed officials in government circles, that "Carla" had done her work. That something was going to happen.

2300 Friday 13 July Tipperary, Ireland.

Shakira was back in the Cashel Palace Hotel. She'd had a farewell Irish coffee with Dennis and retired to bed. The maids had drawn the curtains in her room and turned down the bed. But before she climbed between the spotless linen sheets, she drew back the curtains so she could see the illuminated outline of the Rock of Cashel, which was beginning to seem like an old friend.

Like most terrorists, Shakira Rashood slept only fitfully, awakening every two hours, alert for danger, her long fishing knife tucked under the pillow. She liked to see the ramparts of the Rock against the night sky, and she loved to contemplate its age and the centuries it had stood there, rising from a gra.s.sy plain, a place of kings and bishops, saints and choristers, Romans and Normans.

For a while she lay there, lost in the kind of peaceful speculation that so often eluded her because of the terrors of her calling. And then her mind moved on, back down to Mizen Head, where she had gazed upon great waters. And she pictured again those mighty acres of the Atlantic, dark now, flecked with whitecaps, nightcaps, far above the black submarine that was speeding through the depths, unseen, bringing her husband home to her.

Home? Could there ever be a home, like those of other people? Even the poorest of her people had homes, perhaps small, perhaps even squalid, but she and Ravi had nothing. The last home they had in Damascus had been bombed to smithereens by-she believed-the Israeli Mossad.

And it would always be the same. People trying to kill them. She and Ravi trying to survive, trying to live, and love, and do everything they could to destroy the West and all it stood for. All for the Muslim cause, everything for Allah and for the word of the Prophet. They were frontline warriors for the Jihad. Jihad. But would Allah care for them in this life, as well as in the next? Shakira was not so sure about that. But would Allah care for them in this life, as well as in the next? Shakira was not so sure about that.

And she turned once more to St. Patrick's Rock, wondering how many people down all the years had turned to the great patron saint of Ireland and looked to him for guidance and protection, just as she and Ravi turned to Allah. And were the beliefs of those Irish people any less powerful than her own? She could not answer that, but she fervently wished that she did not need to leave this place tomorrow. And that she and Ravi could shelter here forever, in the shadow of St. Patrick, beneath the Rock.

But tomorrow she was leaving Cashel. Her driver was meeting her at nine in the morning, and she would return to Dublin. But not to the Shelbourne Hotel. She must move on, and she was booked into the Merrion, right around the corner from the Shelbourne, perhaps the top hotel in Dublin, an expensive little palace, exquisitely converted from five Georgian houses, one of which had been the birthplace of the Duke of Wellington, the Irishman who destroyed Napoleon at Waterloo.

She was leaving Cashel because she believed her place was in Dublin where Ravi was coming to find her. Perhaps he would be early; and if he was, she wanted to be with her cell phone in close proximity to their meeting point. When he did arrive, she guessed they would not linger. They would move directly to England, although she did not know how. And from there to the a.s.sa.s.sination of the man in the three newspaper cuttings she had seen in Gaza, her friend Emily's son-in-law.

It all seemed a long time ago. Irrationally she wondered how the ridiculous Charlie was getting along without her. That stupid, stupid Matt Barker. She would have liked to spend longer in Virginia, because she really liked Emily. Brockhurst had been another nice peaceful place, and it seemed the world was full of them. But not for her and Ravi, for whom every place was a battleground.

She drifted off to sleep, and the following morning she had a light breakfast in her room, packed her very few possessions, and said good-bye to St. Patrick's Rock. Her driver was waiting, and they headed northeast, back to the city. And once more Shakira sat back and admired the deep green landscape of Ireland and wondered if she would ever pa.s.s this way again.

1600 Sat.u.r.day 14 July The North Atlantic.

The Kilo was still running hard, snorkeling as usual, a little over five hundred miles south of Mizen Head. The journey from the Gulf of Cadiz had been untroubled. If they had been detected by an Atlantic-patrolling U.S. submarine, no one seemed especially interested in these vast Atlantic waters. They never saw a warship, hardly ever saw any traffic except for an oil tanker the size of the Suez Ca.n.a.l, plowing north, laden with enough crude oil to fill the Dead Sea.

They were still making twelve knots average and would require only one more burst of speed before they landed Ravi, somewhere off Crookhaven Harbor. General Rashood's mood of despondency was still upon him. He was desperately worried about Shakira and was half expecting bad news every time they checked the satellite for signals from home base. These were of course unlikely in a "black" operation as secret as this one. And each time there was nothing, Ravi was quietly relieved. If Shakira had been captured or even arrested, he was certain the Hamas High Command would have been informed.

No news, he supposed, was good news, which meant Shakira had made it to Ireland. And thirty hours from now, he expected to join her in that country. Then all he needed to do was make it to Dublin. Ravi and Captain Abad, despite their tensions on board, had become good friends. Mohammed Abad was a dedicated Islamist, a native of the old Iranian medieval capital of Shiraz, south of the Zagros Mountains.

He had trained as a submariner for ten years and was today recognized as the best in the Iranian Navy. Subject to the inevitable regime changes and the ever-possible prospect of war with the West, his position was very strong, and he was widely mentioned as a future admiral. Ravi had not met him before he boarded, but he was deeply impressed with Mohammed's skillful awareness of the U.S. submarine that had been tracking them in the Mediterranean.

Like Ravi, Captain Abad, who was thirty-four years old, had a younger wife, who was, judging by the photographs he showed the Hamas military boss, just as beautiful as Shakira. Well, nearly. Mohammed himself was a tall-six-foot-two-somewhat imposing officer. He tended to speak quietly, and when he did, his staff listened. Mohammed had attended all of the long months of lectures and practical submarine craft in Russia.

He was the most experienced underwater operator in the Iranian Navy, an expert in navigation, hydrology, electronics, mechanics, and weaponry. Upon the slightest problem in the ship, the crew always called on the commanding officer, who understood the workings of his ship better than anyone else.

Mohammed Abad was a member of the new breed of Islamic jihadists, men who were almost as competent as the best of the Americans or the British. They were men who believed in their nation's right to total independence from the West and were quite prepared to fight to get it. Twenty-five years ago, such men had not existed. But the desert nations learned, and spent billions training the best of the best. And now the Middle East was bristling with these young, brilliant commanders, strategists both at sea and on land. There were two of them on Kilo 901.

The eight bells of the watch tolled out the midnight hour. Ravi and Mohammed sat companionably sipping sweet tea in the control room. The submarine captain knew better than to question the general about the forthcoming operation, but he could not miss the importance of the mission, the landing of the most renowned Hamas terrorist leader in a desolate civilian harbor in one of the most remote corners of the British Isles.

Whatever was going on was big. Mohammed understood that. And on this particular evening, as they neared the end of their long journey together, he risked a subtle probe. "Will you be working alone, sir?" he asked.

"I will," replied Ravi. "There is only one task for me, and no one can provide much help. Plus, it's quieter on your own. Less chance of attracting attention."

"Will I be picking you up, sir? I have no orders as yet. But no one's told me to go home."

Ravi smiled. "My exit from Ireland has not yet been established. I just have to see how things play out."

"Well, sir, I'll be here if you need me. And I think you might. Because it's unusual to be this late in the mission with no further instructions. I have a feeling they want me to wait around for your exit."

"I'd be grateful for that, Mohammed. You really know how to drive this thing."

"Give me a bit of deep water and a fully charged battery, and I can make this ship vanish if I have to," replied Mohammed. "And it would be my honor to pick you up and take you home."

"Those words will be a comfort to me in the few difficult days ahead. But I expect to come through it okay."

"Everyone has great faith in you, sir. Whatever it is, you get it done, and I'll be waiting for you."

General Rashood climbed to his feet, and he patted the captain on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Mohammed," he said. "I enjoyed the journey. And now I must get some sleep. Let's pray for calm seas when we reach Ireland."

The Kilo ran on, mostly making twelve knots. Captain Abad made no course change. He just continued running hard, snorkeling along the surface, on a course that would give the southwest coast of England a very wide berth. Right now, they were west of the Bay of Biscay, moving north through the Atlantic, straight up the ten-degree line of longitude, which pa.s.ses ten miles west of Mizen Head.

Even with England and the west coast of Wales between two and three hundred miles off their starboard beam, Captain Abad was nervous about running into any patrolling Royal Navy submarines. These are deep waters, and all along the rocky sh.o.r.es of Great Britain's west there were, he knew, listening stations, usually operated in conjunction with the Americans.

He also knew that the two major Western sea powers would, by now, be aware that the Kilo had left the Cheyenne Cheyenne and was somehow out of their reach. Whether the Americans now knew the Iranian Kilo was heading into British and Irish waters was a difficult point. Captain Abad thought they must, and he also thought they would be much more likely to try to whack him out here than they would in the Med. and was somehow out of their reach. Whether the Americans now knew the Iranian Kilo was heading into British and Irish waters was a difficult point. Captain Abad thought they must, and he also thought they would be much more likely to try to whack him out here than they would in the Med.

Right now Captain Abad did not wish to be detected, and he ordered the Kilo to two hundred feet, hammering his battery at ten knots and counting on the enormous area of the ocean to keep him out of harm's way. They ran all through the night, forced to snorkel every hour. By late afternoon, they were less than two hundred miles off the Irish coast.

As soon as night fell, they contacted the satellite and reported their course and position. There were no signals from home base, so once more Ravi dared to hope that Shakira was safe. Mohammed Abad expected them to run into their insert area sometime after 0400 on Monday, July 16.

General Rashood and the captain dined together for the last time on this journey shortly after 2100. The cooks prepared them Iranian kebab-e makhsus, kebab-e makhsus, the special kebab made of sliced tenderloin and served on a bed of the special kebab made of sliced tenderloin and served on a bed of polo polo rice, with rice, with nun nun bread. They drank fruit juice only, and Ravi retired once more to bed for a final rest before the insert. bread. They drank fruit juice only, and Ravi retired once more to bed for a final rest before the insert.

And while he slept, the water began to grow more shallow as they headed for the hundred-meter line off the southwest Irish coast. The Kilo now ran 150 feet below the surface, and with every mile, the depth gauge recorded the upward slope of the seabed. They came inside the hundred-meter line at 0230, and almost immediately the water was a hundred feet more shallow.

Up ahead, two miles to starboard, was the great jutting crag of the Fastnet Rock lighthouse, guarding Long Island Bay, flashing its warning light every five seconds. Once more Captain Abad came to periscope depth, this time to take a look at one of the world's most famous maritime fixtures, a slashing white light across the water, a light that had been cautioning sailors for centuries.

The Kilo transmitted nothing except pa.s.sive sonar, and on this clear moonlit night they again went to one hundred feet with the fifty-meter line only three miles ahead. Thereafter, the sea was only 120 feet deep, and the submarine would need to be very careful as she moved in toward Crookhaven. They needed at least ninety feet to stay out of sight, and this was a rocky seabed. Captain Abad would not dream of going too close to the bottom, and he intended to enter the outer roads into Crookhaven at periscope depth, and on tiptoes, slowly making his way forward.

The harbor at Crookhaven in mid-July is apt to be busy with moored yachts, and anyway the Iranian would not dream of making his entrance on the surface. The navigation planners in Gaza had specified that the submarine remain at PD one mile off Streek Head at the eastern end of the harbor, in approximately 120 feet of water. From there, General Rashood would make his own way insh.o.r.e.

As they made their approach, the ship suddenly became full of activity. They were just a few feet below the surface now, and a small rubber Zodiac with a wooden deck was being prepared. A makeshift davit, which is a kind of small maritime crane, was being a.s.sembled. General Rashood had changed into street clothes: a pair of dark gray slacks, a black T-shirt, loafers, and his brown suede jacket.

His leather bag contained all of his doc.u.ments, credit cards, and cash, thousands of euros and British pounds, a warm Shetland sweater, and driving gloves. His combat knife was tucked into his thick leather belt at the small of his back. The general carried no other weapons.

At twenty minutes after 4 A.M., Captain Abad ordered the Kilo to the surface, and the Iranian submarine came shouldering her way out of the ocean with a rush of dark water, phosph.o.r.escence, and spray. Eight crew members immediately climbed out onto the casing and a.s.sembled the davit. They hauled the Zodiac up and out into the air, where two crew members completed the inflation process.

By the time this was completed, a black Yamaha engine, fifty horsepower, was hauled out from the hatch and two ship's engineers bolted it onto the Zodiac's transom. Fuel and electric wires were connected, and crew members lowered it over the side into the calm summer sea. Next, they rolled out a net that ran down the casing into the water alongside the Zodiac.

Then General Rashood came onto the deck with the captain, and the two men shook hands. "Allah go with you," said Mohammed Abad.

"Thank you, Captain," said Ravi. And with that, he gripped the net and expertly climbed down into the Zodiac, tossing his bag in before jumping aboard himself. The engine was ticking over, and the crewman who had launched the boat now handed over the helm to Ravi and climbed back up the net.

The Hamas general was alone now, and he looked up ahead; the shape of the narrow land on the south side of the harbor made a dark line beyond the moonlit water. He looked along to the right, to the light on Streek Head, then quietly opened the throttle and began to run west, forward to the coast of County Cork.

And even as he pushed out through the first yards of his journey, the submarine moved gently forward and then slipped beneath the surface, heading back south. Ravi had no idea where she was going.

The night was cool now, and Ravi wished he had worn his sweater rather than stuffing it into his bag. The Zodiac ran easily through these insh.o.r.e wavelets, but he did not want to wind her up and charge into the harbor at full speed, mostly for fear of awakening one of the yachtsmen and then being noticed.

Instead, he just chugged along, heading in toward Streek Head, making about six knots instead of the twenty this light, fast craft would undoubtedly achieve with the throttle open. For the first time in many days, he had no interest in the depth of the water. The Zodiac drew only about a foot and a half, and, as harbors go, Crookhaven has considerable depth. In the eighteenth century, mail boats from the United States, even clipper ships, had pulled in here. There were even dark mutterings during World War II that German U-boats had anch.o.r.ed here and been refueled, such was the widespread hatred of the English in this part of the world.

No one has ever admitted such a thing, but the rumors have persisted, and many people have stark memories of outbursts by mostly elderly Cork men, banging their fists on the table at the opening notes of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"-"I'll not have it sung in this house. That's an English marching song."

It all dates back to the first quarter of the twentieth century and the English occupying army, the detested Black and Tans. Just thirty miles from Crookhaven, east along the coast, stands the village of Clonakilty, birthplace of the Big Fella, Michael Collins, commander in chief of the Army of the Irish Free State-the guerrilla warfare patriots who finally drove the English out forever.

Collins and General Rashood had much in common. Both men taught their eager but reckless troops to fight in a more orderly fashion, against an overwhelming force. Both men carried within them a burning hatred of the opposition, and both men took part in spectacular strikes against their enemy. The heartbreaking heroism of Michael Collins and his Cork-men in the Easter Rising in Dublin, 1916, facing English artillery with only pistols, is the very fabric of Irish legend, right up there with Brian Boru at Cashel.

There is still an annual memorial service down here in Cork on the anniversary of his death. There are books, there are films, there are songs.

Some they came from London, And some came from New York, But the boys that beat the Black and Tans Were the boys from the County Cork.

Even now, it is still commonplace along this stretch of coastline to meet a perfectly normal young Irishman who, in the context of the Easter Rising, will say, "Ah, yes. The boys fought very bravely that day." As if it had been yesterday. Always as if it had been yesterday.

That rugged coastline of West Cork, home to the boys who beat the Black and Tans, was a fitting place for the archterrorist leader to land that night-in the dark, after a long journey, with murder in his heart, the murder of an enemy to his people. The Big Fella would have been very proud of Ravi Rashood.

He rounded Streek Head at 0520. The flashing-light warning of a jagged rock on the right-hand side coming in was still effective. It was not yet daylight. But dawn was breaking in the eastern sky, behind Ravi.

Crookhaven Harbor is a mile long, and up ahead the Hamas general could see more big moored yachts than he would have ideally liked. There must have been twelve, at least, but none carried lights, and there was no sound from the sleeping crews. There was the occasional soft clatter-clatter-clatter clatter-clatter-clatter of a loosely cleated halyard, but the yachts sat quietly on their lines in the light wind. of a loosely cleated halyard, but the yachts sat quietly on their lines in the light wind.

Ravi throttled back, cutting his speed to dead slow, chugging along with the Yamaha engine just idling behind him. So far as he could tell, there was no one on deck, no one looking, and no one on sh.o.r.e. Ireland is not famous for its early risers at the best of times, and Crookhaven Harbor would never have been confused with any seaport in the USA where, it always seems, everyone is up and shouting the moment dawn breaks, loading, unloading, weighing, casting off, revving up, selling, buying, drinking coffee, laughing, lying, doing deals.

Sleepy West Cork was the perfect spot for a ma.s.s murderer to slink into Europe's most westerly outpost. Ravi chugged on, sliding between the yachts, aiming for a little beach at the edge of the village. He knew there would be little shelving of the seabed in this deep harbor. So he just ran directly insh.o.r.e, cut the engine, and planted the rubber bow of the Zodiac straight onto the sand.

He grabbed the painter, jumped forward onto dry land, and hauled the boat after him. Swiftly, he dropped his bag onto the sand, took off his shoes, socks, pants, T-shirt, and jacket, and stepped into the water in his boxer shorts. It was freezing, and he leaned over the gunwales to restart the motor. He dragged the boat around so that it faced back down the harbor, and then he leaned over some more and grabbed a tiny clock that had been lying on the deck, with several electric wires holding it in place.

Ravi turned the dial to the sixty-second mark, pressed a small b.u.t.ton on the side of the clock, and then marginally opened the throttle of the Yamaha. Then he let it go, and the unmanned Zodiac chugged out into deep water, heading east, at around eight knots, down toward Streek Head. Ravi turned away and pulled on his T-shirt. He was only wet to his thighs, and he put on his pants and his socks and shoes.

But before he had time to pull on his jacket, there was a short dull thump in the water, the thud of explosives. And immediately the Zodiac began to sink, the bottom of its hull blown out with an expertly set hunk of TNT. Ravi had attended to this personally, inside the submarine. The hole in the Zodiac's bottom was perfect, four feet across. It took precisely fifteen more seconds to vanish completely, below the fifty-foot-deep outer harbor waters.