Chapter 6

David and Nora sat on a sofa in the Hyatt lobby talking quietly.

Nora said, "In a few minutes a Lebanese named Yuusif Hashem will come into the hotel, walk directly to the elevator and take one of the cars to an upper floor. The room where he meets another Arab named Widdaud Ahmad changes for each meeting. I'll point Yuusif out, and you can connect with him tonight and wander around in his past, present, and future. Yuusif is a member of Hezbollah, a terrorist organization backed by Syria and Iran. Hezbollah is also a political force in Lebanon."

"Nora, I know nothing about terrorists except what I've read in newspapers or heard on television. Give me a little background while we wait," David said.

She sighed. "Where to start? With this terrorist cell, we're concerned more about suicide bombings than other terrorist tactics they could use. I'll start there.

"The Koran forbids the taking of one's own life, but when the United States stationed Marines in Beirut, the leaders of the Islamic resistance movement Hezbollah turned to suicide bombers as the ultimate terrorist weapon. Religious authorities in Iran gave the process their blessing, and starting in April 1983 with the attack that killed 60 U.S. embassy workers, a wave of suicide bombings began. A second bombing followed in October when 240 people died in the Marine compound at the airport. The bombings proved so successful at driving the United States and, later, Israel out of Lebanon that most Mullahs set the religious contradiction aside.

"David, suicide bombings don't just inflict death and terror on their victims. The despicable acts also intoxicate the people who sponsor them. They give free rein to the deepest and most addictive human passions like the craving for earthly glory and eternal salvation, the desire for vengeance, and the quest for religious purity. Suicide bombing isn't merely a tactic in a larger war; it overwhelms the political goals it is meant to serve. It creates its own logic and alters the culture of those who use it. We're dealing with fanatics who are willing, no, make that wanting to die for their cause and religion. If Yuusif Hashem is the man we think he is, he believes he is one of Allah's soldiers."

She'd glanced frequently toward the entrance of the hotel as she spoke. David noticed that her body suddenly stiffened briefly. He doubted anyone else had noticed, but he was so attuned to her that he picked up on the slight and brief altered body language.

"There, David, the Arab dressed in casual American clothes, the mustard-yellow shirt," Nora said.

Five-eight or -nine, slim, dark complexion, a three-day stubble on his face. Soft-looking for a terrorist, David thought.

"All right. I've got him. How about lunch?" David said.

She grimaced. "Can't, not today. Lunch meeting with the brass."

"What should I look for regarding this bunch?" David asked.

"The names and addresses of the cell members. The same for anyone they contact." She grinned. "How about a complete organizational chart for the terrorist organization from Yuusif to the top dog in Lebanon? The top dog, by the way, is a Lebanese named Hassan Naswalla"

David laughed. "Cyber Deep Throat rides again, huh?"

She chuckled. "Yeah. Any luck with your meeting with Johnson's CEO?"

It was his turn to grimace. He briefly outlined what had happened.

Nora said, "I've met Paul Fisher, David. He's one of the power brokers in the city."

"Yeah, well, he's also an asshole."

Nora laughed gaily and said, "He is that. Still, he isn't a good enemy, and from what you said, he's certainly put your name on his enemy list, probably in capital letters and underlined. Twice. Why the private luncheon with Grace Black?"

"We'll need someone to run our organization," David said. "I could be wrong, but I think the problems at Johnson can be laid at Fisher's feet, not Grace Black's. I'll know more after I speak with her privately."

She patted his hand and gave him a quick kiss. "Gotta run. I'll see you at five at the Ben Avery Shooting Facility."

"Don't try to goad Flint into betting on the match," David said. "He's a compulsive gambler who doesn't gamble anymore, so don't tempt him."

"Shucks," she said, but with a grin.

He admired her grace and beauty as she walked away from him. A quick glance around the hotel lobby told him he wasn't the only person who had watched her leave the hotel. Men and women of taste, David figured.

Flint was waiting for him at the curb in front of the hotel in the Rolls. David decided he really enjoyed having a driver.

"Where to now, boss?" Flint said.

"Arabian Downs. I'll have my father-in-law show you around so you can start your security audit for the ranch while I spend some time with my mother. Maybe we can talk her into feeding us and get in a ride on a horse before we meet Nora at five."

David phased out on the drive to the ranch, another point in favor of having a driver. He connected with Yuusif Hashem and met Widdaud Ahmad, and he soon realized he had a problem he didn't know how to solve. He should have seen it coming. When selecting financial advisors from other parts of the world for his old way of doing business, he had to be careful that they spoke English fluently and often.

He switched his connection to his wife. Good. She was still at her desk, not in the luncheon with the brass. After he turned on her headlights by tweaking both nipples, he whispered, "We've got a problem. I don't speak Arabic. I couldn't understand a word Yuusif and Widdaud said."

"Shit," Nora breathed.

"Nora, I can't even pick out names from verbs. Any suggestions?"

On a pad of paper on her desk, she wrote: Let me think about it. We'll talk at the shooting range. I love you for trying anyway.

While Joe took Flint on a tour of the ranch, David sat at the kitchen table and watched his mother as she set the table for lunch. He'd just finished telling her about his ill-fated excursion as a superhero into the dark realm of terrorism, which made her laugh.

"Any suggestions?" David said.

"Learn Arabic," Carol said.

"Get real, Mom," David said.

"I'm serious, son. I didn't encourage you to put on a super-cape and fight criminals because I know how evil affects you. I feel differently about fighting terrorism. Terrorists hate America and our way of life. They want to kill us, David, kill every man, woman, and child in our country and around the world. The more innocents they kill or maim, the happier they are. We're at war, and you can serve your country and help keep us safe and free without putting yourself in harm's way."

As she spoke, she'd been bustling around the kitchen. When she stopped speaking, she stood next to him. She leaned and, placing a hand on each cheek of his face, kissed him. "Make learning Arabic your boot camp to train for the war, son."

David sat stunned. He wanted to refute her logic. But couldn't. He wanted to just say no. But couldn't. He loved his mother, as a mother and as a lover, and thinking back, she'd never pointed him in a wrong direction.

"What about our effort to help the downtrodden?" David said.

She sat in the chair next to him and said, "That's an avocation, not a vocation, and don't try to tell me day trading is your vocation. Fifteen minutes a day, five days a week does not a vocation make. Do both, son. Help the downtrodden and become America's secret weapon for the War on Terror."

He nodded. "Nora is mulling over the problem in her mind. Perhaps she'll come up with a different solution."

"Maybe, but the solution will be short-term, a quick fix for a specific task, not a long-term solution. To be truly effective, you'll need to understand their culture, their thinking, what makes them tick, and to do this, you must know their language. Besides Arabic, you'll also need to learn Farsi."

He groaned with dismay, which made his mother laugh.

"What's for lunch?" he said.

"Scones. I had bread rising, ready to bake, when you and Flint showed up."

He pumped his fist in the air. "Yea!" He loved fried bread dough smothered in butter and mesquite honey. With milk.

That she'd brought out the little boy in him pleased her. With a chuckle, she said, "I met with an architect this morning. He left some quick sketches, floor plans and elevations, of the suites we need to build for our help. I'll get them. You can review them while we wait for Joe and Flint. With exterior changes, the suites will also work for the compound."

The Ben Avery Shooting Facility just west of I-17 north of Phoenix is owned and operated by the Arizona Game and Fish Department, and is the largest public operated shooting facility in the country. Nora was well known at the range, and David was pleased when Flint was recognized as well.

"Rapid-fire or slow-fire?" Nora asked Flint. She'd arrived at the shooting range directly from work, so she still wore her FBI uniform: a navy blue, lightweight summer suit, with pants, not a skirt, a white silk blouse, and sensible shoes.

Flint shrugged. "You pick."

"Let's go with rapid-fire, the International Pistol Range," she said.

"That range requires an appointment," Flint said.

"Not for me," Nora said.

Flint cocked an eyebrow and groaned. "I'm in trouble, huh?"

Nora laughed. "Maybe, but then again, I might be the one in trouble. We'll soon know." She eyed the gym bag in his hands. "Did you bring extra clips?"

He nodded.

The rapid-fire range at Ben Avery wasn't designed for the Olympic event, but five targets at 25 meters were offered to each shooting lane. An Olympic rapid-fire match consists of 60 shots, which is subdivided into two courses of 30 shots. Each course is further subdivided into six series of five shots: two series in eight seconds, two in six seconds, and two in four seconds. In each series, one shot is fired at each of five targets.