him. Preliminary analysis has confirmed the missile was fired from the Whaler. The stern of the craft was blackened, and the lab has discovered residue matching the type of solid rocket fuel used in Stingers.”
“Who shot him and why?” Monica asked. “And how did he get away?”
“We don’t know the answers to those questions yet. We have a theory, though.”
Monica raised an eyebrow and turned her attention from the screen to Osbourne. She had the straight, expressionless gaze of a therapist. Michael could feel her eyes probing for weakness. “Let’s hear it,” she said.
Michael switched to the next image, an aerial photograph of a large oceangoing yacht towing a boat. “This photograph was taken off the coast of Florida four days before the jetliner was shot down. The yacht is registered in the name of a French national. We’ve checked it out, and we’re fairly certain the Frenchman in question does not exist. We do know it left the Caribbean island of Saint-Barthélemy eight days before the attack. The boat on the back is a twenty-foot Boston Whaler Dauntless, the same model that the body was found on.”
“Where’s the Whaler now?”
“At the Bureau’s lab,” McManus said.
“And the yacht?”
“No sign of it,” Michael said. “The Navy and the Coast Guard are looking now. Satellite photographs of that part of the Atlantic are being reviewed.”
“So on the night of the attack,” Tyler said, “the small craft heads close to Long Island while the yacht remains well offshore, safely outside American territorial waters.”
“So it would appear, yes.”
“And when the shooter returns to the yacht, his colleagues kill him?”
“So it would appear.”
“But why? Why leave the body? Why leave the launch tube?”
“All very good questions, for which we have no answers at this time.”
“Go on, Michael.”
“Earlier this evening a claim of responsibility was faxed to the London Times in the name of the Sword of Gaza.”
“An attack like this doesn’t fit their profile, though.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Michael pressed the button, and the next image appeared on the screen, a brief outline of the Sword of Gaza. “The group formed in 1996, after the election of Benjamin Netanyahu in Israel. Its sole aim is to destroy the peace accords by assassinating anyone who supports it, Arab or Jew. It has never operated inside Israel or the territories. Instead, it operates mainly in Europe and the Arab world. The group is small, extremely compartmentalized, and very professional. We believe it has fewer than thirty committed action agents and a support staff of about one hundred. It maintains no permanent headquarters, and we rarely know where its members are from one week to the next. It receives virtually all its funding from Tehran, but it maintains training facilities in Libya and Syria as well.”
Michael changed the image. “Here are some attacks attributed to the group. The shooting death of that Israeli businessman in Madrid carried out by Hassan Mahmoud.” The image changed again, a scene of carnage on a Paris street. “The failed attack on the Jordanian prime minister. He survived; six members of his party weren’t so lucky.” Another image, blood and bodies in an Arab capital. “A bombing in Tunis that left the Egyptian deputy foreign minister dead along with twenty-five innocent bystanders. The list goes on. An Israeli diplomat in Rome. Another in Vienna. An aide to Yasser Arafat in Cairo. A Palestinian businessman in Cyprus.”
“But never an attack on an airliner,” Tyler said, when the last image vanished from the screen.
“None that we know of. In fact, we believe they’ve never struck an American target before.”
Michael switched on the lights. Monica Tyler said, “The Director is scheduled to brief the President at eight a.m. tomorrow. During that meeting, the President will decide whether to order air strikes against those training facilities. The President
“Who shot him and why?” Monica asked. “And how did he get away?”
“We don’t know the answers to those questions yet. We have a theory, though.”
Monica raised an eyebrow and turned her attention from the screen to Osbourne. She had the straight, expressionless gaze of a therapist. Michael could feel her eyes probing for weakness. “Let’s hear it,” she said.
Michael switched to the next image, an aerial photograph of a large oceangoing yacht towing a boat. “This photograph was taken off the coast of Florida four days before the jetliner was shot down. The yacht is registered in the name of a French national. We’ve checked it out, and we’re fairly certain the Frenchman in question does not exist. We do know it left the Caribbean island of Saint-Barthélemy eight days before the attack. The boat on the back is a twenty-foot Boston Whaler Dauntless, the same model that the body was found on.”
“Where’s the Whaler now?”
“At the Bureau’s lab,” McManus said.
“And the yacht?”
“No sign of it,” Michael said. “The Navy and the Coast Guard are looking now. Satellite photographs of that part of the Atlantic are being reviewed.”
“So on the night of the attack,” Tyler said, “the small craft heads close to Long Island while the yacht remains well offshore, safely outside American territorial waters.”
“So it would appear, yes.”
“And when the shooter returns to the yacht, his colleagues kill him?”
“So it would appear.”
“But why? Why leave the body? Why leave the launch tube?”
“All very good questions, for which we have no answers at this time.”
“Go on, Michael.”
“Earlier this evening a claim of responsibility was faxed to the London Times in the name of the Sword of Gaza.”
“An attack like this doesn’t fit their profile, though.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Michael pressed the button, and the next image appeared on the screen, a brief outline of the Sword of Gaza. “The group formed in 1996, after the election of Benjamin Netanyahu in Israel. Its sole aim is to destroy the peace accords by assassinating anyone who supports it, Arab or Jew. It has never operated inside Israel or the territories. Instead, it operates mainly in Europe and the Arab world. The group is small, extremely compartmentalized, and very professional. We believe it has fewer than thirty committed action agents and a support staff of about one hundred. It maintains no permanent headquarters, and we rarely know where its members are from one week to the next. It receives virtually all its funding from Tehran, but it maintains training facilities in Libya and Syria as well.”
Michael changed the image. “Here are some attacks attributed to the group. The shooting death of that Israeli businessman in Madrid carried out by Hassan Mahmoud.” The image changed again, a scene of carnage on a Paris street. “The failed attack on the Jordanian prime minister. He survived; six members of his party weren’t so lucky.” Another image, blood and bodies in an Arab capital. “A bombing in Tunis that left the Egyptian deputy foreign minister dead along with twenty-five innocent bystanders. The list goes on. An Israeli diplomat in Rome. Another in Vienna. An aide to Yasser Arafat in Cairo. A Palestinian businessman in Cyprus.”
“But never an attack on an airliner,” Tyler said, when the last image vanished from the screen.
“None that we know of. In fact, we believe they’ve never struck an American target before.”
Michael switched on the lights. Monica Tyler said, “The Director is scheduled to brief the President at eight a.m. tomorrow. During that meeting, the President will decide whether to order air strikes against those training facilities. The President
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