The Mark of the Assassin

the language
    diligently but not mastered its subtleties. When Mahmoud asked his name,
    the man ran his hand over his short black hair, pulled at his nose, and
    said if names were necessary he should be called Yassim.
    He most definitely was not a Yassim. Mahmoud had traveled well for a boy
    from the camps of Gaza; the trade of terror made that a necessity. He
    had been to Rome, and he had been to London. He had stayed many months
    in Athens and hidden with a Palestinian cell in Madrid for an entire
    winter. The man who wished to be called Yassim and spoke with a strange
    accent was no Arab. Mahmoud, watching him now, tried to assign geography
    and ethnicity to the cocktail of strange features possessed by his
    silent accomplice. He looked at the hair: nearly black and shot with
    gray at the temples. The eyes were a penetrating blue, the skin so pale
    as to be nearly white. The nose was long and narrow--a woman's nose, he
    thought--the lips full and sensuous, the cheekbones wide. Maybe Greek,
    he thought, maybe Italian or Spanish. Maybe a Turk or a Kurd. For a mad
    instant, he thought he might be an Israeli. Mahmoud watched as the man
    who wished to be called Yassim disappeared down the companionway and
    went below-decks. He returned two minutes later, carrying a long,
    slender object. Mahmoud knew just one word for it: Stinger.
    YASSIM, WHEN HE SPOKE, treated Mahmoud as though he knew nothing of
    Stingers. Mahmoud knew them quite well, however. He knew the
    shoulder-launched version was five feet long and weighed precisely
    thirty-four and a half pounds. He knew it possessed heat-seeking,
    passive infrared, and ultraviolet guidance systems. He knew its
    effective range was about three miles. He had never actually fired
    one--the things were too precious and too costly to waste on a test
    firing--but he had drilled for dozens of hours and knew exactly what to
    expect.
    "It's already been preset to seek out a large four-engine aircraft,"
    Yassim was saying. "The warhead has been set to penetrate the target
    before exploding."
    Mahmoud nodded and said nothing. "Point the missile at the target," he
    said patiently, in his accentless Arabic. "When the guidance system has
    acquired its target and locked on, you will hear the tone in your ear.
    When you hear the tone, fire the missile."
    Mahmoud tapped out another Marlboro and offered one to Yassim, who waved
    his hand and went on with his lecture. "When the missile is away, simply
    lay the empty launch tube in the Whaler and return to the yacht."
    "I was told to throw the launch tube into the water," Mahmoud said. "And
    I'm telling you to bring it back here. When the airliner goes down, the
    Americans will scan the sea floor with sonar. There's a damned good
    chance they'll find your launch tube. So bring it back with you. We'll
    dispose of it farther out."
    Mahmoud nodded. He had been told to do it differently, but the
    explanation for the change in plans was reasonable. For twenty minutes,
    they said nothing. Mahmoud toyed with the grip stock of the Stinger.
    Yassim poured coffee and drank it on the aft deck in the cold night air.
    Then Yassim went to the bridge to listen to the radio. Mahmoud, still
    sitting in the salon, could hear the crisp commands of the air traffic
    controllers at JFK International Airport.
    TWO SMALLER BOATS were secured to the stern of the motor yacht, a Zodiac
    and a twenty-foot Boston Whaler Dauntless. Mahmoud clambered down to the
    swim step, drew the Whaler closer to the yacht, and stepped over the
    rail into the forward seating area. Yassim followed him down the ladder
    and handed over the Stinger. The Whaler had a dual console, split by a
    passage connecting the forward and aft seating areas. Mahmoud laid the
    Stinger on the aft deck, sat in the cockpit, and fired the engine.
    Yassim untied the Whaler, tossed the line onto the deck, and pushed the
    smaller craft away with a quick movement of his foot. Mahmoud opened the
    throttle, and the Whaler sliced toward the shore of Long Island.
    TRANSATLANTIC AIRLINES FLIGHT 002 departs JFK International Airport each
    evening at 7:00 and arrives the following morning in London at 6:55.
    Captain Frank Hollings had made the trip more times than he cared to
    remember, many times in the same Boeing 747 he would fly that night,
    N75639. The aircraft was the one hundred and fiftieth to roll off
    Boeing's 747 assembly line in Renton, Washington, and it had experienced
    few problems during its three decades