The Mark of the Assassin

in the air. The forecast called
    for clear weather most of the way and a rainy approach to Heathrow.
    Hollings expected a smooth flight. At 6:55, the first flight attendant
    informed Captain Hollings that all passengers were on board. At
    precisely 7:00 he ordered the cabin doors closed, and transatlantic
    Flight 002 pushed back from the gate.
    MARY NORTH TAUGHT ENGLISH at Bay Shore High School on Long Island and
    served as faculty adviser to the Drama Club. It had sounded like a good
    idea at the time--escorting club members to London for five days of
    theater and sightseeing. It had taken more effort than she could have
    imagined: endless bake sales, car washes, and raffles. Mary had paid her
    own way, but it meant leaving her husband and two children behind. John
    taught chemistry at Bay Shore, and jetting to London for a few days of
    theater was beyond their budget. The students were acting like animals.
    It had started in the van on the way to Kennedy: the shouting, the
    screaming, the rap music and Nirvana blasting from headphones. Her own
    children were four and six, and each night she prayed they would never
    reach puberty. Now the students were throwing popcorn at each other and
    making suggestive comments about the flight attendants. Mary North
    closed her eyes. Maybe they'll get tired soon, she thought. Maybe
    they'll sleep. A popcorn kernel bounced off her nose. She thought, Maybe
    you've truly lost your mind, Mary.
    AS FLIGHT 002 TAXIED toward the end of the runway, Hassan Mahmoud was
    aboard the Dauntless, racing toward the western tip of Fire Island, the
    slender barrier island on the southern shore of Long Island. The trip
    from the motor yacht had been uneventful. The low moon shone in the
    eastern sky, allowing him to navigate with no running lights. Ahead of
    him the borough of Queens glowed pale yellow on the horizon. Conditions
    were perfect: clear skies, calm seas, scarcely a wind. Mahmoud checked
    the depthometer and shut down the engine. The Dauntless glided to a
    stop. In the distance he could hear the grumble of a freighter leaving
    New York Harbor. He switched on the radio and tuned it to the proper,
    frequency. Five minutes later, Mahmoud heard the air traffic controller
    give Transatlantic Flight 002 final clearance for takeoff. He picked up
    the Stinger and switched on its fire and guidance systems.
    Then he hoisted it onto his shoulder and peered through the sighting
    mechanism into the night sky. Mahmoud heard the jetliner before he could
    actually see it. Ten seconds later, he picked up the 747's navigation
    lights and tracked it across the black sky. Then the tone sounded in his
    ear, alerting him that the Stinger had acquired a target. The Whaler
    rolled violently as the Stinger's solid rocket fuel ignited and the
    missile roared from the launch tube. "The Americans like to refer to
    their precious Stinger as a fire-and-forget weapon," his trainer had
    told him during one of their sessions. The trainer was an Afghan who had
    lost an eye and a hand killing Russians. Fire and forget, Mahmoud
    thought. Fire and forget. Simple as that. The launch tube, now empty,
    was considerably lighter than before. He dropped it onto the deck, as
    Yassim had instructed him to do. Then he fired the Whaler's engine and
    raced away from the coast, taking just one glance over his shoulder to
    watch the Stinger streaking at supersonic speed across the black canvas
    of the night.
    CAPTAIN FRANK HOLLINGS had flown B-52s over North Vietnam, and he had
    seen surface-to-air missiles before. For a brief instant, he permitted
    himself to believe it might be something else--a small plane ablaze, a
    meteor, stray fireworks. Then, as the missile raced relentlessly toward
    them at lightning speed, he realized it could be nothing else. The
    nightmare scenario had come true. "Holy Mother of God," he murmured. He
    turned toward his copilot and opened his mouth to speak. The aircraft
    shuddered violently. An instant later it was ripped apart by a massive
    explosion, and fire rained down on the sea.
    WHEN HE HEARD THE APPROACH of the Dauntless, the man called Yassim
    quickly flashed a powerful signal lamp three times. The smaller vessel
    came into view. Mahmoud reduced power, and the Dauntless glided toward
    the stern of the yacht. Even in the weak light of the moon he could see
    it on the boy's face: the crazed excitement, the fear, the rush. He
    could see it in the shining deep-brown Palestinian eyes, see it in