The Mark of the Assassin

civilians. That's
    terrorism, pure and simple."
    "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter, but let's not get
    into that silly debate now. There isn't time. Your air strikes on our
    bases were ridiculous because there was no justification for them. The
    Sword of Gaza did not fire the missile that brought down Flight
    Double-oh-two."
    Michael suspected the same, but he was not about to let that show in
    front of Muhammad Awad. "The body of Hassan Mahmoud, one of your most
    accomplished action agents, was found on the boat from which the missile
    was fired," Michael said, voice low but edgy with emotion. "The launch
    tube was next to his body. A valid claim of responsibility was received
    in Brussels."
    Awad's face tightened. He took a long pull at his Dunhill and tossed the
    butt into the water. Michael looked away from Awad and saw a motor yacht
    shadowing the ferry, behind a veil of mist. "Hassan Mahmoud has not been
    a member of the Sword of Gaza for nearly a year. He was a fucking
    psychopath who would not accept the discipline of an organization such
    as ours. We discovered he was secretly plotting to assassinate Arafat,
    so we threw him out. He's lucky we didn't kill him. In hindsight we
    should have."
    Awad lit another cigarette. "Mahmoud moved to Cairo and fell in with the
    Egyptian fundamentalists, al-Gama'at Islamyya." Awad reached into his
    pocket once again, this time removing an envelope. He opened the
    envelope, removed three photographs, and handed them to Michael. "These
    were provided to us by a friend inside the Egyptian security service.
    That man is Hassan Mahmoud. If you run this photograph through your
    files you will discover the second man is Eric Stoltenberg. I trust you
    recognize the name."
    Michael did, indeed. Eric Stoltenberg used to work for the East German
    Ministry of State Security, better known as the Stasi. He worked for
    Department XXII, which ran Stasi support operations for national
    liberation movements around the world. His portfolio included notorious
    terrorists like Abu Nidal and Carlos the Jackal and groups such as the
    IRA and Spain's ETA. Michael examined the photographs: two men seated at
    a chrome-topped table at Groppi's cafe, one dark-haired and
    dark-skinned, the other blond and fair, both wearing sunglasses. Michael
    held out the photographs to Awad. "Keep them," Awad said. "My treat."
    "These prove nothing."
    "As you probably know, Eric Stoltenberg has had to find work elsewhere,"
    Awad said, ignoring Michael's remark. After the Wall came down, the
    Germans wanted his head because he helped the Libyans bomb the Labelle
    nightclub in West Berlin in 1986. Stoltenberg has been living abroad
    ever since, using his old Stasi contacts to make money any way he
    can--security, smuggling, that sort of thing. Recently he came into a
    fair amount of money, and he's not done a very good job concealing it."
    The motor yacht had moved closer to the ferry. Michael looked at Awad
    and said, "Mahmoud carried out the attack, and Stoltenberg helped with
    the logistics--the Stinger, the boats, the escape route." Michael waved
    the photographs. "This is all a lie, because you're afraid we're going
    to strike back again."
    Awad smiled with considerable charm. "Nice try, Mr. Osbourne, but you
    know the Sword of Gaza better. You know we have no cause to blow up an
    American jetliner, and you know someone else did. You don't have the
    proof, though. If I were you I'd look closer to home."
    "Are you saying you know who did?"
    "No, I'm just saying you should ask yourself a few simple questions. Who
    gained the most? Who would have reason to do such a thing but keep their
    real identity secret? The men who did this have a great deal of money
    and enormous resources at their fingertips. I swear to you that we did
    not do this. If the United States does not retaliate for Heathrow it
    ends now. But if you hit us again we will have no recourse but to hit
    back. Such is the nature of the game."
    The motor yacht had closed to within fifty yards of the ferry's port
    side. Michael could see two men atop the flying bridge and a third near
    the prow. He looked to his left, toward the woman, and found her
    wide-eyed, pulling a small automatic weapon from her handbag. He spun
    round and looked past Awad, down the port railing, and saw a squat
    powerfully built man, gun drawn, head shrouded by a balaclava. Michael
    grabbed Awad by the shoulders and screamed, "Get down!"
    Two rounds burst