The Ghost snapped at him, “So you speak Hebrew? No? Then what the hell areyoudoing here. The ceremony will be in three languages, and I understand two.”
The Ghost had no idea what languages would be used in the ceremony, and most certainly couldn’t speak Hebrew, but his harshness was enough to cause the Argentinian cameraman to retreat.
Since then they’d simply waited, pretending to fiddle with the equipment and lounging about. Eventually, the guests had arrived, taking their seats in front of the stage, then the entourage of VIPs entered. He’d glanced at his watch, seeing it was 11 a.m. He’d checked his phone, and his first spasm of anxiety hit.
He had no texts from either Yassir or Fatima.
The first speaker finished and the second one began. Still no text. He glanced at Ramzi and slightly shook his head. He decided to focus on his mission. If the Hezbollah crew had been cowardly and decided to run, there was nothing he could do about it now.
He put his eye behind the viewfinder and focused the center dot on the nose of the speaker. He hit the forward zoom function and felt the casing vibrate, loading the bolt and cocking the arms.
He continued looking through the viewfinder and felt it shake. He’d thought the machinery inside had bound up and pulled his eye away, and then felt more than heard a thump, the windows on the building behind the stage vibrating.
The audience members glanced left and right, and the speaker made a joke about thunder in the forecast, then continued speaking. The Ghost glanced at Ramzi, but he only shrugged.
Five minutes later, the Ghost could see a scrum of security men at the equipment entrance to the north, two talking on radios. The security stationed around the stage went from five men to one, as four others joined the men with the radios.
All of them left the building, and the Ghost knew why. For whatever reason, the Hezbollah members had been forced to initiate the diversion, and it was working just as planned.
He now wanted the second speaker to be done, but the man droned on relentlessly. Five minutes, ten minutes, then twenty and he continued to talk. The Ghost began to worry that the security would return once they realized there was no outside threat.
After thirty minutes, the speaker finally finished and introduced the man of the hour: the Israeli prime minister.
A bespectacled, shorter man with a head of black hair going bald, a yarmulke perched atop his head, he took the podium and shuffled his notes.
The Ghost said, “Call Omar,” and put his eyes to the viewfinder.
He lined up the center circle of the reticle on the prime minister’s nose and took a breath. He placed his hand on the zoom function, then heard acommotion at the equipment entrance. He glanced that way and saw a man being wrestled to the ground, a woman shouting in Hebrew and fighting security next to him.
The man hit the deck on his stomach, the audience now focused on him, and the man looked up, shocking the Ghost to his core.
It was the predator. The American who had captured him all those years ago. He was here, in Argentina, and he was pointing his finger right at the Ghost.
Two men were punching him, but a third looked where he was pointing and drew his sidearm. He raised it in a two-handed grip, and the Ghost rotated the camera, putting the security man in the reticle. He pressed the zoom button and the camera bucked ever so slightly, the bolt flying at four hundred feet per second. It impaled the security man in the right eye, flinging him to the ground.
The Ghost released the camera and turned to Ramzi, yelling they had to run. Ramzi drew the detonator from his pocket, pressing the button down to arm it. He raised the detonator over his head, screamed “Allahu Akbar!” and began sprinting up the aisle between the chairs towards the stage, shocking the Ghost.
The final security man at the stage leapt down, drawing his pistol. He took aim and fired, hitting Ramzi in the chest. Ramzi staggered forward, then dropped the detonator from his hand.
The Semtex exploded instantly, cutting his body in half and shredding the guests nearest him, the security man thrown violently backwards.
It all happened in a little over two seconds, the Ghost momentarily stunned. The entire courtyard erupted into chaos, the guests nearest the bomb that remained unharmed staggering about in a daze, the rest rushing to get away without knowing where they were going.
He saw the Israeli prime minister huddled behind his chair with the American secretary of state, both attempting to hide. He began fighting his way through the crowd, pushing towards the stage.
He glanced back at the predator and saw him still on the ground, the security men unsure if he was a threat, a predicament that not only kepthim from pursuing the Ghost, but also tied up the two security men holding him.
The woman he’d come in with was also being held, although still upright. She was completely still, no longer fighting. She simply tracked his movement. He caught her eye and she pierced him with her gaze, a disconcerting stare that caused him to flinch.
He broke the gaze and bulled through the last of the crowd, leaping onto the stage. He flung the chairs aside and said, “Grab my sleeve! I’m going to get you out!”
He meant it only for the prime minister, but the woman—the American secretary of state—immediately clamped her hands to his right arm. The prime minister grabbed his left, saying, “How are you going to shoot if we’re holding on?”
He raised his hand, showing them both the detonator. He said, “I don’t have a gun, but if you let go—and I mean even by accident—I’m dropping this. They’ll be picking up your body parts with a shovel.”
The shock on their faces was something he wished he had time to enjoy. He slowly stood, then turned around, forcing them to rotate with him. Just below the stage he saw the predator and the woman, both now released, and both pointing weapons at his head.
He raised the detonator, shouting, “Stop!”
