CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
Montreux, October 3rd.
The view from Mike and Anna’s adjoining suites in the Hyatt Continental in Montreux was staggering. Across the stillness of the lake and commanding instant attention rose the Savoy Alps. Their roots in the water’s edge they went up and up, towering into the sky, massive and silent. Capped in glittering white, and incredibly beautiful, this massif contained the highest mountain in Europe and provided one of Europe’s most magnificent views.
Anna stretched luxuriously in the king-size double bed, and then sat up at a discreet tap at the connecting door. Mike stuck his head round the door. ‘Room service is here with breakfast.’
Anna groaned, ‘Whose bright idea was it to breakfast on the balcony?’
‘Yours, you booked it last night as soon as you saw the view.’ Mike threw her a bathrobe and went to the door. ‘On the balcony please,’ he told the waiter. The young man nodded and pushed the large drop-leafed room-service trolley through to the balcony. He lifted the drop leaves into place making a round table. Laid with a thick white linen tablecloth, the table was loaded with covered silver dishes.
Anna lifted covers to see what was there; crisp streaky bacon, scrambled eggs and tiny plump sausages in one dish. Hot toast, hot rolls and croissants wrapped in linen napkins in another, with butter in a dish of ice and a selection of marmalades and conserves in tiny pots together with a selection of Swiss cheese, ham and salami, and a magnificent bowl of fruit. Freshly squeezed orange juice, freshly made tea and a cafetière of coffee completed the breakfast offering.
Anna sat with Mike on the balcony as the waiter left and they breakfasted in the morning silence, enjoying the warmth of the sun.
Anna curled up in her chair in a thick toweling bathrobe. ‘Oh, this is heavenly,’ she said with feeling, looking out over the tranquil lake.
Mike nodded his agreement. ‘The company is good too.’
Anna smiled, ‘D’accord – as we’re in Vaud. What shall we do today?’
‘I’d like to go for a leisurely stroll along the lake shore and think about being a multi-millionaire.’
‘Okay… I know, let’s walk to Chillon Castle; it was made famous by Lord Byron in his poem “The Prisoner of Chillon”. Apparently it’s perfectly preserved. The roof is intact, lots of the original furniture and weapons are still there and there is a locks museum.’
They finished their leisurely breakfast, and then Mike went back through to his suite, showered, shaved and dressed while Anna got ready.
As he waited for her to finish, Mike fiddled with the TV control. The voice of the TV announcer was part way through a news bulletin. ‘...group known as the Blood of Shatila has claimed responsibility for the disaster.’
‘The Blood of Shatila’. The words seared inside Mike’s skull, the group that killed Alan. Then came images of the wreckage, the fire-blackened bodies, the bits and pieces of people and their pathetic belongings strewn over the harsh Icelandic landscape. The terrible scenes etched into Mike’s brain, his heart was pounding, his breathing rapid. ‘An eye for an eye!’ That was all they understood! It was time to go back!
Anna saw it begin in the setting of the muscles of his face. Watching his expression from across the room, she knew that Mike would have no real peace of mind until he had avenged his brother’s death. She arrived at a decision. Mike would need help to come through what lay ahead. And if he didn’t come through Anna didn’t want to come through either.
Mike reached for the phone and began to dial John Henderson’s office in Tel Aviv.
Mary answered the call. ‘Mike, are you recovered after your ordeal?’
‘I need to speak to John, it’s urgent.’
The terseness of Mike’s reply cut Mary short. ‘I’ll put you through.’
John Henderson came on the line. ‘Mike, where are you?’
‘I’m in Montreux; I’ve been in Geneva on business concerned with my brother’s estate. I want to get back to work.’ There was a slight pause. ‘I’ve just been watching the news.’
‘Ah, yes, Iceland; the Blood of Shatila again. Well, I want you to pick up their trail, but first you need to come here to meet with Ben and me.’
‘Right, I’m on my way.’ Mike hung up as John’s goodbye came over the line. ‘I have to go back to work,’ he said, expecting protest.
‘Yes, I know.’ Anna surprised him. ‘But I’m coming too.’
Mike opened his mouth to object.
Anna beat him to it. ‘I won’t get in the way.’
‘It will be dangerous.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t want you involved.’
‘I am involved; Alan was my partner and my friend.’
‘I couldn’t bear to see you harmed.’
‘I’d go crazy with worry.’
They looked at each other. Anna was not prepared to give way and Mike did not want to.
Deadlock.
‘You can help me best by looking after Technology Today. I have responsibilities there that I can’t honor at present and you know what needs to be done there much better than I do. If you handle that, for us both, it’ll take a lot of weight off my mind; make it easier for me to do what I have to do.’
Anna could not fault his argument. She wavered.
‘When will I see you again?’
‘Soon, just as soon as I can make it.’
‘You’ll keep in touch?’
‘As many times a day as you want.’
Anna began to think about Technology To-day, she had an even bigger stake in it now, there were things to attend to and these thoughts tipped the balance. ‘Well, let’s start packing.’
Istanbul, October 3rd.
In the Galata district of Istanbul two men sat in front of a television set sipping cola and watching the news program. Suddenly there it was, the item they had been waiting for, a Turkish Airlines jumbo jet with a full load of passengers had crashed into an Icelandic mountainside. There were no survivors. An estimated two hundred and eighty people were dead.
George Liani clapped Suleiman, his helper, on the shoulder, ‘Well done. A perfect result, now let’s walk across to my place and I’ll give you the money. We can stop for something to eat at the other end of the Galata Bridge.’
Suleiman, happy in the belief that his action had wiped out his lapse of security in getting involved with that stupid cow of a girl, eagerly agreed.
Halfway across the Galata Bridge George Liani broke his stride, and stepped behind Suleiman. He slid a needle sharp stiletto from a sheath sewn inside his jacket, clamped an iron hand over Suleiman’s mouth and rammed the blade up through the slatted ribs of the young man’s back and into his heart. Suleiman made only a short muffled grunt of surprise.
Jamming the mortally wounded young man against one of the bridge pillars, George Liani rapidly searched his pockets for anything that might identify him. He had taken his wallet, keys and a pocket diary when a car, headlights on, drove onto the far end of the bridge. Quickly patting the remaining pockets and not feeling anything, he tipped the dying man over the rail. Suleiman was dead before he hit the inky black waters of the Golden Horn.
George Liani took a Kleenex from his pocket and, turning his back to the approaching car, wiped the stiletto blade carefully and threw the tissue over the rail after his former colleague.
He smiled; any connections between him, the plane, the girl, the bomb and Suleiman were now severed.
Beirut, October 3rd.
In the concrete basement room in Southwest Beirut, a group of men were gathered around a portable radio tuned to the BBC Foreign Service. They too heard the news of the air disaster, and hailed it as a great victory. Abu Asifah telephoned Reuters. The Blood of Shatila movement claimed the responsibility. It was theirs to claim - they had ordered and paid for it.
There was however a dissenting voice. ‘Nothing has changed, our cause is no further forward, and we have spent fortunes all to no avail.’ The challenge came from N
ajib Shawa, and the words were hissed out into an icy silence where they hung uncomfortably in the air. There was a growl of disagreement from those assembled, they had been riding high on the wave of their publicity; to have their lack of forward planning pointed out to them was not a comfortable thing.
The accusation was leveled at Abu Asifah, who seemed to be casting his mind around seeking a reply. Before he could utter a response his accuser went into the attack again.
‘Nothing has been done to prepare our next strike. The momentum is being lost, soon we will no longer be news, and the attention of the media and of the world will be distracted by other events. Are we to be men of yesterday?’
Feet shuffled, a throat nervously cleared. All eyes turned towards Abu Asifah. Standing up, he surveyed the assembly with his customary arrogance.
‘Another blow is being prepared, the Blood of Shatila will strike again,’ he shouted at Najib Shawa, but he was bluffing. He had nothing under development, no attack, no plan, but could not afford to admit it.
‘Really? And where will you strike this time? The Israelis are not moved by attacks on gentiles,’ Najib sneered.
‘We shall strike in the very heart of Israel.’ Abu Asifah said it for effect, and knew immediately that he had captured the initiative back from Najib Shawa. ‘We shall carry the war, into the very centre of the nation that has usurped our lands,’ he continued stridently, his voice rising as he warmed to his new idea. This was what the assembly wanted to hear, and a roar of approval, a roar such as he was used to, came from the throats of the terrorists gathered there.
‘I am preparing a press conference, the world shall be warned, and the nations of the West shall be made aware of the consequences of their inaction. We shall escalate the attacks upon the unbeliever nations until they are forced to accede to our demands. Our strike at the heart of Israel shall fill them with fear and trembling!’
Najib Shawa sat back into the shadows, a sly smile playing around his lips. Abu Asifah was now committed to a very dangerous path. It was inevitable that such momentous news, news of a strike at the heart of Israel, should leak out.
And Najib Shawa had his own agenda.
Tel Aviv, October 4th.
Mike phoned ahead for his special taxi to meet him at Ben Gurion airport and take him to the DIA office, arriving just after Ben Levy. The three men wasted no time and started the meeting immediately. John took the chair. ‘Ben and I have discussed these matters at length. Let me tell it how we see it. Okay?’
Mike nodded his assent.
‘Right, what we have is a Palestinian splinter group. We think it’s close to Hezbollah and has links with Islamic Jihad. An extremist group similar to the Baghdad based group set up by Abu Nidal in the seventies. They’ve claimed responsibility for three major attacks on soft targets, the attack on the airport in London, the Olympic Airlines hijack and the more recent blowing up of the 747 over Iceland. We have no reason to suppose this will be their last operation, and the consensus is that they will continue.’
Mike interrupted. ‘I want the hijackers, are you guys certain they are the same people?’
‘Yes and the brains behind the attacks are the same that’s for sure. We think confirmation of that can be found in Athens, okay?’
Mike nodded.
‘Ben?’
‘Right so far.’
‘Okay, the group has a leader who styles himself “Abu Asifah”, which translates as “Father of Storms”, an emotive name and one which commands a following, especially amongst the younger elements. He however did not form the splinter group. That doubtful honor belongs to one Najib Shawa, a man with whom Ben has contact. There is a very great deal of animosity between these two men, particularly on Shawa’s side. So, we have a split within the group, a potential weakness that may be exploited. Abu Asifah can’t take over total control of the group because Najib Shawa is the one with the connections to Hezbollah and the terrorist funding. Without funds Abu Asifah would not last long.
Najib Shawa sees Abu Asifah as the usurper of his position as leader within the organization and wants to eliminate him but doesn’t have the means. He wants to be rid of Abu Asifah and his bully boys. He’s told Ben that he wants help to achieve this, and may even be prepared to get his hands dirty. I don’t have much faith in him - neither does Ben. Our inclination is to have the right people in place in order to force him to go through with what he wants to achieve.’
‘Maybe even do it for him,’ Ben commented.
‘Perhaps. To get those sort of people in place will not be easy, but Najib Shawa has given Ben some information about the group’s headquarters, which makes us think that there, may be a way in. Before we commit ourselves, it would be prudent to do a reconnaissance to verify what friend Shawa has told us.’
John paused for a moment to give Mike and Ben time to comment.
Ben cleared his throat a couple of times. ‘There’s something else. The problem for both our Governments, yours and mine, is that the issue of direct involvement in the affairs of Palestinians on Lebanese soil is very sensitive. No one in authority would give permission for such an operation to take place at this time.’
A long silence followed Ben’s statement.
John and Ben watched Mike as he considered all that he had been told.
‘What you are telling me is that we have an opportunity to knock out this gang of thugs but we won’t be allowed to do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. I’ll resign and pick a team to take these assholes out. I owe it to my brother.’
John shook his head. ‘First we have to make sure that they are the same assholes. Ben and I both want a reconnaissance of the headquarters we’re told they’re using. Once that is under way we want you to pick up the trail in Athens where the hijacking was set up. Find out if these are the same guys. Then when we are sure of our ground we hit them.’
Ben nodded, his face grim, ‘Hard,’ was all he said.
Istanbul, October 4th.
The first rays of dawn were striking the tips of the highest minarets, and across the fast flowing dark waters of the Bosphorus the Muezzin’s call to prayer drifted faintly on the still morning air. In the half-light, a small group of fishing boats headed back towards the entrance of this unique waterway from their fishing grounds in the Sea of Marmara. Each boat trailed commercial lines in the hope of hooking a few fish. Their catch had not been good on this trip. The fish restaurants of Tarabya would have restricted menus this evening if nothing took the bait on their way home.
Suddenly one of the fishermen gave a yell. A jerk and a powerful drag on his line indicated a big fish. The man at the helm cut the throttle in response to his call, and the man on the line made ready to play the fish. Perhaps, he thought, it was a swordfish or a blue fish; a big one of either would make a difference to their night’s earnings. He felt the line, waiting for the fish to make the next move. Nothing happened, the line had gone dead, and it was snagged into something. Cursing his luck, the fisherman pulled in his line to salvage his gear. He saw no point in losing tackle, especially when they’d caught no fish. It was a heavy weight on his line, something big dragging in the three knot current. With much swearing and the help of another of the fishermen, the line was hauled in.
Face down in the water, arms and legs splayed out, the body of the young man who had been George Liani’s helper bumped into the side of the boat. There was consternation at first, and then an argument developed. Some of the crew wanted to cut the corpse free and pretend they hadn’t seen it, but two more boats came over to see what the fuss was about, and that tipped the balance. Now that there were witnesses there would be talk in the cafes and there could be repercussions. The skipper had a responsibility to take it in and notify the authorities.
The body of the young man was unceremoniously hauled from the water and dumped on the deck. During the remainder of the trip back to harbor the gold plated chain, bracelet and watch, which had meant so much to the
young man in life, disappeared. There was no wallet or money, nothing else of value to be taken only a lapsed membership card to Galatasaray football club. They didn’t find that as it was in a small inside pocket of the jacket. The card carried a photograph and a membership number. The heat sealed plastic covering was intact, and no water had got in. The body had been in the water only a few hours. Tumbling through the air in its fall from the Galata Bridge the body, relaxed in death, had struck the water flat. Air had been trapped in the clothing, giving initial buoyancy, keeping it on the surface.
The waters of the Golden Horn had carried it out to join the fast flowing waters of the Bosphorus. The waters of the Bosphorus flow with such force in the centre that back eddy currents form along the banks. Aided by a stiff wind from the southeast, the young man’s body had got caught up in a series of back eddies, and had made only slow progress through the hours of darkness. By morning it had just cleared the entrance to the waterway, and was at a point where smaller vessels would converge in order to leave the centre of the waterway clear for bigger ships.
If the wind had been from a different direction the mighty Bosphorus current would have carried the corpse out into the open waters of the Sea of Marmara. If the fishermen had had a good catch, no lines would have been out and the body would not have snagged in them. A series of unforeseeable circumstances had conspired to frustrate George Liani’s disposal plan.
The body was handed over to the police at the quayside. Statements were made and signed and photographs were taken before the body was removed to the morgue for a post-mortem and forensic work. In due course quite a considerable amount of information was obtained. As the body had not been long in the water it was possible to gently dry the skin of the hands, using a hair dryer, and to photograph the fingerprints taken when the skin had dried out. The dental record was noted, and the Galatasaray football club visited in order to check the name and address listed against the membership card number.
The post-mortem showed the cause of death to be an expertly delivered stab wound, from an unusual three point star shaped blade, up through the rear ribs and into the heart. Very little water was present in the lungs, and death was stated to have occurred before the body entered the water. Nothing of any value was found on the body, and so robbery was inferred as the motive, the fingerprints were put on file and the case joined the pile of other criminal investigations awaiting attention.
Beirut, October 4th.
Abu Asifah sat down amid his chanting supporters, an aloof expression on his face. Behind it his brain was racing, how could he deliver? The course of action, to which he had just committed himself and his followers, would be very difficult to achieve. Security within Israel was very tight. The population was used to a state of continuous conflict, everyone was alert and the whole nation did their stint at military training. A significant strike against a worthwhile target inside Israel was a very different prospect to the relatively soft targets that had previously been attacked. Sudden realization and relief flooded through him. He had said that he would hold a press conference. This would give him high exposure, his face would be known. So well known, in fact, that he couldn’t possibly go on the mission himself. That would prejudice it completely. He had found an unanswerable argument. Someone else would have to do the dirty work. He would merely have to find a way to take the credit for himself.
Immediately the Turkish dissident, the fanatical Muslim fundamentalist came to mind. He was clever, he was resourceful and he was available provided the price was right. Abu Asifah smiled, more a baring of the teeth, he would spend some more of Najib Shawa’s funds, use them to throw the lie back into his fat oily face. He would give the Turkish brother definitive instructions. The blow would be massive, it would be spectacular, and would change everything.
Tel Aviv, October 4th.
During the drive back to his apartment Mike wrestled with the problem of doing a reconnaissance of the Blood of Shatila HQ. It wasn’t going to be an easy task, he would need expert help, and he wasn’t going to get Israeli or American personnel, John and Ben had made that quite clear. At the back of his mind was a name, he had met someone recently, who the hell was it? Where had he met him? It was someone connected to recent events concerning this terrorist group, someone with a perfect background in reconnaissance. There was a name on the tip of his tongue. He looked out of the taxi window. Suddenly he had it, the guy he had interviewed in London, Jim something? Jim, Jim Savage that was the guys’ name, ex SBS. How could he get in contact with him? Mike thought hard. He had given the guy Andrew Cunningham’s ’phone number and told him to ring him about a job. Maybe the guy had taken his suggestion seriously; maybe, maybe not. It was a long shot, but worth a try. He used his mobile ’phone. Moments later the satellite link was made and Andy Cunningham was on the line.
‘Mike, how are you? Are you in London?’
‘No, Tel Aviv.’
‘That’s a pity. I owe you a drink; the guy you sent along for an interview, Jim Savage, turned out to be an old acquaintance.’
‘Ah ha, so he made contact, did he?’
‘He sure did, and came through with colors flying.’
‘I didn’t realize you knew him.’
‘No, neither did he until he rang me. But then Special Forces is a small world.’
‘Well he’s why I’m ringing. I’m interested in hiring his services for a tricky job. Could that be arranged?’
‘No problem, might even be able to give you a discount as you introduced him to us,’ Andrew said with a chuckle.
‘Okay; I won’t go into details over the phone. I’d prefer to talk to him before we make any firm commitment; the job is dangerous.’
‘Well, he’s in California at the moment; he’s just finished his first job for us. Did very well too, I’ve had a letter of thanks for his services. He’s taken a few days off to spend with his girlfriend in L.A. but I can contact him. Do you want him to come to Israel?’
Mike thought quickly. ‘No, I have to go back to San Francisco; perhaps he could come up there. If he can make it ask him to go to the offices of Technology Today, in Santa Clara, and ask for me. Make it for the day after tomorrow, around midday, and I’ll be expecting him.’
‘Okay, I’ll ring him and arrange it; talk to you soon, ‘bye.’
Mike cleared the phone with a satisfied smile and speed dialed Anna’s number. Things were beginning to fall into place.
Beirut, October 5th.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Abu Asifah faced the battery of flashguns and cameras aimed at him by the carefully selected representatives of the world’s press. It had been difficult to secretly organize, but it had been worth the effort. Through these eyes and ears he could speak to the world, the attention he found so enjoyable was being focused upon him directly. In loud ringing tones he began his carefully prepared harangue.
‘The nations of the West have failed to take seriously the demands of the people of Palestine and the Blood of Shatila movement.’
‘For more than fifty years we have been dispossessed of our lands, and evicted from our homes without redress.’
‘Lands and homes we had occupied for centuries have been taken from us and the West has ignored our plight.’
‘You ignore us at your peril! We repeat, for the benefit of the world, our demands.’
He paused for effect, and then continued,
‘We demand that Israel return the West Bank and Jerusalem to the Palestinian Nation.’
‘We demand the creation of a Palestinian state.’
‘Israel must recognize the Palestinian Nation, its people, its territory and its right to exist as a separate state.’
‘If these demands are not met we shall strike again, this time our aim shall be more direct.’
A clamor of questions came from the assembled reporters. Abu Asifah ignored them all, raising a clenched fist he shouted the war cry of Muslims down the centuries, ‘Allah Akbar, God is great,’ then
strode from the room.
It was dramatic and it made good press.
It caused Ben Levy some disquiet; he decided to watch Najib Shawa even more closely.
Pictures of Abu Asifah’s stern features, fist raised, made many of the world’s TV news programs, and, much to his satisfaction, the world’s newspapers, as he looked at them a day later.
‘I shall need more funds,’ he told Najib Shawa in a private meeting called for that purpose. ‘I can’t lead this operation myself; the exposure to the Press has made my face too well known. I cannot risk the success of a mission inside Israel and compromise it at the outset by insisting on going myself.’
Najib Shawa nodded his understanding, and his understanding was greater than Abu Asifah realized.
Najib Shawa knew he had been out-maneuvered and he saw clearly how it had been done. He gave nothing away, but played the part of a controller of funds to a tee. ‘What are the funds to be used for? How much will you require? Will they be used to good effect?’ he asked anxiously.
Abu Asifah looked at him patronizingly. This groveling little man, how could he be a threat to a warrior such as himself? ‘I shall employ a trusted brother to carry out the strike, he is competent and has served us well before. We will make the front-page headlines of the world’s newspapers. I shall need three million US Dollars.’
Najib Shawa gasped, as he knew that would be expected, meanwhile his avaricious brain was working overtime. He would ask for four millions and then a million could go to his Swiss account. He shook his head dubiously.
‘I don’t know if I can raise three million dollars,’ he said, ‘it’s a large sum of money.’
After Najib Shawa had gone, Abu Asifah rubbed his hands together. He thought he had managed Najib Shawa well. Now he must contact the Turkish Brother.