Retribution
Page 10
CHAPTER THREE.
September 20th.
The man calling himself George Liani was an enigma; he had no close friends. Born in Cyprus of Turkish Muslim parents his real name was Tulga Sas, but no one knew him by that name now. His had been a happy childhood. Unaware that there was any difference between Greek children and Turkish children he had played happily with both, becoming naturally bi-lingual, and under British rule, life was reasonably peaceful despite the efforts of EOKA, the union with Greece movement. Then when he was fourteen everything changed.
On the twentieth of July 1974 the Greek Cypriot administration affected a coup. Civil war erupted. Twelve thousand Turkish Cypriots were besieged in the old Venetian Citadel in Famagusta. Greek artillery and mortar fire killed twenty-nine civilians. Tulga Sas’s father was one of them. In response to this action the Turkish army invaded the island.
In the eyes of the Turkish community justice was about to be done, the hated Greeks would be slaughtered and driven from the land they had usurped, Cyprus would belong to Turkey, as it’s geographical location dictated. The Turks were jubilant; then disgusted. Their Government, under ferocious international pressure, gave in. A cease-fire was implemented, a line drawn on the map and only part of Cyprus liberated from the hated Greeks.
Tulga Sas’s family, his ageing mother, his sister and his younger brother were caught on the wrong side of the new dividing line. Greeks, who had suffered and escaped the onslaught of the Turkish Army, killed them in a wave of reprisal killings. The bitterness and hatred between Greeks and Turks was renewed. Traditional enemies already, both sides were possessed by a loathing that has lasted until the present day.
The young Tulga Sas left Cyprus in disgust, determined to find a way to dedicate his life against the killers of his family.
Spreading through the Muslim world, from its origins in Egypt, was the doctrine of Islamism, a desire to spread the Islamic faith across the world and to renew the values of the Muslim faith where it already existed.
The young Tulga Sas embraced the new doctrine avidly. If this reform could be introduced into modern Turkey, the old establishment could be swept away and the way would be clear to renew the onslaught; the decline of religious influence, started by Kemal Ataturk, could be reversed.
Within the Islamist movement there were plenty of fanatics and young Tulga Sas became one of the most fanatical. His studies of the Koran had given him a good knowledge of Arabic. Then in December nineteen seventy-nine the Russians invaded Afghanistan. Outraged, as were so many in the Islamic world by this invasion of holy Muslim soil, Tulga Sas made his way to Pakistan. In a camp on the Pakistan border, a camp funded by a rich Saudi construction millionaire and run by the Inter Services Agency, the Pakistan secret service, he was trained by American and British Special Forces to go and fight against the Russian invader. For ten years he fought with the mujahedeen against the Russians, and made many important contacts amongst his comrades–in-arms in the process.
By the time the Soviets went home in nineteen eighty-nine, his fine record of service had secured him a place in Fifty Five Brigade, the elite expatriate Arab unit some five thousand strong funded and controlled by the Al-Qaeda organization, and used in support of the Taliban. Helping the Taliban to power in Afghanistan subsequently led him to the Jihad Wal and Khalden terrorist training camps in Afghanistan where he could translate his military skills into the covert skills of the urban guerrilla. He was an exceptional student and attracted attention because of his ability, his devotion to his faith, and his Turkish domicile. His tutors and their paymasters considered the idea of having this man placed as one of their own inside Turkey and found it good. He graduated from training fluent in Arabic, and, on returning to Turkey, was provided with funds, contacts and a new identity.
September 20th. Politia, Athens.
Working from the secluded villa rented by the late Andreas Kokalis, and using the two cars hired by him, Tulga Sas now using the alias George Liani, spent hours carrying out a discreet study of catering companies supplying pre-packed meals to aircraft using Athens airport. The man he needed had to work regularly on the delivery of meals to aircraft, had to have a wife and children, had to live in a quiet and remote location, and had to be a devoted father.
Working at the same time from the villa was Suliman Yavas, George Liani’s helper. He was meeting incoming passengers at Hellenikon airport. He used different combinations of car, clothes, and chauffeurs hats so as not to be too conspicuous at the arrival point.
The passengers he was picking up all flew in from different European countries, all were traveling on false passports as employees of front companies, but their journeys had begun in Pakistan, Sudan, and Yemen.
They were well dressed and they were all young, all male, with black hair, dark eyes and were of eastern Mediterranean or Middle Eastern appearance. They were all traveling light, with little or no luggage and were supposedly visiting Athens on business. All of them had met their driver before and recognized him on sight, few words were spoken, and they left the airport immediately. They were driven to the rented villa in the Athens suburb of Politia, but they never went by the same route and never by the direct route. Clear of the airport and speaking only Arabic the passengers spent the journey looking out of the rear window checking for following vehicles. At the villa they went inside and did not come out; eventually there were seven of them installed there. Abu Asifah was the last man to arrive. That evening he assembled them in the large dining room and addressed them in Arabic.
‘We have followed the great blow struck by the Holy One of Afghanistan with a blow for our cause, now it is time to strike again – the iron is still hot. You have trained hard for many months; now at last I can tell you why you are here and what your purpose is. I shall explain our objective and the plan of action.’ He turned to a set of diagrams and plans hung on an old blackboard and easel set in a corner of the room.
‘We will go over these again and again until each and every one of you has memorized the whole concept and knows every detail off by heart. We will not have the benefit of a practice run; therefore we must rely on previous training and accurate knowledge. As the anniversary of the great blow against America has passed, so the peak of security awareness has passed. With care and precision we shall succeed.’ He began the first of many in-depth briefings covering all aspects of the enterprise; planning, execution, logistics, communications, code-words, weapons, routes in, routes out, timings and contingencies.
After alternating lecture sessions and questions each man knew his precise role in the scheme of things. By studying a scale model of the Athens Airport building all the men knew thoroughly the geography of the place. By studying a scale model of an A300 Airbus with a cut-away top every man knew his position and his responsibilities.
Abu Asifah was pleased. ‘My brothers, you have done well. Later this evening we will be collecting the weapons and explosives, which friends have brought in for our use. Tomorrow our Turkish brother will be here. He is an explosives expert and he will instruct you in the making of explosive charges. I will instruct you in the placement of them in the aircraft. I will make the final connections, but all of you in the aircraft team will need to know how it is done in case of any unforeseen accidents.’
‘Get plenty of rest my brothers; our time of action is nearly upon us. Allah Akhbar.’
As he left the room, a buzz of excited conversation followed. Soon, very soon, they would be striking a blow for their unhappy people.
September 21st. Koropi district, Near Athens.
Sitting in his chair by the stove, in the kitchen of his small whitewashed farmhouse, Dimitris Kosovos was nodding with that irresistible sleepiness which follows a heavy meal on top of a hard day’s work. He had been up at four that morning, and had tended to his animals before going off to his job at the airport. This week he was on the early shift, six till two, the shift he preferred, as it gave him time to catch up on work at home in the afternoons.
There was an urgent banging at the door. ‘Who the hell can this be? No one calls at this hour,’ Dimitris grumbled, hitching his trousers up and padding to the door in his bare feet. While he dozed darkness had fallen and Roula, his wife, was putting the two children to bed.
Dimitris rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a large work worn hand and peered from the light of the kitchen out into the dark of the yard. From the noise the dogs were kicking up it must be strangers. He couldn’t see anyone. He stepped outside.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked. Receiving no reply he stepped forward a couple of paces, peering into the darkness.
A shadowy form at the side of the doorway quietly stepped forward and hit Dimitris behind the ear with a sock filled with sand. It was expertly done. Dimitris collapsed to the ground. Another dark figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the doorway. George Liani spoke to him in Turkish, ‘Silence those dogs.’
Suliman, the second man, walked over to where the farm dogs were chained up. The dogs went frantic. He drew a silenced pistol from inside his brown windcheater. There were two almost inaudible phuts of sound. The dogs fell silent, each one shot through the head. Unmoved, Suliman walked back towards the lighted doorway. George Liani was kneeling beside Dimitris. He had quickly trussed him up using tough nylon cable-ties. He stuffed a wad of rag into Dimitris’s mouth, whipped a cable-tie round the back of his head, shoved the free end through the locking device and yanked it tight.
They picked up Dimitris’s unconscious form, heaved him unceremoniously into a patch of shadow, and returned to their original positions in the deeper shadows beside the door.
Roula, settling the children down for the night, heard the car draw up outside, she heard the dogs barking, heard her husband call out, ‘Who’s there?’ She heard the dogs’ frantic barking stop, but she did not hear the silenced shots, and presumed that Dimitris had gone over to shut the dogs up.
On coming through from the children’s room she found the kitchen empty. She went to the door to look for Dimitris; he was nowhere to be seen. Wondering what was happening she stepped outside to see what was going on.
George Liani stepped silently forward and hit her exactly as he had hit Dimitris. In moments she was bound and gagged like her husband; then both she and Dimitris were carried into the house and lashed to hard upright chairs with more nylon cable- ties.
Moving silently, the interlopers entered the children’s room. One at a time, the children were grabbed from their beds, gagged and bound, and carried terrified into the room where their parents sat. They were fastened securely to chairs in the same manner as their parents. The children’s chairs were placed either side of Roula’s chair in a short arc. Dimitris was positioned opposite his family.
September 21st. Knightsbridge.
Jim Savage turned up at the address in Knightsbridge in plenty of time. He was expected, and was shown to a comfortable leather settee in the reception area and given a cup of coffee.
At precisely 10.00am a tall man of athletic build entered reception. He came over and stuck out his hand.
‘Hi Jumper, been a while,’ he said smiling.
‘Cap’n Andy,’ Jim replied smiling back.
‘Come with me, we’ll get the practical matters out of the way first.’ He led Jim to the lifts and entered a vacant one. He pressed the down button. ‘It’s a bit of a maze so I’ll lead the way.’ He led Jim through several doors, and eventually they emerged into a well-appointed gymnasium.
‘Fitness first, Jim. In here to change.’ They went in to the changing room and Jim was given a set of gear. They both changed and went outside, where a stocky muscular man in a physical training instructor’s singlet and shorts was standing. He had a clipboard and a stopwatch.
Jim looked at him in surprise. ‘Hello, Chalky,’ he said.
‘Hi, Jumper, wondered if it might be you,’ Chalky White said with a wry smile.
Andrew Cunningham was smiling too. ‘I’ve often wondered; how did you get the nickname Jumper?’
‘Oh that’s a long story,’ Jim said sheepishly.
‘Yeah, a funny one too,’ Chalky said. ‘When we were young sprogs we were stationed at Bickleigh Camp on Dartmoor. Jim here cut a table tennis ball in two, made a hole in each bit and drew bloodshot veins on each half with a red felt tip. Then he pulled the sleeves of his Navy Burbury inside out and buttoned it round his neck like a cloak. He screwed the two bits of ball into his eye sockets and lurked round the corner of the canteen in the mist so as to jump out on guys coming back from supper. You’ve never seen so many sarnies and mugs of tea thrown in the air. Oh my word, you should have seen it, rough tough Commandos jumping out of their skins, and the rest of us rolling round on the grass peeing ourselves laughing. He’s been known as Jumper Savage ever since.’
‘So that’s it!’ Andrew laughed. Jim looked sheepish thinking this was not quite the sort of recommendation he needed. Andrew assumed a straight face.
‘Okay, let’s get started.’
Jim looked at Chalky, ‘Canadian Air Force fitness test?’
‘Yep, you might have done it once or twice before,’ Chalky said sarcastically. He knew that Jim knew what was coming. It was a scientifically devised punishing test of fitness, stamina and recovery rates.
‘Not for a while,’ Jim replied with a grimace.
Chalky proceeded to put Jim through his paces, stopwatch in hand, impartially making notes of his performance on each set of tests.
Twenty minutes later, the test completed, Jim was lathered in sweat, his chest heaving and his legs wobbly.
‘Right, through here, please, on the double,’ Andrew Cunningham snapped.
Jim went through the door indicated into a small-arms firing range. Lined up on a table at the rear was a selection of revolvers, automatic pistols, sub machine guns and a modern rifle. Ammunition for each weapon was in a box next to it. The armorer handed round sets of ear defenders.
‘The rifle is mandatory, the pistols, revolvers and sub-machine guns are at your choice; one of each,’ the armorer told him.
Jim nodded; he chose a Heckler and Koch, a weapon he was used to and a 9mm Browning Hi-power automatic as he was used to them too. The choice of revolver was more difficult. He decided on a .375 Colt Python, one of the most accurate revolvers ever made. There would be less recoil and therefore more control than with the heavier magnums. The rifle was the British 4.5mm Individual Weapon. Compact, and fitted with the 4X magnification Sight Unit Infantry Trilux, it had been developed from the experimental “280EM2”. Jim knew it was the most accurate weapon there, if not the most reliable. He checked each weapon for safety as Andrew Cunningham watched and nodded his approval. Then he loaded each weapon quickly and professionally leaving the chamber empty and the safety catch on. It was obvious that he was familiar with weapons and proficient in their safe use.
‘Okay, twenty sit-ups, twenty press-ups and five rounds from the revolver; fifteen sit-ups, fifteen press-ups and five rounds from the 9mm pistol; ten sit-ups, ten press-ups and two short bursts from the H&K; five sit-ups, five press-ups and five rounds from the rifle. Chalky will count and hold your feet for the exercises. It’s non-stop. Go, go, go, from the start. For every round that misses the target, a
minute will be added to your time. You know the reasoning behind this?’
‘Yes,’ Jim nodded. He knew that the ability to shoot well when fresh was not much use in combat situations. You had to be able to shoot straight when your arms and legs were knackered, when your chest was heaving with exertion and your eyes were full of sweat. He calmed his mind, centered himself.
‘Go!’ Chalky barked the command. ‘One, two, three...’ Jim pulled away at the sit-ups, ‘Nineteen, twenty, change. One, two, three...’ Jim pumped away at the press-ups, ‘Nineteen, twenty. Up, revolver, five rounds, target number one, fire!’ Jim adopted the double-handed wide foot stance of the target pistol expert. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. He raised the revolver up the centre of the target, firing the instant the fore and back sights lined up with the bottom edge of the black centre mark.
‘Unload, clear gun, down, sit-ups, One, two, three...’ Jim’s stomach muscles were protesting, ‘Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen change. Press-ups, one, two, three...’ Jim’s arms were aching...’ fourteen, fifteen, up, 9 mm pistol, five rounds, target number two, fire. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. ‘Unload, clear gun, down, sit-ups, one, two three...’ the punishing test went on and on. Jim used the H&K in two short bursts. C-c-crack, c-crack, five rounds in two short bursts each time into number three target, more sit-ups, more press-ups, then the short modern design rifle. ‘Five rounds into number four target.’ Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. The heavier detonations of the rifle cartridges slammed the eardrums even through the ear defenders. The recoil kicked straight back in to Jim’s shoulder.
‘Unload, clear gun.’
‘Into the dojo.’
September 21st. Koropi, Athens.
Dimitris came round first. Groggy and disorientated he tried to move his hands to touch his throbbing head. He tried to speak, but his mouth was full of cloth, he made muffled grunting noises as he tried to pull free of the unseen restraints to his limbs. He opened his eyes, wincing and squinting against the light. Gradually he regained his vision, and with it a realization of the dreadful circumstances he was in. The first things to come into focus were his terrified children and his unconscious wife. Rage flooded through him and, in spite of the pain in his head, he began to wrench at his bonds, struggling violently to escape. His wrists and hands bled with the force of his efforts, but he could make no impression on his bonds, none at all. He made no impression on the hearts of his captors either. Unmoved, they watched his pathetic struggles with stony faces.
Eventually exhausted, Dimitris gave up and slumped against the chair. His mind was in turmoil, what was happening to him and to his family? He was not rich, they had nothing worth stealing, and he could not afford a ransom for his children’s release. What in heaven’s name was all this about? It must be some dreadful mistake.
George Liani and his helper stepped into the lamplight.
Relief and hope flooded through Dimitris; these two men were total strangers, as soon as he could explain it would all be over. He would swear not to notify the police, not to breathe a word and all would return to normality. These men had no business with him; they would recognize their blunder and go away.
Roula began to come round; she too was dazed and disoriented.
Dimitris watched helpless as consciousness returned and terror replaced the sequence of anxious, puzzled and pained expressions, which flitted across her face. Roula’s eyes focused on him. Bound and gagged, she tried to speak, but her mouth too was filled with cloth. She turned her head and saw the children on either side of her. Their faces were white, their eyes wide. They were in the first stages of shock. Roula’s face turned back to Dimitris, her eyes pleading desperately for help he could not give.
George Liani spoke slowly and distinctly in carefully enunciated Greek into the strained silence. He spoke directly to Dimitris. ‘Your family will die unless you do exactly as I tell you.’
He waited for the words to sink in. He held out an old single barreled, 12-bore shotgun. It was Dimitris’s own gun, used to control vermin on the family land and to provide the occasional addition to the family larder.
In his other hand George Liani held a box of 12 bore cartridges. He spoke again. ‘Unless you do exactly as I say I will shoot each of your children at close range with this gun, and I will shoot your wife the same way.’ He paused for the enormity of the statement to sink in and then continued, ‘I will then put the muzzle under your chin and blow your head apart. I will remove all the bonds and any traces of our visit; your finger and handprints are all over your gun. I will vanish and the world will think you have wiped out your whole family in a fit of madness, and then turned your gun upon yourself.’
Dimitris was pale with shock beneath his sunburned skin. His limbs felt like jelly. He shook his head violently trying to dislodge the horror that he was hearing.
George Liani spoke again, his cold eyes boring into Dimitris’s eyes. ‘I am a Turk; I have no love for Greeks.’ Then he spat into Dimitris’s face.
Dimitris flinched, his eyes closed and then opened wide with fear as the man’s words registered. His stomach churned with fear. He knew beyond any doubt that this man would carry out his threats. He knew that he had no choice but to do what this man told him to do.
‘Are you on the work-rota for the servicing of flight Number OA 269 tomorrow?’ George Liani demanded.
Dimitris nodded. He was.
George Liani turned to his helper, ‘Keep a sharp lookout here, I have things to arrange at the other end.’ He strode out to the car to use his mobile telephone. He rang the villa in Politia. ‘I’m coming back to help with the preparations, its OA 269 tomorrow,’ he said, ‘cancel the bookings on all the other flights.’
September 21st. Politia, Athens.
In the villa Abu Asifah and George Liani stood at a pair of trestle tables at the end of the large dining room. On the tables were two large canvas grips, two wooden boxes and a cardboard box. Abu Asifah clapped his hands for attention and spoke in Arabic. ‘Each of you will be issued with a pistol and two magazines, you will clean the protective grease from them and then lightly oil and prepare them for use. Then you will clean and load two magazines for each pistol with ammunition. You will load them two rounds less than maximum capacity. You all know what to do and the need to do it well. I will inspect everything before you pack it into the containers. When that has been done to my satisfaction, our friend here will show you how to make up the explosive packages. Each of you will make two packages under his guidance.’ He turned to George Liani and nodded.
George Liani began to hand out automatic pistols still in their factory protective wrappings. They were part of a consignment of weapons, which had found its way, via dubious transactions and international arms dealers, to a Syrian, a prime exporter of terrorist funds and materials.
Abu Asifah handed out rags, gun oil and flannelette. An hour later all the pistols were clean and functioning perfectly. Ammunition was issued from the first of the wooden boxes. Soon each pistol had a loaded, but not overloaded, magazine in the butt, plus a spare. Each of the team was given several aluminum foil dishes of the sort that aircraft meals are served in, together with lids. Wrapping each pistol and the spare magazine in a separate piece of clean cloth, each man put his weapon into a foil container, and packed it tight with spare rag. The pistol containers were fitted with blue lids. They were packed into an empty cardboard box.
George Liani stepped forward. He took from the second wooden box a sheet of what looked like marzipan. He held it up. In the Arabic he had perfected in the hidden training camps in Afghanistan he addressed the assembled men. ‘This is Semtex, cut it, fold it, shape it, and do what you like with it, it’s perfectly stable. You need a primer to set it off.’ He held up a small white object with a hole in the middle like a slightly tapered cotton reel. ‘This is a primer. To set off the primer you need a detonator.’ He held up a small thin metal tube the size of a small cigarette, with two wires coming out of the end. ‘This is the dan
gerous bit,’ he said, ‘whatever you do you must keep these safe, away from heat, shocks or contact with each other and keep them well away from the primers and the explosives.’ He put the detonators into a box of cotton wool and, following his own advice, put it well away to one side.
The Semtex he kept on the table in front of him. ‘Now watch carefully.’ He took a sheet of Semtex and began to cut up and shape with scissors several pieces to layer into one of the foil airline meal dishes. He cut a hole in the centre of each piece to take the gun cotton primer. He then pushed the primer into place through the multiple layers of high explosive, and put on a green foil lid. He located the hole in the centre of the guncotton primer with his finger and using a biro poked a hole through the foil. ‘Okay,’ he said ‘now we have a nice neat explosive charge which looks like a chicken dinner. The detonator goes in last. You don’t put the detonator in place until you are ready to use it. The detonators will be in this meal tray.’ He held up a tray and a red lid.
‘I’ll pack this up, while you make two explosive charges each. I will supervise you.’
The six men set to work, and between supervising them George Liani began to pack up the detonators in cotton wool, laying them in the foil tray. That task carefully completed, he began to pack up some additional foil meal containers. Two with several hundred feet of fine shot wire, the electrical wire used to detonate explosive charges, another with electrical tape, a third with gaffer tape. Batteries went into a fourth and into the rest went electrical cable ties, the tough nylon lock-tight straps that are used to lash heavy electrical cables into place on cable tray.
In all there were thirty meal trays packed up when they had finished; six blue lids - six pistols and ammunition; twelve green lids – twelve explosive charges; one red lid – detonators; eleven silver lids - the bits and pieces, all packed into a strong cardboard box.
George Liani picked up the box and turned to Abu Asifah. ‘Now I go to motivate our Greek friend.’
Abu Asifah nodded his approval.
September 21st. Knightsbridge.
Andrew Cunningham stepped onto the tatami matting and bowed towards Jim Savage. Jim stepped on to the matting and bowed back. As he straightened Andy came at him like lightning. Instinctively Jim moved in a circular movement creating space; he countered the attack, but found his counter already anticipated and countered against him. He went with the line of movement trying to set up a combination throw.
Andy resisted. Deadlock.
The two men went into a series of exploratory moves each testing the others balance and reactions. Suddenly Andy found an advantage. He had moved Jim’s centre of gravity over his right foot. He went into a fast body drop, turning into Jim and tripping him over his outstretched right leg. Jim rolled into a combination pulling his opponent over him and sliding into a single wing choke lock. Andy gave the rapid taps of submission quickly before he blacked out.
The two men stood up and faced each other again. Andy waved to Chalky White who handed him a ‘Fairbairn Sykes’ knife. The razor sharp edges of the black, parkerised blade glinted evilly in the light from the overhead florescent strips. Andy held the knife expertly, blade flat, his thumb on top, the whole knife pointing upwards, perfectly angled to slide up between his opponent’s ribs. His left arm he held in a half circle out around the knifepoint, shielding the weapon from attack. Jim allowed his subconscious mind to take over. The next attack when it came could not be handled by quick thinking. They circled each other.
Like a striking snake Andy made his move. Jim’s subconscious awareness saw the move at its very beginnings, he stepped forward and to the side, his hand blocked the strike at the elbow joint then took his opponent’s wrist with the dexterity of a slip fielder. He pulled and turned and twisted, carrying out a Kota Gaesh. Andy was forced to curve over in a fast arc before his wrist broke, and he slammed into the tatami matting executing a perfect break-fall. Jim hung onto his wrist with one hand, stepped across him, pulling lightly in the direction of Andy’s motion, turning him onto his stomach. With his other hand he forced the back of Andy’s hand against the wrist joint. The deadly knife dropped harmlessly to the mat. Jim executed a slow motion kick towards Andy’s exposed throat.
‘Good, you haven’t lost it,’ Andy Cunningham said from his prone position. ‘Let’s go and see how you did on the other tests.’
Both men stood, bowed to each other and left the mat.
The armorer had checked the targets and added up the scores. ‘Marksman’s score on all four weapons, Sir,’ he reported, ‘and inside the allowed time.’
Andrew Cunningham nodded his approval. ‘Chalky?’
Not as fit as he used to be, but not bad, not bad at all, I could soon get him up to scratch,’ Chalky said with a malicious grin at Jim.
Jim snorted in disgust, ‘owe you one Chalky’.
‘Okay,’ Andrew Cunningham said, ‘coming from you Chalky that is praise indeed.’
Turning to Jim he said, ‘Right, you’ve passed the physical tests. We’ll get showered, dress, and go up to my office to continue the interview. At a later date we will require you to attend a medical examination at the company doctor’s premises in Harley Street.’
The interview in Andrew Cunningham’s office lasted for an hour and covered all the specialist skills that Jim had taught as an instructor; his SC1 qualification stood for Swimmer Canoeist One, the instructor rating for the S.B.S. He was an expert in all sorts of arcane subjects, from reconnaissance to sabotage, from underwater attacks to parachuting into the sea. Andrew Cunningham covered the lot in great detail then asked about languages.
‘Did the Arabic course at Beaconsfield,’ Jim told him. Andrew knew all about that, he had attended the Royal Army Education Corps School of Languages at Beaconsfield himself – had done the same Arabic course but at a different time.
‘Did you use it later?’
‘Yeah, with the BATT teams in Oman.’
Andrew knew that to have taught Omani troops in their native tongue, as a British Army Training Team instructor on loan to the Sultan of Oman’s forces, would have honed Jim’s Arabic to a high level of fluency, and it was likely that Jim spoke, or understood, several dialects. ‘Hmm, given the number of Middle Eastern clients we have on our books that would definitely be an asset.’
Eventually it was over. ‘Thanks for coming in Jim, here is the address of our medical man in Harley Street.’ He pushed a card across the desk and then held up a form. ‘If your medical turns out okay, and I expect that it will, we will offer you a position. The positions are very sensitive and we would like to do a security screening check on your background. This document is an authorization for us to delve into your private life. Are you willing to allow us to do this?’
‘Yes,’ Jim said readily, ‘where do I sign?’
‘Between the penciled crosses; and date it please.’
Jim did as required. He stood up and looked at Andrew Cunningham.
‘When can you let me know?’
‘Well, we use a parachute club for free-fall practice, here’s the address. If you’d like to come and do a couple of drops at the weekend I’ll give you an answer then.’
‘Thank you, Mister Cunningham; I’ll see you on Saturday,’
‘The name’s still Andy. See you at the airfield.’
Andrew Cunningham showed Jim out and made a mental note to thank Mike Edge. Jim Savage was a good find, one of a rare breed.
September 21st. Koropi.
The bonds were released from Dimitris’s wrists with a pair of electrician’s snips. The gag was removed from his mouth by snipping the cable tie round the back of his head and ripping the bunched-up rag from his mouth. It was not done gently.
Dimitris tried to moisten his mouth but couldn’t; he croaked to his captors asking for water but was given nothing. He began to rub his wrists where the tough nylon ties had cut into them. Feeling began to return to his fingers as the circulation restarted, it was agonizing. Then the
bonds around his ankles were snipped through. His feet were not to be left completely free, however. A cable tie was fastened around each ankle separately, not too tightly, but sufficiently tight so that it couldn’t be slipped off over the foot. Then the two anklets of nylon were joined with a cable tie to form a short hobble. Dimitris could now shuffle along but could not run. His captors were not totally sure of him yet. George Liani jerked Dimitris to his feet by the front of his shirt and then grabbed the scruff of his neck and shoved him none too gently through to the next room. Dimitris had to hobble fast to prevent himself from falling forwards. The nylon bonds cut into his ankles. He was pushed roughly into a chair.
George Liani, his silenced Walther P4 pistol in his hand, the same one that had killed the unfortunate Andreas, pulled up another chair and sat opposite him. His eyes bored into Dimitris. He produced an object from inside his jacket and held it up for Dimitris to see. ‘Mobile ’phone,’ he said, and pulled up a number from the memory.
Dimitris heard the muted ringing in the next room and then a voice came over the air. ‘Number two.’
‘Number one, how do you read me?’
‘Two, loud and clear.’
‘One, you’re loud and clear also.’
He looked up at Dimitris. ‘I am going to follow you and watch you from a distance, through binoculars where necessary. I shall see every move you make. My helper next door, whom you heard on the mobile link, will remain with your family. At the slightest sign of a wrong move on your part I shall call through to him an instruction to kill your wife and children. Do you understand?’
Dimitris could only nod.
George Liani slapped him hard across the face. ‘Speak to me!’ he shouted.
‘I understand,’ Dimitris whispered.
‘Louder!’
Dimitris swallowed hard and spoke, ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Now swear that you will do as I tell you. Swear on the lives of your wife and children.’
‘I swear on the lives of my wife and children that I will do as you tell me,’ Dimitris said, his voice breaking with emotion.
George Liani slapped him hard on the other side of his face, snapping Dimitris’s head back the other way. ‘Be sure you do. My helper and I are Turkish Moslems from Cyprus. Greeks there killed both our families. We would love an excuse to even the score.’
September 21st. Politia.
Abu Asifah was pleased, the weapons were prepared, the explosive charges made. It had been a very useful session. He addressed the assembled men in Arabic. ‘Well done, every hour brings us nearer to achieving our aims. Now, listen and watch carefully. If anything happens to me any one of you could be required to place the explosive charges, to connect them up, and to set them off.’
He turned and pointed to a set of diagrams pinned on the blackboard in the corner of the room. ‘This is the layout of the A300 Airbus, the aircraft used on the flight we are targeting. I have marked the points in red on the diagram where the charges are to be laid. Memorize them. Each of you will have to mark up an identical drawing with the correct positions. I will check your mark-ups against my original, so, no mistakes. Now, the charges, every charge detonated goes off in the “direction of initiation”. That is in line sequence - detonator, primer, charge, and target. There is no point in placing charges where there is nothing of any consequence to damage. Each charge when placed according to the positions on the drawing will detonate into a vital part of the aircraft so as to cause maximum damage. The charges will be fixed in place using this adhesive tape, like so.’ He took a dummy charge in a foil container and using the special adhesive tape stuck it onto the blackboard below the drawing. ‘Next you will run the detonating wires to the control point on the aircraft, taping them to the cabin roof as you go. At that point all the wire ends of the same color will be bared and will be twisted together. Like this.’ He passed round several different colored lengths of shot wire all taped together in a bunch, with an inch of insulation removed, and the same ends twisted together as an example. He held up a pair of single pin connectors. ‘The twisted ends of the cables go into the open ends of these spring loaded connections.’ He pushed the ends into the holes and released the spring-loaded grips one at a time. ‘Next we place the detonators.’ He held up a dummy detonator made from a shortened piece of pencil with two wires taped to it at one end. ‘It is inserted into the hole in the primer.’ He pushed the dummy detonator through the green foil lid of the dummy charge into the hole in the primer, and taped it in place. He connected the two wires to the shot wire and taped the joints. Then he held up a transistor radio alarm. ‘This will be with me on the flight. It is adapted for use as the detonating mechanism. On the side of the radio are two electrical jacks, one for a microphone, and one for an earphone. The alarm is set just as a normal radio alarm is set. Now plug the pins into the jacks on the radio, depress this switch to activate the alarm and when the alarm goes off the circuit is completed. The only difference is in the sound it makes.’ Abu Asifah smiled a cold smile at his little joke.
‘Tamaam, Insh Allah, nihhna rahh bukra.’ ‘Good, God willing, we go tomorrow.’