CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
9.00am. Tel Aviv, 10/24/02.
Twenty four hours after the team left for Israel, Mike reported to John Henderson’s office in Tel Aviv to give him a progress report, whilst Jim and the rest of the team went off to a secret destination.
‘We’re ready to go on the recce John,’ Mike told him, ‘two of the guys have been getting me up to scratch on technique and fitness and I think we can get the confirmation and the information we need.’
John didn’t look as enthusiastic as Mike had expected, but before he could comment to that effect there was a peremptory knock, the door opened and Mary ushered Ben Levy in.
On his return from Zurich a car had taken Ben to his office where his in tray was piled high, his e-mail in box was full of items demanding his attention and his personal mobile was stuffed with text messages. With a heavy sigh he had immediately attacked the backlog. What he found, added to what he had heard from Najib Shawa, added to what he already knew had given him cause for grave concern.
John looked up, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. ‘Want to tell me where the fire is Ben?’
‘It’s just being lit,’ Ben replied, ‘and it’s too close for comfort.
‘The stakes are being raised? Where’s this taking us?’
‘There is something I should have told you,’ Ben said, something I held back.’
John looked him in the eye. ‘So tell us now.’
Ben took a deep breath. ‘You aren’t going to like this; the microfilm I supplied via Mike?’
John nodded. ‘What about it?’
‘I held some back.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was a section on dispositions in the Western Desert. A deployment of strike capability by Syria aimed at Israel. Our leaders wouldn’t take the risk of it getting out and causing mass panic in our people.’
John and Mike looked at him in surprise.
‘Well, Israeli-US relations were not at their best at the time and I gave you what I could. Anyway as far as we’re concerned that is not the important issue.’
John held his anger in check, if this was not the important issue what the hell was?
Ben told them the result of his visit to Zurich, and what he had learned from his contact.
Mike looked at him doubtfully; ‘A major attack inside Israel?’
John’s reaction was the same as Mike’s. ‘Is it possible?’
‘Well we can’t afford to take the chance,’ Ben told him, ‘and anyway there’s more. I’ve spent hours going through reports and checking on the people attending the alleged Islamic conference at the Baur au Lac in Zurich. I’m beginning to feel as though we have only seen the tip of the iceberg. The people my contact visited in Zurich included top representatives of Al-Qaeda, the Iranian regime, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad and PFLP activists based in Syria. Members of the Takfir group from Egypt and Sudan, and disaffected Saudis were also present. That’s a pretty broad confederation – what, I ask myself, could be their interest in the activities of the Blood of Shatila.’
‘You think they are all behind a strike into Israel?’
‘Someone is; maybe all, maybe some, we know there has been high level contact between the Iranians, the Syrians and the Al-Qaeda network. To me it begins to look as if someone is co-opting the Blood of Shatila’s actions for their own ends. From whispers gathered elsewhere and from the data on the microfilm I think the Blood of Shatila group has one objective, but the others at that meeting may have another objective entirely. I think Abu Asifah and the Blood of Shatila would see a strike inside Israel as an action to heighten their profile. For the Iranians, the Iraqis, the Syrians and the others at national level, it could be calculated to paralyze the Israeli nation and at the same time act as a signal for a chemical and biological attack on Israel as well as on Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.’
John looked grim. ‘So, maybe the Blood of Shatila and its next operation is being funded for terrorist acts, but more importantly is being used as a signal for the start of their real intentions? A Jihad, legitimizing in Muslim eyes a series of actions; actions that would gain access to the wealth of Kuwait, the wealth of Saudi Arabia, control of the most holy places in Islam, and the kudos of destroying the Israeli State?’
Ben nodded. ‘Either by design or by accident I believe the two things are linked. If I’m right the whole balance of power in the Middle East is about to be altered. We could have a Muslim revival led by fanatics, funded by oil wealth and controlled by brutal despots. That can’t be allowed to happen.’
John stood up and began to pace round the office. ‘So, we’ve analyzed the hell out of the situation, question is, what are we going to do about it?’
Mike was the first to speak. ‘The whole thing has to be nipped in the bud. We have more reason than ever to eliminate them.’
‘By “them” you mean the Blood of Shatila?’ Ben asked.
‘Who else, they’re the guys I’m after?’ Mike replied sharply.
‘If you take out the Blood of Shatila, do we have any guarantee that this strike at the heart of Israel will not go forward?’ John asked.
‘No, we don’t,’ Ben replied, ‘and that is my principal concern, this Turkish Islamist is a determined pro. Everything we know about him suggests that once he has been set a task, he forces it through to the end.’
‘So the signal would still be given, the Jihad would start, Iran and Syria could launch a chemical and biological attack and the whole of the Middle East would go to hell anyway,’ John stated flatly.
Ben nodded; ‘Exactly so.’
Mike, as an analyst, needed no elaboration. His brain was cutting the problem into manageable segments. ‘Well, we are ready to go on the recce. The follow up strike team is in training to take out the Blood of Shatila HQ. The team leaders know what I want done, and once we have the recce results they’ll know how to do it. So, our priority has to be to locate the Turkish Fundamentalist and stop him. The signal for the Jihad has to be prevented.’
‘Damn right, once their planes or missiles cross the border we have four minutes before they hit,’ Ben said fervently. ‘John, you and I need to put this before the United Nations Security Council and get the necessary force sanctioned against Iran, Syria, whoever.’
‘The process has been started, Mike put the State Department and the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the picture several days ago, but it takes a hell of a long time to get the UN moving. We need to alert them to the new data.
‘Right, you guys need to push on that, so who’s going to go after the shadowy Turk?’ Mike asked.
Ben and John looked at him.
‘No, I’m going after the bastards who killed my brother.’
‘Half the bastards,’ Ben said.
‘What?’
‘The guy who made the hijack possible was this covert operator; the guy Najib says is a Turk. Without his involvement the guys on the plane could not have killed your brother. He is at least half-responsible for Alan’s death. If you don’t get him you’ve only done half the job.’
‘But...’
‘You said yourself only a few moments ago that the recce and the strike teams are competent and ready to go. ‘Let them take care of that half and you go after the other half, the guys who set Alan up.’
John added his weight to the argument. ‘Mike, you still work for me, you are a serving officer under an oath of allegiance. I agree with Ben, your specialist team can take care of the Blood of Shatila thugs. I need you to go after the brains; the guy Najib thinks is a Turk. He has to be stopped. You have a damn good reason to go after him, and, if I have to, I will give you a direct order as a serving officer to do so.’
Mike took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly. Gradually the balance tipped in his mind. They were right. This Turkish fanatic had to be found, he had to be stopped and he owed it to Alan to stop him. Permanently.
‘Okay, where do I start?’
‘At the scene of his last major operation: Athens.�
��
1.00pm. Lod, Israel.
Ben Levy had found a disused building with a similar layout to the terrorist stronghold in Beirut. Conveniently, it was a government building. It had a chain link and razor wire fence around it at a secure distance and IDF regulars were posted to guard it. Ben had commandeered the whole of the building, including the basement service area, and the car park levels. He also had the top floor set up as an accommodation unit. Provision had been made for food to be delivered, and there were wash basins, toilets, and showers for the team to use. They were issued with IDF olive drab fatigues.
The sweat ran off Digger Trench’s forehead as he shoveled sand into the sandbag held open by Willy Anderson. He paused to wipe it away from his eyes, and surveyed the progress they were making in building defenses as shown on satellite photos of the suspected Blood of Shatila HQ in Beirut. One sangar on the approach road to the car park was completed with observation slits in place giving a clear view of the road. A timber and corrugated iron roof covered with sandbags to keep out grenades or mortar bombs also served to keep out the worst of the sun. A second sangar was half built. Down the road timber barriers covered in barbed wire were laid out to form a set of "S" bends to slow down approaching traffic. The set up was exactly that which existed in the Shatila district of Beirut.
‘C’mon Digger, ’ra bags’ll nae fill theirsens.’ Willie’s voice rasped across Diggers thoughts.
‘All right, all right ya wee bugger, I was just checking progress.’
Digger shoveled the last couple of spades-full into the sandbag.
‘When ahv a can av ice cold lager in me mit, that’ll be progress.’
Willy shook open another sandbag for Digger to fill.
Andy Cunningham and Jim Savage straightened their aching backs.
Digger’s next shovel-full went down the back of Willie’s shorts.
Chaos ensued. After a few minutes of horse play Andy yelled, ‘Break it up! I want this job completed today!’
Willy shook the sand out of his shorts. He grinned at Digger again.
‘Ya big bam, whin ye’re legless ahm gonnae piss in yer beer.’
Jim grinned at Digger. ‘He’s not called Wee Willy just ’cos he’s little,’ he said, and turned to resume shoveling just as Mike pulled up in his hired car. Jim and Andrew walked over to him.
‘Get the guys together inside,’ Mike told them, ‘there’s been a change of plan.’
Glad to have a few moments respite from the fierce sun, the team moved inside. Digger handed out cold cans of lager from an antiquated fridge he had scavenged from somewhere.
Mike got straight to the point. ‘I have to go off on another aspect of this operation. Jim, can you and Willy handle the recce?’
Jim shrugged. ‘Sure, it’s our trade,’ he said and looked at Willy.
Willy shrugged too. ‘Nae problem.’
‘Good; so Andy that leaves you one man short, can you still cover the strike?’
‘Yes, we have built in contingency in case things get nasty. I could always reduce the holding team securing the rendezvous by one without much risk.’
‘Right then; Jim, Willy, get to this address, in your local civvies, tonight.’ Mike handed Jim a slip of paper. Aim to arrive at 10pm. Take no ID. The password challenge is Aardvark the response is Zebedee. You’ll be taken to an Israeli Naval unit. All the kit you need will be waiting for you to check it out. You go in tomorrow night. Andrew, carry on with the training as planned. When the recce information comes in, you will be contacted and given all the data and all the help you need. Good luck.’
8.00am. Big Sur.
Anna had plenty to occupy her mind. Work kept coming in via her computer link with Technology Today and via email.
Dawn was not so lucky. She had nothing to occupy her mind, nothing to take her thoughts away from what might be happening to her beloved Jim. Without her being aware of it her concern began to become an obsession.
Anna tried to take Dawn’s mind away from her worry by giving her things to do, but Dawn’s ability to help with the problems of Technology To-day was limited, and doing chores around the house didn’t prevent her from thinking. Even long walks didn’t help much. On one of their strolls along the beach Anna became aware that Dawn was crying softly.
‘I can’t help it,’ Dawn sniffed miserably, ‘I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, I just know it’s dangerous.’ The floodgates of her tears opened and she sobbed, ‘Oh Anna, he’s all I care about in the world. I’ve had so many failed relationships, and now the one man I truly care for has to earn his living doing things that are so dangerous. It’s not fair.’
‘I know, I know,’ Anna put her arm around her shoulders and held her close. ‘I feel the same way about Mike. These men, there’s no way they’ll listen, not till they’ve done what they’ve set out to do.’
As she gave Dawn a Kleenex from her pocket, Anna began to wonder whether Dawn was fully over the trauma of the attack she had endured at Heathrow.
Dawn gave her nose a good blow. ‘If only I could speak to him, find out where he is; find out if he’s safe.’
‘Well, I have a number we can call in an emergency, Bat Yom Import and Export, whatever that may be...’
‘Oh please Anna, just to find out that they’re all right, please...’
‘Come on, let’s go back and do it now.’ Emergency or not, Anna decided that Dawn’s distressed state warranted a quick ’phone call.
The two women hurried back to the house. Anna rang the number Mike had given her.
‘Shalom; Bat Yom Import Export.’
‘Ah, yes, do you speak English?’
‘Of course Madam, how may I help you?’
‘Well, I was given your number by Mike Edge; he said I could contact him there.’
‘I see, one moment please...’
‘What are they saying?’ Dawn’s anxious question came over Anna’s shoulder.
‘Hang on,’ Anna switched the ’phone to the speaker. The switchboard girl at Bat Yom came back to them.
‘I’m sorry Madam, Mister Edge isn’t here at the moment, and I can’t reach him directly.’
‘What about Mister Savage?’ Dawn blurted the question, unable to stop herself.
At the sound of another voice the switchboard girl became more defensive, her voice sharp. ‘I’m sorry there’s no one of that name here.’
Motioning Dawn to keep quiet, Anna’s tone was conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry, I’m on the speaker phone, that was my secretary jogging my memory, one moment and I’ll switch it off. There, I’m back on the hand set now. Is Mister Cunningham available then?’
‘No, I’m sorry, but if you would like to leave a message I’ll make sure Mister Edge gets it as soon as he phones in...’
Anna’s long experience of corporate practice told her she wasn’t going to get any further. ‘Okay, can you ask him to contact Anna Sutherland at Technology Today as soon as he can, thank you, ’bye.’ She looked at Dawn, slumped and miserable, her hope of news of Jim gone.
‘Don’t worry, they’re probably in a meeting or something and can’t be disturbed.’
‘If they were in a meeting she’d have said.’
‘Not necessarily, she was just being careful, and that’s a good thing, helping to keep them safe.’
Dawn turned and buried her head in Anna’s shoulder. ‘Oh God, I can’t stand this, it’s driving me mad.’
6.00pm. Athens.
The Hotel Grande Bretagne is the oldest and finest hotel in Athens. Its massive rectangular shape, set in Constitution Square, facing the National Gardens and the Houses of Parliament, gives an impression of solid respectability. The black and white marble and the elegant décor of the foyer add to that first impression, as does the impeccable service and the cosmopolitan atmosphere.
As Mike checked in the receptionist gave him a fax message from Bat Yom Import Export and confirmed that his reservation was as specified. He had a large suite; bedroom with b
athroom en suite, a lounge, dining room and a small kitchen.
‘Good, self contained, this will do as an office and as a base to work from,’ Mike thought as the door closed behind the porter. He sat at the writing desk, took out his address book and reached for some copy paper. It was the work of a few moments to draft a fax to Anna, then he got busy on the ’phone. Ten minutes later he had contacted the two police officers that had investigated the Greek end of the hijacking. On his way out through the foyer he asked the receptionist to send his fax. An hour later he walked into the Athens Police HQ, and asked to speak to Lieutenant Georgiou or Sergeant Joanidies. He was ushered into an interview room.
‘How can we help you, Mister Edge?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘Well, I got your names from a colleague. He said that you were the officers who carried out the investigation of the hijacking of the Olympic Airlines flight a short while ago.’
The two police officers looked at each other.
‘What is your interest in that case, Mister Edge?’ the lieutenant asked.
‘I’m in the business of preventing hijackings, I wondered if you could give me some material that might help.’
‘That case is closed Mister Edge, we are satisfied that nothing untoward happened on Greek soil.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that is the case lieutenant, but...’
‘No buts, Mister Edge, the case is closed; we can give you no information on this subject. The sergeant will show you out, goodbye.’
The lieutenant, with his ambitious eye still on promotion, was inclined to be very careful in dealing with anyone not in the Greek police force, anyone not Greek, and particularly anyone from another country’s officialdom. He stood up as he spoke, and made as if to leave the interview room.
Mike took a very thick wad of drachmae from his inside pocket and peeled off a couple of notes. He shoved them into his trouser pocket then replaced the bundle of notes in his jacket. ‘It’s very important to me to get some information on this case, are you sure you can’t help me?’
Lieutenant Georgiou’s eyes met those of his sergeant and held them for a moment. He gave a barely perceptible nod and left the room.
‘You heard the lieutenant,’ sergeant Joanidies said, ‘the case is closed.’ As he spoke he opened his notebook and quickly wrote down an address followed by the words “After six tonight”. ‘Follow me,’ he continued, ‘I’ll show you out.’ He thrust the piece of folded paper into Mike’s hand.
6.00pm. Istanbul.
George Liani had a developing problem. Word had reached him that the Istanbul Police were getting close to his fundamentalist press operation. Someone had talked and soon a raid would be made. He had no time to lose, and he had very few options open to him. ‘Money, it always comes down to money,’ he muttered to himself as he looked out over the bustle of the Golden Horn. The promised advance funds from his Palestinian contacts had not yet come through. His resources were low, and the fact that someone had talked meant that he was unable to rely on his local fundamentalist volunteers.
He briefly contemplated storing the equipment and the materials in his own apartment but he rejected the idea out of hand. He didn’t relish the idea of being caught sitting on subversive material. The Turkish authorities regarded this as a very serious offence, and there would be no way to deny his involvement.
Another option occurred to him, he could move everything into the apartment of Suleiman Yavas, his former helper. It wasn’t far away, the rent was paid up in advance, and there was no connection to him. He had Suleiman’s keys; he could hire a van and he could move the stuff himself.
By the time the rent came due he would have his new funding through, and could find somewhere else to set up the printing operation. He thought it through carefully and could see no reason why he should not use the apartment. In any case a bit of movement in the apartment would stop any curiosity that might be aroused among neighbors by the place being empty. He didn’t want his former helper listed as a missing person by some nosy do-gooder, and if the apartment was raided the authorities would be looking for Suleiman and not for him.
Taking the dead Suleiman’s credit card from the wallet removed from Suleiman’s person when he had killed him, George Liani left his apartment and made his way to the nearest van rental company. Using Suleiman’s credit card, he hired an unmarked white delivery van for a twenty-four hour period, and drove off to the district where the underground press was located. He drove casually around, following a pattern that would enable him to case the whole area. He saw nothing to alarm him.
Later, under the cover of darkness he stripped out the computer, the printer, the color photocopier and all the bits and pieces. Then he removed all the files, pamphlets and every scrap of paper. Working through the early hours of the morning he transferred it all quietly to the new location without anyone taking any notice of him. Opening a cupboard to store some pamphlets he found a brief case. Inside were the papers of his former helper; birth certificate, passport, driving license, identity card and medical insurance.
‘Could be useful,’ he muttered under his breath. He knew where he could get them altered for his own use. Taking the briefcase out to the van he carried on working until everything was stored to his satisfaction. Then, tired, but satisfied with a job well done, he went home in the early dawn light.
9.00am. Big Sur.
Anna rushed out of her study waving a fax. ‘Dawn, it’s from Mike, he says that all’s well and don’t worry...’
‘Where are they, is Jim okay?’ In her haste Dawn dropped the dish she was carrying onto the table with a crash.
‘Well he doesn’t say as much,’ Anna said slowly, ‘but it’s a prompt reply. Technology Today sent it on, that girl did pass on our message, I guess.’
‘Let me see,’ Dawn took the paper from Anna’s hand. ‘There’s a return code on the fax header, do you suppose we can find out where it was sent from?’
‘Shouldn’t be a big problem; give it to me.’ Anna rang the switchboard room at Technology To-day. ‘Suzy, I’ve got a fax here, this is the return code; can you check it out and get me the address please?’ She waited. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ She turned to Dawn. ‘That didn’t take long. It was sent from the Hotel Grand Bretagne, in Athens.’
Dawn looked unhappily back at her. ‘Athens, what the hell are they doing in Athens? Oh God, I can’t stand much more of this.’ She stormed out of the kitchen slamming the door behind her, ran to her room, and flung herself onto her bed.
Anna, watching her fleeing back, pursed her lips and frowned. Dawn’s behavior was, to say the least, erratic. Could this exaggerated concern for Jim be a symptom of some deeper stress? What did they call it? Post something? Post traumatic stress disorder? Was that what was at the root of Dawn’s behavior?
Curled up, unable to contain her misery, Dawn stared sightlessly out of the window, tears running unchecked down her cheeks.
Gradually a plan began to form in her mind.
8.00pm. Lod, Israel.
Once the sangars and the roadblocks were completed the strike team adopted a reversed working routine, rising in the early evening and going to bed in the late morning. As they had just come from a different time zone, their body clocks were more in tune with these times in any case, and as the time for the raid was close, Andy decided to stick to this arrangement. The team would sleep during the heat of the day and get up for breakfast in the evenings from now on.
They were also practicing their Arabic pronunciation, with emphasis on the standard forms of greeting. ‘Salaam Alekhum,’ ‘Peace be unto you.’ And the standard response, ‘Alekhum Salaam,’ ‘Unto you be Peace.’ ‘Kief halek, sedigi?’ ‘How are you, friend?’ No large vocabulary was attempted but, under the expert guidance of Andrew Cunningham and Dave Prendergast, great emphasis was placed on learning the accent, particularly on the words of response. Circumstances could arise where any one of the team may be forced to speak. They would need to understand basic conversatio
nal questions and be fluent in a few common responses. Hour after hour they practiced, until they sounded like Palestinians to Andrew’s ear.
Moustaches and beards had been grown, and these were now shaped and dyed to suit. Hair was trimmed into local styles of barbering and dyed. Faces, which were not yet brown enough from the Californian and Israeli sunshine, were dyed to a deeper color. A set of clothes in local style was ready for each man, complete with a stained and well-used Keffiyeh in the distinctive black and white pattern favored by the PLO.
Other intensive training continued. ‘Who cuts the most meat?’ Digger Trench opened his lecture with a question. He was giving a refresher course in the use of the Fairbairn Sykes knife, the wicked-looking, double edged, mat black weapon that is the emblem of the Third Commando Brigade, the brigade in which most of these men had served.
‘A butcher?’
‘Right, and what does a butcher use to keep his knives sharp?’
‘A butcher’s steel.’
‘Exactly, a finely serrated edge is needed.’ Digger held up his own knife and a big butcher’s steel. ‘Here’s how you do it.’ He began to sweep the edges of the blade diagonally down and across the butcher’s steel. A thin line of bright metal glinted along the edges of the matt black blade.
From behind the trestle table, which he was using as a lectern, Digger lifted up a rack of sheep ribs and hung it on a convenient pipe with a butcher’s hook.
‘Once it’s sharp, this is how you use it.’ He held the knife horizontal, the blade pointing forwards and flat to the ground. He tilted the blade up and in one continuous sweeping movement slid it up between the meaty sheep ribs. The blade went in to the hilt. He turned the ribs on the hook to show the length of blade protruding into the ribcage. ‘Five inches, two more than needed to rupture a heart.’
He turned to a human anatomy diagram. ‘Here is where you place the knife for maximum effect. Remember, live muscle will clench onto the blade in a reflex reaction, you will need to use more effort to get it out than you did to push it in.’ He paused to put away his grisly lecture aids and picked up the next item.
‘Stealth is our watchword for the first two thirds of the operation. You will be carrying assault pistols, but they are for use in extreme circumstances only. Initially all opposition has to be taken out silently. The knife is one tool for the job. The next tool is the Welrod pistol.’ In his hand he held a matt black tube twelve inches long and about one and a quarter inches in diameter. About a quarter of the way along its length was a wooden handle. He held the odd looking weapon up for all the men to see.
‘The Welrod pistol, gentlemen, old but still effective. Overall length 12", weight 32 ounces, barrel length 5", caliber .32", rifling 4 groove right hand, fires single shots. It is magazine fed, but you have to cock it for each shot. The muzzle velocity is 700 feet per second and it is totally silent.’ He tapped the end of the tube. ‘Inside here are a whole series of oiled leather self sealing washers, which close up after the passage of the round. This weapon is a close quarter elimination tool to be used when the enemy is out of reach of your knife. You will each be issued with one of these pistols and with ammunition for it. Don’t try to use it at ranges over 10 yards, the accuracy is limited. Use it close in and aim for the centre of the chest.’
Each man was issued with his odd looking but lethal pistol and they went into the basement to practice close range shots into man sized targets. Nothing could be heard even from a few feet away.
They began to practice infiltration methods. They took it in turns, different pairs of men alternately being the guards and then the infiltrators. Andrew encouraged them to make constructive criticism wherever possible, but in the event there was very little to criticize. These men were professional and, even operating against the expertise of each other, made very few mistakes. A full dress rehearsal was planned, with Ben in attendance to see how it went. Digger Trench lined them up for inspection and walked round with Andy and Ben Levy.
‘Don’t let the Israeli security services catch sight of this lot,’ Ben warned, ‘or the whole of the local defensive set-up will be ordered to stand by to repel a raid.’
10.00pm. Big Sur.
Dawn had not emerged from her room for supper in spite of Anna’s pleas. Anna tapped on Dawn’s door, a mug of hot chocolate in her hand, hoping to tempt her. There was no answer. Anna turned the latch and went in. The bed had been lain on, there was a dent in the pillows but the covers had not been pulled back. Of Dawn there was no sign. She took in the state of the bed and then saw the note propped on the dressing table.
‘Dear Anna, please don’t be angry. I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve gone to Athens to find Jim.’
Anna felt a stab of fear. She sat on the edge of Dawn’s bed to think. Dawn had run off to do the very thing Mike didn’t want - what if she blundered in and caused Mike’s plans to fail; unwittingly put lives at risk. Anna felt keenly her own responsibility in this. Dawn had been in her care. Perhaps she should have given more of her time to Dawn, helped her more... but she had had so much to do to catch up with her work from Technology Today...
Well, damage limitation was what was needed now. She wasn’t working from the office in any case. She could work from anywhere with a laptop and a mobile. She would follow Dawn; perhaps head her off before she could do any damage. Then Anna realized that the Hotel Grande Bretagne in Athens was the only address Dawn had. Using the resources of Technology Today, and with a little luck, she might be able to get there before her, but there was no time to lose. Her Chevy Blazer was gone, Dawn must have taken it. Reaching for the ’phone, Anna contacted a private executive airline company that Technology Today used when speed was essential. She ordered a helicopter to pick her up from the stretch of grass above the beach and a private jet to be on standby at San Francisco International Airport.
Retribution Page 27
