Retribution

by Nicholas Gill

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

  8.00am. Jerusalem, 10/31/02.

  Mike Ben and John were still wrestling with the problem of George Liani’s disappearance.

  ‘Well, let’s put ourselves in his place and review what has happened to date,’ Mike suggested.

  They started by reviewing the most recent reports supplied by the Shin Bet operatives. No leads to George Liani’s whereabouts had been found.

  ‘Where would he strike?’

  ‘Reports say he spent time on a bench outside the Israel Museum overlooking the Knesset,’ Ben stated.

  Mike looked up and caught Ben’s eye. ‘Look at the last part of the report. His room was full of Arab language newspapers and he had a back issue of the Reshumot, the official gazette of the Knesset proceedings. He’s making a study of the events inside the Knesset and I’ll bet anything you like he’s made a list of events that will draw a packed sitting of the one hundred and twenty members.’

  ‘That’s when he will strike!’

  ‘At a time when he can do maximum damage!’

  John nodded, ‘What events are coming up in the next few days?’

  ‘One stands out above all others,’ Ben said slowly, ‘the Financial Report. The minister responsible for the country’s finances is giving our equivalent of your State of the Union report, or the British Budget Speech. It has to be presented at least sixty days before the end of the financial year, that is, within two days time.

  ‘That’ll be the target date, I’d bet my life on it,’ Mike said, ‘couldn’t be anything else.’

  ‘How will he strike?’

  ‘Most of their attacks have been bombs.’

  ‘Right, so any attack is likely to be a bomb attack.’

  The three of them looked at each other grimly.

  ‘The work on the new defensive blast wall, it’s under construction now, and he has to make his move before it’s completed,’ Ben said thoughtfully.’

  ‘What would you do in his place?’ John had a good idea what Mike was going to say.

  ‘I’d use a vehicle, a car or more likely a lorry, put a bomb in it and bring it in with the contractor’s stuff.’

  ‘Yes, exactly what I’d do too, it can’t be a coincidence that he sat and watched the work under way,’ Ben agreed.

  ‘Where would he get that kind of quantity of explosive inside Israel? Your people have things well under control where explosives are concerned.’

  Ben’s brow wrinkled in thought. ‘It would have to be ANFO, the bulk of it, there’s no other choice.’

  ‘That needs a high explosive charge to set it off.’

  ‘Yes, but a much smaller quantity.’

  ‘It will have to be imported, or be here already. The ammonium nitrate fertilizer certainly is; there must be thousands of tons of the stuff, and plenty of fuel oil.’

  ‘It’s all falling into place,’ John said grimly, ‘but how the hell are we going to find him?’

  Ben shook his head wearily. ‘There must be a lead somewhere. In the meantime all vehicles approaching the Knesset, particularly the contractor’s vehicles, will have to be subjected to even more rigorous searches.’

  ‘The high explosive may not be in the country yet,’ John suggested, ‘you’d better increase searches at the border check points.’

  ‘Can you get the financial report postponed on security grounds?’ Mike asked, ‘to give us more time?’

  Ben shook his head, ‘No, it’s too important an event. You know how sensitive financial markets are; a postponement for any reason would send shock waves around the financial world. Billions could be lost; the cabinet wouldn’t countenance it. I’ll have to increase security and step up our efforts to locate Liani.’

  Ben reached for the phone and began to issue a rapid stream of questions. Suddenly his face went pale. ‘Are you sure?’ He looked at John and Mike, his face stricken. ‘The Minister of Finance will begin presenting the Financial Report at noon today!’

  John looked at him aghast. ‘So little time!’

  Mike looked shocked, his face pale, sore and scabbed from his burns. He held up the report he was reading. ‘There’s something here, an advert was ripped from a newspaper in his room. Did anyone follow it up?’

  ‘Not that I know of, what day, which newspaper?’

  Mike told him the date. ‘It was page twenty-six top right hand column.’

  ‘I’ve got that paper here, let’s have a look.’ Ben turned the pages. ‘It’s an advert for an auction, construction equipment, bankrupt stock.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Ben leapt to his feet, ‘Come on, we need to pay them a visit.’

  ‘Yeah, and then his bank manager,’ Mike said, tearing the advert from Ben’s paper, ‘he went to see him just before the sale.’

  8.00am. Silwan.

  George Liani was mixing concrete. Not in the big ready mixed delivery vehicle, but in a cement mixer. He had carefully covered the top of the ANFO mixture with a thick polythene membrane, and his Hezbollah fanatic was dumping buckets of wet cement on to the top of the polythene sheet. The sheet would prevent the moisture reaching the explosive mixture until the cement set. The fuel oil that he had added earlier would prevent any seepage of moisture around the membrane from contaminating the ammonium nitrate granules. It was necessary from the point of view of authenticity that a ready mixed concrete delivery truck should appear to be filled with concrete; and, more importantly, the concrete plug would seal the explosive inside the big steel drum, giving it the containment characteristics of an enormous steel encased bomb.

  8.30am. Jerusalem.

  ‘Do you remember this man?’ Mike put photographs of George Liani, taken at the airport, down on the reception counter.

  The young girl looked at Mike’s face livid and scabbed from the burns he had suffered in Istanbul, and began to stammer.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ A man in his mid forties came out from an inner office.

  ‘Are you the auctioneer?’ Ben asked. He handed the man his ID as he spoke and watched his eyebrows climb as he studied it.

  ‘Yes, but...’

  Ben passed him the photos. ‘We are looking for this man as a matter of extreme urgency. We think he attended one of your sales.’

  ‘Which sale?’ the auctioneer’s brow creased in a frown.

  ‘The bankrupt stock sale; construction equipment.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, I remember him - he bought one of the lots and paid in cash. Unusual that. I thought so at the time. The money is still in the safe. Alarm flitted across his face. The money is okay isn’t it, not stolen or forged?’

  ‘No, our man’s not in that game. Let me see the cash.’

  The auctioneer, still looking worried, went to the safe in his office and returned with a linen bag. He tipped it onto the counter. The money was still in bundles, the bands stamped by the bank.

  Mike looked closely at them. ‘Issued by the bank he visited,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, we need to take a sample of this with us,’ Ben told the auctioneer. ‘Don’t worry you will get it back shortly.’ Taking a card from his wallet he quickly wrote out a receipt. Taking one of the bundles he looked at Mike. ‘Come on, we’re going to pay our friend’s bank manager a visit.’

  08.00am. Jerusalem.

  John Henderson was less than a mile from George Liani’s workshop. Working from one of Ben Levy’s offices he was on a secure line to Washington, speaking to the Director of Middle Eastern Affairs for the National Security Council in the White House Basement. He was up against inter-departmental politics. This time there were no troops massing on the borders of Kuwait, no supply lines in evidence and no signals traffic indicating greater military activity.

  The National Security Agency, bigger than the CIA and better funded, with all its satellite data and computing power had no evidence of the planned chemical and biological onslaught which John, Ben and Mike were sure was about to take place. For that matter the CIA had no information either, and, still resentful o
f the creation of the DIA as a direct result of its own incompetence, the CIA was doing its best to rubbish John’s claims.

  ‘Director, please, I am convinced that there is a pre-emptive strike about to take place. The whole point of this form of attack is that it is sudden. By its very nature there is no warning. The order is given. The planes and rockets are armed and head for their targets. The target areas are decimated. Only then does the aggressor mobilize his ground forces. He goes in to clean up, not to fight. Please, you have access, the President wants to have a go at Iran, now’s his chance. Get a significant show of force into the Gulf. Get him to send in carrier task forces to the Med and the Gulf as a precaution. Forces at work in the Middle East have to see that we are ready to go. Major force is the only language that will convince them.’

  9.30am. Jerusalem.

  Moments after the bank opened for business Ben Levy stormed in. Together with Mike and two Shin Bet colleagues he bypassed the short queue and went straight to the enquiry desk. He showed his ID to the girl on duty there. ‘I want to see the manager immediately. Immediately, understand?’

  ‘Yes sir, I’ll tell his secretary right away.’

  The girl went off, and the manager’s secretary came out, a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl with an air of self-importance. ‘Yes sir, can I help you?’ She was trying hard to intercept the problem. Ben fumed. He showed his ID card again. ‘Take me to the manager, now,’ he said, his voice quiet but sharp, ‘it’s a matter of National emergency!’

  The girl paled, ‘I’ll see if...’

  ‘No “see ifs!” Whoever is in there, get them out!’ Ben indicated his Shin Bet colleagues. ‘We’ll close your bank if we have to;’ acting the bully to get results.

  The girl was now tight-lipped and angry. ‘Just one moment, sir,’ she said and disappeared into the manager’s office. Ben followed her in. A portly little man emerged from behind his desk, his secretary hovering behind him.

  ‘What is the meaning of all this...’ he began.

  Ben deflated him immediately. ‘Your bank, specifically this branch, has been engaging in activities contrary to the interest of the State,’ he said, putting a real bite into his voice.

  It was the manager’s turn to go pale.

  ‘I’m investigating matters of national consequence, and you can best help your bank’s position by giving me your full co-operation.’ As he spoke he thrust his ID card under the manager’s nose.

  The manager looked at it and swallowed hard. ‘You’d better have a seat,’ he stammered, all the fight knocked out of him and he pointed shakily to chairs by his desk.

  Thank you,’ Ben said with a baleful look at the secretary. She took the hint and disappeared. Ben threw the wad of bank notes on the desk.

  ‘Your bank issued these notes, the bands are date stamped. Which account was debited?’

  The manager had already made his mind up to co-operate; any trouble at this level could cost him his job. He tapped some keys on his computer. ‘Only two large cash withdrawals were arranged for that day,’ he said, ‘one much larger than the other.’

  ‘How much was each one?’ Ben demanded.

  The manager told him.

  ‘The larger sum, which account was it from?’

  The manager pointed with his finger and at the same time turned the monitor on his desk. Against the account number was the name, S. Yavas.

  Ben let out a sigh of satisfaction; at last things were beginning to come together. ‘What else can you tell me about this account?’

  ‘Well, the account was opened with sums of money from abroad, from Switzerland I think.’ The manager opened another file and began to check. ‘Yes; a series of telex transfer from a Swiss Bank.’

  ‘Najib Shawa,’ Ben thought to himself. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Well, we, the bank that is, acted for the account holder in the rental of some commercial property, if I remember correctly, I have the details here somewhere.’ The manager reached for a file on a shelf near his desk. ‘Yes, here it is, an agricultural workshop to the South of the city, here’s the letting agent’s brochure.’

  To the bank manager’s astonishment Ben grabbed the details and the money, and ran from the bank without another word, Mike and his Shin Bet colleagues at his heels. He slammed the car door nearly off its hinges. The driver had the car in gear and moved off the instant it shut.

  Silwan, make it the fastest trip of your life.’ Ben grabbed the car phone and punched the memory button for IDF HQ. ‘Major-General Levy; put me through to the Commander-in-Chief.’ He opened his map as the C-in-C came on the line.

  ‘David, its Ben Levy, the rapid reaction force, get them airborne now, they’re to go to an agricultural workshop to the South of Silwan, just off the Kidron Valley road, wait...’ Moments later he had the map reference and gave him the co-ordinates. ‘And notify the police; get the Kidron Valley road sealed off. Have all forces go from stand-by to full alert; the signal for an airborne chemical and biological attack is imminent.’

  9.30am. Silwan.

  George Liani believed in moving on as soon as a place had served its purpose. Before the concrete was set he closed down the Silwan workshop. Instructing his Hezbollah driver to put the stolen cross country motor bike in the pick-up and follow him, he drove the cement delivery lorry out onto the road and put his foot down. Ten minutes later and several miles away he eased his foot on the accelerator and began to look for a place to get the concrete delivery truck under cover for a short while.

  10.00am. Shatila.

  In a quiet part of the underground complex another bomb was under construction. Nowhere near so big, this one was a present for Najib Shawa.

  The two men assembling it had been trained as Assault Engineers, the branch of the Royal Marines Commandos that specializes in explosives and explosive devices. Over their years of service these men had seen pretty much every booby trap and bomb that human ingenuity could devise, plus they had a few ideas of their own.

  Andy Cunningham came in to check their progress. ‘How’s it going lads?’

  The two figures looked up from their work. ‘Real good, I’ve measured up, done all the calculations and marked the demolition points,’ Seedy Fields told him. ‘All the charges are made up, checked and ready to put in place as soon as we get the word.’

  ‘The word.’

  Spud Murphy grinned, ‘We’ll place ‘em right away skipper!’

  Seedy chuckled. ‘Then all we have to do is to finish this.’ He gestured to a large cube shaped tin, labeled Hills Biscuits, in red white and blue.

  Andy went over to have a look. On the table alongside the tin were a large box of steel ball bearings, a box of primers, a timing device, several reels of fine wire sheathed in different colored insulation, assorted tools, insulation tape and a large pile of pale yellow waxy looking cylinders. He picked up one of the cylinders and sniffed at it. There was no smell.

  ‘Semtex?’

  ‘Yeah, the terrorist’s own private supply.’

  Seedy grinned at Andy. ‘We liberated it from their armory, seemed like a good idea to use their own stuff.’

  Andy smiled grimly to himself. Semtex, the terrorists’ favorite weapon was going to be turned against them; their own Semtex, a real taste of their own medicine. Grinning he set off to tell Jim.

  10.00am. Jerusalem.

  Ben’s car rocketed out of the city, the tires squealing as they tried to obtain purchase on the road surface. The driver put the headlights full on and with his hand on the horn he began to cut and weave his way through the dense traffic, leaving chaos in his wake. He used both sides of the road indiscriminately, and mounted the pavement to bypass obstructing vehicles. Drivers and pedestrians alike cursed, swore, and shook angry fists as the car passed.

  Ben, Mike and the two Shin Bet agents gripped their seats tightly as the driver threw the car from side to side. Very soon they were out of the thick traffic of the city centre and on to the clearer roads of the sub
urbs. The driver put his foot down even harder. After what seemed an age the agricultural workshop came in sight. On Ben’s instructions the driver stopped well short of the entrance to the premises. They waited and watched. Ben fumed, why were they taking so long? He grabbed the car ’phone to get an explanation. Suddenly, with a terrific clatter, two helicopters shot low over the hillside, and hovered over open ground. Two teams of armed men leapt out of each machine and raced for cover. They swiftly surrounded the buildings. The leader of the team covering the front of the building used a bullhorn and speaking in both Arabic and in Hebrew, he ordered the occupants of the building to come out.

  Nothing happened.

  Ben got out of his car and ran over to where the team leader was crouching behind an earth bank. ‘What the hell kept you? Send your men in, you know what to do.’

  Working to a practiced routine, the two teams cleared the building, one team staying put and maintaining a cordon around the premises, while the other team made a rapid entry. There was no one there.

  Ben walked in and looked around. There were dozens of empty fertilizer bags thrown in a corner of the workshop. He walked over and picked one up. On the front, below a well known brand name, were the words “Ammonium Nitrate Granules”. Ben threw it down and picked up several more. They were all the same. Under the empty bags were the British military boxes from the beehive charges.

  ‘This is the place all right, but we’re too late.’

  10.00am. Silwan.

  George Liani wanted as much distance between the two vehicles and the workshop as possible. A mile to his rear police raced into position and began to set up roadblocks.

  He turned at the first road junction and made for a different industrial estate in a different part of the city outskirts. There would be more scope for hiding a large vehicle in an industrial area than in either the city or the countryside, but there was still the problem of getting the vehicle under cover.

  As he drove he looked for possibilities and suddenly he saw the solution to his problem; a big vehicle workshop specializing in the repair of trucks and other commercial vehicles. A good backhander and an imaginary fault were all that was necessary to get the big vehicle off the road and out of sight.

  11.00am. Shatila.

  As the heat of the day built up, a trickle of men began to approach the main entrance to the terrorist headquarters. They were expected, but even so they were stopped at the sangars and were asked to show their hand written invitations in Arabic script. The best Arabic speakers had this duty. Those not so good stood back in the darker shade of the sangars, captured weapons at the ready and their heads swathed in the black and white keffiyehs. They admitted Abu Asifah’s associates with a curt nod, acting out the mannerisms and routines of the sentries which Jim had noted whilst watching the headquarters. They made it appear completely authentic; weapons were put into racks in the entrance to the building, each one marked with its owner’s now defunct invitation. The invited guests saw nothing to alarm them; they filed in confident that guards were in place keeping them safe from harm.

  The irony of the situation was not lost on Andy, Jim or the rest of the men on sentry duty, but not a flicker of a smile betrayed their sardonic amusement.

  11.30am. Silwan.

  The big concrete delivery truck emerged from the commercial vehicle workshop into brilliant sunshine. Muttering a monotonous prayer over and over to him-self the Hezbollah fanatic drove through the traffic. His eyes were glazed. He was wearing a pair of stolen overalls bearing the logo of the concrete company supplying the Knesset site.

  In his religious zeal his mind was closed to everything, everything except his mission for the cause. Soon he would be a hero, feted and praised in paradise, surrounded by beautiful houris, something he had never achieved in this life.

  He arrived at his rendezvous, a lay-by screened from the main road by bushes and a group of ancient olive trees. Parked in the entrance to the lay-by was the battered red pick-up, George Liani in the driving seat, his eyes watching the main road. The Hezbollah fanatic drove past him and parked out of sight of any vehicles traveling on the highway.

  George Liani climbed out of his pick-up and walked over to the truck. Neither man spoke. Opening a flat tin box, George Liani carefully removed a layer of cotton wool. The small metal tubes of detonators glinted in the sunlight. The Hezbollah fanatic felt an orgasmic twinge. It was the work of only a few moments for George Liani to insert them into the beehive charges and make the final connections. The massive lorry bomb was now armed and ready to blow. George Liani went back to his pick-up and drove off. He needed to get to his observation point at the Israel Museum.

  11.30am. Shatila.

  In his role as leader, Abu Asifah greeted each of his activists at the door to the underground room. ‘Salaam Alekhum,’ he gave each a brotherly hug, a kiss on each cheek, and received the traditional response, ‘Alekhum Salaam.’

  All of these men were terrorists. Each of them had been responsible for innocent deaths, for people maimed, crippled and disfigured. This was their boast, their claim to fame, and the reason they had been invited. Their faces were animated, and alive with anticipation of the next act of savagery in which they had been invited to participate.

  Abu Asifah saw their mood, and knew that they were all with him in spirit. This would be the ultimate terrorist event; it would make him a legend in the minds of his people and a legend beyond his own lifetime. He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction as each terrorist took his place in the underground room. When the room was full he nodded to the man nearest to the door.

  It was Najib Shawa.

  ‘Close the door, Najib,’ Abu Asifah commanded peremptorily. He knew that it would lessen Najib’s status in the eyes of those present to be the recipient of such menial instructions.

  Najib Shawa merely nodded, closed the door and stood by it, but his heart was filled with black hatred. Where was the help he had been promised? So far he had seen no signs of it. Was this a false promise from the devious Jew Levy?

  Abu Asifah’s imperious tones cut into his bitter thoughts. ‘Bring coffee and biscuits for my guests, Najib,’ he demanded, his voice filled with contempt.

  Najib Shawa left the room, struggling to keep the lid on his hatred.

  11.45am. Silwan.

  After half an hour the fanatic stiffened. A big concrete delivery truck, to all intents and purposes identical to the one he was driving, came into view; then a second, and then a third. He took a deep breath, started his engine, and put the truck into gear. The first delivery truck went past the end of the lay-by. The fanatic let out his clutch and moved slowly towards the end of the lay-by, screened by the ancient olive trees. As the second truck passed he began to pick up speed. The third and last truck passed. The Hezbollah fanatic put his foot hard down on to the accelerator and swung out behind it. Now there were four concrete trucks making a delivery to the Knesset.

  11.45am. Shatila.

  ‘Greetings my brothers, fellow warriors of the cause.’ All of Abu Asifah’s terrorist helpers from the great victories of the London airport massacre, and the hijacking of the Olympic airline flight, were now assembled in the underground room. Gazing round in a self-important manner he continued, ‘I am about to strike another mighty blow for our movement.’ A gratifying murmur of anticipation spread round the room. ‘Even as I speak, a massive bomb is starting its lethal run to a target at the very heart of Israel.’

  The room buzzed with excitement. He waited for the right moment. The buzz subsided slightly. Abu Asifah pointed to a large digital clock. ‘At noon the bomb will be delivered and detonated.’

  A cry went up from every throat, ‘“Allah Akbar”, “God is great”.’

  Abu Asifah uncovered an easel supporting a large-scale diagram of the Knesset grounds and the surrounding area. ‘I shall talk you through the events as they are happening, and then,’ he pointed to a large television screen in a corner behind him, ‘we will watch the telev
ision together, watch the world’s reaction to our strike.’

  An even louder roar went up. This sort of drama appealed perfectly to the savage natures of those present. Abu Asifah had stage-managed it well. As the hubbub died down a voice raised the question that all minds were now beginning to ask.

  ‘What is this target inside Israel?’

  A murmur of interested speculation arose in the room. Abu Asifah raised his hands and waited for absolute silence. When it was achieved he spoke again, just two words.

  ‘The Knesset.’

  The silence went on and on as the enormity of his statement sank in.

  11.45am. Silwan.

  ‘There’s no point in hanging around, we missed them.’ Ben’s voice was harsh with disappointment as he spoke to the leaders of the armed police teams. ‘We won’t catch up with them now, they’ll have gone to ground somewhere else and it will take too long to trace them. We know the type of vehicle they are using, so see if there is anything else here which will give us more positive information to go on.’

  ‘Right, sir, we’ll go through this place with a fine toothed comb.’

  It took a matter of minutes to find the paint, and a few moments more to find the masking tape and the stencils that George Liani had used to paint the concrete delivery truck.

  ‘Okay, we have enough to go on,’ Ben said, ‘but we have to stop them in time.’ He turned to the team leaders.

  ‘We’ll use your men to reinforce the existing security arrangements, let’s go.’

  Mike, Ben and the armed units climbed into the two waiting choppers and, with a clatter of rotor blades and a rush of dust laden air, the two machines took off and headed for the high ground on which the Knesset stands.

  ‘Ben tapped the pilot on the shoulder and shouted over the noise of the rotors. ‘Radio ahead and tell them to expect us.’ The pilot nodded his understanding and switched to the security services frequency. He spoke rapidly for a few moments and then listened. He gave Ben a thumbs up signal and switched back to his air traffic control frequency. They were expected.

  11.45am. The Israel Museum, Jerusalem.

  Gunning the engine of the old red pickup, George Liani raced towards the Israel Museum car park. He parked the pickup, dragged the motorcycle from the back, hid it in some bushes, and ran to a point overlooking the Knesset grounds. There were a few people about, mainly tourists. The seat he had previously used, well screened and shaded by some bushes was empty. He walked quickly over to it, sat down and scanned the approaches to the Knesset. Sitting tensely in the shade, staring at the roads leading up to the Knesset, the tension he felt began to mount inexorably. Suddenly he stiffened. He pulled his binoculars from under his jacket. Two helicopters clattered into view and landed on the grass in front of the Knesset building. Two teams of men got out, and each team was sent to reinforce one of the two temporary roadblocks on the approaches to the main gate.

  A stocky grey-haired man was giving instructions. George Liani raised his binoculars and brought Ben Levy into focus. It was the first time he had set eyes on him, but he instinctively knew who he was. George Liani chewed at his bottom lip. The presence of this man could mean only one thing. The Israeli authorities knew that the Knesset was a target. How much more did they know? He looked at his watch, there was not much time left. He began to review his escape arrangements; as he did so he spotted a flicker of movement at the point where the road from the city of Jerusalem came into view. He raised his binoculars again and looked intently through them. A large yellow and black ready mixed concrete delivery truck was grinding up the hill, followed by another, and then another. Soon there were four in a convoy.