CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
11.45am. Beirut, 10/31/02.
Najib Shawa left seething with rage. Abu Asifah was treating him like a servant, and, because it suited his purpose, he was forced to accept such treatment with a smile on his face. But he did not like it; he did not like it at all. Another matter was nagging away inside his head. What if the promised help failed to materialize? Would he be left out on a limb, his status diminished in the eyes of the movement that he had started and which he aspired to lead single-handed to international acceptance?
His mind preoccupied, he scurried towards the area of the underground headquarters where food was prepared. Out of nowhere a figure, head swathed in a keffiyeh, blocked his path. He found himself looking down the barrel of a long silenced pistol. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
The silenced weapon moved, motioning him into a small side room where food was stored. Bending over a table, two similarly dressed men, their heads also swathed in keffiyehs were working on a large square tin of biscuits.
‘You are Najib Shawa.’ It was a statement, not a question. The man, speaking Arabic, was Andy Cunningham, but Najib did not know him. He nodded acknowledging his identity.
‘At what time is the attack on the Knesset to take place?’
‘M-m-midday,’ Najib stammered, finding his voice at last.
The man with the silenced pistol looked at one of the men working at the table. The man nodded and set a small timing device to detonate at 12.00 noon. In the base of the biscuit tin Najib could see a large doughnut-shaped ring of Semtex high explosive. Around the outside of the explosive were many hundreds of steel ball bearings. The timing device was wired to the detonators and set in place in the centre of the ring of explosive. The direction of initiation of the explosion would be outwards from the centre, driving a scything hail of steel ball bearings with enormous force. Several layers of trays of biscuits were stacked on top of the explosive device and the tin lid was carefully put back on and sealed with a strip of clear Sellotape.
‘Check your watch against ours, and be out of the meeting room at least one minute before 12.00 noon. Have a good excuse ready. Make sure that this goes on the table in the centre of the room, and make sure you open it up yourself,’ Andy instructed. He handed the large cube shaped biscuit tin to Najib.
Najib seemed to have gained strength and courage from the device he now held. His eyes glittered with malice. These frightening individuals were on his side; the Jew Levy had come up with the goods after all.
Don’t worry,’ he snarled, ‘I know exactly what to do.’
11.57am. Jerusalem.
Mike Edge saw the first concrete delivery truck the moment it topped the rise in the road leading up to the Knesset. ‘Ben, look!’ He pointed down the road.
Ben sprinted for the temporary roadblock that had been set up five hundred meters from the entrance to the Knesset grounds. ‘Stop that truck!’ he yelled at the armed guards on the barrier. The second truck came over the rise, then the third and the fourth.
‘Stop all of them and search them!’ he yelled again as the first truck slowed and stopped at the barrier. He looked at the other three trucks; the bomb could be in any one of them.
Mike scrutinized the men in the cabs. The drivers were all wearing the company’s overalls and leaning out of their cab windows to see what the hold-up was; all except for the last truck. Was it his imagination or did the driver of the last truck look tense? There was something else about that truck which was wrong, what was it? Suddenly it clicked. The big steel concrete drum was stationary; the drums on the first three delivery trucks were rotating, keeping the cement from setting whilst it was in transit.
‘It’s the last truck!’ Mike shouted and instinctively pointed at the same time.
The young fanatic saw the accusing arm pointing at his vehicle. He slammed the truck into gear and pulled out of the line. Revving his engine hard, he angled across the road, mounted the curb, and roared over the dusty grass, bypassing the temporary wood and barbed wire barriers on the road itself. Still accelerating, the massive truck swerved back on to the road and headed for the entrance into the Knesset grounds. Several of the police and soldiers on guard duty began to shoot at the accelerating vehicle but the vehicle was going away from them and the bullets merely pinged off the big steel drum between them and the driver’s cab. It would take more than bullets to stop such a big vehicle. Frantically Mike looked round for something more effective.
11.55am. Beirut.
Najib Shawa entered the meeting carrying the large tin of biscuits. Soon, very soon, there would be none left alive who had witnessed his humiliation, how sweet it would be to him, how very sweet! Andy and Jim followed him in carrying the coffee, sugar and trays of small coffee glasses. They wore their keffiyehs and their faces were in shadow. Both of them kept their faces and eyes averted. Andy watched to make sure that Najib placed the bomb in the middle of the big table at the centre of the room. Jim watched for any adverse reaction. No one took any notice. Andy and Jim put down their big brass trays and left the room, leaving the assembled terrorists to help themselves to the coffee. Najib, sweating profusely, took the lid off the biscuit tin and uncovered the first layer of biscuits.
Hands reached out and began to pick out favored varieties. One of the terrorists gave Najib a nasty moment by lifting out the top tray in order to get at a favorite sort in the tray below, but to Najib’s relief he did not poke any deeper into the tin.
Najib moved back to his former position near the door and watched the proceedings.
Gradually the room settled down again, all those present sipping the sweet black coffee and nibbling at biscuits. The time was three minutes to noon.
At two minutes to twelve Abu Asifah called for silence and picked up a long cane to use as a pointer. ‘The bomb is a concrete delivery truck, a large one packed to the brim with ANFO, ‘It was waiting in this lay-by here for the midday delivery to the new Knesset blast wall construction site.’
There was a murmur of appreciation around the room.
‘By now it will have joined the queue of vehicles approaching the Knesset grounds.’ The tension building up in the room was a tangible thing.
Najib Shawa continued to sweat. He checked his watch, 11.59. He surreptitiously opened the door and slid out of the room into the corridor. As he quietly closed the door behind him he heard Abu Asifah continuing the harangue...’
He jumped as a firm hand clamped onto his shoulder. Andy Cunningham pulled him away from the door and gave him a questioning look. Najib nodded frantically, the bomb was still in place.
‘Take him to the storeroom where the guys are waiting,’ Andy whispered. Najib was escorted off by Digger.
Inside the underground room Abu Asifah continued, ‘As I speak the bomb will be entering the Knesset grounds...’ He turned to the television set and changed to an Israeli news channel. A political commentator appeared on the screen, the Knesset building in the background. He was busy trying to predict the content of the finance minister’s speech with speculation of the sort with which the media fill up airtime on such occasions.
‘He’ll have some real reporting to do in a few moments,’ Abu Asifah thought savagely to himself.
Outside the room, in the corridor, Andy and Jim cocked their captured Kalashnikovs and flicked the change levers to safe. They lay face down, well away from the doorway, in the angle between wall and floor, closed their eyes, then put their hands over their ears and kept their mouths open to give protection against what they knew was coming. A debt was about to be repaid.
‘“Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar”,’ the chanting inside the room began slowly, whispered by one man, others joined in and it rose louder and louder until it reached fever pitch.
11.59am. Jerusalem.
Mike Edge saw what he was looking for slung on the shoulder of an Israeli trooper, a LAW Anti-tank missile. He snatched it from the man’s shoulder, pulled of the end caps and exten
ded the rear tube. The spring loaded sights popped up. It took one second to arm the weapon, another second to aim it. Ben stopped the trooper’s protest. The truck was approaching the gateway into the Knesset grounds, soon it would turn and be more difficult to hit, and it would be at the gateway where there were guards who would be killed.
In the art garden, overlooking the approaches to the Knesset, George Liani clearly saw what was happening, but was powerless to influence the events unfolding before him. All that he could do was to will the fanatical Hezbollah driver onwards with all of his might. He pulled out the aerial on the detonating device contained in the transistor radio. He sent the signal to arm the contact detonators. He put his thumb on the plastic button that would send the detonation signal out at the speed of light to the lorry now bearing down on the gateway to the Knesset.
‘Get inside the grounds; hit the building where I showed you! Go on, go on, Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar, God is great, God is great, go on, go on...’ He began in a whisper, but his voice rising with the tension of the moment ended in a strident shout.
‘Get down, get down, take cover!’ Ben shouted the commands as he saw Mike aim at the big truck. The men around him, and those on duty at the Knesset gateway, saw what was about to happen. They all dived for the nearest protection the ground could give.
Mike took a deep breath, steadied his aim, and squeezed the trigger on the LAW. There was a loud wham, a ringing in his ears, and a sheet of flame flashed out of the rear of the launcher, seventy percent of the propellant charge. The remaining thirty percent hurled the projectile out of the front end of the launcher on a curving trajectory, arcing to intercept the moving truck. The recoil was zero, and, holding his breath, Mike watched as the warhead and the vehicle converged. Time seemed to slow down and then the warhead struck. It hit the curve of the big cement drum, and it glanced off...
In the art garden, George Liani saw the same events unfolding. To him everything seemed to be happening far too fast. He saw Mike grab the LAW rocket, saw him kneel, saw him aim, heard Ben’s shouted warning, and saw all the guards dive for cover. He felt panic. As the warhead struck, his thumb twitched. In the split second in which the grenade glanced harmlessly off the drum of the truck his thumb hit the button, the signal flashed out, he couldn’t stop it.
As Ben watched, there was a huge orange flash, a solid wall of force hurtled outwards, an awesome titanic sound slammed the eardrums stunning and deafening those nearby.
The explosion was dramatic and in the ringing silence that followed at the Museum car park. George Liani stood up shaking; he knew that he had just made a terrible mistake. He had seen, in the last split second, the anti-tank grenade glance off the big cement drum. If his nerve had held, if his hand had been steady, the bomb would now have been at the very heart of the State of Israel. His face contorted with rage, George Liani uttered every curse he knew against the hated Israelis. Then, his rage subsiding, his cold logical brain regained control. It was time to go. Now, while all attention was focused on the scene of the bomb blast. He slid into the thick bushes at the side of the bench seat with the speed and silence of a disappearing snake.
12.00am. Beirut.
On the television in the underground room, the voice of the presenter changed in volume and in pitch. ‘Something is happening here, some kind of emergency,’ he said, then, in an instruction to the camera crew, ‘get this on film!’
Only Abu Asifah was close enough to hear his words over the sound of the chanting voices. The camera panned sideways away from the presenter and then zoomed in on a big bulk concrete delivery truck which was racing for the gateway to the Knesset grounds.
‘There is gunfire.’ The presenter’s voice was high-pitched with excitement. This would be a scoop. ‘Troops and police are firing on that truck!’ The microphone picked up the sound of more gunfire.
The chanting in the underground room rose to a shouted crescendo. Abu Asifah leaned forward to turn up the sound on the television; he pointed at the television screen. ‘Look, look, on the screen, it is being filmed; the whole world will see our victory!’ He stood in triumph, fists raised above his head. ‘Allah Akbar, Allah Akb...’ the television screen flashed orange from the explosion of the detonating truck.
‘Allah Akbar, Allah Akba...’ A massive detonation flashed through the room as the biscuit tin exploded. Contained by the thick concrete, the awful blast of force pulped the internal organs of all those present, a hail of steel ball-bearings scythed through bodies as if there was nothing there, and ricocheted around inside the room with the effect of a liquidizer. All the available oxygen was burnt up in the explosion. Even if anyone had been left alive and in one piece, they would have been suffocated.
The door to the underground room flew off and shattered against the opposite wall. A blast of force slammed over Andy and Jim as they lay in the relative safety of the wall and floor angles. Air was sucked from their lungs, for a few moments they could not breathe, and then a backwash of air rushed in to fill the vacuum created by the explosion. A few steel ball bearings rattled harmlessly down the corridor. They stood up. Holding their keffiyehs to their faces and breathing through their noses against the swirling dust, they moved to the wrecked doorway. The room was dark.
Jim pulled a magnesium flare from his belt pouch, pulled off the igniter strip, and threw it into the room.
In the fierce white light of the flare, smoke and dust eddied over a scene of total carnage. Nothing moved. Retribution had been exacted.
Those who had chosen to profit by the bomb had died by the bomb.
Retribution Page 35
