CHAPTER ONE.
Abdallah Bridge, River Jordan.
‘Halt!’ The Israeli soldier yelled at the old dust covered coach, his hand held up in the internationally recognized stop sign. The driver braked to a halt in the middle of the road.
‘Over there.’ The soldier pointed with one arm at a lay-by where vehicles were being checked, and made move on signals with his other hand. The coach stalled. ‘Come on, come on, move it,’ the soldier yelled.
Leaning forwards and to one side to stick his head out of the window, the driver reached unobtrusively under his seat and turned a tap. ‘Okay, okay, no need to shout,’ he said. He pressed the starter. The starter whirred and the engine turned over but nothing happened. He tried again. His engine was dead. The vehicles behind began to honk their horns.
‘Come on get that heap of crap moving.’ An officer with Lieutenants bars came out of the sangar guarding the border crossing and snarled at the soldier on traffic duty.
The driver opened the door, got out and walked to the back of the coach. He opened up the engine compartment and peered inside. He scratched his head, looking blankly at the engine, making it obvious that he didn’t have a clue.
The build up of traffic behind the coach continued and the hooting and honking of horns increased.
‘Jacob!’ The Lieutenant yelled to one of his men in the sangar, one whom he knew to be a mechanic in civilian life. ‘Get over here and sort this damn engine out.’ The young soldier ran across and delved into the engine compartment. He asked the driver for the tool kit.
The soldier who had halted the coach began to shout at the drivers of the vehicles piling up behind it. ‘Shut the noise, stop that damned racket, you won’t get on any faster by blowing your horns.’ His words were ignored, the drivers of the other vehicles, mainly Jordanian Arabs and Palestinians en-route for Amman, were delighted at this chance to embarrass the Israeli troops. They stood beside their vehicles, leaned on their horns and yelled abuse. One young Palestinian, sitting on the back of his seat, his head and shoulders through the sun roof, began to chant, keeping time with his foot on the horn. Others joined in. The Israeli Lieutenant began to go red in the face.
The young mechanic opened the bleed nipple on the diesel injectors and told the driver to turn the engine over. The driver went back to his cab and surreptitiously opened the tap that he had closed earlier. He turned the engine over. Air then fuel spurted out. The mechanic closed the bleed nipple.
‘Come on Jacob, get it sorted,’ the Lieutenant shouted. He walked out into the traffic coming the other way and held up his hand to stop it. On-coming vehicles slowed to a halt. A car and a truck pulled out to overtake. The road was now blocked in two directions. ‘Stupid goddam Bedu!’ The lieutenant cursed all Arabs under his breath and waved the oncoming traffic on again.
‘Try her now,’ the young mechanic shouted.
The coach driver pressed the starter and the engine roared into life. A great cheer went up.
‘Get this junk heap moving,’ the Lieutenant snarled at the driver, and standing to one side he waved the coach on to the bridge, across the river Jordan, across the border and out of Israel.
The driver of the coach relaxed and smiled. George Liani alias Suleiman Yavas, alias Tulga Sas, was out of Israel.
Kuwait City.
Salim al Salim al Sabah was early for his appointment. He entered the white limestone building transiting in one step from the sun’s painful glare and one hundred and twenty-degree heat to air conditioned coolness and subdued light. He presented his appointment letter and identity papers to the guard and was directed to a waiting area.
The floor was of the finest Italian marble. The pillars supporting the Islamic arches were of the same material. The ornate tops of the columns and the arches were covered in gold leaf. The walls were decorated with intricate mosaics in the Islamic arabesque style. Gold was everywhere, the frames of mirrors, framed texts from the Koran worked into gold sheet, the Arabic lettering blocked in black, gold inlay in table tops and furniture. Everywhere Salim looked there was evidence of fabulous unlimited wealth.
He smiled an almost proprietorial smile. This was his country, his future and his destiny. Recently graduated with a first class economics degree from Oxford University, and a relative of the ruling family, the interview he was about to attend would be a mere formality. Especially as his father controlled the organization he was applying to join. The position he had applied for was just about right. It would lead eventually with the right amount of flattery and family clout to a very senior position, perhaps to the very top, to the replacement of his father on his retirement at the head of the organization. Salim aspired to head one of the richest and most powerful organizations in the modern world, the Kuwait Investment Office.
Salim well understood the wealth surrounding him. His was a country with a gross domestic product of twenty eight billion dollars per annum, a country with annual exports worth thirteen billion, five hundred million dollars; a country which had set up an investment organization second to none. The KIO, the organization he was hoping to join, managed an estimated one hundred and twenty billion dollars worth of invested funds in all the major companies and corporations in the western world. They were in many instances the major shareholders, and as such wielded enormous economic power. Since 1990 Kuwait’s earnings from overseas investment had been greater than its earnings from oil and all of this for a population of one point eight million people, only approximately eight hundred thousand of whom were citizens.
‘Salaam Alekhum, keif halek Salim bin Salim al Sabah?’
The words of greeting brought Salim out of his reverie. ‘Alekhum salaam,’ he rose as he returned the traditional greeting.
‘Please follow me; I hope you have not been waiting too long?’
Salim gave a self-satisfied smile; a good measure of respect was due to any person with Sabah in their name. ‘No, I was early for the appointment in any case, any time spent waiting was my own fault.’
‘Ah, good, always better to be early than late, a western habit but one we do well to adopt. In here please.’
Salim entered a room as opulent as any he had seen. Facing him was a crescent of people seated at individual tables. Facing the centre of the crescent was a lone chair. The interviewers all wore the long traditional Kuwaiti dishdasha and white Keffiyeh.
‘Please be seated Salim bin Salim.’
It was the man in the centre of the arc who had spoken; obviously he was the chairman of the examiners.
Salim sat; suddenly he was not so confident; the al Sabah family connection had been ignored.
‘We would like you to tell us why you consider yourself to be suitable for the post you have applied for. Then when you have finished your explanation each member of the panel will ask any questions he may have. Do you understand?’
‘Aiwa Effendi.’ ‘Yes Sir.’ Salim took a big breath and began a prepared justification for his application.
Na’ur, Jordan.
The old bus ground its way up out of the valley of the Kafrein River, onto the desert plateau and through the small town of Na’ur. There the driver made a stop at an establishment that gave the drivers a small commission on each tourist purchase. As soon as the passengers were off the coach the driver, George Liani, went to the side of the coach and removed a grip and a suit carrier from the luggage compartment whilst the real driver, a passenger until now, shook the man he knew as Suleiman Yavas by the hand as they exchanged papers. In his palm the real driver felt the sharp corners of a folded one hundred-dollar bill. Grinning broadly he stuffed it into his pocket and headed for the restaurant.
George Liani took his grip to a plain van in the car park, deposited his grip and suit carrier, locked the van and went in to the toilets. He relieved himself and washed his hands and face, taking his time until he was the only one left. He went quickly to the attendant’s cubicle and rapped smartly on the glass. A faded piece of curtain was cautiously raised. An
old and wrinkled face split into a toothless grin and the curtain dropped. The cubicle door opened and the ancient attendant stood grinning vacuously.
‘My package?’ George Liani snapped.
The slow-witted old attendant cackled nervously and turned back into his cubicle. George Liani followed him in and closed the door behind them. The old man dived into a cupboard and rummaged under some filthy cleaning rags. He reappeared clutching a well-sealed package, which he handed to George Liani as if it were red hot. He stood anxiously as the seals were checked. ‘You have not tampered with this?’ The question was almost a snarl.
‘As Allah is my witness, not I nor anyone, I was paid well. I have kept it well hidden as instructed, and as for the contents, Allah...’
‘Yes, yes, it seems to be so. Here take the rest of the money promised you...’ The old man held out eager shaking hands. ‘But keep your mouth shut. Allah may forgive your mistakes but I will not,’ Liani snarled, and glared at the old man. The old attendant went pale and failed to grip the promised money thrust into his hands. He bent down to retrieve it and as he did so Liani took from his pocket a length of piano wire with a wooden toggle at each end and looped it round the old man’s neck. The old man began to straighten up in surprise and raised his hands towards his throat but he was too late. The loop was savagely yanked tight cutting deeply into the wrinkled old neck. He struggled feebly and then went limp. Liani held the wire tight until he was dead. Finally releasing the garrote he retrieved his money, took the old man’s wallet from his jacket, and emptied the clay bowl of tips to make the killing look like the result of a petty robbery. He stuffed the frail old body into the cupboard, covered it with the rags, closed and locked the cupboard door and pocketed the key. He carefully raised the faded curtain and checked that the coast was clear, and then he walked casually over to his van. It was his habit to eliminate possible witnesses.
George Liani drove the van onto the road for Amman. Avoiding the congestion of the city he took a route around the south side of the city towards the Airport. Parking the van in the long-term car park he opened the package he had left with the old toilet attendant weeks earlier. Inside were passport, identity card, driver’s license, credit cards and various company documents. He now became Kamal Mehmet, a Lebanese Christian employed as a buyer for a Beirut firm dealing in dried fruits.
Using his new identity and credit card he purchased a business class ticket, took his luggage to the check in desk, and boarded the next flight to Beirut. He had some unfinished business there.
Kensal Green Cemetery, London.
The dazzling sunlight made a line of black shadow across the grave. As the coffin sank from light to dark it seemed to pass down to another world. A point of reflected light gleamed on the polished brass plate and then winked out. To Jim Savage his life seemed to go out with it. His iron control collapsed, his strength abandoned him and his knees buckled.
On either side of him Mike Edge and Anna Sutherland grabbed him and saved him the indignity of falling into the grave and onto Dawn’s coffin. Andrew Cunningham, Digger Trench, Willy Anderson and Chalky White stepped forward as one, surrounding him in his hour of need, supporting him, comforting him, willing their strength into him. The emotion bottled up inside him from the moment he heard of his beloved’s death finally burst out in racking sobs, painful in their intensity but giving release, purging the agony, the first stage of healing begun.
Gradually the sobs subsided. Jim took deep breaths fighting for calm, trying to ease the pain.
‘We missed him Jim, the bastard got away,’ Mike’s voice was a harsh whisper but carried a world of intensity.
Jim nodded, unable to speak.
‘That account has yet to be settled.’ Mike fingered the burn scabs on his face with hands that were also badly scabbed, his mind going back to the blazing wreck in which Dawn had died. He remembered the flames, the agonized screams of Dawn and her driver. He saw again Dawn’s halo of blond hair flair and blacken to ash, remembering his helplessness, his horror. Then he remembered the agonizing over the need to tell the tragic news to Jim. ‘One day he will pay, you have my word on that.’
Through eyes blurred with tears Jim saw the Padre stoop and scatter a handful of earth onto the coffin, heard dimly, as from far away, the drumming of earth and stones on the coffin lid and passed out.
Digger saw his eyes roll up and caught him before his knees buckled. ‘Chalky, give us a hand,’ he said quietly. Each with one of Jim’s arms over a shoulder they moved away towards the waiting cars.
Mike and Anna followed; Andrew and Willy fell in behind. Willy cocked a shrewd eye in Andrew’s direction. ‘Seems tae me we’ve a wee bitty onfinished business tae dae?’
Andrew nodded, ‘Aye Willy, but where to start?’
‘Seems tae me getting yon poor wee bam back taegither’d be a guid place.’
Andrew nodded again and put a hand on Willy’s shoulder. ‘Can’t fault your logic Willy; you and the guys look after him. Use the company flat; as long as it takes okay?’
‘Aye Aye boss.’
‘You need anything you let me know.’
‘Aye, will do.’
‘And keep him out of trouble.’
Willy grinned. ‘Dinna fesh, he’ll no be oot tae play by his-sel for a wee while.’ He turned away to go to his car but then turned back. ‘Onythin happens ye’ll no start wioot us, ken?’
‘I ken fine Willy, you and the guys are first in line.’
‘Aye, dom reet.’ Satisfied Willy turned and went to his car.
Minet El Hosn, Beirut.
It took George Liani a day to locate it. The house overlooking the port had been built in the late fifties by a wealthy trader, a man who made a small fortune in general trade, and had progressed to owning a modest fleet of tankers. He had subsequently made a huge fortune ferrying petroleum products to ports around the Mediterranean from the refineries north of Tripoli and south of Sidon. The house he had built before he died sat in an elevated position between the Avenue de Paris and the sea cliff with panoramic views out over the harbor and the Baie du Saint George. Shielded from the road and prying eyes by a high wall and massive solid cedar wood gates it was built in the Islamic architectural style around two courtyards filled with pools, plants and fountains. It was opulent and its new owner was immensely proud of his new home.
Najib Shawa felt that it was appropriate to his new status and political aspirations. As the leader of an extreme Palestinian faction he saw himself poised to step onto the world’s political stage.
Rising from his afternoon siesta he showered, dressed and ordered his bodyguard-cum-driver to take him into town to his favorite café where political discussion and argument would rage on into the night.
A long way to the rear a motorcyclist in helmet with black visor followed the car very discretely as it turned into the street named Hamra.
Entering the café full of his own importance, greeting only those whom he felt could be of use to him in his aims, Najib Shawa failed to notice a man enter the café Mokka some minutes behind him; a shadowy man; a man who went to sit by himself in a dark corner with a glass of mint tea. In his mid forties with pepper and salt hair at his temples the man had a newly started moustache forming on his upper lip. He showed no emotion at Najib’s lobbying antics, except for a small grim smile of satisfaction that played briefly across his lips. His watchful eyes followed Najib’s every move from his dark corner. Not moving from his seat, he ordered his glass of tea refilled only when the waiter passed his table, drawing no attention to him-self and patiently waiting until Najib was ready to leave.
Eventually Najib got up to leave, glowing with good fellowship and a little unsteady on his feet, both conditions due in no small measure to the café-cognacs he so enjoyed. Making his way between the tables, impressing himself with his own imagined importance, he did not notice George Liani follow him out.
He walked around the corner to his car and poked his dozing dri
ver sharply through the open window. ‘Wake up you fool, I pay you to look after me not to sleep,’ he snapped.
The driver sat up and poked his fingers under his sunglasses to rub his eyes, took his chauffeurs cap from the front passenger seat and set it on his head, leaving Najib to open the car door himself and clamber in.
Across the street, standing next to his hired motorbike in an ally at the side of the café, George Liani adjusted his helmet visor and observed the detail of Najib’s routine and noted that his car had darkened windows.
Repeated phone calls to Najib’s office requesting appointments to see the great man had got him nowhere. George Liani had decided it was time to try another tack.
Knightsbridge, London.
The phone on Andrew Cunningham’s desk rang. He turned away from the window and picked it up.
‘Yes Jane?’
‘Willy Andersen for you Andrew.’
‘Thanks. Hello Willy, how’s our boy?’
‘Nae guid boss, cannae get ’im tae eat, cannae get ’im tae drink, he’ll nae come fr’a run wi us, just sits ’n stares at ra bleedin walls. Digger ’n me, well we dinnae ken whit tae try next. We cannae snap ’im out’v it.’
‘Digger got any ideas?’
‘Aye, well tha’s why ah’m phonin. Digger reckons he needs sumthin’ tae tak’ his mind aff’v it y’ ken?’
‘What, a job you mean?’
‘Aye, gie him sumthin’ tae dae.’
‘But is he up to it, I mean could he concentrate on a job in progress, not cock it up through having his mind on other things?’
‘Aye well tha’s ra million-dollar question innit? One thing’s for sure, he’d be concentratin’ sure ’nuff ifn he was on ra scent of yon bastard whut snuffed his lassie. Huv yez ony news.’
‘No, the bastard slipped away like a snake. Ben Levy has all the stops pulled out, but his people have come up with nothing yet. Stick with it Willy, he’ll come out of it sooner or later.’
‘Aye, dinna faesh, he’s a mate, we’re no hevin a ball but we’re nae gonna give up on ra poor bastard.’
‘Okay Willie, good job, and thanks for the update. I’ll let you know if anything develops or if I get an idea that’ll help.’
‘Okay boss, bye.’ Willy rang off leaving Andrew with mixed feelings. If he put Jim back to work in his present depressed state his lack of concentration on the job could cause problems. If he kept him away from work his brooding would continue, may even get worse. A chicken and egg situation – which comes first? ‘I’ll give it another week,’ he decided, ‘and then try to find him something not too crucial to take his mind off his loss.’
West London.
The hired limousine sped smoothly along the Cromwell road towards the M4 motorway and the turn-off for Heathrow. Mike Edge and Anna Sutherland sat close together in the back their thoughts on the beautiful girl whose funeral they had just attended.
Mike shuddered. ‘I can still see Dawn’s face; see her hair flare to ash as she tried to escape from that burning car.’
‘Don’t, don’t torture yourself with that, you can’t alter it, it’s in the past.’
‘It could so easily have been you in that car, it was only chance that decided it. I had no business dragging you and Dawn into that situation.’
‘We insisted, both of us, remember? You tried to stop us, tried to get us to stay safely at home in the ’States well out of harms way, but neither of us would listen.’
‘Yeah, well I should have tried harder. I can’t imagine what Jim is going through now.’
Anna took his hand, stroked it, ‘I know; it could have been you in that car too remember? And how would I be feeling now? As bad as Jim or worse, but we can’t dwell on it. Life has to go on, we must be glad we are alive. Jim has his friends around him, we can see to it that he wants for nothing. He’s tough and he’ll pull through this, given time.’
‘Yeah, you’re right of course, “The moving finger writes,” and so on. I just wish we had got the bastard responsible for all this misery, the guy calling him self George Liani.’
‘Mm, well you stopped him destroying the Knesset, prevented the signal for the Jihad. Who knows how much misery you and Jim and the others prevented? Dawn too, lets not forget her contribution. She didn’t die for nothing.’
Mike gave a big sigh and mentally shook himself free of the depressed feelings Dawn’s funeral had generated. ‘Yeah, yeah, you’re right; I suppose there always has to be a price to pay.’
‘So what happens now? What are you going to do?’ Anna stroked Mike’s hand as she asked the question.
‘Damned if I know, this business is not finished. It may be stalled for a while but there are still bad guys out there intent on creating mischief.’
‘Will you go back to your old job?’
‘Well, I guess I have a choice. Inheriting Allan’s business came out of the blue as you know, but I understand very little of the computer industry.’
‘You’re going to stay with me, at least for a little while then?’ Anna could not keep the hope out of her voice, try though she may.
‘I don’t know what to do, I want to go back to what I know, to what I do well, but at the same time I feel a responsibility to all the people Allan employed. It’s more than that though, you know it is. I want to be with you.’
‘Mmmm.’ Anna thought for several minutes as the big car ate up the miles. ‘Why don’t you take up the position of President of the company? You’re the major shareholder. I helped Allan build the company up and I’m the other major shareholder. I’ll assume the position of Executive Vice President and I’ll run the company. I’m doing that anyway. I know the people we have working for us and I have a good idea where to place some extra responsibility.’
Mike turned and looked at her. ‘So I’d have a seat on the board, an overview of the company’s activities but not too much in the way of responsibilities?’
‘Yes, and of course as President and as the major shareholder you would have a right to veto any decisions you don’t like.’
‘What about the appointment of an executive board?’
‘As I said I have a good idea who to appoint, who to give the extra responsibility to.’
Mike’s face relaxed into an expression of relief. ‘Sold to the man in the black tie,’ he said, and leaned over and kissed her.
‘Okay, I’ll set up a meeting of all the principal persons for later in the week. I’ll do a brief résumé of each individual whom I intend to recommend, for you to study, and then go over all of them with you prior to the meeting so that you know who is likely to do what and why. Okay?’
‘Sounds good to me. I ought to contact John Henderson and let him know what I’m going to do.’
‘Yes, you owe him that,’ Anna agreed, and snuggled in closer. Each busy with their own thoughts they arrived at Heathrow’s terminal three in good time for their American Airlines flight to the west coast. The connection was not lost on Mike. Here on this very spot was where it had all begun.
Rue Basta, Beirut.
A silencer attached to the muzzle of a 9mm Makarov pistol, grinding into his ear, woke Najib Shawa’s driver from his pleasant doze. A hand slid under his jacket and removed a Swiss ITM 9mm automatic from his shoulder holster. ‘Imshi.’ ‘Out.’ The command was harsh and forceful. As the driver opened the door the silenced Makarov was withdrawn but was centered on his back. He was grabbed painfully by the hair. The Makarov ground this time into the base of his skull at the top of his spine and forced him to the rear of the car.
‘Put your sunglasses in your top pocket.’ The driver did as he was told.
‘Take off your jacket.’ Again the driver obeyed, he instinctively knew this was not a man to mess with.
‘Give it to me.’ The jacket was handed over.
‘Open the trunk.’
The driver opened it. George Liani, still holding the driver by the hair, forced the driver’s head, shoulders and upper body into the car
trunk. There was an almost silent phut of sound as he shot the driver in the back of the head with the silenced Makarov. He collapsed over the sill of the trunk. One quick heave and his legs slid in after him.
George Liani closed the trunk, shrugged into the jacket and put the sunglasses on. He quickly slipped into the drivers’ seat, put on the chauffeurs cap tipping it over his eyes, and slumping down in the seat pretended to be asleep. A set of polished cedar wood prayer beads hung from the rear view mirror. After a few moments George Liani took them down and flicking the beads through his fingers he began reciting verses of the Koran silently to himself.
An impatient rapping on the window announced Najib Shawa’s return to his car. Without thinking, in a reflex action George Liani slipped the prayer beads into his pocket and started the car.
The silver Mercedes with the tinted windows swept along the Avenue de Paris past the British and the American Embassies and drew up outside a set of tall iron bound cedar wood gates. The guard outside raised his hand in a casual salute. The driver operated the remote control and the gates swung smoothly open on oiled hinges. He drove through the gateway arch into the first courtyard and the gates closed behind them. In the back Najib Shawa felt the glow of pride he always felt when he contemplated his new home. It had cost him a lot of his fiddled dollars, but he felt it was well worth it. He had several millions of dollars under his control in various Swiss bank accounts, money gleaned from Islamist sources but a large part of that money was owed to the Turkish fundamentalist previously employed on behalf of the “Blood of Chatila”, the organization that he, Najib now headed. Najib frowned. He had recently received letters and ’phone calls requesting payment of these funds, but here he was on his own turf and felt safe enough. He mentally reviewed his security arrangements and stopped frowning. He was well guarded and after all he had friends in certain places, friends who had already wiped serious opposition from the face of the earth on his behalf. No, he was not ready to part with that money if he could possibly avoid it. He was safe enough.
The driver put the car in neutral, pulled the hand brake on, climbed out and went round to open the door for Najib. Najib struggled out and without a word waddled towards the house. The driver shed his cap, coat and sunglasses and followed him quietly through the door.
‘Najib Shawa!’ The voice was harsh and loud, a voice Najib did not recognize. He stopped and turned.
‘You owe me four million dollars!’
The story continues.....
Author Profile – Nicholas Gill.
As a young man the author served in the Royal Marines Commandos seeing active service in Malaya, Borneo Brunei, Sarawak and Aden. In between active service postings, specialist courses and training included arctic warfare training three hundred miles inside the Arctic Circle in northern Norway, and desert warfare exercises in Libya and Western Australia. On leaving the Royal Marines he went back to his roots in engineering and worked in the power industries on refinery and power station construction projects. This led to involvement in the onshore construction of jacket and modular units for the emerging North Sea oil industry. A natural follow on from this was to work offshore on the hook-up and commissioning of major production platform installations and completions.
Planning for retirement involved the purchase and renovation of a derelict farm in Wales and ultimately the purchase of twenty-seven thousand acres of the Black Mountain. This proved expensive and returning to the offshore oil industry the author spent a further twelve years on the development of a major North Sea Field for a large American Oil company.
On the termination of his contract the author found that he had passed his sell by date and no one wanted or needed his years of experience. Having spent many years writing engineering procedures and specifications it occurred to him that he was perfectly suited to becoming a best selling author!
Six more novels are planned in detail and will use many of the same characters in further adventures.
The author now lives in the Philippine Islands where it is warm, cheap and scenically beautiful, and where the people smile and are polite.
Visit my web site at: - www.nicholasgill.net
Read and enjoy,
Nicholas Gill.
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