by Oliver North
“More or less. Do you have any idea where we are or where they're taking us?” Rachel was amazed at the steadiness of her own voice.
“I don't know. The men are Arabs, but I don't think they're Palestinians. I understood just enough of the conversation when the one man was talking on his cell phone to figure out they weren't planning to take both of us …”
Rachel felt her throat closing with fear. Did this have something to do with what happened in Larnaca three years ago?
“I'm sorry I got you into this, Sarah,” Dyan said. “Ze'ev told me that we had to be careful; he was probably targeted because of his military work. Sometimes they take the wife as a means of getting to the husband.”
“You mean you think you're the one they were looking for?”
“Yes...they probably want to get my husband. That's why they took me, and you were simply with me, and they didn't know us apart.”
Rachel wasn't so sure Dyan's analysis was right, but she decided not to say anything about Peter, his past, or the fact that she and Peter weren't the John and Sarah Clancy whom Dyan thought she knew.
The truck began to move again, jostling the two women against the sides of their confined space. For several minutes, it seemed to be in city traffic—stopping and starting as though at intersections. Rachel could hear the sounds of cars, commercial vehicles, horns, and even occasionally what sounded like muffled voices. She wondered if these were from pedestrians on the sidewalk—just a few feet from where they were hidden.
“Dyan, can you stand up?”
“I don't know. I can try...but I can't see anything, and I don't know if this thing is tall enough for a person to stand. I'll see what I can do…”
Rachel felt and heard Dyan moving around.
“I'm kneeling,” Dyan said, panting with exertion. “I tried to stand, but it wasn't high enough. I'm braced in the corner. What do you want me to do?”
“Just wait there for a minute or so if you can. I'm going to try and move my arms around to the front.”
Rachel scrunched her knees up and stretched her arms as best she could and then pulled her bound wrists down over her buttocks and thighs. Then, by rolling onto her back and drawing her knees up to her chest, Rachel pulled and pushed until she got her hands forward of her feet, and at last, above her knees.
“I did it! I have my hands in front of me now. I'm going to try and take this thing off of my head.” Despite the numbness in her fingers from lack of circulation, she was able to find the end of the tape that held the cloth sack around her neck and after a few more minutes of tugging, she lifted the sack off her head.
A dim light from narrow slits in the floor filtered into their cell. It was enough to allow Rachel to peel off the tape that held the sack over Dyan's head.
Her friend's face was a mess. Her lip was swollen, she had broken a tooth, and dried blood from her broken nose was caked all over her face.
“Aren't we a couple of beauties,” Dyan said. “Can you tell what direction we're going?”
Rachel knelt down and put her eye to one of the narrow slits in the floor. She could see pavement flashing by below her, and by moving back and looking forward, she could see the dual rear wheels of the truck pulling their prison. And then she noticed that the tires were making a shadow on the pavement—and that the shadow was directly behind the tires. She twisted her wrist to cast some light on her watch. It was 10:35. “The sun is directly in front of us. We must be headed east,” she said.
Rachel stood as best she could and asked her friend to turn around so that she could try and undo the nylon cable ties binding her wrists. But, like her own, she found them impossible to get off. They would have to find some way of cutting them.
After ten minutes or so of trying to find something sharp enough to cut the ties on their wrists, the women were thrown to the floor as the truck made a hard left turn onto a smoother road. Rachel knew that it must be a highway, since the truck picked up speed, and she could hear the sounds of traffic passing in two directions. She put her eye to the slit in the floor and could see that the sun was now on their right-hand side. “We're going north,” she guessed aloud. “Do you have any idea where they might be taking us?”
“Probably to Palestinian-controlled territory. Then, who knows? Jordan, maybe Lebanon...perhaps even Syria. They'll probably demand a ransom, then offer to trade me for my husband,” Dyan said.
Rachel had a sense of déjà vu. That was exactly what Gunnery Sergeant Skillings had said when she was almost kidnapped in Larnaca three years ago. She wondered which of the two women the kidnappers were supposed to take.
And now she wished she hadn't agreed that Peter should go and meet with General Grisham in Cyprus. He was meeting Bill Goode in Jaffa, but the two of them would then sail to Larnaca harbor. Rachel wondered if her kidnapping had something to do with Peter's mission. It would be a week before her husband was scheduled to return. How she wished he had been at home when she was taken. Pete would surely know what to do. But she felt absolutely helpless. What about James? Will they take him next?
Aboard Pescador II
Larnaca Harbor, Cyprus
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
1015 Hours, Local
Bill Goode had taken precautions this time. Instead of berthing his sailboat at the docks in Larnaca harbor, he advised the harbormaster that he would anchor some distance from the docks. That limited the access to the boat and might have prevented the explosion that destroyed his first vessel. They would be able to detect any attempts to get to the boat, and it wasn't much of an inconvenience to use the Pescador II's motorized Zodiac dinghy to shuttle back and forth.
General George Grisham and Gunnery Sergeant Amos Skillings were to be picked up at ten-thirty on the dock. They arrived with a full security detachment. Two dark blue Range Rovers, fore and aft, escorted General Grisham's staff car from the British Sovereign Air Base to the dock. Goode lowered the dinghy with the aid of an electric-powered winch, climbed over the side of the Pescador II, and started the engine on the back of the Zodiac.
“I don't expect any trouble this time,” he told Newman as he headed for shore, “but just in case, there's a Sig 9mm with a full magazine in the pilothouse chart table drawer. If anyone approaches...well, you know what to do.”
Newman nodded and waved him off. He watched as the small powerboat cut through the waters toward the dock. The Pescador II was almost a quarter-mile from the dock, and it would take Goode several minutes to make the trip. Newman walked back to the pilothouse, scanning the harbor basin for unusual traffic or anything that might seem out of the ordinary.
A half hour later, General George Grisham and Gunnery Sergeant Amos Skillings, both dressed in casual civilian clothes, boarded the Pescador II. Bill Goode came up the ladder last. The general ordered Skillings to remain on lookout in the pilothouse while he, Goode, and Newman retired to the salon to discuss the matters that brought them all together in Cyprus.
General Grisham wasted no time getting down to business: “When the CIA interviewed Hussein Kamil in Amman right after his defection from Iraq, he told them he had acquired three nuclear weapons and brought them into Iraq under the very noses of the UN inspectors. In fact, he claimed to have taken delivery of them the same week you and your UN Sanctions Enforcement Group were assembling for the attack on Saddam and Osama bin Laden in Tikrit.”
“Did the CIA follow up on this information?” asked Goode.
“No, they didn't believe him. Apparently, our station chief in Amman was convinced the whole defection business was fabricated to disseminate disinformation. One CIA guy I know pretty well told me, ‘The whole defection thing was too pat. Kamil came over and was willing to spill his guts about the nukes, and then six months later, he goes back home when we don't take his bait.’”
“But he was killed when he went back, along with his entire family,” Newman said. “And why would he bring over fifty family members with him if he was planning to go back to Iraq in si
x months? Doesn't his assassination give some credibility to the idea that he was telling the truth?”
“It would give me second thoughts if I was part of that CIA debriefing team,” added Goode. “In fact, I'm guessing Kamil believed that since he was the only one who knew where the nukes were hidden, that was his insurance policy against Saddam's wrath.”
Grisham nodded. “Yeah, everybody had perfect vision after the fact. But at the time, there were too many doubts and questions about Kamil's agenda.”
“But what about now? Do the FBI and CIA think he was telling the truth?” Newman asked.
“No one in Washington is ever willing to admit a mistake. The CIA's sticking to its assessment that Iraq won't be able to acquire a nuclear weapon for the next two to three years,” Grisham said. “If these guys have changed their minds about Iraq having nuclear weapons, they aren't putting it down in writing. I even went to NSA and DIA but didn't get any help there either. No one wants to admit the unspeakable—”
“—that Saddam has nukes,” Newman said. “And when I worked for Harrod at NSC, I heard quite a bit about what Saddam would do if he did have nuclear capability. One leading theory is that the first thing he'd do is level Tel Aviv or Haifa. He thinks by attacking Israel he'd be an instant hero to the other Islamic nations.”
“But that's sheer stupidity,” said Goode. “Israel would use their own nukes to level Baghdad and turn the rest of Iraq into molten glass. Surely Saddam isn't that insane.”
“He might be,” Grisham said. “I've seen some FBI psychiatric profiles on this character. That's Saddam's style. Remember, Adolf Hitler is his idol. He's patterned his entire government after the Third Reich. Saddam doesn't get the respect he thinks he deserves from the rest of the Islamic world. And he knows his days are numbered—by the United States, Israel, or one of his own people. These profilers think he might be the world's most anxious suicide bomber. If he can create the world's greatest and most horrible suicide bomb, the profilers think he's fanatical enough to do it. Up until now, he's always had others take the bullet for him, but now, in his crazy mind, he could become the martyr of all martyrs by exploding a nuclear bomb in Israel.”
“But why Tel Aviv or Haifa?” asked Newman. “Why not Jerusalem?”
“Jerusalem is a holy city to Muslims too. Saddam's idea is to eliminate as many Jews as he can so that one day Jerusalem can be strictly a place for Muslims.”
“OK, but if he only has three bombs, why would he gamble with Israel?” Newman asked. “As Bill just said, Israel has hundreds of nuclear weapons. Their Jericho-2 missiles can reach Baghdad in less than an hour. Saddam would start Armageddon if he ever exploded a nuke in Israel.”
“You may be right, of course. It's entirely possible Saddam will simply make it known he has the weapons and is prepared to use them, then demand some kind of fealty from all the rest of his neighbors. Either way, the danger is too great if Kamil really did take delivery of three weapons. If they are inside Iraq, we've got to find them before Saddam or someone else does,” Grisham said.
“But why doesn't the CIA pick up on this? Or—”
“Or the United Nations? Yeah, they're supposed to be the world's peacekeepers now. But their win-loss record isn't all that great—especially on nuclear weapons inspections in Iraq. The State Department is sticking to the CIA reports of two, three years ago. They're discounting the idea that Saddam has really gotten his hands on some of these weapons—they're betting he hasn't. But that's wishful thinking. We have to assume he does.”
“And since Iraq is part of CENTCOM's responsibility, you've had to take it on,” Goode said.
“I'm not the Lone Ranger in this,” Grisham said. “I've been to the Pentagon and met with the Joint Chiefs. I've talked with men I trust who know the history and players well. Almost everyone I've talked to in uniform agrees the threat has to be taken seriously. However, because of the politics involved...”
Goode looked at Newman knowingly. “Yes, politics. Wasn't that the gasoline that somebody threw on the fire when Pete and his UN-sponsored ISEG guys were supposed to deal with this threat last time? With this President, and the United Nations, State Department...Congress...the Senate.” Goode shook his head. “Is there anyone I left out? Every one of them has a personal agenda. That's politics!” Goode made the final word sound like an expletive.
Newman nodded. “Bill's right. Politics compromised my last mission. I used up eight of my nine lives on that one. What makes this mission any different?”
“Well, for starters, I'm running the show. I hope you know you can trust me—with your life, if necessary. This will be nothing like last time. I won't be compromised by...uh...politics.” Grisham looked at Pete and Goode, and all three of them were seeing the faces behind the names Grisham had just avoided mentioning.
“And besides, Pete,” he said, “I'm not going to share our secrets with those who pretend to be our allies, but then turn on us when they get the first chance.”
“So you're going to do an end run around the White House?” Newman asked, then answered his own question. “Yeah, you're right to do it that way. It was Harrod who sold me out. But he had to have the approval of the President to do what he did. Just like when he did his behind-the-scenes dance with Iraq—as soon as my mission went south. Harrod told Saddam the White House would look the other way when Iraq invaded the north and went after the Iraqi Resistance Movement if the Iraqis kept quiet about the aborted attack on Tikrit.”
Newman looked at Grisham. “General, you know I trust you implicitly. But how do I know the White House, or State Department—even the Pentagon—won't do something like that again if I become a political liability?”
“Because you won't even be on their radar screens,” Grisham replied. “This assignment falls within my job description. I'm not going to go to them except to report on a successful mission. I have the assets in theater to accomplish the mission—a Delta Squadron, Night Stalkers from the 160th SOARs, Air Force and Navy strike aircraft—everything I need to get the job done. This isn't going to be some half-baked operation run out of the UN.”
“Will the UN even be involved in any of this?” Newman asked.
“Not on your life.”
For a moment, the three men sat without speaking, just soaking up what had been expressed so far. It was Newman who broke the silence.
“All right, General,” he said, “what do I have to do to help you find these three nuclear weapons?”
“Hopefully, you won't even have to go into Iraq,” Grisham said. “I'm hoping you can simply contact those who helped you escape three years ago and put them on the scent. If they can dig up anything that can help us locate the devices, I've got the people and equipment to get them out.”
“I don't know if that will work. Even if Eli Yusef Habib and his family knew where to look, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't know what to look for.”
“Look,” said Grisham, “I'm not trying to minimize the difficulty in finding these things, but if Hussein Kamil hid them, then there must be someone alive today in Iraq who can lead us to them. And according to NSA intercepts, Saddam is looking for them as we speak—but even he doesn't know where they are. Yet, he has the best chance of stumbling onto them, so we've got to act quickly.
“I've put together a file of intel—some good, some not so good—that'll bring you up to speed. We know at least twenty-eight places in Iraq where they're not hidden.”
“That's great.” Goode chuckled. “Only a million places to look, minus twenty-eight.”
“Well, almost,” Grisham said, smiling reluctantly. “But our guys, working with the NRO satellite people, have eliminated another couple of thousand where it would be highly unlikely to find them. In fact, they've offered their top ten or so ideas as to where Kamil is likely to have hidden them.”
“Yeah, well, once Newman's team starts searching for them, they may trigger a response from Iraq's Special Security Service. There's likely to be a national mobilizat
ion of Iraqi troops if a U.S. Special Forces operation starts turning over rocks,” Goode said.
“Except Newman won't be leading a Special Forces team this time.”
“What do you mean?” Goode asked. “You're sending him on this operation alone? That's insane!”
Newman didn't seem flustered. “Explain what you have in mind, sir.”
Highway 90, Northbound
Near Tiberius, Israel
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
1410 Hours, Local
Rachel and Dyan were stiff, sore, cold, and dehydrated. Their injuries, the cramped quarters, and the frosty spring air had taken a toll.But more than that, they were frightened. During the several hours they had been in captivity they had talked, cried, and prayed.
Dyan was certain she was the cause of it all. The Arab kidnappers surely wanted her husband, and this was a way to get to him. Rachel wasn't so sure but said nothing.
“Where do you think we are?” Dyan asked.
“I don't have the vaguest idea. But I have noticed that, except for the first twenty minutes to a half hour when we started out, we've been traveling north.” She looked at her watch, grateful for its backlit face. “It's almost fifteen minutes after two. We've been traveling a little over four hours. We must be more than a hundred miles from Jerusalem.”
Dyan thought for a moment. “There are really only two stretches of highway out of Jerusalem where you can travel that long without turning east or west. We must be on either Highway 60 or Highway 90. And when we first started, we were going east until we got on the highway going north. Highway 60 goes straight north from the city, and Highway 90 goes north along the border, so you have to drive east on Highway 1 to Jericho in order to pick up 90. I'm thinking that we must be going north on Highway 90.
“If they hadn't taken our purses, I'd call my husband and tell him. My cell phone's in my purse,” Dyan added.
“Yeah, mine too,” Rachel said, but then felt in her jacket pocket. “Dyan! It's here! I forgot to put my cell phone in my purse this morning. I still have it!”
