by Oliver North
She struggled with her hands, still tied, to reach the phone. It was in the zippered pocket inside the left breast pocket of the jacket. After a little fumbling, she retrieved it. Nervous and excited, Rachel flipped it open and scrolled to the speed dial number of her husband's cell phone. As the call began to ring at the other end, she prayed Peter would hear it and answer right away.
She heard a voice.
“Peter!”
But the voice was a recording, announcing that the number she was trying to reach was out of the calling area, and to please try the call again later.
“Oh, no!” She remembered Peter had sailed to Cyprus with Bill Goode. She had the telephone number for Goode's satellite phone, but it was on the counter beside the phone at home.
“Here,” Dyan said, “let me try and call my husband.” But her hands were still tied behind her, and so she gave the number to Rachel, who punched it in to the keypad.
When the call began to ring, she held the phone to Dyan's ear. She watched as Dyan's expression was first hopeful, then gloomy.
“Voice mail. Push one.”
Rachel pushed the button and held the phone back to Dyan's ear.
“Ze'ev, it's me!” Dyan said. “I've been kidnapped! Sarah Clancy and I were taken alongside my car this morning. It's just after two o'clock. We're bound and locked inside a box on the back of a large truck. I think our captors are Arabs. But they may not be Palestinians. There are at least six of them. They had guns. Sarah and I think we're at least a hundred miles north of Jerusalem, possibly on Highway 90. They may be taking us to Lebanon or the Golan Heights. Please help us. I love you, my darling. I love you with all my heart. Good-bye.”
Rachel pushed the button to end the call.
“Do you think we'll ever see our husbands again?” Dyan asked, her voice breaking with emotion.
“Of course we will, Dyan. Count on it.”
Rachel wished her confidence matched her words.
BLOWN COVER
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aboard Pestador II
Larnaca Harbor, Cyprus
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
1545 Hours, Local
The salon's hatch swung open.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Gunnery Sergeant Skillings said.
Newman, Goode, and Grisham had a sheaf of papers and maps of various Middle Eastern countries spread out on the broad table in the center of the salon. They looked up at Skillings.
“Yes, Gunny,” General Grisham said. “What is it?”
“I think it's something of an emergency, sir. There's a call on the satellite phone...”
“For me, Gunny?”
“No, Mr. Goode...it's a call from some woman with a foreign accent...calling for Mr. John Clancy.”
The men looked at each other. Who would be trying to call John Clancy here aboard the Pescador II?
“What do you make of it, Pete?” General Grisham asked.
“The only person who knows I'm here is Rachel. She wouldn't call unless—” He bolted up from his chair.
“Take the call in my cabin,” Goode called after him.
Newman reached the master's cabin in seconds and grabbed for the phone, mounted in a heavy weather bracket on the starboard bulkhead.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“This is Ay Lienne, Mr. Clancy. I am calling you from your apartment.”
“What is it, Ay Lienne?”
“Mrs. Clancy telephoned me just awhile ago. She explained where I could find the telephone number and told me to call you. I—I am afraid that she is in trouble.”
The Marine felt the rush of adrenaline in his gut, and his pulse quickened almost immediately. “Go on.”
“She said that she has been kidnapped by some men with guns! Mrs. Rotem was with her. She says that Arabs took them both!”
“Did she say she was all right? Or where they took her? Did they force her to telephone with the information?”
The questions were coming faster than the young woman could respond in her imperfect English. Newman forced himself to wait for the reply.
“She said that she was calling with her mobile telephone, and that they were locked inside a big container that was being transported on a truck. Mrs. Clancy said that she had called home to leave a more detailed message on the answering machine there. She also said that so far they are all right, and the kidnappers do not know they have a telephone. They are still traveling on the truck. She told me to take care of your little James and to call you. She said you would know what to do.”
There was a pause. Ay Lienne was probably hoping “Mr. Clancy” would tell her what to do. But Newman was grappling with his emotions, feeling more helpless than he had in a long, long time.
Got to keep it together!
“Ay Lienne, thank you. I am so grateful that Rach—uh, Sarah—was able to reach you. You did the right thing. I appreciate it. But the number you called here is not in Jerusalem. I am out of town, and it is likely to take me some time to get back.”
“Shall I call the police?”
Newman paused to think before answering. He knew there was great risk in contacting the police. It wouldn't take them long to figure out who he was and discover his international terrorist status. For a moment, he thought if he could get back to Israel right away and immediately start looking for Rachel, he still might be able to keep his identity from the police. But two things bothered him about that idea: first, he knew that time was of the essence in any kidnapping, and precious hours had already passed; second, he had to think not just of his wife and himself, but also of the woman captured with Rachel. For Dyan's sake, the police should be notified right away, even if it meant his cover would be blown.
“Ay Lienne, I'd like to have you call Mr. Rotem. I think I recall his wife saying he works for the Israeli government. He may have some ideas. Their phone number is in the blue address book beside the phone in our kitchen. His name is Rotem—R-O-T-E-M. When you talk to him, you can give him this number and have him call me. Then I'll have him call the police. But if you can't reach him in an hour or less, you should call the police and report the kidnapping.”
“I understand. And please don't worry about your son. James is safe with Isa and me. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Clancy?”
“No...thank you. Not now, Ay Lienne. Just call Mr. Rotem right now and tell him what you told me, and then have him call me at this number as soon as he can.”
“Yes...and, Mr. Clancy? I want you to know I am sorry for what has happened. Isa and I will pray for you all. I hope nothing happens to them...”
“Yeah, me too. Thank you, Ay Lienne.”
Newman hung up the phone and leaned against the wall, his face in his hands.
Dear God, please...please…
After a few seconds, he stood up straight, took a deep breath, and went back to the salon. He needed to tell General Grisham that plans had just changed.
Hezbollah Safe House
Vicinity of Or Tal,
Golan Heights
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
1630 Hours, Local
For nearly another hour after Rachel's phone calls, the truck had rumbled north along Highway 90. But then the vehicle had changed direction and traveled on a rougher road in a generally northeastern direction. Now the heavy truck had stopped, after meandering east on bumpy, unpaved roads for the past twenty minutes or so.
Dust stirred up by the tires filled their nostrils, and the women could taste it in their parched mouths. They could also tell the sun was beginning to set in the west behind them; the shadows of the wheels, viewed through the narrow slit in the floor, were much longer.
As the truck idled, Rachel called home again. This might be her last opportunity to share information. She left a brief message on the answering machine. “We've stopped. I have no idea where we are, but I think it might be in a village or some rural area. I can't hear any sounds of other traffic, but I can hear children's voices, dogs barking,
and some livestock. I hope I'll be able to call back...but I'm not sure.” She turned off the mobile phone and shoved it into her inside jacket pocket.
The women sat huddled against the metal walls of their container and waited. Dyan could hear men talking outside and figured out they were stopped at a Hezbollah safe house to get directions for the remainder of their trip. Then the voices faded.
After ten minutes, Rachel and Dyan heard voices and footsteps approaching the truck. There was scuffling in the gravel beneath the flatbed trailer. The men's voices were the same ones they had heard in the van when they were first captured—so their captors were still with them. There was the clank of a tool directly beneath them—bolts being unscrewed and removed.
Then a small plate, about sixteen inches square, was removed from the floor of their cell, and a hand appeared. It held a liter-sized plastic bottle that contained a colored liquid. The hand opened, and the bottle rolled across the floor, coming to rest against Rachel's leg. A moment later, a paper bag was handed up as well. Finally, the hand placed something small and shiny on the edge of the opening.
A male voice said in heavily accented English, “Here, you may use this to free your hands. Then you may remove the hoods over your heads so that you may eat and drink. You may also remove the tape from around your feet. If you make any noise, I will kill you and no one will ever find your bodies. Do you understand?”
Rachel could only nod, staring helplessly at the opening. Dyan said, “Yes.”
The metal plate was reinserted in its aperture and screwed back into place. They heard the diesel engine of the truck rev and the grinding of gears. As the vehicle began to move, they smelled—or rather tasted— the truck's exhaust. In the dim light, Rachel could see what the shiny object was: a fingernail clipper.
It took Rachel almost fifteen minutes, working with the fingernail clipper in the near darkness, to cut through the tough nylon cable ties on Dyan's wrists. Rachel's fingers were numb; she dropped the clipper several times and had to grope for it as the truck lurched along a bumpy rural path. When she finally got Dyan's bonds cut, Dyan sat for a few minutes and worked her fingers, trying to restore circulation. Then, Dyan went to work on Rachel's wrists.
By the time they had both cut through their ankle restraints, an hour had passed, and they were exhausted.
Rachel reached for the paper bag. It contained two apples and four pieces of pita bread. The plastic bottle had been filled with a kind of tea.
They hadn't had any food or beverage since morning. Normally fastidious about her food, Rachel would have eaten the apples and bread even if they had been sliding around on the floor of the cell instead of in the paper bag. Dyan was hungry, too, so they finished the scant nourishment quickly.
“Did that tea taste strange to you?” Dyan asked.
“A little, yes,” Rachel replied. “Let's save the rest of it for later. Who knows when we will stop again?”
The truck came to a particularly bad stretch of road, and the women were thrown back and forth inside their portable dungeon.
Three large Arab men squeezed together inside the cab of the truck, nearly as uncomfortable as their captives. In the gathering dusk, the driver maneuvered the heavy rig onto Highway 91 where it intersected Highway 90, just north of the Sea of Galilee.
Less than half an hour after they had stopped and given food and drink to the women, the driver maneuvered the truck to within twelve kilometers of the place the UN had labeled the “Separation of Forces Line,” a demarcation indicating the disputed boundaries between Israel and Syria. Israel had captured the Golan Heights from Syria in one of the last battles of the Six-Day War of 1967 and still occupied the commanding terrain. From the top of the Golan, it was possible to see all the way to the Mediterranean. And though Israel held the territory, Arabs who had lived in the area before the war still comprised the primary population.
Border guards flagged down the truck as it approached the final checkpoint. An Israeli customs official, accompanied by two UN guards, inspected the driver's identity papers and travel permit. Then they did the same check of his two companions, sitting beside him in the bench seat of the cab.
When the guards went to the rear of the trailer, the driver and his companions looked at each other. If the women made any noise, there would be trouble. The driver shot a questioning look at the man seated next to the passenger's window.
“Did you drug the food?” he asked in a half-whisper.
The other man nodded and made a placating motion with his hand. “Do not worry. They are out cold by now.”
The driver nodded and looked in his rearview mirror.
The guards came forward, and one of them signaled for the driver to pull forward, across the border.
The truck went forward a short distance, and the ritual was repeated by the bored border police on the Syrian side of the demarcation line. The officials made a big show of checking entry documents and the truck's cargo manifest. Then a customs official looked carefully at the cargo itself, peering down each long water pipe with a flashlight and then checking the integrity of the large wooden box in the center of the truck's trailer bed.
Inside their tiny prison, the two women were asleep, worn down by fear and tension, not to mention the triazolam in the tea. When the border guards opened the doors of the trailer, Rachel and Dyan were oblivious.
The Syrian border guards waved the truck through, and the gate was lifted for the truck as it inched forward past the checkpoint. The men inside the cab breathed easier now. They were in Arab-controlled Syria. And they were now only an hour from their destination.
The truck started climbing a steep grade and, inside the container box, the women rolled to the back of their cell, bumping into the back wall. The shaking and jostling roused them from their drugged sleep. As they became groggily aware, they both realized how uncomfortable they were; they hadn't had access to toilet facilities since that morning. The shaking of the truck made matters worse. They were buffeted from side to side and fell into each other clumsily and often with some force.
“We must be going into the mountains,” Dyan said. “I'm guessing that they took us to the Golan Heights and crossed the border. We must now be in either Lebanon or Syria.”
“Crossed the border—we slept through it! We could have alerted the guards,” Rachel said.
Dyan rubbed her face and blinked her eyes. “I guess they drugged us—the food…” She looked at Rachel; her chin was trembling. “I...I'm afraid, Sarah. If they've taken us across the border, I'm not sure we'll be rescued.”
“If we could only stop and get out for awhile,” Rachel said. “If we could see where we are, maybe I could call home and leave another message.”
“Yes, I wish we could stop too. But if we do, it might be so they can kill us and send evidence back to—”
“No! Don't think like that! We can't lose hope. We have to be strong.”
The truck slowed and pulled to a stop. The two women looked at each other. A moment later, they heard someone beneath the truck bed again. Rachel looked down at the place where their cage had been opened before, expecting another bottle of tea or some food. Instead, she heard the fasteners being loosened for the larger metal plate that had sealed them inside. They were going to be let out—but for what?
Aboard Pescador II
Larnaca Harbor, Cyprus
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
1645 Hours, Local
Newman, Goode, and General Grisham were huddled in the main cabin of the sloop, staring at the scraps of paper arranged in neat stacks on the table in front of them. While waiting for the return call from Dyan's husband, Ze'ev, Newman called back to his apartment at the Hospice of Saint Patrick and carefully jotted down the snippets of information Rachel had been leaving on their answering machine. He had to form a plan.
“I've summoned you back into service, Pete, and that makes me responsible for you,” General Grisham said. “That also makes it my responsibility to help
you get your wife back. I have to assume the two matters are somehow related. And that makes it appropriate for me to use whatever assets are at my disposal as CinC.
“Now, the first thing we do is wait for the call from the other woman's husband. If he's somebody in the Israeli government, it could be that his wife was the reason for the kidnapping, and Rachel just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But we can't take that chance. We have to learn where Rachel is, develop a plan, and—if necessary—cooperate with the Israelis to get the job done.”
Newman nodded.
“I can't believe that it's Rachel they're looking for,” Goode said. “Most of the people who know she's alive are right here.”
“I sure hope that's still true,” Grisham said. “But things have changed now. If we have to work with the Israelis in order to get Rachel back, then you'll have to tell them the truth, Pete. You'll have to compromise your cover.”
Newman didn't say anything for a moment. “I know...but...whatever it takes, I'll…”
He felt his throat constricting. He took several deep breaths.
“We have no choice but to tell the Israelis, General. And I think we have to assume that once they know who I really am, the rest of the world will find out pretty fast. Israel is a democracy. They have a free press. It's sure to leak.”
“I may be able to help with that. My contacts in the IDF through CENTCOM can be trusted. I'll talk with them, tell them the whole story, ask for their help, and ask them to keep a lid on it. They may be a democracy, but they're also surrounded by enemies—and for that reason they seem to be better than we are at keeping secrets,” Grisham said.
Goode shook his head. “The CIA and Mossad don't always see eye-to-eye. I know their military might be working with you, but they're sure to wonder why Pete was in Jerusalem for the past three years without checking in with the authorities. With all the flap over the Pollard spy case, they might want to exact a little face-saving by putting Pete through the wringer, if you get my drift.”
