by Oliver North
“It's possible, sir,” Thomas said.
“What about some kind of prison break? Do we have the resources to manage it?”
“We can work on it, sir,” Blackman said.
“Very good. Work something up, and let me see it as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas and Blackman said simultaneously.
As soon as the door closed behind them, “C” poured himself another cup of tea. He stared out his window and worried.
Northeast Highway
6 km West of As Sa'ar, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
2300 Hours, Local
The Sayeret Duvdevan special ops teams took a risk in driving together on the remote northeast highway to As Sa'ar. They split up when they came to Salamiyah; the Desert Raider stayed off-road and bypassed the city. Captain Naruch's team, in the van, merely kept a low profile and stuck to the highway.
They stopped just after they passed Salamiyah to check the computer one more time, to make sure that the tracking images had not moved since they last looked at them. Then the team sped as quickly as possible toward the GPS coordinates of the homing devices, assuming that since Komulakov had gotten away he might be trying to warn the kidnappers about the assault on the compound and his narrow escape—or worse, to give them the order to kill their hostages.
It had taken them over an hour to get here, where the satellite told them the signals were originating. Now Rotem, Naruch, and the team found themselves in a remote piece of the Syrian desert, three kilometers west of the village of Sa'ar.
“I make the spot to be less than fifty meters over there,” Major Rotem said, looking first at the computer display then off to the right side of the highway with his NVGs.
“But there's no building.” Newman said. Please, God…
“Shall I go take a look?” asked Captain Naruch.
“No...I'll go,” Newman said.
“I'll go with you,” Major Rotem added quickly.
Naruch walked behind the two men, covering them from behind as Newman and Rotem started toward the spot the computer display showed as their wives' location. Even in the darkness, the desert floor was flat and even, and Newman was relieved he could see no evidence of either a grave or the women's remains.
“Colonel, Major...over here!” Captain Naruch called out softly from twenty meters to their left.
Newman and Rotem both spun and jogged to where the tracker was standing.
“What is it?” Newman asked.
“There....” Naruch pointed. Newman's gaze followed and, in the darkness, he saw a familiar blue knapsack.
“I see it,” Newman said, running over to it. “And there's the other one, over there to your left.”
The three men inspected the two knapsacks and their contents. The women had not been given their clothing. The brassieres, with the transponders sewn into them, were still inside the knapsacks.
Newman, Rotem, and Naruch looked carefully around them to make certain that Rachel and Dyan were not also lying nearby. Finding nothing, the Israeli major ordered Sergeant Rosen to bring up the thermal imaging device and sweep the area while the rest of the men used their night-vision goggles to search, just to make certain the women were not there. After a half hour, Captain Naruch walked up to Rotem.
“I've been looking at the area here, and it appears from the tracks on the shoulder of the highway that this is where the kidnappers changed vehicles. The tires of the van that came from Hamah had this kind of tread...here.” He pointed to the tracks in the sandy soil. “And here, as if parked and waiting for them, is this other vehicle. See the different set of tire tread marks? I walked across the highway and saw that this other vehicle came from the opposite direction. It pulled off onto the shoulder over there to make a U-turn, and they parked here, waiting for the van with the women in it.”
“I think he's right,” Newman said to Rotem. “Komulakov handed them over to someone else. I'm guessing they've been taken to one of his places rather than another PFLP or Hezbollah location.”
“Yeah, you're probably right,” said Major Rotem. “From what you told me, this Komulakov character had an axe to grind with you, and probably doesn't want to muddy things up by having too many others in the mix—PFLP, Israelis, Syrians. For Komulakov, it's come down to just the two of you. Except for one thing
“What's that?” Newman asked.
“He still has my wife. So it's personal for me too.”
REGROUPING
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hospice of Saint Patrick
Old City of Jerusalem, Israel
Saturday, 21 March 1998
0715 Hours, Local
The ringing of the telephone awakened Newman. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was, and then he realized he was in his own bed in his Jerusalem apartment. He fumbled for the phone on the nightstand.
“Mr. Clancy, this is Isa. I am sorry to bother you, but there is an American gentleman on the phone calling from overseas who says he must talk to you. He did not have your direct line number and called for you on the hospice line. I told him that you got back here very late last night, but he insisted. He says that it is urgent.”
“Uh...all right, Isa.” Newman checked his watch. He'd only gotten three hours of sleep after returning from Syria. He rubbed his face and tried to rouse himself. “Please, Isa...go ahead and connect us.”
There was a click and then the unmistakable voice of Lieutenant General George Grisham.
“Good morning, Mr. Clancy. How are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.” He's calling me “Clancy, “so he knows we're on an unsecured line.
“I hadn't heard from you, and I was concerned. Doesn't the phone I gave you work?”
“Yes, sir, it does, but I didn't want to take it with me on the last trip.” Newman knew the Israeli police were recording calls to the hospice; he had to assume others might be, as well.
“And how was your last business trip?”
“The, ah, merchandise that we went to get was not at the place we were supposed to take delivery. My partners got very angry, and they...severely prejudiced any further relationship with the vendor and his associates. We won't be dealing with these vendors ever again.”
“I see,” said Grisham. “Sounds like a lot of people got their feelings hurt.”
“Yes...and then our return flight was cancelled due to weather. We had to wait another twenty-four hours for the weather to clear in order to get a flight back here.” A late winter storm had closed in on the eastern Mediterranean and delayed the team's extraction from Syria until 2300 last night; Newman hoped the oblique reference would explain to Grisham his delayed return.
“And what about the man who sent you the contract—was he at the meeting?”
“Yes, the—contractor was at the meeting, but he left right in the middle of the negotiations, just when things were getting exciting.”
“And how about him, were his feelings hurt?”
“No. We thought so at first. But then we learned that...there was more to him than meets the eye. He's got a pretty tough shell—he'll survive.”
There was silence on Grisham's end of the line for a moment. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” Grisham said, finally. “Well, maybe I can help you pick up the merchandise you and your friend went to buy.”
“No, I don't think so. First we have to find out where it went, instead of where it was supposed to go. But my partner's still hopeful. He seems to think the contractor will be back in touch even though things went so badly at our last meeting. My partner's constantly reminding me that the merchandise is only worth something as long as it's in good condition; he's optimistic, since we're the only buyer.”
“You said your partner's hopeful. What about you?”
Newman took a deep breath. “Yes...I am too...I suppose.”
“Now listen to me, young man. You have to remain hopeful...and I want you to follow my formula for success. Pray, and expect
God to answer. Act, and expect positive results. Do you understand? You have to do both.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Because while you were off on your business trip, I had my people start doing some research on how all this got started. You remember, when you called me before your flight back to Jerusalem, how the contractor wanted you to fire his associate here in the U.S.—but we didn't know how to reach him?”
Newman had called the general on the sat phone, while they were waiting for the weather to let up. He'd slipped away from the team because he didn't want the Israelis to know about the mole Komulakov had told him about; it would just complicate matters.
“Yes,” said Newman.
“Well, I put your old friend Chris Jenkins to work on the problem. You remember Chris?”
“Yes, sir. We worked together a few years back.” And I heard Chris is now the CENTCOM G-2.
“Chris figured out that the only way that the contractor could know all about you and the merchandise was through his representative over here—the one you're supposed to fire. He thinks the fellow we're looking for is either a sophisticated hacker, or a person pretty high up on our...corporate ladder who has access to our most sensitive business data.”
“Yeah...that's what I was thinking too.”
“OK, here's what I think we need to do,” Grisham said. “We're going to look around here to see if we can figure out who has accessed your company files here. I've asked our friend on the boat to think about the problem also, and he's agreed to stay in the area. Meanwhile, I think you should stay put to see if the contractor contacts you to reopen negotiations—as I think he will.”
“Do you want me to take up any of this with my partner?” Newman was uncertain how much of this he should share with the Israelis.
“Use your best judgment, but I'd give them only what's necessary,” said Grisham. “And remember, as soon as we deal with this immediate problem, we still have our original issue to solve.”
After hanging up the phone, Newman sat alone in his apartment on the top floor of the hospice, staring blankly out the windows, across the Old City to the eastern sky. The sun was up, splashing the buildings with pink and orange. She's out there someplace…past those mountains and across the desert, hundreds of miles east of here…and she's waiting for me. God, please keep her safe until I can locate her and get there.
He showered and dressed; sleep was out of the question with everything on his mind. As he was walking into the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee, the phone rang again. He picked up the extension on the counter. “Hello.”
“Good morning, Colonel Newman, I trust you slept well.”
Newman stiffened. “Komulakov.”
“Yes. I seem to have acquired some of your nine lives, eh Colonel?”
“Yeah...apparently.”
“Well, in any event, I'll be brief since I must assume you may be trying to trace this call.”
“Actually, no. I want my wife back, and I don't want anything or anyone else to complicate that. That attack on your place in Syria was somebody else's idea, not mine.”
“Yes, yes...I'm sure. Just listen. I don't know if you were responsible for that assault on Thursday or not. It doesn't matter. Just make certain nothing foolish like that ever happens again. If you want your wife to be returned to you, you must do exactly as I say. Otherwise...you will never even find her body. I'm calling to remind you that your assignment has not changed. I will call you soon with instructions.”
Newman heard a click and the dial tone as Komulakov hung up.
He's desperate. Otherwise he wouldn't bother to call me after nearly getting himself killed. He still wants his spy uncovered and liquidated. That might work to our advantage.
Offices of Amn Al-Khass
Special Security Service Headquarters
Palestine Street, Baghdad, Iraq
Saturday, 21 March 1998
0945 Hours, Local
Qusay Hussein had been putting in many more hours than usual, and he was feeling some of the strain. The massive search all across Iraq was an exhausting effort, even though he was using the most sophisticated detection equipment money could buy.
He was getting increasing pressure from his father to find those weapons, but so far had been drawing blanks. Qusay was growing fearful of Saddam's wrath if he failed.
It galled Qusay that his father held him to a higher standard than his older brother, Uday. True, Saddam had given Qusay more responsibility because he was good at following through, whereas his older brother was much less a leader. Still, it irked Qusay that his brother did so little and had so much. He was essentially given the same perks as Qusay, but he never had to earn them.
But if he could find the nuclear weapons, Qusay thought, he would clearly retain the greater stature in his father's eyes. It might prove his superior worth, ultimately permitting him to inherit supreme power in Iraq.
Qusay dialed the sat phone number that Dotensk had left and was surprised when the arms merchant answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Dotensk, this is Qusay Hussein, Minister of Defense Industries in Baghdad. I believe that you spoke with my father and my older brother, Uday, when you were here in Iraq recently.”
“Yes, I did, but before you continue, Mr. Hussein, please let me remind you that certain unfriendly powers are very likely monitoring this satellite circuit and may misunderstand the purpose of this conversation.”
“Yes, yes...of course, I understand completely, Mr. Dotensk. There is nothing to worry about. I simply want to talk to you about the costs and procedures if we were forced to replace our earlier inventory that seems to have been...uh...misplaced.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Hussein. It appears your late brother-in-law did not tell anyone about his purchase. That is most unfortunate.”
Qusay had to smile at Dotensk's irony. “Yes, very unfortunate. But can you help us?”
“Oh, yes. We have six more in stock that we can get for you relatively soon. It might even be possible to get more, but I must admit they are getting scarcer every day.”
“I see…How much? And how quickly can you deliver the six?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Well, Mr. Hussein, as you know, this...transaction presents certain difficulties. My associate, of course, has not approved this matter, and it will be awhile before I can consult with him, since he has certain, ah, pressing matters to attend to just now. I will need to think carefully—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Dotensk, but I thought you called yourself a merchant? I assume the profit motive still appeals to you? We are prepared to pay a premium, if that would help your deliberations.”
There was another long pause. “Very well, Mr. Hussein. You are most persuasive. It will be, shall we say...seven hundred million Swiss francs for the six? Delivery can be made in six months or less.”
Qusay thought about negotiating. Still, if I agree to his price, we can probably insist on quicker delivery. “That is too much money, but I will consider your offer if we are not successful very soon in replacing our mislaid inventory. But you will have to deliver in weeks, not months. I will get back to you.”
International Scientific Trading, Ltd.
Jabal At Tanf, Syria
Saturday, 21 March 1995
1005 Hours, Local
Dotensk pushed the End Call button on the sat phone, a little perplexed. Did Qusay Hussein want some more nukes or not? It was obvious the Iraqis still had not found the three missing weapons. No doubt Qusay wanted to continue searching, to see if they could find them before having to come up with more money.
Oh, well...the delay would give him time to run the proposition past Komulakov, this time making sure his commission was better than last time. After all, I am the one with the buyers.
What if he could find where the three missing weapons were hidden? After all, Dotensk reasoned, he'd gotten to know the murdered head of the Iraqi SSS quite well when he sold him the original nuclear weapons
three years ago. Perhaps he might be able to figure out where Kamil hid them.
Of course, Kamil would have hidden them where no one else would think to look; Qusay and his brother had probably already checked all the likely locations. Dotensk recalled two out-of-the-wayplaces Kamil had taken him. One was a site under construction in southern Iraq, and Dotensk remembered how Kamil had once remarked casually that the place could one day be a home for his three nephews—Kamil's euphemism for the three nuclear artillery rounds. But Kamil had never talked specifically about that location, perhaps because it had not yet been completed.
Still, on the day of his visit to that place while it was still under construction, Dotensk had accidentally seen the lead shielding and discovered what they were doing. He had deduced Kamil planned to house the nuclear devices at that place.
Ah, yes...but what was the name of that place? Dotensk couldn't recall the name, but he'd kept a log of all of his meetings with Kamil. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out the small, black notebook. Leaning back in his costly leather chair, he swiveled slowly back and forth as he browsed through the pages on which he had recorded his visits to Kamil. Then he found the name of the place he hadn't been able to recall—it was Habirah Mosque.
Dotensk chuckled to himself at the Iraqi regime's attempt at subtlety. The place was anything but a mosque. It was going to be some kind of laboratory to make chemical or biological weapons, and a place to store the nuclear weapons. Once, when they were both drinking heavily, Kamil's tongue loosened and he had also talked about using the site at Habirah for a prison, a place to put certain political prisoners. Though Kamil had never said so, Dotensk suspected that the prisoners housed there were to be used for medical tests of the weapons manufactured or stored at the site. The Ukrainian wondered if they ever completed the construction of the “mosque,” or if the site had been abandoned after Kamil's death.
As he leafed through the small notebook, he recalled other visits he had had with Kamil three years ago. Two of the meetings in particular stood out, and Dotensk still felt a twinge of fear as he recalled them. It was right after he had met Kamil, and also the occasion when they first began discussing the purchase of nuclear weapons. Both incidents had taken place at the same location, a desolate area northeast of Baghdad.
