by Oliver North
Samir pointed to a large sign next to a guarded gate between the two large buildings that fronted on the highway. “International Scientific Trading, Ltd.”
Other than the single lighted office in one of the warehouses and another in the guard post, there was no sign of life. The truck crept past the complex at less than ten miles per hour.
Once they had passed the complex, Samir accelerated, pulling back onto the highway toward At Tanf. He glanced over at Newman. “You are worried about your wife, my friend.”
“Yes. She's back there in that building somewhere, and—”
“She will be all right, Peter. I have been praying for her safe return to you since I learned of her capture. My father and all of our family have been praying as well. You must trust in the Lord. It is his nature to look after his children”
“Thank you, Samir. I hope so. But...I've done things that displease him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just can't help wondering...Does God answer the prayers of those who offend him?”
“We are all sinners, Peter. None of us is perfect.”
“I know, but...my faith isn't as mature as yours, and especially your father's. I keep thinking maybe God won't answer our prayers when we do things wrong—like bribing that man when we crossed the border.”
Samir pursed his lips and put his head back on the headrest of the seat as he drove through the darkness.
“Do you remember that passage in the Bible—in Hebrews—where Saint Paul writes about faith?” Samir said, finally. “He describes many people who were said to have great faith. He mentions Noah, Abraham, Joseph, Moses, and the other patriarchs...but he also mentions Rahab, a prostitute...and Samson, who sinned with Delilah...David, who committed adultery with Bathsheba and murdered her husband.”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with what I did, Samir?”
“Sometimes we all do wrong things, but God forgives us and helps us to go on. He looks upon our hearts and sees our motivation. That is what counts in his sight.”
“Do you mean the end justifies the means?”
“Oh no—not at all. But your intent back there at the border wasn't evil. The baksheesh you gave that border guard wasn't offered to smuggle goods or to enrich yourself. You did it with the intent of saving your wife—and perhaps preventing terrible weapons from being used against innocent people. I believe God takes all that into account. I am also confident that he will answer our prayers for your wife.”
They had reached the outskirts of At Tanf. Samir pulled off the road into the empty parking lot of a petrol station, just inside the city limits. He turned off the lights.
“We will wait here for my father. He is driving here from his friend's house in town.”
They sat silently for a few minutes. Headlights appeared in the distance, coming toward them from the west. While they watched and waited, a light-colored pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, stopped, backed up, and parked next to them. It was Eli Yusef. Samir and Newman climbed out of their vehicle and walked around the front of Yusef's truck.
“‘As-salâmu shalaykhum...kayf hâluhk?” Samir said as he greeted his father.
The old man replied, “Shukran. Al-hamdu li-lah.”
Newman smiled as the patriarch of the Habib clan climbed out of his truck and embraced his son, then extended his arms to the American. “Shalaykhum,” Newman said as he hugged the older man, who echoed the greeting to his friend.
Samir spoke in Arabic to his father. Newman was pleased that he understood most of it and could make educated guesses about the phrases that he didn't get.
“So what is your plan, my son?” Yusef asked the Marine.
“Well, sir...if Samir will take me back and drop me off near the place where they're holding my wife, I'll try to get some information to the commandos who are coming to help tomorrow night.”
“And how will you pass the information to them?”
“With this,” Newman replied, holding up one of the two Iridium sat phones.
“Ah yes.” Eli Yusef smiled. “The marvels of modern electronics. It is too bad I did not have a device such as that when I was spying on Rommel for the British in North Africa...it would have made a great difference. Well now, how can we be of help to you?”
“It's important that neither of you be anywhere near that place tomorrow night, because when the commandos arrive, they might mistake you for one of the kidnappers, and your lives could be at great risk. But you can help me from a distance.”
“How so?”
“We're going to need eyes and ears posted along this highway, both east and west of the warehouse complex,” said Newman, pointing to the road in front of them. “It would be very helpful if tomorrow evening, Samir, just before dark, you could position yourself east of the IST complex—between it and the border. And Eli Yusef, if you would do the same, on the highway west of the target, perhaps even in At Tanf...”
“And we would alert you to anything we see coming from our direction along the highway—especially the Syrian military?” Samir said.
The Marine nodded. “Yes, Samir. Your father raised you well.” Newman turned to the old man. “Eli Yusef, this is simply more of the kind of thing that you did for the British in World War II, isn't it?”
“Yes. I would tell them the number and types of aircraft or vehicles, the size of troop units, how fast they were going, what direction, and how long before they were likely to get to the British lines. I assume that's what you want us to provide for you tomorrow?”
“It is indeed. But I'm hoping we don't have to contend with the sort of manpower and firepower that Rommel had with him.”
Eli and Samir chuckled and nodded.
“All you have to do is use your cell phone to call me if you see any military or other hostile activity,” Newman said. The two men nodded again.
“Were you able to obtain any of the things I called you about, Eli Yusef?”
“Yes...I have them in this knapsack.” The old man reached into the cab and retrieved the pack. He took out a pair of binoculars and handed them to Newman. “I am sorry that I do not have a case for them. It was the best I could do on such short notice.”
“These will do just fine.”
“And here are four bottles of water, some bread, meat, and some boiled eggs.”
“Well, thank you, my friend. I didn't even think about something to eat. Thank you.”
“And I brought some other things that you did not ask for but which may be useful,” Yusef said. He reached into the pack and took a bed sheet dyed in mottled khaki, light brown, and sandy gray. “You may find this helpful to keep you hidden during the daylight tomorrow. My friend's wife dyed it today. The colors are a close match to the terrain you will be in. Out here, there is so little vegetation. The soil is very hard—mostly ancient lava.”
Next, the old man withdrew what appeared to be a bulky telescope.
“This belongs to my friend who owns the binoculars. He picked it up in his travels. It is a device for seeing in the dark.”
Newman took it and held it in front of the headlights of the pickup. It was an older Soviet-made monocular military night-vision scope—he guessed it was made in the late '70s or early '80s. The stampings on it were Russian, but he recognized the word Novosibirsk, which he knew to be the third largest city in the Russian Republic, probably where it was manufactured. He looked it over, stepped away from the truck lights, and pointed it into the darkness to try it out. The new moon was just a sliver, but peering through the lens, Newman could clearly see scrub brush, rocks, and small details in the green-tinged, three-power magnification, all invisible to his naked eye.
“It is old,” said Yusef, “but I put new batteries in so it should help.”
“Well, I'm sure it'll help me a great deal in the darkness,” Newman said. “Please thank your friend. I'll try to take good care of his things.”
“There is one more thing that he provided that may be use
ful,” Yusef said, reaching into the knapsack once more. He drew out an automatic pistol, an extra magazine, and a small cardboard box of ammunition.
Newman took the weapon and examined it. Holding it in the beam of the truck headlight, he recognized that it was a 9mm CZ 75B, made by the Czech manufacturer Ceská Zbrojovka. He remembered the unusual weapon because that model was available for .40 caliber Smith & Wesson ammunition or 9mm. Newman thought back to his days commanding 2nd Force Reconnaissance Company in 1990-91, when the instructors from Weapons Training Battalion at Quantico had brought weapons like this—and scores of others—to the range at Camp Lejeune so that his Marines could familiarize themselves with all the weapons that might be in the hands of their adversaries. Though old, the CZ 75B appeared to be well cared for and serviceable. He noticed that it was clean and oiled, with no apparent rust. He released the magazine and tried the slide action. It was quiet and smooth. He held it in his hand for balance and looked down the sights. The finish was a no-nonsense black military polymer, and the handgrip was a bit rough, but it was comfortable in his hand. Then he opened the box of ammunition that Yusef had given him, trying to guess its age. The gun was probably thirty years old, or more. He hoped the ammo was fresher than that. The glow of the truck's parking lights showed that the cartridges still had a brassy sheen, and they didn't have the dull patina of corrosion that would indicate that the bullets were unreliable. That reassured him greatly.
“Your friend seems to know how to take care of a firearm, Yusef.”
The old man and his son watched as the Marine loaded fifteen rounds into each magazine, slid one into the weapon, pulled the slide to the rear, chambered a round, and engaged the safety.
“My friend does indeed know how to care for his weapons,” Yusef said. “He was drafted into the Syrian Army many years ago. He fought in the 1948 war against Israel and was wounded on the Golan Heights in 1967. Ironically, as it turned out, he had more to fear from his fellow Syrians than the Israelis. His family—all Syrian Christians—were murdered by Syrian Muslims in Hims—I think you call it Homs—in 1968. It was during this terrible time that he bought and kept the weapon...just in case.”
Newman put the weapon, the extra magazine, and the remaining ammo back in the knapsack. “This will do just fine. Yusef, thank you for helping me with these things,” Newman continued. “They may help keep me alive. Now...I suppose we ought to get moving. I want to find a position where I can observe the IST facility before daylight.”
Yusef put his hand on Newman's shoulder. “First, I must pray,” he said. Samir nodded and put both hands on Newman's shoulders from behind, while the elder Habib did the same from the front. Newman bowed his head to honor his friends' benediction, but he was not quite prepared for the passionate petition that the old man presented to his God. Yusef poured out his heart in a plaintive cry for heaven's help and protection, and for God to safely reunite Peter Newman with his wife. Newman was touched by such devotion, and he hugged both men before they got into their vehicles.
The Marine was silent as he and Samir drove east, back toward the IST warehouse complex.
“Samir...turn off your headlights and pull over about a mile ahead. I'll get out and walk the rest of the way, just to make sure I'm not seen by anybody.”
“Yes...all right.”
Four minutes later, the Arab Christian pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and Newman jumped out, grabbing the knapsack.
“Masha salâma,” Samir said, and then repeated the phrase in English: “Go now, without fear.”
Newman nodded, turned, and disappeared into the darkness of the desert.
International Scientific Trading, Ltd.
At Tanf, Syria
Monday, 23 March 1998
2310 Hours, Local
Leonid Dotensk was on the phone with Qusay Hussein. There had been, as the arms merchant knew there would be, huge complications in the logistics of exchanging the nuclear weapons for two truckloads of gold.
“But when we discussed this sale, I explained to you that our terms were to be one hundred and fifty million Swiss francs wired to our bank. You insisted on making partial payment in gold—to which we have reluctantly agreed—but I cannot deliver the merchandise to you until we have had a chance to verify the weight of the gold in the two trucks. After that has been confirmed, we will send the truck with the merchandise that you want,” Dotensk said.
His customer raised his voice in protest; Dotensk held the phone receiver away from his ear while the man screamed about the Ukrainian's lack of trust.
“I am sorry, my friend, but for people in my line of work, it is always a matter of trust. After you send us the gold and we verify the weight, I will release our truck to bring you the three machines you have ordered.”
“Where are the machines now?” asked Qusay.
“They are in a safe place.” Dotensk was instantly wary of the Iraqi. If Saddam's son knew how close they were to the border, he wouldn't send two truckloads of gold—he could instead dispatch several helicopter gunships and a team of commandos to take the weapons from Dotensk. Dotensk had no idea what mad scheme the Iraqi was planning, or why he seemed so insistent on having the weapons immediately—but it didn't matter. What mattered was getting paid in full—and being alive to spend the money.
There was a moment of silence and then Qusay said, “I will have two trucks loaded with the gold and brought to you. You said you wanted the gold delivered near a border crossing in Syria. Will you want the trucks sent to Qusaybah or Abjub?”
Dotensk had already thought through this option. If he had control over things, he would have had the gold delivered to Qusaybah, the border crossing further north, on the Aleppo-to-Baghdad Highway, to divert attention from the At Tanf facilities. But the Ukrainian arms merchant knew that if the Israelis really were preparing for war, such a delivery scheme would only delay the transaction further, as well as delay his departure from this region of the world at such an unsafe time. Dotensk was also concerned about transporting a hundred million dollars worth of gold bars across hundreds of miles of Syrian geography, rife with robbers and hijackers.
“Bring the trucks to the border crossing on the Damascus-to-Baghdad highway,” he said. “I will have some of my men meet them at the Syrian side of the checkpoint. My people will take care of all of the ‘paperwork’ with the Syrian customs officers, so there will not be any delay.
“Please make sure you use commercial lorries, no military or government markings. I believe if you will do these things, you can have your three machines within twenty-four hours.”
“It will be done.”
“What time will they be at the border?”
“I have already ordered the Director of the Treasury to supervise an after-hours release of the gold. They will work all night. It will be packed on skids and stamped with the inspection and inventory numbers of the Iraqi National Treasury. You will know then that I have not shortchanged you when you weigh the gold in the trucks.”
Dotensk ignored the sarcasm in Qusay's voice. “The time?”
“The trucks will be at the border no later than noon. They will come from Baghdad, after all. As you know, that can take seven hours.”
“My men will be at the Syrian border checkpoint at eleven o'clock.”
“Very well. And I am counting on you to have my merchandise back at the border no later than six tomorrow evening.”
“That will be impossible,” Dotensk said. “We will have a long drive as well. Damascus is four or five hours by truck. We cannot be in Baghdad until midnight.”
Dotensk smiled at his own cleverness. Let Qusay think they had to drive to Damascus; the less anyone thought about At Tanf, the better. “We cannot deliver to you by six.”
After a pause, Qusay said, “I am trusting you with one hundred million in gold. I had hoped you would at least send the truck on ahead with my merchandise. You can contact them once you have weighed the gold. Surely that way you can get the truc
k here by, say, nine?”
“I will do my best,” Dotensk said, and hung up the phone, satisfied that he had outfoxed the Iraqi. These were the kind of details at which he had excelled during his career in the KGB. The Ukrainian arms merchant's lips turned up in a satisfied smile as he contemplated the arrival of the trucks laden with gold, and the return of Komulakov from Damascus. And the general didn't think I deserved 50 percent!
Peter Newman was hidden in scarce cover some three hundred meters from the southeast corner of the IST complex. He had come in behind the big facility, crossed what he realized was a runway—a feature he hadn't been able to see when they had driven by on the road—and crawled up as close to the buildings as he thought was safe.
The Marine was somewhat surprised. It had taken him less than an hour to negotiate the distance from the highway, where Samir dropped him off, about a kilometer west of where he was now. His reconnaissance skills, unused for three years, came back as if by instinct. From his vantage point beside a cluster of rocks and scrub brush on a small elevation only thirty meters south of the east-west runway, he now had a clear view of the entire complex.
Newman lay down and began a detailed visual recon of everything inside the complex. Alternately using the binoculars and the night-vision device, he committed the particulars to memory. As he focusedon the lighted hangar at the west end of the runway, the runway lights suddenly came on.
Interesting. A late night visitor?
While he waited for the aircraft to approach, the hangar door opened and he switched to the binoculars. Newman made mental notes of the interior of that building.
An office area, a workshop on the far end of the building, and space for at least two or three aircraft. Just outside… let's see, a fuel truck, and what appears to be a several-thousand-gallon above-ground fuel storage tank inside a berm.
He then tried to determine what the other various buildings were for and how many people occupied each one. He could make things out fairly clearly in the glow of the sodium vapor lights ringing the buildings in orange-tinged pools. One of the structures had two stories and numerous windows, and he could see men entering and leaving by a centrally located doorway. He assumed it served as some kind of dormitory for Komulakov's soldiers and workers.
