SANCTION: A Thriller

by S. M. Harkness

  United Nations Institute for Disarmament Research

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Silence fell over the room as Imam Sharif Nazari took his place behind a glass podium. Cameras flashed for several seconds as he laid his speech notes on the top of the stand and surveyed the crowd. News stations from around the globe were represented by the audience that waited for him to begin.

  It had been four months since Nazari had assumed control of the Hamas. He was the first Muslim cleric to run the Palestinian government and the first to reign in all of its members. His first act as Prime Minister had been to declare an official Palestinian ceasefire, after what had been months of vicious back and forth fighting between the two peoples. Everyone had been skeptical about his ability to sustain control but so far his power had held; not a shot had been fired in Gaza or the West Bank.

  In that time, Nazari had become a celebrity in the international community. He was being courted as the new hope of the Middle East.

  “Today we have reason to be joyous for our collective community,” he began. The large group of reporters hung on every syllable.

  “We have seen that my people are willing to seek peace as a means to a cohesive government.” The cleric’s English was crisp and clear.

  “What we do not see is the Israeli government. I have continued to keep my people at bay awaiting the counsel of their Prime Minister. I am here, the Hamas is here, in Geneva-the global city, waiting to hear from the Jewish people, waiting for peace.”

  The reporters sat patiently, few attempted to conceal the unabashed adoration they held for him.

  “Both of our peoples have been guilty of much against each other. There can be no peace if we do not start there. Both sides must sacrifice politically to seek peace.”

  Nazari knew that there were many in Palestine that would be infuriated by his words but for the time being, he had exerted an immense amount of pressure on the populace and he was confident that it would hold. He would deal with their discontented blood lust in due time.

  “As with all men, we have a limit to our patience,” he said, raising his eyebrows and furling them down toward his nose for dramatic flair.

  “I will continue to lead Hamas and the people of Palestine down this road but, it must be understood, that without a reason to believe that Israel wants peace, we must assume this ceasefire is one of only temporary status.”

  Ben Schweitzer sat in the back of the room, his smartphone recording the press conference from inside his jacket pocket.

  He was short, not so much that he needed a booster seat in restaurants, but such that he was below the Israeli national average as well as that of his native Czechoslovakia. Everything else about Ben however was exceptional. He was lean, on the muscular side with ample biceps and strong shoulders developed from years of Krav Maga. His features were sharp, like they were carved from stone and his hair, a thick pile of black unruly layers.

  Both of his parents had been German Jews from Austria. They fled to Great Britain at the beginning of World War ll but had found it difficult to fit in with English society. They were determined never to return to the country that was populated by people who allowed the atrocities of the camps so after the war ended; they relocated to Czechoslovakia–where Ben’s father had distant relatives.

  After college, Ben had been recruited by the Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. He found his place in the Mossad as a field operative digging up information on potential enemies within political streams. Though he grew up as far away from Jerusalem as one could, his parents had raised him to see only his Jewish heritage as trustworthy and he vowed to protect it however he could. As an agent of the Mossad, his current assignment was to assess Imam Nazari.

  He knew Nazari was lying. Ben was aware that the Israeli government had used back channels to contact the Imam’s people on three different occasions. The reason they had not been able to come to the “peace table” was because the Hamas wanted all the negotiations to be public from the outset. The Israeli Prime Minister had seen too many failed accords to be willing to negotiate under the watchful eye of the World without laying some preliminary groundwork beforehand. Nazari had not answered that call.

  Schweitzer had watched Western countries go from calling Yasser Arafat, “The Father of Terrorism,” to awarding him the Nobel Peace Prize. He was sure that Nazari and Arafat were of the same cloth. So, naturally, he was predisposed to distrust the cleric.

  As part of Ben’s cover, he reported to a Czechoslovakian newspaper, where he maintained a political Op-Ed weekly article. It afforded him genuine credentials as a reporter, which he used to move about in political circles quite feely.

  Nazari was nearing the end of his thirty minute speech. His guards tensed, all of their eyes panning the crowd with intensity. Ben knew the security threat to the Imam was real. His own nation presented the greatest reality to that threat. However, seeing the guards displaying such bravado and machismo made him laugh to himself.

  The speech ended and Ben picked up his battered briefcase and made his way around the back row of chairs to the rear of the room. He could hear the other reporters volleying for a chance to ask their question. Ben never asked questions.

  The Jewish spy was nearing a metal detector that led to a set of glass double doors when he was stopped by a man in a black military uniform. It was one of Nazari’s guards.

  The man was tall, at least six inches above Ben’s’ five foot seven. A broad set of shoulders outlined a thick muscular neck. His dark hair hung low over his eyes so that he had to brush it away from his face several times.

  “Can I help you?” Ben asked as the Arab sized him up. He stood directly in front of Ben, making it clear that he would need permission to continue.

  “Imam Nazari is allowing several reporters to accompany him to his Estate in Syria. They will be invited to interview him privately, as well as present questions to select ranking members of Hamas.” The guard’s accent, thick Middle Eastern, fit his appearance perfectly. “You are among the individuals being invited.”

  Ben didn’t know how developed the Intelligence services of the Hamas were, but he had to assume his cover might be gone. He hated being forced into a blind situation and the idea that they could be setting him up, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to get close to Nazari.

  “For those who decide to attend, we head directly to the airport after the convention.” The man said as he folded two hairy arms across his chest.

  Ben thought it odd that the leader of the Palestinian group Hamas maintained a residence in Syria but he was too eager to get close to the mysterious figure and his organization to raise a suspicious eye in front of his assistant.

  “I accept Imam Nazari’s generous offer,” Ben said simply.

  The stranger smiled. There was something behind the row of brown stained teeth and sharply upturned mouth; something ominous.

  3

  Zefat, Israel

  “Jerry, we need to get out of this shaft,” professor Rhinefeld said as he dangled a few feet below Jerry on the same flimsy rope ladder. Rhinefeld’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst. Jerry nodded his head in agreement but Rhinefeld doubted he had the presence of mind to unclench his fists and climb back down.

  Jerry was from a small town in Iowa. He was a typical farm-boy, strong, smart and from a big family. Rhinefeld liked him, but he could be stubborn and the occasional know it all.

  “Here we go Jerry. One foot under the other.”

  Jerry didn’t budge. His face was stark white against the shadowed background of the shaft and the dim light that filtered down to them. He stared, unseeing, as Rhinefeld studied the opening of the shaft thirty-five feet above them.

  “I can’t,” he murmured.

  For the time being, the shots above had ceased. Rhinefeld couldn’t be sure what that meant.

  “Jerry, do you want to live?”

  Jerry nodded his head.

 
“Yes,” he whispered.

  “Then Jerry, you need to loosen your grip on this ladder.” Rhinefeld paused as he searched for the right words.

  “If you stay where you are and they look into this hole in the ground, you are a vulnerable and exposed target, as well as me.” The thought sent a chill up the professor’s body.

  Jerry looked like he was about to respond when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the chamber to them.

  Jerry panicked and absurdly hugged the ladder tight as if it had some cloaking ability. Rhinefeld climbed the last few rungs so that he straddled the student. He placed his hands over Jerry’s and began prying at them. Jerry’s grip was strong. Rhinefeld could hear the steps as they neared the edge of the shaft.

  Without giving it much thought, Rhinefeld slammed the front of his forehead into the side of Jerry’s head. Jerry went limp and the two slid several feet as Rhinefeld struggled to lower Jerry to safety.

  Matt Ward reached up and grabbed the professor’s leg. The two quickly lowered Jerry to the ground and drug him back to the library.

  Just as they vanished out of sight of the shafts opening, a tanned Arab face peered over its edge. Rhinefeld pulled Jerry ten yards and laid him down gently on the marble floor. He looked around the room. Everyone’s eyes were trained on the bottom of the shafts opening as they waited for the nightmare that was to come.

  “Everyone listen up,” Rhinefeld said.

  “Put everything you learned in the movies as far away from your thinking as possible. We have no weapons and no training. We need to have a submissive posture. We need to show that we will not resist. Spread out your arms like this and lay flat on the ground.” Rhinefeld said as he demonstrated for them. He fanned his fingers out and placed his palms against the marble floor.

  Matt laid down on his stomach next to him, close enough to whisper in Rhinefeld’s ear.

  “How do we know that they won’t kill us anyway?” Matt asked quietly.

  “We don’t Matt. We have no reason to believe that they will spare us. But we have no way of defending ourselves either. The way I see it, the only thing we can do is put ourselves at the mercy of whoever is coming down that shaft and pray. If it was just you and I down here, we’d fight. But, these kids are not prepared for that, we’d just end up leading them to a slaughter.”

  Matt nodded and agreed, though part of him resisted the idea of surrendering without the slightest protest.

  Katherine Boyd forced her cries to stay inside her throat as tears streamed down her smooth cheeks. The camera-man nervously fumbled with a cigarette that he was trying to light.

  Just as he pressed his body against the cool marble, Rhinefeld heard the ladder as it smacked against one of the walls of the shaft; they were coming.

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  A black Mercedes Benz S-Class coasted along Olaya Road at ninety miles per hour. It traveled more like a fat boat than a sleek German sports sedan, thanks to the added weight of an up-armor package that was comparable to that of a military vehicle. The doors were reinforced with one inch thick carbon steel plates. A thin layer of polycarbonate material was sandwiched between two pieces of glass on all of the windows and an anti-blast system had been added to the undercarriage to guard against explosions.

  The car slowed and turned into valet parking in front of Kingdom Tower. Hassan Bishara exited the vehicle and stepped into the warm Saudi night air. Everything about Hassan’s appearance was average. He bore no distinguishing features. His hair was neither short nor long. He stood dead center of his nation’s average for height. His face was dark with a soft jawline but otherwise unremarkable. To a stranger, Hassan was forgettable and that was exactly what he wanted.

  Hassan paused to look at the impressive glass building.

  At just over 1000 feet, Kingdom Tower was the tallest building in Riyadh. Owned by a Saudi Prince, it was a stark contrast amid the surrounding structures that it dwarfed.

  Six minutes later, Bishara exited a polished brass elevator on the seventy-seventh floor of the tower and entered the world’s highest Mosque. Inside, clusters of men were gathered and talking in low whispers, their obligatory prayers complete for the day.

  Bishara greeted the man at the door and made his way to a private office off to the side of the room. Inside, Hassan accepted an offer for strong Arabic coffee and sat down in front of a great oak desk. The windows behind the desk spanned the floor and ceiling. Bishara could see the ambient glow from the city below them as he eyed his host carefully.

  “So, brother Hassan, what can I do for you?” Shaikh Samara asked, a wide smile creasing his thick brown face. The Shaikh didn’t run the Mosque or lead any spiritual studies. The place of worship was more of a hideout for him than anything else. Samara was the de-facto commander of Hezbollah (a terrorist group operating within the borders of Lebanon). It irritated Hassan that such a brave group of his brothers in arms would be led by a coward who hid from the scrutiny of the World in the palatial peace and solitude of Kingdom Tower.

  “Imam Nazari is requesting that five hundred of your most committed soldiers, as well as your ranking members attend the meeting.” Bishara said returning a phony smile and offering no additional explanation.

  Samara had already been formerly beckoned to Nazari’s summit, now Bishara was there to offer the man a chance to change his original declining of the invitation.

  “Requesting?” The Shaikh repeated loudly. Samara interlaced his fingers in a tight knot below his chin and placed his elbows on the edge of his desk. Anger was rising in his chest. His mind began to scramble for the proper response for Hassan to take back to his master. He had no intention of meeting Nazari’s demand, which was really what it was.

  “Yes.” Hassan replied.

  “That is ridiculous.” Samara said shooting up from his chair. He paced the distance between the ends of his desk for a few minutes, muttering something indiscernible to himself. Eventually, he stopped and plopped his large body back in the chair. He looked at Hassan for a long time rubbing the black scraggily curls that protruded from his chin.

  “I will make this simple Hassan. My answer is no.” The Shaikh said.

  Bishara seemed to contemplate this. “That would not be good.” He said. “This is merely a courtesy and formality.” The smile never vanished from Hassan’s face. “You are expected to comply.”

  Samara spat as he slammed his fleshy fists into the top of his desk.

  “I am not some kid off the streets of Palestine Hassan, you will do good to remember that.”

  “I am the leader of Hezbollah, I have earned that respect. I cannot spare any of my men for Nazari’s cause. That is it”. He said angrily.

  “For now, you are the leader of Hezbollah.” Bishara said almost in a whisper, as if the statement was part of some grand conspiracy; which it almost was.

  Samara interjected with ferocious bite.

  “I am Hezbollah, Hassan. No one is taking that away from me. I don’t care how much the media loves Nazari, my people are loyal to me and my cause, nothing else.” The Shaikh leaned back in his chair and placed his hands over the ends of the arm rests.

  A dour look crossed over his face and he began inspecting the tips of his finger nails, intending to disrespect his guest as he ended his tirade with a quieter more controlled tone.

  “Look Hassan, I am sure that you are just doing what you think is right in coming here and barking Nazari’s orders. But I am in control of Hezbollah. I am a powerful man. Maybe, even more powerful than…”

  Hassan stood and set his small, empty porcelain cup on the edge of Samara’s desk. It was obvious to the younger Arab that the meeting was useless. The Shaikh would be nothing but an obstacle to their cause.

  Samara stopped speaking as his guest turned and headed for the door.

  Hassan placed his left hand on the knob and reached into his jacket pocket. In one deft move he extracted a long black semi-automatic pistol, spun on his heels and fired a quick bat
tery of shots over the desk. A silencer had already been threaded to the weapons barrel and all that could be heard was the faint whisking sound of the subsonic 9mm rounds as they left the weapon and the metallic racking of the well lubricated slide.

  Samara fell backwards in his chair, his shirt revealing twin pools of crimson blood that spread across his chest until they touched each other.

  “You should have listened to me.” Bishara said coldly as he returned to the desk where the Hezbollah commander gurgled out the rest of his life.

  “It’s too bad you could not see what is coming.” Hassan said as he stared into his victims fading eyes.

  “Hezbollah deserves a leader who will not hide from its enemies.”

  Zefat, Israel

  Saleem pointed the tip of his barrel down the opening of the shaft and squeezed the trigger. A shot burst forth from the rifle that terminated with a hard crackling thud as the round slammed into the marble floor of the chamber below.

  “You three, over here,” he shouted at a few of the men who stood by idle. He motioned to the shaft with his rifle. One by one, the men began to sling their Kalashnikovs’ over their shoulder and descend the ladder. The combination of the adrenaline and fear of the unknown made for an awkward climb. The nylon ladder bounced wildly under the weight of the three kidnapper’s erratic steps. Saleem watched as the amateurs scrambled down the deep shaft.

  As the first man reached the bottom, shouts and obscenities carried through the shaft and up to Saleem’s pleased ears. As trained to do the men had begun with intimidation tactics, instilling fear and trembling in the Americans. They screamed orders in broken English and rich accented Arabic. Two minutes later Saleem stood at the bottom of the shaft with them and paused in front of the threshold to the great chamber.