“We have our sources.” Brad said.
“The news producer. We talked to the news producer. You will have to excuse my friend Efran, he’s a little high strung over this whole thing.” Kingsley said while shooting a disapproving eye to his partner.
Brad didn’t acknowledge Tom’s statement. He was focused on the site of the shaft entrance.
“Have you guys already analyzed these burn marks?” Kingsley asked.
“Yes, we got the lab results back this morning. It is a high concentration of Cyclo…something, uh, Cyclotri…I don’t know and Trinitrotoluene.” He said holding up the report from the laboratory.
“Composition B.” Kingsley said.
Composition B was the name of the primary compound that a hand fragmentation grenade consisted of.
“Yes, that’s what we came up with.”
The ‘we’ that Efran mentioned was the Mossad. The Israelis were notorious for many things. Black bag operations, unsanctioned assassinations, ruthless vigilance and even torture. The Mossad did not place limits on what they were willing to do to get the information they wanted. This is what drove Osama Bin Laden into spending the last ten years of his life as a shut-in. This is also what made Shaikh Samara pretend to be someone other than who he was. Many of the world’s leading criminals and terrorist masterminds lived in the shadows because of one word. Mossad.
Brad regarded the blackened clumps of loose rock around the area that had been the entrance to the library. Again he imagined what it must have been like to fall into the hands of the captors.
“What about the video tape?” He asked. “The man who speaks at the end of it. Do you know who he is?”
“We think his name is Saleem Nejem.” Efran said as he directed them to one of two plain sedans parked nearby. On the passenger seat was a thin silver laptop. He picked it up and placed it on the roof of the car in front of his guests and flipped it open. On the screen was a frozen image of the man they now knew as, Saleem Nejem. The photograph of the terrorist had been taken years ago. He was standing in between an older lady on his left and an Arab man to his right.
Efran pointed to the lady first.
“This is Saleem’s mother. She currently lives in the West Bank, with his two sisters. This man here, is his brother. He either goes by Mathieu or Raza. The first is a French name given to him by his uncle. Raza is his birth name. Their father is dead.”
Brad leaned in and snapped a photograph of the picture with a slim black cell phone.
“And the Uncle? Does anybody know his whereabouts?” Kingsley asked looking to Efran.
“Yes, he rents a small house in Cabannes, France. He lives alone.” Efran said. The long black waves of his hair blew in the breeze that rolled off of the mountains around them. Efran was shorter than his two American guests but no more than the average Israeli.
“Have these guys ever been involved in anything like this?” Brad asked as he nodded to the faces on the computer screen.
“Sort of. Raza was detained two years ago for an attempt to blow up a Eurostar passenger train in the tunnel that links France with England, below the English Channel.”
“Detained?” Brad frowned. “Why was he released? And why didn’t he succeed at destroying the train?”
“Amateur explosive device. French authorities released him as part of a prisoner exchange.” Efran said, with his eyes firmly glued to the ground.
“Prisoner exchange? Who did they get in return for the exchange?” Kingsley asked, before Brad could.
“I can’t say. It’s classified.” He stated.
“Classified! This guy’s brother took seventeen American hostages and two of your own, and it’s classified!” Brad shouted.
Kingsley stepped between the two men, though Brad never moved toward the Israeli.
“What about the mother? Has anyone questioned her?” He asked.
Efran shook his head. “It’s tricky. We can’t just go into the West Bank and start interrogating Palestinian citizens. It rarely yields any fruit anyway.” The Israeli said. He closed the laptop and set it back down on the passenger seat.
“So, what’s his mother’s address?” he asked.
“We can take you there ourselves.” Efran said as he slammed the car door. “I need to ask her a few questions myself.”
“I thought you just said that you can’t just go into the West Bank and interrogate Palestinian citizens.” Kingsley said.
Efran smiled but didn’t verbally respond.
10
Ramallah, the West Bank,
Palestine
Tom wrapped his knuckles hard on the front door. The place was typical for a Palestinian home; one story stone building surrounded by sand and dirt. After a few minutes he knocked on the window. Brad saw a curtain move and then the peephole darken. Someone was quietly observing them from the other side.
Without warning, Brad launched his foot into the center of the door and pulled a stun grenade out of his cargo pocket. As the door broke free of its hinges he yanked the cotter pin out of the grenade and lobbed it through the new opening. Brad grabbed Kingsley’s shirt and balled the fabric up in his fists. He threw his body weight to the side of the door, pulling Tom with him just as the grenade detonated.
A bright light preceded a muffled pop as the device exploded inside the house. The only sound then, was that of the body that had been behind the front door, as it hit the floor. Brad whipped out one of the nine millimeter Beretta’s that Colonel Schaffer had loaned them and burst through the empty opening.
Ever the soldier, Kingsley pulled out his weapon and came in just after Brad. Immediately they noticed two girls. One was on the couch, dizzy from the grenade, while the other was laying half under the door; the grip of an AK-47 still clutched in her right hand.
Brad reached down and grabbed the rifle. He slung it over his shoulder and proceeded to search the residence with the pistol out in front. The house was silent. The pungent smell of Aluminum and Magnesium mixed with the pyrotechnics from the grenade and filled the room.
They moved through the house with knifelike precision.
“Window to my front, clear.” Brad yelled out.
“Door to my right, window to my right, clear.” Kingsley countered
This continued as they scoured the entire house. So far, Saleem’s mother was unaccounted for.
At the end of a short hallway they came to the master bedroom. Brad could see movement beneath the box spring and mattress. He pulled the pin on another flash-bang and tossed it through the doorway. The grenade detonated with an obnoxious bright flash and a loud percussive clap. The two men bounded through the doorway and converged on the mattress.
Flash-bangs utilized photo and noise sensory technology to disorient the enemy. The grenades combat effectiveness was limited on the battlefield, as the victim would typically be incapacitated for less than a minute but it was ideal for close quarters.
Grabbing one end of the mattress, Brad flipped it vertically and shoved it over. Kingsley did the same with the box spring. Underneath it all was Ms. Nejem. She had aged since the photograph but it was her.
Kingsley reached down and grabbed her by the blouse before Brad could. At the moment, he didn’t trust his friend’s judgment. Bulldozing through the front door hadn’t been part of the plan. In truth, they hadn’t had a plan. He had assumed they were just going to question Saleem’s family. Once Brad had kicked in the door, he’d had little choice but to back him up. He now realized that he’d overestimated Brad’s stability.
The woman wasn’t as disoriented by the grenade as her daughters had been, though it landed much closer to her than it did them. Kingsley made a mental note. It gave him some insight as to her nerves; she was tough.
Kingsley stood the old woman up and secured her hands behind her back with a long piece of thin nylon rope. She didn’t resist at all. She didn’t utter a sound. “Yeah, she’s tough.” Kingsley thought to himself.
“Where’s Levy?”
He asked Brad.
“Who cares? Let’s get her in the living room.” He said.
“I do Brad. We’re on an unsanctioned mission and we potentially just created an International incident.” Kingsley shouted in response to Brad’s indifference.
Ward ignored his friend and snatched Ms. Nejem by her elbow. He yanked her away from Kingsley and forced her through the door and down the hallway to the living-room. She complied with an expressionless face. It was as if she had expected them.
Uzbekistan
Hassan Bishara watched as his men loaded dozens of fifty gallon drums into several diesel trucks. It was hard to believe Ansar al-Islam had stored such a volatile material in simple plastic barrels. But then again, they probably hadn’t had much time when it came to hiding the contraband from U.N. Inspectors, eight years earlier. He wondered if the agent inside of the cans was still good.
“Hurry up.” He yelled from inside the cab of another vehicle. Bishara was pressed for time. The little excursion to Uzbekistan had not originally been on his schedule.
He wondered how Saddam had gotten the material out of the country and into Uzbekistan. There was no way he had transported the agent though Iran, which would have been the quickest route. He figured he must have skirted the North Western tip of Iran and traveled through the Caspian Sea (exactly what he planned to do). He imagined the route they had taken, how they must have moved everything under the sun to get the volatile substance to its final destination. All because his Arab brothers couldn’t get along. They sometimes fought each other more than they did the West. He failed to understand how various sects within Islam were so apt to fight one another, when they had a common enemy that threatened the very existence of their beliefs. The product of unlearned men he supposed.
The great plan would change the face of Jihad forever. The days of infighting would soon vanish; replaced by a resolute coalition of brothers, willing to fight infidels at every turn. He even envisioned the day when there were no ‘infidels’ left to fight.
Bishara stared through a hazy, dust-covered windshield as the last of the blue plastic barrels was carted over to the truck and placed on its lift platform. The container was finally shoved into the back of the two and a half ton truck and the rear door secured.
Hassan’s cell phone chirped.
“Yes. Okay,” He said respectfully into the phone and then hung up.
Bishara slammed his fist down on the dashboard. The driver recoiled.
Hassan hated answering to others. They never had eyes on the ground. He saw their detachment- from the fight- as preventing them from seeing every important angle.
“Go around to the truck in the front.” He barked to the driver. The man started up the giant diesel truck and eased it forward.
“And hurry.” He added. He was not used to taking orders from just anyone. But he did have to stick to the plan, and the caller was an integral part of it.
They pulled over in front of the lead vehicle. Bishara jumped down from the truck’s running board and climbed onto the other truck. The driver of that vehicle leaned back into his hot vinyl chair so that Bishara could talk to the passenger.
“I need you to take charge of this operation. There is something that I need to do before Azraq Jiden. Do you know what needs to be done?” Bishara asked. He was unsure of leaving anyone in charge, especially with a task of this magnitude. He preferred to do everything himself. It allowed him to sleep soundly, knowing that there were no holes or loose ends. It was also the only way he could be sure that things would be done to his standards.
Bishara knew the man he was leaving in charge was loyal, it was his competency that he questioned.
“I want you to know that if even an ounce of this shipment is lost or missing, I am holding you responsible.” He said with a piercing stare.
“Stick to the back roads. Do not go through any city on the way. I will make sure you get through every checkpoint and border crossing.” He moved in closer so that his shoulder and head were inside the cab. The driver pressed himself deeper into the seat. He feared Bishara, as did most of his associates.
“Above all, do not go into Iran. There are several points along your route where it will be the expedient thing to do. Don’t. I can guarantee you, if you venture into Iran, this shipment will be seized. I have no contacts in the Iranian government.”
He pulled an unlit cigarette from the driver’s mouth and jumped down.
“Make sure this goes right.” He said pointing the cigarette at the driver. He lit it and walked to a small Toyota truck.
Of course he was lying. He had one of the most important contacts that one could have in Iran but he didn’t trust the man in the passenger seat with that kind of information. Not to mention, Bishara’s relationship with Minister Al-Ajlani was delicate. Al-Ajlani could not publicly support what Bishara was doing unless the plan fully succeeded, then it wouldn’t matter what their political partnership was.
Azraq Jiden Island
Imam Nazari sat in a large, luxurious conference room. Pink marble floors butted up to antique trim work that started with tall stained plinth blocks and ended with walnut crown molding. He had personally picked the location for his next press release; his fourth in seven days.
“Imam Nazari, has the state of Israel attempted to make contact with you?” The interviewer asked. It was one of his own men and the questions he was to ask had been written by Nazari. There would be no surprises.
“They have not.” He answered. The tone of his reply was solemn, with measured sadness.
“Why do you think that is?”
“I can only speculate. My hope is that I am wrong but perhaps they do not actually want peace. Or, maybe just not peace with Palestinians. I don’t really know exactly?” He said.
“And what options do you have open to you, should they continue with this silence?” The man asked.
Nazari pretended to labor over the question.
“At a certain point there is nothing left for me to do. I can’t even continue to hold my people, Hamas, at bay. They will not wait any longer. It has been months since I first declared the ceasefire. One of the things that I promised my people to get them to lay their weapons aside, was that Israel wanted peace and that they would certainly come to the table and work out a deal with us. The longer those same people see nothing happen…well they are not stupid. They will not keep their guns silent forever.” Nazari looked as if he was about to shed a tear; part of the act.
The cleric knew he had the International community eating out of his hand. They wanted so badly to believe that the Palestinian and Arab conflict with Israel had a foreseeable and peaceable end that they were ready to believe anything. It was easy really.
Yasser Arafat had already laid much of the ground work that Nazari levied in the press. Once the American President, Bill Clinton, made sure that Arafat received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1997, the World refused to look at the former leader of the Palestinian Liberation Order with an objective eye. Some of his proponents even acknowledged his terror tactics, (bus bombings, beheadings, kidnappings and suicide missions), but dismissed their vulgarity as being the leader’s only option of receiving the level of attention that was necessary to perpetuate change.
Nazari knew it was garbage; just rhetoric the world employed to avoid confrontation with their own conscious. It was not rational to view the charred remains of a city bus on the six o’clock news and think, ‘these people must want peace’. He used the naiveté to his advantage. Like a seasoned politician, Nazari followed in the footsteps of his famed predecessor, while managing to stand on his own personality.
The cameraman zoomed in with an extreme close up to ensure that he captured the display of emotion in the Hamas leader, Nazari’s forlorn face took up the breadth of the camera lens.
“Of course, I had hoped that the Israeli Prime Minister would contact me. Since that didn’t happen, I can only assume that the worse will occur. I have exerted every ounce of auth
ority with Hamas and the Palestinian people to maintain this ceasefire. I cannot be expected to do more.”
Nazari looked at the ground, there was an awkward moment of silence as neither the interviewer nor the cleric spoke.
“That is why I am lifting the ceasefire, effective immediately.”
11
Quneitra, Syria
Tracy Peters blinked. A shower of tears soaked her cheeks as she began sobbing in a loud raspy rattle. There was no shot; no hot chunk of lead had entered her body. The gun had jammed. Her would be assassin stared in disbelief at the end of his rifle.
The door flew open and Saleem entered shouting in Arabic. His men moved quickly behind him carrying Matt and the professor on their shoulders. The men shuffled over to a corner of the room and dropped the two Americans onto a group of students. Some of the hostages gasped when they saw Matt and the professor. They looked like they’d been hit by a train. Their faces were swollen and checkered with gashes and deep bruising.
Rhinefeld fought the urge to wince as he landed roughly on the students. He still felt the need to fill the role of the strong father figure. He knew they needed it. But his body hurt like never before.
“It’s not as bad as it looks Jason.” Rhinefeld said to a gawking student.
Jason Parrens had joined Rhinefeld’s class from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky. He was studying theology in the hopes of attaining a Pastorate in the mission field. He couldn’t resist the lure to study in the ‘Promised Land’, though he had never had an interest in archaeology itself.
Once the men each unloaded their hundred and eighty pound burdens, they scurried out of the room before their leader could evaluate them.
Saleem looked at the man he had left in charge. The Arab had the business end of his AK-47 trained on one of the females. Saleem casually walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He whispered something which none of them could hear and the man slowly lowered his rifle. Tracy exhaled but was still unable to control the river of salty tears that flowed down her face. Saleem looked at her. She was clearly distraught and confused.
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 8
