“All men talk of ‘new worlds’ when they are on the bottom. What have we to do with Nazari’s struggle?” The Ayatollah asked.
Hassan Bishara squirmed in his seat. No matter what the Ayatollah said, good or bad, Bishara would not be refuting anything in this meeting. The Supreme Leader of Iran was untouchable. Bishara was actually surprised that he had been allowed to attend in the first place. Al-Ajlani had pulled a few strings and got the Ayatollah’s main handler to okay the outsider.
“I cannot see involving my people or our military in this. Not as aggressors.” The Ayatollah said, pursing his lips together.
Anwar knew the politics of the room well. Once it was evident that the Ayatollah was done speaking, the counsel was expected to deliberate on the issue. The next person to speak would be the Minister of the Interior, then the Minister of the Treasury, followed by the rest of the counsel according to the favor they each held with the leader. Things had been happening in that order for thirty years. If, as often was the case, they didn’t have an opinion, they would simply give the one that they believed would best lineup with the Ayatollah’s but made to sound like their own. Meetings with the Ayatollah and his counsel always ran very long.
Bishara struggled to stay awake through the rest of it, which was another three hours. At the end, Ayatollah Al-Balawi called for his Minister of Defense and guest and dismissed the rest of the counsel. Bishara stood and headed for the front of the room, passing angry disapproving faces as they shuffled out.
“I will help Nazari.” Al-Balawi said from behind a trendy pair of wire rim glasses.
“But I cannot do so until after he institutes his full plan, which I do not know.” He said, waiting for Bishara to fill in the gaps.
When Bishara finished, the Ayatollah was silent for a long time. As with all the predecessors before him, the Supreme Leader had a flowing white beard which he currently busied his free hand with. His other hand held on to the arm of his illustrious leather chair. He used the arm to steady his nerves, Al-Balawi was in the beginning stages of Parkinson’s disease.
“How long will it take to have our forces in Quneitra, assuming this works?” He asked, turning to his Minister of Defense.
Al-Ajlani took time to look as if he was pondering the thought, even though he had known the answer before being asked.
“Twelve to fourteen hours.” He answered.
Washington D.C.
Edmond Bailey climbed the steps to the second floor of his quaint suburban home. The dark, hand scraped wooden treads clacked as he hit them with the heel of his shoe. The shotgun style security envelope in his left hand was thick, probably an inch. His wife Candice was holding his right.
“I just need to look a few things over sweetie.” He said as they reached the first of two landings. She kissed him on the cheek and finished the trek up the stairs to their bedroom.
“Don’t be too long, I haven’t seen you in years.” She teased.
Edmond mumbled out the usual response. His thoughts were lost on a picture that rested on a shelf halfway up the stairwell wall.
The picture was from fifteen years earlier. The National Security Advisor had just been appointed deputy director of The Central Intelligence Agency. That was when his life really got complicated. He had been in the intelligence sector for all of his adult life. He had known what pressure was about. But it wasn’t until the Deputy seat that the gears of the grind really began to crush from all sides. Of course, that had been nothing next to being sixth in line to the highest position in the free World. It was odd but he definitely looked back on the pressure of that time as ‘the Good Old Days.’
Edmond made a left at the top of the stairs and stepped into his private study. He threw the envelope onto the desk and opened a mini-fridge on the floor behind him. He pulled an ice cold Dr. Pepper out, set it on a wooden coaster and sat down behind an antique desk that he’d purchased years earlier in Williamsburg, Virginia. Propping his ankle on top of his leg, he rolled his chair forward and reached for the envelope.
He pulled the contents out and laid them before him. On the top of the paperwork were three photographs. They all had been taken from a long distance. He recognized the people in the first two grainy photos. They were Shaikh Samara, of Hezbollah fame and Tariq El-Hashem of the ‘Ansar Al-Islam’ terrorist group. Behind these two photographs were the detailed reports of their history; who they were, where they had been and what they had done. Bailey was already familiar with Shaikh Samara but he had just learned of the low level El-Hashem in his morning briefing from the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. If it hadn’t been for the similar way in which the two men were killed, El-Hashem’s death would probably never have been on anyone’s radar.
Bailey picked up the soda can and took a long swig. The carbonated liquid tickled the back of his throat, bringing a tear to his eye. He placed it back on the coaster and flipped the photos face down next to the empty envelope. On the third photograph the name ‘Hassan Bishara’ had been written in black Sharpie below a face that the National Security Advisor did not recognize.
Edmond set the photo to the side and began to read the report. Bishara’s file was a veritable resume of terror. He was suspected of either sponsoring or being directly involved in six acts of terrorism and two assassinations. He had been condemned by both Malaysia and the Republic of Burundi and was wanted for questioning in a number of other countries. Bishara’s passport had been issued to him in Syria. He had used it extensively in the last five days hence the renewed interest. He was sticking to countries that had no extradition treaties with Malaysia, Burundi or any Western nation.
Edmond looked at the face again. He tried to peer into the eyes and see something human about the man, something that would make him see why Bishara and men like him, fell into such depraved thinking. He saw nothing. No care, no hate, no distinguishing mark.
He flipped the file over and looked at the last piece of paper in the stack. It was a wire service intercept from the United Nations ambassador to a Syrian official. He was taking the time to inform the Syrian Government that two of his peace keeping patrols had recently gone missing. The first was on routine mission in a town called Quneitra, when it went off the grid. The group leader of that patrol failed to report back to headquarters. After three hours, the local commander had sent an additional convoy to scout out the city; they too had not returned and could not be raised on the radio. Aerial recognizance had turned up nothing.
This was not something that Edmond felt was of a national security concern, but he’d specifically requested he be kept abreast of anything that came up in the general region of the kidnapping and someone at the Pentagon deemed that this news fit that criteria. Bailey put the paper down but stared at the sheet awhile longer. The name Quneitra jogged a vague and distant memory.
The National Security Advisor pivoted in his chair and queued up the monitor on his desktop computer. It took a few seconds for the system to boot up. He took the time to empty the can of Dr. Pepper and throw it into the waste basket at his feet.
Edmond typed in his password and waited. He went to the CIA website and logged in. From home, Edmond had limited access to the archived files of the Agency; but anything that had been released under the Freedom of Information Act, he could view. He entered ‘Bishara’ in the search bar. The search came back with seventy-two related articles. He clicked on the first several but they weren’t what he wanted. He hit pay dirt with the fourth article. It was a letter dating back to 1974, to the then U.S. Ambassador to Saudi Arabia from the Saudi King. In it, the King briefly detailed his concern for an individual who had, so far, eluded his capture. The letter went on to describe the gruesome nature of terror tactics that this man had employed against civilians in an effort to derail Saudi Arabia’s alliance with the United States. The King was requesting that the Israeli government be persuaded to take advantage of its current war with Syria to flush the man out of his home town of Quneitra. They even went so f
ar as to suggest that certain concessions would be made to ensure that the U.S. was compensated for exerting their influence with Israel. The man’s name was Abdel Bishara.
Edmond breezed through a few more articles but left it alone after his interest started to wane. Hassan Bishara was far too young to be the same man.
Bailey thought back to his talk with Brad Ward. It had been two days since the National Security Advisor had broken the news of his captured brother. He had thought that he could give him the resources necessary to extract the hostages but President Vanderbilt was adamant about not incurring an international incident through any military action. Bailey had been tossing ideas back and forth in his mind on how to help. So far, he had imagined no method of sending agent Ward after his brother without someone in the presidential administration finding out.
He resigned to think later on it and picked up the phone on the end of his desk. He dialed the number to retrieve messages from his personal voicemail account. Several of them were from Candace, it was her way of dropping a reminder of things that she needed him to do, family functions, the kids ball games, etc.,. One of the messages was from his mother, who didn’t understand why he needed to be absent from her life so much. On the last message the National Security Advisor’s jaw dropped open. It was Brad Ward. He was calling from the air en route to Bahrain, where he would further travel to Israel. He was going to begin his search for his brother at the scene of the abduction. He stated the purpose for his call was that he might need assistance from high up and that he thought the National Security Advisor had genuinely wanted to help when he’d given him his card.
Edmond listened to the details of the message and then erased it. He sat back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. He wondered how Brad had known that Bailey could be trusted. Going off the grid was a serious thing. It could easily get him fired. If someone got hurt while he launched a rescue operation that wasn’t officially sanctioned by someone in the administration, he could even go to prison.
Edmond was relieved and nervous at the same time. It gave him comfort knowing that a clandestine operative was working on a search and extraction mission for the hostages but he also knew that things could go horribly wrong and the odds of him actually finding them were too small to calculate.
Bailey decided in less than a minute that he would help. Even if he got caught using government resources to violate a Presidential directive, he would do it. As long as it brought the students home, he was willing to put it all on the line.
Ramallah, the West Bank,
Palestine
Brad steered the Mazda down a one way street. The automobile’s small engine spooled up to a high pitched whine but didn’t move the car much faster. He could feel the transmission slipping as he went through the gears. Efran and Kingsley both stared out of their windows as they watched the Palestinian residents empty out of their modest homes and merge toward the border.
The one way led to a dead end. Brad slammed on the brakes in the center of the road and pulled up on the emergency brake. He jerked the wheel hard to the left and pushed the gas pedal to its stop. The end of the hatchback fishtailed in place, its tires screeching and smoking as they were drug sideways across the asphalt.
They surged back down the street where they came to another alleyway. The DIA agent jerked the wheel again. The car sailed up onto a driveway and over the front lawn of a private residence. He aimed the vehicle into the alley and brought it to a halt a few feet beyond the road. He yanked the keys out of the ignition and threw them to Kingsley.
“Your turn.”
Brad got out from behind the steering wheel and opened the passenger door. Durrah didn’t have time to think about what was happening as he reached in and grabbed her.
“Brad.” Kingsley said.
Efran got out of the vehicle but he didn’t protest. He took the keys from Kingsley and got in behind the wheel. Kingsley turned around in his seat and looked back at Brad who was crouching down outside of the car. He fiddled with his thigh holster underneath his robe as he spoke.
“Look Tom, I appreciate all that you’ve done. Believe me, I don’t want you to think of me as being ungrateful. But I have to do this. I’m the only chance my brother and those students have at making it through this. We both know what the kind of men who took them are capable of. This woman right here is the only tangible lead that I have right now.” He looked at the back of Efran’s head.
“The Israelis are going to detain you, but they have other things to worry about right now. You’ll be out by tomorrow.” He said motioning over his shoulder in the general direction of the chaos beyond the alley.
“But even a day of loss time for me might as well be forever. Thanks for all the help.”
Brad stood and looked both ways down the alley. He decided to head further down it as Efran backed out onto the street. The Israeli man paused for a second to watch as the American agent disappeared beyond a curve in the alley.
Brad walked fast with Durrah in tow. He held onto her arm tightly and spoke to her in Arabic.
“This doesn’t have to continue. I can leave you right here if you tell me where your son is.” He said, making sure that his grip on the woman’s arm was firm enough to convey the appropriate level of seriousness. She spoke for the first time.
“I do not know where my son is. If I did, I would tell you because when you find him, he will kill you.”
Brad chuckled, he didn’t care what Durrah said in way of insult or tough talk, as long as the ice was broken and she began to say what she knew.
Deeper into the alley, they came across a group of young men. Two of the men were huddled over a five gallon bucket while the other two stood close by, their faces squinting as if the bucket was liable to explode at any minute. As Brad and Durrah neared the men, the two standing closed ranks over the men administering to the contents of the bucket. Brad moved further over in the alley until he and Durrah were brushing up against the cinderblock wall. He made no eye contact as he walked by, but he could see enough out of his peripheral vision to know that they were suspicious of him. As soon as he passed by, one of them called out in Arabic.
“What are you doing here?”
The other man that stood next to the one who spoke uncrossed his arms and took a step toward Brad. Brad kept on walking and mumbled the word ‘nothing’. He mimicked the accent with precision.
Apparently unsatisfied with his answer, one of the men followed after the two. It was absurd that they would believe Brad and Durrah to be Israeli. They just wanted a little sport.
Brad turned away from the man and continued down the alley.
“If you tell me where he is, I will let you go. You can go home to your two daughters. If you don’t, you’re coming with me out of Palestine.” He whispered to Durrah.
“I told you, I don’t know where my son is.” She stated.
“Hey, come here.” The man called after them.
Brad just kept walking, though he readied himself to respond in case the man closed the gap between them.
The Palestinian lost interest after a few feet and returned to his friends with the bucket. ‘Probably a homemade bomb’ Brad thought to himself. Gaza was like the Wild West. People had little respect or value for human life, even their own.
The alley opened up to the other side of the neighborhood and Brad pulled Durrah down one end and headed north. He wasn’t going to enter Israel in the South. That was where all the commotion was. He figured by the time he got to the Northern border, the Southern would be so fired up, that the Israelis would have the bulk of their presence stationed there, which he hoped, would leave him with limited troops in the North. He needed to make that call to Edmond Bailey.
14
Azraq Jiden Island
Ben Schweitzer stood still in the dim light of an underground auditorium. The room had been built long before the island’s mansion, in 1942. Originally meant to serve as a fallout shelter during the War, it
had been converted to include a stage and enough seats to accommodate three thousand guests. Because the facility was underground, the ambient temperature never got above seventy-five degrees.
The undercover Mossad agent’s eyes panned out over a sea of Arab men. Ben recognized several of the faces. Literally, dozens of the men in the audience were famous in the halls of Israel’s ultra-secretive Mossad. He spotted terrorists from across the Middle East, spanning dozens of organized groups.
Ben was standing next to the other reporters who had been brought to the island from the press conference in Geneva. They had all been placed on a balcony high above and opposite the stage. One lone podium graced the front centermost section of the stage.
Emily Stansborough had lost her perkiness the moment she and the rest of the press had seen the small army below. The mood was tense.
“I don’t like this.” One of the reporters said to no one in particular.
On the floor below, there were two video cameras positioned close to the stage.
The crowds suddenly quieted. Nazari entered the room flanked by several body guards. The cleric walked from the side entrance at the South corner of the stage and ascended the steps. He moved with purpose, a broad smile on his face. He reached the podium and faced the crowd.
“Today, we find our independence.” He said into the microphone in thick guttural Arabic.
Ben watched the cleric closely. Suddenly the pieces began to come together for him, he finally understood why he had been invited. The realization shattered any hopes he harbored of getting information back to Avner.
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 11
