For his part in Israel’s history, Abdel Bishara had trained many of the men who had wreaked havoc and devastation on the Israeli state in the post Yom Kippur War period. Using tactics he had personally developed on the battlefield, Bishara was, for a time, a significant thorn in the side of the Israeli government. Unable to obtain training or funds to procure modern weapons, Bishara had resorted to unconventional warfare. He’d become proficient at homemade pressure plate bombs and various improvised explosive devices. It was believed that the first bus bombing in Israel was Bishara’s own handiwork.
The Imam refused to acknowledge his host. Stein got up and headed for the exit, bored with his snared prey. He stopped at the threshold and turned to Ben.
“Find out how he did this. Whatever it takes.” The General said before he placed a foot on the top step of the staircase and left. The tension in the cabin subsided as the General’s sedan pulled out of the hangar.
Bishara looked at Ben through the throng of camouflaged Mossad agents and their Bullpup assault rifles. Ben knew that what Stein had said was to prime Bishara. Between the time that it took them to get the terrorist from Ben Gurion airport to the dark secluded cell they were going to stuff him in, he would be contemplating what, exactly, “whatever it takes” entailed.
Ben opened the cockpit door wide enough to slip inside. Emily was sitting in the pilot’s seat, her head bowed low with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked up when he closed the door behind himself.
“I’ve been picked to take the trash out.” he said quietly, not wanting the men on the other side of the thin door to hear him.
Emily groaned lightly. “When will this be over?” She said not expecting an answer.
“It is over for you Emily. You can go home,” he said. “I won’t need any help getting Bishara to his cell,” he said, somewhat sorry that he wouldn’t be seeing her again.
Emily nodded. She was relieved that she was going home but she was disappointed that she would be leaving Ben behind. There was no attraction between them, just a friendship born out of traumatic circumstances.
“Okay,” she said, her voice fragile and soft.
Ben led her out of the aircraft and into a waiting car that would escort her to a debriefing room. She would spend the day discussing Azraq Jiden Island, giving the Israelis the details of every event that had occurred over the three-day period. It would be a grueling process.
Ben returned to the Gulfstream and secured the Imam. He nudged his way through the Mossad agents and stepped onto the spotless concrete floor of the hangar, Bishara stumbling alongside him.
There was a black vehicle with dark tinted windows next to the airplane. Ben forced Bishara against the side of the car and spread his hands on the warm metal. He frisked him vigorously, keenly aware of the Imam’s desperation. He grabbed him firmly everywhere. It was a search so thorough, it would have put the agent in front of a grand jury in the United States. But Bishara wasn’t in the U.S. and Ben wasn’t taking any chances. Once he determined that the man was clean, he opened the rear door and shoved him inside.
Three hours later, the sedan rolled through the dilapidated fence of a sixty acre farm, north of Nazaret. An aging barn stood in the center of the facility next to a group of smaller buildings, its tin roof brown with oxidization. By design, the place appeared to be abandoned. In truth, the hapless collage of wild foliage and decaying buildings was a ruse; masking a sprawling subterranean prison complex below its surface.
As the car approached, the barn’s double doors parted and folded out on their hinges. Two men stood just beyond the entrance to the building, their automatic weapons hanging loosely from their hands but always at the ready.
“That’s far enough. You can wait here. Don’t get out of the vehicle and don’t try to make conversation with the guards.” Ben said to the low level agent. Ben reached into the glove box and extracted a Maglite. The driver nodded nervously, keeping his eyes trained on a pile of hay bales in front of his bumper.
Ben exited the vehicle and opened the passenger’s side back door. He grabbed Bishara by the material on his shoulder and pulled him from the auto. The guards paid no attention; in their business, the least they knew the better.
Bishara looked around the dusty barn. He was mystified, unable to see why he had been brought to the place. Ben slammed the door behind them and walked past the driver toward a set of stables on the other side of the stacked hay.
“I’m curious Abdel. How did you know I was Mossad?” Ben asked as he pulled on a loose board in the back of one of the barns stalls. The board came free in his hand and he set it on the ground next to a rusty bucket. The space where the board had been was dark. Ben turned the flashlight on and shined it into the hole. A steel framed box with black rubber buttons appeared. Ben reached in and punched a combination into the keypad.
Suddenly, the floor vibrated gently and then whooshed down three floors. The barn rose above them as they rushed into the subterranean space of the prison. The ride was bad if you were expecting it but if you weren’t, it was downright terror. It was a simple mechanism deployed to gain an edge over the people who were entering the facility. The place was all about control.
The Mossad brought people to the farm when they didn’t want the World to know about it. People like Abdel Bishara.
The elevator abruptly jerked to a stop on the ground floor. Bishara stumbled out onto waxed concrete and fell face forward. Ben stepped over his robed body and greeted one of the many men that stood silently in the hallway. The man vigorously shook Ben’s hand and motioned to the Arab on the floor.
“It’s him,” Ben said simply.
The man waved several of the men over to recover Bishara. The
Syrian tried not to look at the faces around him as they lifted him from the floor.
He was in the den of the enemy. Bishara’s legs grew weak. His vision faded into a white blur and his lungs labored hard. His heart squeezed once behind his ribcage and seized.
One of the men recognized the heart attack immediately. The guard sprinted to a room at the end of the hallway and returned carrying a defibrillator. The man laid Bishara down on the ground and ripped open the layers of his robe around his chest. He placed the electrode probes on either side of his sternum and turned the machine on. After several seconds, a bolt of electricity shot through Bishara’s heart, reviving him immediately.
Ben looked down at the Imam. It seemed odd that they would be striving to save his life. Ultimately, they needed Bishara to live long enough to give up any intelligence that he had.
Bishara was allowed to lie there momentarily while he recovered from the mild cardiac arrest. As soon as it was evident that he was not going to die, they stood him up and walked him down the hallway to a waiting cell.
Ben thanked the shift commander and returned the way he had come. He got back in the sedan and left the obscurity of the farm behind. He sat back and played the events of the last few days back in his mind. Ben suspected that the damage Bishara had caused would be felt for years; he had no idea how right he was.
Epilogue
Washington D.C.
Brad Ward sat in Edmond Bailey’s office, his eyes red and tired despite days of rest. The Navy blue suit he wore hid the extensive bandaging that covered the gunshot wounds to his arm.
He was having trouble sleeping, despite a heavy regiment of pain killers and T.V. binge watching. The picture of Matt’s body was still fresh in his mind. He was tormented over losing him.
The National Security Advisor placed the phone back in its cradle on the desk. He was dealing with a pending explosion of the Middle East and a Nation that lived with the fear of World War III.
“Sorry about that.” Bailey said.
“Using the Israeli Air Force to extract the students has caused an international incident, as you know. Imam Nazari, whom we now know is actually Abdel Bishara, has disappeared. His plane’s beacon was last recorded somewhere over the Mediterranean and
the Saudis are about to send our economy down the toilet.”
“Anyway, I called you here because I want you to testify before Congress next week. I have a team of people working around the clock to tie a link between the terrorists and Bishara.” He said explaining why he had asked Brad to be there.
“Why can’t we just let the Israelis clean this mess up, it’s in their own backyard.”
“It’s really not that simple Brad. Believe me, I wish it was.” the National Security Advisor said, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s just gotten infinitely more complicated.” He said.
“The Saudis are no friend of the Israelis but they have always been the last vestige to hold the giant garbled mess of the Middle East together. Now, the Saudi Royal Family has made it clear that things have changed.” Bailey said.
“Politics is not my specialty. But I thought our relationship with the Royal family was strong.” Brad said.
Edmond shifted in his seat, discomfort clear on his face.
“Another country has sworn their allegiance and pledged their military. Along with an unprecedented oil deal that would crush our relationship with the Saudi family forever.” Bailey said, focusing in on his guest’s response.
“If the Saudis can get rid of American influence, they can show solidarity with the more conservative Islamic movement in their country. With that, they win the heart of the people. Until now, that was only a pipe dream on their part. But if they can do that while making billions more in oil revenue then it’s a huge win for them to turn their backs on us.” The Advisor said solemnly.
“The U.S. Ambassador phoned the President this morning and confirmed. It should make the headlines before the day is out.” Bailey said.
Brad’s face was wrinkled with the news. For the first time in his life, it seemed that the stage was set for the United States to fall from glory.
“Who are we talking about here?” Brad asked.
The National Security Advisor lowered his head, defeat plaguing his voice as he spoke.
“China.”
The End
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 26
