CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Berthold Hartmann sat in a large conference room, deep beneath the Knesset building. He had been summoned to the meeting on short notice by the Prime Minister. There were a dozen people sitting around a highly polished conference table, each examining copies of various classified reports that would be collected and destroyed at the end of the meeting. Pitchers of water and coffee sat on a sideboard, but as of yet, were untouched.
“Tensions are high. Even the diplomats are starting to see that war is inevitable.” Sitting at the head of the table, a silver haired woman peered over the top of her reading glasses at the cabinet ministers seated to her left and right.
“Prime Minister Meir, the war is coming. We should send our troops out and attack. Show the Egyptians and Syrians that they cannot intimidate us!” The man seated immediately to her left responded.
“They would be fools to attack. We would easily win, just as we did in the Six Day War,” Moshe Dayan, the Minister of Defense, interrupted from further down the table.
Golda Meir, known to her people and the world as the ‘Iron Lady’ calmly listened to the men. She looked like any other sedate grandmother, content to spoil her grandchildren and enjoy the twilight of her life. She was anything but. Born in the Ukraine, her family immigrated to the United States where she excelled in school and at an early age became involved in Zionist politics, married and relocated to Palestine. All of her life had been devoted to the development and protection of the Jewish state. In 1946 she had returned to the United States to raise the money necessary to fund the new Israeli treasury. Others had tried to raise the money, but she was successful. The funding had been vital for the new country. Without a viable currency and money to run the state, Israel lacked the credibility to take its place among the established nations of the world.
“At this point, I agree with Minister Dayan, although we must be prepared in the event there is an attack. It was made very clear to me by Dr. Kissinger that if we launch any kind of pre-emptive strike, we won't get so much as a nail from the Americans.”
“He said that?” Dayan said.
“Yes, he did. The Americans want to help us, but on their terms,” Meir said.
“Well, as I said, I don't believe the Arabs will attack again after their crushing defeat. We'll have adequate warning, regardless,” Dayan continued.
At the far end of the table, Berthold Hartmann sat and listened. He liked Prime Minister Meir, and often counseled her privately. Dayan, he thought, was misreading the scope of the danger facing Israel, but admired the man for his military achievements. Dayan had survived many battles in the defense of Israel, sacrificing his left eye in a battle in Lebanon.
“What do you think, Berthold?” Meir asked, directing her attention to the far end of the table where he sat.
All eyes turned towards Hartmann. Their faces were expressionless but their eyes held respect. His exploits in the Second World War and in the struggle for a free Israel were legendary. Coupled with the respect was a hint of fear. Even at eighty, his steel grey eyes expressed his nature; he had abandoned his soul many years before taking revenge for the slaughter of the Jews. No one knew the whole truth, but it was whispered that his terrorist activities in Nazi Germany were relentless. He sought terrible revenge for the loss of his wife and daughters. He had no fear of death. He'd seen it and caused it too many times to be afraid.
“I believe we should be patient and wait,” Hartmann said. “There will be an attack and we must be prepared for it. It’ll come on two fronts as the Syrians and the Egyptians try to pull us apart. History teaches us the danger of dividing your resources of men and materials between two opposing forces. The hope that there will be no attack, given the Arab’s experience during the Six Day War, isn’t reasonable. This is a new day and a new situation. The Americans and the Russians are keeping a close eye on what is happening, and are always mindful of any opportunities a conflict may present. That brings me to another unfortunate circumstance. The American NSA agent who was training with my organization was captured during the bombing in the market, where we also lost one of our best agents.”
“What is it you want to do, Berthold?” Meir said.
“I would like to send agents to retrieve him.”
“Won’t the Americans do that?” Meir said.
“No. They will not acknowledge that they have any agents operating in this country, training or otherwise,” Hartmann said.
“Nor will the Russians,” Dayan added. “They pretend to smile at each other while eyeing the oil reserves of the Middle East. I’m confident that Russia has influence with the PLO; certainly they are aware of the captured agent.”
“They will not provoke a conflict by moving him out of the country. They will play the same game we will. Watch and wait,” Hartmann said.
“I don’t have to remind you all that the PLO believes they are a legitimate political organization, forced to acts of terrorism by the occupation of their homeland,” Meir said. “Sophisticated or not, they have allies in the Arab world and abroad. We will see more acts of terror from them before they either lose support or momentum. I agree with Berthold, we owe a duty to the American agent. But if we act against the PLO right now, it will be like waving a flag signaling the Egyptians and Syrians to attack. I’m afraid it’s an American problem for now.”
With her last statement Prime Minister Meir rose, signaling the end of the meeting. Hartmann gave her a quick nod and a smile appreciating the decisiveness of her decision, even though he felt it was his agency’s responsibility to retrieve the American agent. He determined that he would wait for the opportunity to do so, whenever that came.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Madeleine stood outside the PLO safe house she and Karen had watched the previous day. She was dressed in clothing she had procured locally that would allow her to blend in with the women in the streets of the Palestinian neighborhood. It was morning and she had left the apartment and the others indicating that she needed to make a few preparations of her own. Prior to departure, Madeleine spent some time applying makeup designed to mask her features and make her appear older. Madeleine waited until the women arrived at the home around mid-morning with their deliveries of food. She slid in behind the group and followed them inside. As part of her disguise, she carried two melons that she’d purchased earlier at a market stall.
“Melons, Melons for sale,” she cried out in Arabic, moving in a hunched bent over manner holding the melons out in front of her shoving them in the face of each man she encountered as she moved forward into the ground floor area of the home.
‘Get this old goat out of here,” one of the men inside shouted to the regular delivery women.
“She’s not with us,” one of the women answered.
“Sweet beautiful melons,” Madeleine said loudly, both to mask her distinguishable accent, and to draw attention away from her appearance. She wanted the men to move away from the kitchen, so that she could follow them into the other areas of the house. When they did, she followed them around the ground floor making mental notes of the layout of the various rooms. She followed one man to the top of the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Leave before you get us all in trouble,” one of the delivery women shouted at her.
“Melons, Melons,” Madeleine continued as if possessed.
Upstairs in one of the bedrooms, Abdul Al Massri, was jolted awake by the commotion below. He was the head of the PLO cell located in the home. He and his team had been responsible for Tracy’s abduction and several other attacks. They moved constantly to avoid detection and had come to their present location after they’d turned Tracy over to Al Massri’s superiors. They were waiting for new orders and attempting to remain inconspicuous. Now he was fully awake and enraged. He bolted from his bed and moved quickly down the stairs.
“What is going on?” Al Massri yelled.
“Melons for sale,” Madeleine answered, shoving the melons into his fac
e.
“Get out of here,” he responded pushing her back.
“Sweet melons,” Madeleine shrieked back.
Without warning, Al Massri struck Madeleine with the back of his hand knocking her to the floor with the force of the blow. The melons fell, cracking on the hard floor as the assembled men laughed.
“Now get out, you toothless hag,” Al Massri said, kicking Madeleine in the ribs as she slowly rose from the floor. She managed to stay in character; she shuffled towards the open doorway. She held her hand over her mouth, keeping the black scarf covering everything but her eyes, forcing tears to further complete her deception.
Madeleine was out the doorway, into the street before she entered an alleyway, straightened her body and ducked into a doorway. She removed her skirt and scarf placing them into a small cloth bag. Underneath she had on her tourist clothing. She scrubbed her face with a rag prepared with makeup remover, getting most of the residue off her face. She placed a floppy hat on her head and moved out of the alley in the opposite direction from which she’d come. I’ve seen what I needed, Madeleine thought allowing herself a small smile, as she felt her ribs where she’d been kicked. Learning the layout of the home and the number of men inside was well worth her minor injuries. “I will see you soon,” she whispered, referring to the man who’d struck her.
It was now time to act, Madeleine thought, as she crossed the central market on the way back to the safe house. The others have waited long enough. Karen must be close to panic at this point, and John is ready to strike out against anyone. Tonight the PLO will begin to understand terror. These amateurs think they know terror. I taught the Gestapo what that meant. “L’ange de la mort will show them the way,” the dark voice inside her whispering in certainty that its fury would soon be released.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Back at the safe house, the four sat around the dinner table discussing Madeleine’s plans for the evening. The knowledge that a major step would be taken in Tracy’s rescue improved their appetites as they piled their plates with the ground lamb and rice dish Karen had prepared during Madeline’s absence. The entrée and its numerous side dishes took up most of the table.
“Karen, this is very good,” Madeleine said, between mouthfuls.
“I wanted to make sure you were well fed for tonight,” Karen said with a pleased smile.
“What’s the schedule for later?” Jack asked.
“I’ll go in around 2 a.m. That should ensure that all of the occupants are asleep.”
“Any chance they’ll keep a guard on duty?” John asked.
“I’ll wait for signs of any regular sentries or men that have stayed up later than usual. I’ve watched the house at almost every time of the day, and for a supposedly trained paramilitary terrorist group, their routines are very predictable,” Madeleine added, sipping her coffee.
“What will you do when you get inside?” Karen asked quietly.
Madeleine, John and Jack looked at Karen without expression, knowing that Karen knew the answer. Men would die tonight, and all of them would be part of it. Time was running out and action was necessary.
“Karen, this organization thinks nothing of killing innocent men, women and children. They murdered Tracy’s girlfriend and maimed many civilians in the attack. This is the PLO team operating in the area. They took part in the bombing and abduction. I have no respect for their willingness to kill randomly. Regardless of what I do tonight or any other night until we get Tracy back will not change that. They will murder here and abroad in the name of their religion and ‘right’ to their homeland. I understand occupation. They will be sent an unmistakable message. I will give them an opportunity to release Tracy, but they won’t respect it unless I do what I have to do. I have prepared a statement that will explain my message clearly and the consequences if they don’t comply. I have a feeling that it will take more than the message I send tonight to get their attention, but it is a first step. They are too disorganized to have any real authority and I don’t think they would be trusted to hold Tracy. He is too valuable to their masters. No, he is being held somewhere else. I hope to gather some information tonight that will lead us in his direction. One man there may have some answers. If he does, he will give them to me,” Madeleine said, slicing into a piece of fruit.
Madeleine lowered herself down from the roof of the café, from which she and Karen had observed the PLO safe house. The street was dark. There were a few lights on in remote windows, but none in the immediate area. Madeleine was dressed in black, her hair tied back and hidden beneath a dark cap. She moved across the street and paused just outside the doorway. She was pleased to note that her night vision and hearing were as sharp as ever. She had memorized the layout of the house at first by drawing it and then rehearsing her movements again and again in her mind.
Madeleine moved around the perimeter of the home until she saw what she had seen a number of times before, a second floor window was open to the night air and anything else that might come in. She easily climbed the short way to the open window over the irregular whitewashed brick wall. She paused at the bottom of the window, hanging from her hands, slowly pulling herself up so that only her eyes and ears were level with the windowsill. She waited for several long moments, hearing the regular breathing of men inside, asleep in the three upstairs rooms. Hearing no movement, Madeleine entered through the open window, keeping her profile towards the hallway where the rooms were lined up next to one another.
Straddling the sill, she removed a silenced pistol from a holster under her shirt. She drew the pistol and pointed it in the direction of the first room and stepped through the window into the hallway. She took out a small penlight clipped to the inside of her pants, and walked towards the first bedroom door. It was ajar, allowing the night air to circulate. Madeleine listened, projecting her hearing into the room. She heard even breathing, patiently allowing a full minute before entering the room and gently closing the door behind her. Madeleine placed her finger over the light aperture at the end of the penlight and activated the switch. The room was small and she took two careful steps towards the end of the bed where she heard the occupant’s soft snores.
Leveling both the pistol and the pen light in the direction of the man’s head, she slid her finger off the end of the light illuminating the man’s face. It was not the man she had singled out for interrogation. With tiny spits from the silencer, Madeleine put two bullets into the man’s head, without hesitation, then doused the light and shifted towards the door, the movements of her body in concert like a dance.
Madeleine dispatched the man in the second room in the same manner. The occupant of the third room was the man she was after. She hadn’t seen him leave while she waited for two long hours on the roof of the café. She needed to keep him alive for now. Jack’s MI6 counterparts had provided her with several drug ampoules loaded with quick acting chemicals that would incapacitate a person within seconds. Madeleine moved into the doorway and towards the bed. She withdrew an ampoule from her pocket, snapping open the plastic covering the short needle. She plunged the ampoule into the man’s neck, next to his jugular vein. Her pistol was pointed at the man’s head. He opened his eyes long enough for them to roll back in his head and then close as the drug hit his brain.
Madeleine waited a full minute before she prodded his body with the end of her silencer. He was limp. Only then did she take some slender nylon rope from another pocket and expertly bind the man’s hands and feet, making it impossible for him to move. She gagged him with an undershirt she found at the foot of the bed. Even if the drugs failed, and he woke up before she could complete her mission, he would be secure until she returned to question him.
Making her way down the stairs, Madeleine did a mental count of the number of bullets left in her primary weapon and the second held under her shirt. There might be as many as four or five other occupants of the house, she thought, as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Madeleine both sensed and heard movement f
rom one of the bedrooms nearest the kitchen and the single toilet the home contained.
She saw a man enter the bathroom, flick on a weak light bulb inside and begin to urinate. She moved silently towards the bathroom, keeping herself flat against the wall. She slipped the pistol into the elastic band of her pants and pulled a knife out from under her shirt. Its blade was made both for stabbing and slashing. She chose the latter. As the man exited the toilet, she slid up behind him. She pulled his head to the left with her free hand and simultaneously slashed his throat with the other. The attack ripped open his windpipe and larynx, leaving him unable to cry out. Without wasted movement, Madeleine thrust the knife into his ear and brain. He died quickly, with little struggle, as she held him upright and then slowly lowered him to the ground. She wiped the knife on the man’s shirt and placed it back in its sheath. She reached for the pistol in her waistband, as she moved towards the second of three bedrooms on the main floor. Her decision to use the knife was to avoid the sound of a falling body. Once, long ago, she had almost been caught when a target had fallen heavily to the floor. Silence and the night had always been her allies. She had learned from every mistake she’d ever made.
Madeleine slipped down the hall to the last bedroom. It was larger than the ones upstairs, with two men sleeping at opposite ends of the room. As she entered, one of the sleepers rolled over and mumbled something in his sleep. Madeleine froze, standing motionless in the shadows by the door, then in one fluid movement she shot the man who had moved, whipped the gun around, and shot the last sleeper. Madeleine stepped out of the room, and moved into the shadows of the kitchen. She patiently waited, watching the street through a closed window in the event there were any late arrivals. She doubted there would be, but caution demanded it.
Angels Don't Die Page 7
