by Judith Gould
Schmarya looked up at him. He was amazed at the man's calm—for that matter, at everyone's calm, his own included. He glanced around. Seventeen crack troops, he thought, plus Dani, Najib, and myself. Twenty men. Twenty-two, if I count the two at the palace.
His face hardened. He could only hope that twenty-two of them would be enough. Not that the commandos weren't firstrate. They were superb; watching them drill had proven that. No matter what they did, they worked together as finely as the precisely tuned gears inside a Swiss watch, each of them a different articulated part of one host body: totally in synchronization, consummately courageous, and with an all-for-one-and-one-for-all Musketeer loyalty. If this mission succeeded, it would be because of them.
But, he reminded himself, Abdullah's forces of a hundred or so had more than mere numbers on their side. They had the messianic madness of their leader to inspire them, and, depending on how one looked upon them, they were the hundred heads of a very lethal hydra. It would be folly to discount the strength and fighting abilities of a lean, mean fighting machine. Abdullah and his men lived to destroy, and if they were half as good as it was claimed, then element of surprise or no, the small force of twenty and the two in the palace were headed into the face of death, never to return.
It was a sobering thought.
'Do you mind if I join you?' Najib asked, indicating the empty seat behind Schmarya.
'It's your plane,' Schmarya said with a laugh. 'Be my guest.' He activated the swivel mechanism and did a 90-degree turn in his chair so he would face him.
Najib nodded at Dani, who now sat behind Schmarya, and then swallowed several times as he took a seat. As always, the change in cabin pressure clogged his ears. By habit he glanced at the computer map at the front bulkhead. There were fourteen minutes to go.
Eight hundred and forty seconds to zero hour.
Najib nodded to himself. He could only pray that Allah was on their side. The mission had to go like clockwork; a single foul-up could have endless ramifications. The fallout from this rescue mission would have far-reaching consequences for the Israelis, but most of all for him. For even if the mission were successful, if word somehow leaked out that he had joined forces with the Jews and mounted a mission against his own people, he would be persona non grata in the entire Arab world and would not have long to live. Even more hated than Jews were Arab traitors.
He tightened his lips grimly. Right now, it was best not to think of such things.
Schmarya watched Najib closely. He could tell from the shadow that came into Najib's eyes exactly what he was thinking. The thoughts were not that much different from his own.
Thirteen minutes.
Near the front of the cabin, the young Israeli captain in charge of the commandos got to his feet. He stood cockily in the centre of the aisle, legs spread, hands resting on lean lips. 'If you gentlemen will please give me your undivided attention for a moment,' he called out in strong voice. 'I know we have been through all this already, but I'll go through it one last time since we haven't had that much time to drill. So listen carefully. Have your weapons in hand the moment we touch ground. We're coming in totally blacked out, and you'll be forewarned by the captain before the lights go out. We'll use the emergency slide chutes to exit the plane, and since it's going to be dark out, take extra care. The one thing we can't afford is for any of you to have an accident before the shooting begins. I don't have to tell you that there are few enough of us as it is. The helicopter seats six, which includes the pilot, and will drop us off inside the compound in relays of five. That's four trips. The alarms on the palace grounds should have been disconnected by now, but in case they weren't or something goes wrong, be prepared for them to go off. I don't need to warn you that we're dealing with a zealous group of terrorists. Shoot first and ask questions later. We can't afford to take prisoners, and we certainly cannot afford to let a single one of us be taken. The instant the woman is found, fire off a red flare. Once Abdullah's death is confirmed, fire off a yellow one. When both have been fired, that is the signal to regroup and withdraw. Being a civilian, the woman goes on the first helicopter relay back to the plane. Any questions?' He looked around the cabin.
One of the commandos raised his hand.
'What is it, Meyer?' the captain asked wearily.
'My wife wants an Oriental carpet. Can we take souvenirs?'
The men laughed.
'Shove it, Meyer,' the captain said with conversational good cheer. He paused and looked around. 'Check your weapons and get in gear.'
Suddenly there was a lot of clicking and clattering going on, and the rustling of movements everywhere around. Dani reached under the low table and flipped a helmet across it to Schmarya, who caught it, and tossed another further back to Najib.
Najib caught it like a football. 'Is this really necessary?' He held up the helmet. 'It feels so heavy.'
'Better to curse it now than wish belatedly you'd had it on,' Schmarya advised.
Najib looked at him and then nodded. He put it on and strapped it under his chin. Amazingly enough, it was a perfect fit.
Turning to the Perspex window, he looked at his reflection. Black helmet, black face. He smiled to himself. Even his own mother would not have recognized him. Now, if only no one at the palace did either.
Again he looked past Schmarya, toward Dani, and this time he caught his eye and held it for a long moment.
Dani met his gaze challengingly.
'I haven't had the opportunity to thank you for coming,' Najib said softly. 'I want you to know how much I appreciate it.'
Dani shook his head. A faint smile crossed his lips. 'It should be I who thank you. Daliah is my daughter, and I've been behaving childishly. I'm sorry if I was a little tough on you back on Cyprus.'
'You had every right.'
Dani shook his head. 'No, I did not. I went far beyond my rights.' He hesitated, looked away, then back at Najib. 'I want you to know that Daliah is very lucky. Few men would have done what you are doing.'
Najib laughed. 'That is because few men could afford it.'
'That is not what I mean. I just want you to know . . . well . . .' Dani looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
Najib did not prod him.
Dani's eyes came back around. 'What I want to say is: I will not stand between you and Daliah.'
Najib looked at him with surprise. Then a smile broke across his lips. But before he could reply, Captain Childs's flat voice came over the cabin speaker. 'Five minutes until landing, gentlemen,' he drawled. 'The helicopter is taking off at this moment and will meet us at the runway. The palace is straight ahead on our left. We'll be passing over it, and we'll leave the window shades up so that you can get a look at the compound. Please extinguish all smoking materials. In fifteen seconds I will douse the cabin lights and turn off all external safety lights. We will be coming in totally blacked out, without even navigational lights, and I'd appreciate it if none of you mentioned this little fact to the aviation authorities. We are breaking every regulation in the book, and I happen to like flying.' He paused. 'Five seconds until lights-out.'
And then the plane blacked out completely, both inside and out. Even the computer map faded. Only the dim red lights above the emergency exits glowed softly.
'Good luck, gentlemen,' Captain Childs added, and then the fuselage gave a shudder as the landing gear came down.
There was a lot of commotion as all the men moved over to the left side of the jet. Najib activated his seat to swivel it around, and pressed his black face to the Perspex and looked down. There it was! Coming up ahead, and almost close enough to touch, the Almoayyed palace glowed like a multifaceted beacon.
He turned to Dani one last time. 'Good luck, friend,' he said softly.
'Good luck,' Dani said equally softly, and added gently: 'friend.'
All around them, the men were commenting on the palace fortress. There wasn't one among them who wasn't impressed.
Dani was the only one who did not l
ook down. He was sitting erectly, a submachine gun lying across his knees. It felt strangely light for its size, and oddly greasy. He clamped one hand on the grip and the other around the barrel. There was something strangely reassuring about it. It was almost as though it was an extension of his body. The years fell away to the exciting days of his youth. He felt strong and invincible, his animal instincts heightened. He felt the long-forgotten tightening inside his stomach, the wire-drawn tension in all his muscles, and finally the adrenaline charge letting go, as if a massive floodgate had been thrown open. He could almost feel himself growing ten feet tall. Once a soldier, he thought, always a soldier. It never faded from your blood.
And then the jet came in low over the rooftop of the palace.
Of all the countless rooms in the palace, Saeed Almoayyed's suite, which Najib had occupied, afforded the single best view of the runway. At the moment, the sliding windows were open to the night, and the air was brisk and chill. Khalid was seated in the dark, alone, a thermos of coffee at his side. Years spent staking out targets for Abdullah's terrorist activities and month-long stretches of having had to go to ground after various missions had been completed had honed his patience to that of a hunter. So seasoned by a lifetime of violence, he felt no hurry and no nervousness, not even the rising rush of adrenaline which in most men usually occurs in the lull directly before a battle. Later, when the shooting began, power would surge through him.
He could hear the unmistakable rumble of an approaching jet. He checked his digital watch. The red LED letters flashed 02:44:02. Fifty-eight seconds, and he would activate the runway lights with the remote-control unit at his side. He had tested it at noon, when the sun was brightest and the lights clicking on would be the least noticeable, attributed to the reflection of the sunlight. It had confirmed to him that the remote and the lights were in working order.
He got up from his chair and checked the ammunition clip, yanking it out by feel and then snapping it back into his semiautomatic rifle. Then he unsnapped the flap of his holster so that his revolver could be drawn without hesitation, and unbuttoned his big boxy fatigue pockets so that he could get to the grenades. He picked up the remote unit and checked his watch—02:44:59.
One more second.
He pushed the button of the remote unit, and in the darkness outside, the two strands of straight pearl necklaces shimmered whitely.
The whine of the approaching jet was very close now. Very low. It almost drowned out the clatter of an approaching helicopter.
He grinned to himself. The waiting was nearly over.
Daliah stood stock-still as the eerie whine, like the whistling of a dropped bomb, screamed to an ear-splitting crescendo. Then an explosive boom, which sounded like the end of the world, shook the palace to its foundations and rattled the windows in their frames.
Her heart was beating wildly. So Khalid was right: Najib's troops had landed.
Abdullah was in the majlis. Three tables had been shoved together to form an asymmetrical U in the centre of the huge room, directly under the three-storey-high stained-glass rotunda. Spread out on each surface was a map—one each of Jerusalem, the Vatican, and Mecca.
Like a general in his high-backed armchair, Abdullah sat inside the open end of the U. Three shaded marble-based fluorescent lamps—one on each table—cast a pool of white light on each map and threw his face into sharply angled, prominently ridged shadows. Earlier in the day he had had squads of men remove every stick of furniture from the enormous room, with the exception of the three tables, three lamps, a single black telephone, and his stately, chosen chair. Now, at last, the majlis was to his satisfaction: a carefully lit, exceptionally dramatic stage set worthy of its occupant.
Ghazi, black glasses in place, stood on guard several feet behind him, a burly unmoving statue with a semi-automatic slung over his shoulder by its webbing strap.
Abdullah nodded to himself. The majlis had become his combination throne room and war room, and he thought it quite fitting. He felt a bridled, barely contained power race inside him. All he needed was to unleash it at the appointed hour, and the world would be his. This, he thought, was surely how Mohammed had felt. Almighty and omnipotent. Filled with Herculean power.
Despite the ungodliness of the hour, Abdullah was wide-awake. He hadn't even tried to go to sleep. In fact, he felt like he would never again need as much as another hour's sleep for as long as he lived. He had never felt better or more alert. Everything had taken on an unearthly clarity. All last night, and then the entire day long, and now far into tonight also, his mind had been bombarding him with bits and pieces of logistical information. No matter what else he tried to concentrate on, his glorious vision was overpowering and filled his mind to bursting. The countless tactical problems of destroying Mecca, the Wailing Wall, and St. Peter's were beginning to work themselves out; at times, it was almost as though he didn't even have to think; his subconscious was solving everything for him. Greatness begot greatness. The aphrodisiac of power was speed in his veins. He was filled with a buzzing nervous energy.
Finally Abdullah turned and gestured for Ghazi to come around and stand in front of the desk. He waited until Ghazi faced him, and then asked, 'How does your hand feel?'
Ghazi shrugged. 'Not too bad.'
'We'll have it seen to soon,' Abdullah promised. 'When my half-nephew returns, I will tell him to fly a doctor in from Riyadh.' He paused and held his bodyguard's gaze. 'You realize, I hope, how important it was that you followed my orders and hurt yourself? Only through an action of such magnitude could I prove to Khalid and Najib how selflessly devoted you are to me.'
Ghazi shrugged his huge shoulders.
Abdullah placed his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepled his hands, and went on warmly, 'I am very glad for you and Surour, and you should both be proud of yourselves. How many other men will be able to say they marched directly by my side as I rewrote history? Who knows? Perhaps we will even enter Paradise together.' His vulpine lips smiled with satisfaction. 'It is not everyone who is chosen to serve Allah in such an awesome—'
He cocked his head as he heard a jet scratching the silence, becoming louder and louder, until, with a deafening roar, it shot past directly overhead, rattling the stained-glass panels of the skylight in their soaring domed frame. As the roar receded, he could hear a second sound, that of the clattering rotors of a helicopter.
'What did I tell you?' Abdullah told Ghazi. 'There is my half-nephew now. You will have your hand seen to even sooner than I anticipated. As soon as he is brought to me, I will have him send the jet to Riyadh to fetch a doctor for you and Surour.'
Ghazi's expression was bland. 'I am all right. There is really no rush.'
'Ah, but there is.' Abdullah's eyes were alight with a silver fire. 'Do not forget, Ghazi, that I am counting on you and Surour to protect me. I need you both in excellent shape to do that!'
'Yes,' Ghazi replied. 'If that is your wish.'
'It is.' Abdullah leaned forward and bent back over the map of Mecca.
Suddenly, three storey above him, the skylight lit up with all the rainbow colours of daylight as a white flare exploded. Soft turquoises and pinks and blues and greens dappled him and the sea of flokati in a wide radiant circle, so that he looked like a tiny target in the exact centre of a giant rose window. He looked up, an expression of amazement on his face. Then his eyes filled with fury, but his voice remained calm. 'I see I shall have to have a talk with the men. Sometimes they behave like children. Flares are nothing to play with!'
A bleak joy came into Ghazi's eyes. 'Let me go and put a stop to this!'
'No, no, you stay here by my side,' Abdullah told him briskly with an elegant wave of his hand. 'I am almost finished for the night, and we will drop by the barracks before we go upstairs.' As he bent over the map again, the approaching whickering sounds of a helicopter sounded much closer. He felt oddly disturbed. Then he shrugged the feeling away. Najib had indeed returned, he thought, and for another two m
inutes he gave the helicopter no further thought.
It wasn't until a second white flare brightened the skylight even further, bringing the colours of the stained glass to even richer, more vivid hues, that Abdullah realized his folly. The thought flashed through his mind just as the clattering rotors filled the majlis with unbearable noise, lingered, and then receded again, droning swiftly away. Already the first crack of gunfire rent the air, and the stunning truth froze him momentarily. Then he leapt from his chair and, Ghazi at his side, made a dash across the white carpet of the enormous empty room. Even before they reached the door, a projectile came crashing through the green-tinted windows at the far end of the room, and a shower of glass merged with a rocketing explosion. A great orange-and-black fireball bloomed and rose in a column, and its fiery wind knocked Abdullah and Ghazi off their feet and slammed them flat to the floor. The explosion seemed to suck all the air out of the room. The U-shaped desk area, where they had been only moments earlier, was showered in a massive hailstorm of coloured glass as the dome exploded. It was a savagely beautiful and fleeting sight, like a column of magnified, multicoloured fairy dust.
Abdullah shook his head to clear it; his ears rung from the blast, and the smell was ghastly—acrid cordite and some sort of kerosene propellant. The walls all around were pock-marked with shrapnel. The flokati was on fire, smoking heavily, smelling like a herd of burned sheep. The air in the majlis would soon be unbreathable. Miraculously, he and Ghazi had survived. He felt something warm and sticky on his face. He touched it tentatively. Blood. He had been cut by fragments of flying glass.
He felt a black, dizzying killing rage come over him. His majlis—his throne room and war room—the symbol of his omnipotence, had been destroyed.
Talons of fear dug into Abdullah's heart while his screeching curses became a shrill scream of terror, and he knew then that precious minutes had already been lost. Realization had taken too long to dawn. Now he knew what had disturbed him earlier.
