Fletcher crawled to his bag. He pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Barnes, someone took a shot at me from the wall across the street. Meet you at the rendezvous point in three minutes.”
Bronot remarked, “You are full of surprises.”
“Mike Barnes is my personal bodyguard for this mission. Cranston’s orders. You wait here.”
I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”
Fletcher looked at her. “Fine, let’s go.”
They ran down the stairs and exited through the hotel’s back door. Fletcher signaled that he would go left and pointed to Bronot to go right. The plan was to cover the wall across the street from both sides to maximize their chances of spotting the shooter.
The problem was that both were unarmed. As per protocol, Fletcher and Bronot had arrived in the country without firearms in order to avoid detection by airport security, and would receive weapons from local operatives at a later time if needed. For the time being, though, they would have to rely on their cunning and natural resources.
Bronot ran along the wall until she found a set of stairs that led to the ramparts. When she reached the top, she arrived at an extremely narrow path without a parapet. The path led to a wider observation deck with its own set of stairs leading to street level. It was complete with benches, allowing tourists excellent views of both the city of Tripoli and the Medina bazaar below. Here Bronot spotted the assassin. He was in the process of packing his gear. The rifle he used was leaning against the wall a few feet behind him.
Seeing that Hearns was facing in the opposite direction of his rifle, Bronot silently crawled in its direction. She was quickly approaching the rifle when Hearns suddenly swung around. Their eyes met. Bronot was too far from the rifle so she leaped for cover behind a large garbage can.
Hearns opened his black leather suitcase and removed the MAC-10 submachine gun with two clips. He inserted the first and fired a quick burst of rounds. The sound suppressor reduced the noise to the sound of tapping. Bronot knew he was testing to see her reaction. When no fire was returned, Hearns assumed she was unarmed.
On the one hand, Hearns knew he had to kill Bronot because if he let her live, she was sure to thwart his chances for a successful assassination. She would almost surely report the situation to the CIA, which would act to put Fletcher out of arm’s reach until they had hunted him down.
On the other hand, if he killed her, the Mossad would never rest until they had found the culprit and eliminated him. There was no way he could rely on Rajad’s organization, or what was left of it, not to leak his name.
As Bronot knelt behind the garbage can, she knew that she was about to die. She recognized that the hitman was the infamous Phillip Hearns. She did not fear death, in fact, she welcomed it. Finally she would join her fiancée, the only man that she had ever loved. Bronot’s only regret was that she would no longer be able work to protect Israel, especially in this critical hour.
Hearns cautiously approached her position until he had a clear shot. He knew the game was over. In a moment of unique sentiment, he broke his personal rule of not speaking to victims. He said, “I’ m really sorry, but I have no choice.” With that, he lifted the MAC-10 and took aim.
In a blur, Fletcher sprang on to Hearns from behind. Rachel was stunned, as she had not heard anything aside from the assassin’s voice. Fletcher jumped onto Hearns’ back, pulling him back by his shoulders, while at the same time buckling his legs by pushing with both feet at the backs of his knees.
Fletcher landed on his back with Hearns on top of him. He put Hearns in a headlock and wrapped his legs around the front of his legs, putting him in an inescapable stranglehold.
At that moment, Mike Barnes, who had also come out of nowhere, pulled out a curved jambiya dagger with an ivory hilt. He stabbed Hearns on both sides and gave a final blow to his neck. Fletcher pushed off Hearns’ dead body, and Barnes stretched out his hand to help him stand up.
“Are you O.K.?” Fletcher asked Bronot.
Rachel was not sure whether to thank Fletcher for saving her or to be angry for his stealing her opportunity for final peace. She looked at him for a moment.
“Yes, I’m fine. Ron, thank you so much. Mike, you can be my bodyguard anytime.”
Fletcher turned to Barnes. “Yeah, thanks, Mike!”
“Just doing my job, boss.” Mike said, smiling.
“Where’d you get the knife?” asked Bronot.
“Oh, this?” Barnes said, holding up the dagger. “Just thirty dinars, not bad, right? The guy in the bazaar swore it was Damascus steel. Hey, I paid with my embassy credit card. Can I keep it, or is it United States property?”
Fletcher and Bronot smirked.
Walking over to Hearns’ lifeless body, Fletcher said, “Rachel, do you know who this guy is?”
“His name is Phillip Hearns. A very high-priced assassin. I would say that he is the top contract killer on the international market.”
“Now that he’s dead, is the operation still on?” Fletcher asked hopefully.
“Yes. We are still good to go. By the way, what do you suggest we do with the body?” Rachel asked.
Fletcher turned to Barnes. “You know what to do.”
Barnes replied, “You got it, boss.”
Fletcher retorted, “Enough with the ‘boss.’ That’s an order!”
“You got it.” Then a fraction of a second later Barnes added, “Boss.”
All three started to laugh.
When Fletcher and Bronot returned to the hotel room, there was an awkward moment when they both looked at the one bed. Over the years, on every mission in which Bronot had participated with a cover as the “wife,” the “husband” would without exception spend the night on the couch. But this was no an ordinary mission. She was still jittery about her brush with death, and having waking dreams about her former fiancée.
Fletcher was similarly distracted. He laid down on the bed and closed his eyes, thinking about the terror attack on the beach, his frightened children huddled behind the boat. He could see the terrorist approach his beloved Mary, and in a moment of rage bludgeon her face with the stock of his rifle. He felt chills running up his back, and was overcome with a feeling of loneliness and fright, like a lost child with nowhere to run to.
Rachel turned off the lights and lay down next to Ron fully clothed, cuddling up to him. Ron realized he needed her warmth. With their eyes closed, they dreamed about their deceased loved ones. There was no passion in the embrace. They spent the night in each other’s arms, using each other’s warmth to replenish their souls.
23
The following morning at 6:30 a.m., Muhamad Hassin, a prison cook, prepared Joshua 74575’s last meal. In most civilized countries, a condemned man is given his choice of last meal. Not in Libya. Hassin placed a small moldy piece of bread called khubzit howsh and a cup of water on a metal tray.
Hassin’s hands began to shake as he removed from his shirt pocket a crumbled piece of newspaper. He looked around the empty kitchen, several times, and then unwrapped the paper. Inside was a small tablet. For a moment, he hesitated.
Yesterday, a Mossad agent had visited him in his one-room apartment in the dilapidated neighborhood of Ain Zara. The agent had handed Hassin twenty-five one hundred-dollar bills.
“What’s this for?” Hassin asked. It was the first time he had ever seen such a large sum of money at one time.
“This is the first payment for a favor you’re going to do for me tomorrow,” the agent replied.
“Anything you wish,” Hassin said with a smile.
“All you have to do is place this pill in a cup of water that you’re going to give to the Israeli spy before the execution.”
Hassin turned pale. “The man is too well guarded. If I get caught, they will slit my throat.” Hassin tried to return the money to the agent.
The Mossad agent, a powerful man, grabbed the frail Hassin by the neck and whispered, “You will do as I say, or I will return and make you wish those
guards had slit your throat to put you out of your misery.”
Then the agent released his grip and continued in a calm voice. “After you do me this small favor, you will be delivered five hundred dollars in cash every month for the next five years.” Then he walked out.
Hassin held the tablet over the water and thought to himself, “Is it not a good thing to give the Yahood something to make his last moments on earth a little less painful?” He was sure the tablet contained some kind of narcotic. He pleasantly reflected on the money he would be receiving, the house he would buy, and the weddings he would arrange for his three daughters. Then he remembered his benefactor’s not-so-subtle threat. Hassin quickly dropped the tablet into the water.
At 7:00 am, Ronald Fletcher and Rachel Bronot ate breakfast in the cramped dining area on the hotel’s first floor. Then they stepped out for a walk. The pair walked down a series of colorful side streets packed with artisans and craftsmen until they reached a small garage about a half-mile from their hotel. Bronot took a key from her purse and unlocked the side door. Inside was a brand-new Red Crescent ambulance with two pairs of white hospital scrubs in the back. Fletcher and Bronot changed into the scrubs and entered the ambulance. In order to avoid unwanted attention in a Muslim country, Fletcher took the wheel while Bronot sat in the back.
At 8:00 a.m., three cars pulled up in front of Bomgaar’s Cafe in downtown Tripoli. Easily spotted by its royal purple canopy, the restaurant was popular among Tripoli’s elites. From the front and back cars, both Audi sedans, emerged eight bodyguards. The middle car was Rajad’s armored Mark IV Lincoln Continental. Rajad, Kalem, and two senior bodyguards exited the Lincoln and led the group into the restaurant. It was a ritual that every Sunday and Tuesday when Rajad was in Tripoli, he and his entourage would eat breakfast at Bomgaar’s.
The restaurant’s management always had a table prepared for Rajad and his crew in the far corner of the large, ornate dining room. At 8:15 am, Bronot’s ambulance parked in the alley behind the restaurant next to an emergency exit. Fletcher stepped out of the ambulance and, using a key provided to him by Bronot, unlocked the door.
Fletcher entered a small dining area in the back used for private events. There were two phone booths about twenty feet apart in an adjacent corridor. He entered the more distant phone booth and dialed the number of the other booth. The phone rang for over a minute until a waiter heard it and came running from main dining area to answer.
“Bomgaar’s Restaurant. May I be of service?” the waiter answered.
“Yes,” replied Fletcher, speaking Arabic with an inflection of a German accent, “I believe a Mr. Ali Rajad is at your restaurant dining. Please tell him that his new business associate would like to speak with him.”
“Right away, sir.”
The waiter approached Rajad’s table. “You have a phone call, sir.”
“Did the caller give a name?” Rajad asked.
“No. He said he was a new business associate. I believe he sounded German. Let me show you to the phone.”
Rajad turned to Kalem, “I’ll be just a few minutes.”
Kalem started to rise. “Do you want me to come along?”
“No, just enjoy your breakfast.”
Rajad followed the waiter. When he arrived at the phone booth, he handed the waiter a large tip. The waiter then returned to the main dining room.
Rajad stepped into the booth and picked up the receiver. Before he could say “hello,” Fletcher clubbed him in the head from behind with a homemade blackjack. He slumped unconscious into Fletcher’s arms. Fletcher quickly lifted him onto his shoulders and darted out the back door.
Kalem was having second thoughts of not going with Rajad. He had a feeling that something was wrong. He got up and ordered his two lieutenants to accompany him. When they reached the corridor, Kalem spotted Fletcher carrying the unconscious Rajad out the back door. They made a dash toward Fletcher.
Fletcher was laying Rajad onto the stretcher in the back of the ambulance when he turned and saw Kalem and the two bodyguards exiting the back door brandishing automatic rifles.
Fletcher was unarmed. It looked like the end.
Suddenly, three shots rang out in short succession. As Fletcher watched, first Kalem’s head then the heads of the two bodyguards exploded with blood as they dropped to the ground.
Fletcher looked up in the direction of the fire and spotted Barnes about one hundred meters away holding Hearns’ sniper rifle. He waved his thanks, and received what appeared to be a semi-sarcastic salute in return from Barnes.
Fletcher finished securing Rajad’s stretcher in the back of the ambulance and then rifled through his pockets. He removed an eight-round 9mm Italian Beretta, eight thousand dollars in cash, a half-dozen credit cards, a key, and a letter. Looking at Rajad, Fletcher wanted to strangle him as he lay in the stretcher, but he had a much more fitting end planned.
At 9:15 a.m., about two hours after Joshua finished eating his last meal, he began to feel stomach cramps. He walked over to the corner of his cell and relieved himself, filling the provided bucket with a large amount of watery diarrhea. Thereafter, every thirty minutes like clockwork, Joshua experienced the same sudden, desperate urge to evacuate his bowels. No matter how hard he tried to resist, he had to relieve himself immediately.
At 10:30 a.m., an hour and a half before his scheduled execution, five guards entered Joshua’s cell and escorted him up the stairs to the prison courtyard. There, a convoy of eleven armored jeeps with mounted heavy machine guns were waiting. Joshua was placed in the center jeep and the column began to move. At precisely 10:45 a.m., Joshua again had the urge to relieve himself. There was no bucket in the jeep, so, as he had done every Sabbath in Valhalla, he relieved himself in his pants to the disgust of his guards. He received a terrible beating; however, this did not stop him from doing it again at 11:15 am. Neither Joshua nor his guards knew that the cause of his malady was the medication Hassin had placed in his water that morning. It was a powerful laxative in a pulse-release preparation designed to induce uncontrollable diarrhea at specific intervals.
As the convoy made its way towards Martyrs’ square, Fletcher and Bronot made an unscheduled stop at Umma Bank. Fletcher entered the bank and returned about ten minutes later. Then they continued toward the center of town, where the ambulance was waved through an army roadblock. Fletcher noticed that the closer they got to Martyrs’ square, the more soldiers, tanks, and armored personnel carriers they passed. The mad dictator ruling Libya, excited by the international attention attracted by the execution, had decided to take advantage of the publicity and make a display of his regime’s military might. Over 15,000 troops had been brought in to line the streets surrounding Martyrs’ square.
While Fletcher drove, Bronot was busy preparing Rajad in the back. She first injected a paralytic blocking agent into Rajad’s facial nerves on both sides, and a second medication into his thigh muscle. She then removed a battery-operated hair clipper from a drawer in the ambulance and gave Rajad something akin to a crew cut. Afterwards, she sprayed Rajad’s face, neck, arms, and lower legs with an aerosol can from a Halloween costume kit, turning his skin a dusky pale white. Finally she dressed Rajad with a different set of clothing from a bag next to the stretcher.
At 11:20 a.m., Bronot’s ambulance approached another check post. Fletcher handed the guard a forged pass. The confused soldier scurried off with the document to show to his superior. An argument erupted as the officer in charge accused the guard of wasting his time as he was trying to enjoy the pre-execution festivities on a portable television. With barely a glance at the pass he waved the ambulance through.
Fletcher proceeded in the direction of Martyrs’ square. When he was about fifty feet from the gallows, he turned into an empty alleyway behind a small wooden structure. It was a public restroom consisting of a broom closet, two stalls, and a sink. The prior day, a team of Mossad agents dressed as workmen had made a few alterations to the restroom’s interior. They
first removed the wall that divided the left stall from the broom closet and replaced it with a sliding wooden panel. Then the divider separating the two stalls was replaced with another sliding panel. An exit hatch was constructed in the back wall of the broom closet. Both the right stall and broom closet doors were nailed shut. Finally, a spring lock mechanism was installed on the left stall door.
At 11:30 a.m., the convoy parked in front of the ceremonial dais next to the gallows. Joshua was brought before the Libyan Army’s chief of staff, General Abu al-Kalib, for inspection. The General was disgusted by the prisoner’s smell and appearance. He shouted at the officer in charge of the convoy, “Are you a fool? This execution is being broadcasted on live international television!”
“But, sir,” The officer protested.
“You are hereby demoted. Get out of my sight!” yelled the General with indignation. He turned to the captain of the honor guard.
“You are now officially promoted. Get this Yahood cleaned up, fast!”
Delighted with his promotion, the officer took Joshua along with a few of his honor guards to the public restroom. He ordered two of the guards to get a prison uniform from a nearby detention center and meet him at the restroom.
When Joshua and the honor guards arrived, there was an old man standing at the sink, washing his hands. One of the guards angrily ordered him to leave. The guards looked around the restroom and saw nothing suspicious. As they examined the nailed shut door of the right stall, the two guards sent to obtain a clean uniform for Joshua arrived.
Fletcher and Rajad were in the broom closet. Rajad had by this time regained consciousness, but his facial muscles were completely paralyzed by Bronot’s injections and he was unable to open his mouth to shout for help. The second drug Bronot had injected was a powerful muscle relaxant which had caused Rajad severe weakness, as if his arms and legs were made of rubber.
Agent of Vengeance Page 18
