TWENTY THREE.
They had traveled
north to Ramallah and then to Nablus, changing vehicles in each
city. This was standard procedure.
Both cities lay on
the West Bank, and despite Israeli control, there were certain
enclaves in each that the Jews would not venture into unless they
were in an armored column spearheaded by tanks.
David hadn't a clue
as to when or where the meeting would take place, only that it
would definitely be after dark. Heading north could merely be a
diversion before they reversed course, or they might simply meander
through one city or the other until they were convinced they
weren't being followed and then stop at the appointed place.
As darkness began to
fall they pulled into a parking ramp. David was swiftly ushered
from the yellow Palestinian taxi he'd been riding in to a white
Israeli taxi parked next to it. David was asked to lie down on the
backseat and a blanket was placed over him. The transfer complete,
they sped from the ramp and began winding their way through the
streets of Nablus.
Approximately twenty
minutes later they stopped. The blanket was pulled from David and
once again he was told to get out of the car.
For a second time he
found himself standing in a dimly lit concrete parking garage. He
hadn't the slightest idea where he was other than somewhere on the
West Bank.
Across the aisle,
three men were standing by the trunk of a car smoking cigarettes.
Two of them had machine guns slung over their shoulders and the
third one David recognized instantly. His name was Hassan Rashid.
He worked for Palestinian General Intelligence, which was the
official intelligence organization of the Palestinian
Authority.
The agency was
supposed to help combat terrorism, and work toward a lasting stable
relationship with Israel, but as with everything connected to the
PLO it was rotten to the core.
Hassan Rashid was a
street thug who had been a disciple of Yasser Arafat's since
childhood. He'd grown up in Nablus and became very active during
the first Intifada of 1987, but not in the way one would expect. As
the conflict grew more violent Arafat saw an opportunity to
consolidate his power, and he broke with the Palestinian extremist
groups by calling for a Palestinian state to coexist alongside
Israel.
This was Arafat's
first real gambit to gain respect from the international community.
It presented a real risk, however, since it was outright blasphemy
for an Arab to want anything other than the complete destruction of
the Jewish state. Because of Arafat's bold move the various groups
under the loosely allied Palestinian United National Command
splintered. Islamic Jihad and Hamas turned on Arafat and the blood
began to flow. Rashid, who had one real talent in life, helped
protect the PLO's standing in Nablus by brutalizing any and all
Islamic extremists who stood against Arafat.
It took great effort
on David's part to conceal his hatred for the man. As he stood with
his two attaché cases, he watched Rashid flick his cigarette
through the air. It hit the ground and cart wheeled toward him, the
burning tip breaking apart and showering his feet with red sparks.
David looked up slowly from his shoes. Rashid was looking back with
a smug look on his scarred face. His longish hooked nose was pulled
farther to the side by the lopsided smirk on his lips.
"Well, pretty one,
what have you brought for us this evening?"
David decided not to
reply. He had risen to untouchable heights, and if Rashid persisted
in his schoolyard bullying, he would have to remind him of his
place.
Rashid started toward
him.
"Come now, you're
still not mad at me after all these years?"
"No," David feigned
sincerity, "I love you like a brother."
"Oh, come now, pretty
one. We all know you liked it."
"Oh, I loved it. In
fact, maybe we could get together sometime and I'll shove a cattle
prod up your anus. Knowing your affinity for little boys, I'm
amazed you haven't already tried it. "As David said this he saw the
smile vanish from Rashid's face.
The man raised his
right fist, and from two steps away began to let loose an emotional
roundhouse punch. Taking David for an easy, defenseless target, he
put little thought into his technique or balance.
Most of the punches
that Rashid had thrown in recent years had been at men tied to a
chair or strung up. His street-fighting skills were not what they
once were, so when his target made a swift side step, his wild
punch missed its mark with such force that it spun him
around.
David was done taking
crap from the man who had plucked him from the street as a young
teenager and tortured him for having too many Jewish friends. It
had been twenty years since somebody had told the PLO that Jabril
Khatabi was a sympathizer and they had dispatched Rashid, the
street thug, to teach him a lesson. Now David was ready to repay
the man who had destroyed his youth.
With a quick side
step, he had avoided the punch, watching it sail past his face.
Setting himself into a quick 360-degree spin, he kept the case in
his left hand low and brought up the case in his right hand. He
completed the spin just as an angry Rashid squared himself for
another charge. The bottom corner of the hard black attaché case
hit with a bone-splitting crack that smashed the man's nose and
sent Rashid careening off his feet and into the trunk of a parked
car.
The WALL WAS AGLOW
with screens relaying images shot from all around the West Bank and
even a few taken from outer space. Ben Freidman was filled with
anticipation. He had forced himself to use great restraint in
deploying his assets. A deft hand would be needed to strike the
blow he intended. Tonight he would avenge the deaths of hundreds of
innocent Israelis. The Palestinians that Khatabi was going to meet
were the masterminds behind the wave of suicide bombings that had
rocked his country and crippled the Israeli economy.
Under Freidman's
orders Mossad technicians had placed a highly sophisticated device
in each case. In essence they were homing beacons connected to a
GPS device and a timed burst transmitter. Every five minutes the
devices turned themselves on for six seconds. The GPS recorded the
position of the cases to within two meters and then the burst
transmitter sent an encrypted message to a satellite in
geosynchronous orbit. The devices then powered off so they wouldn't
be picked up by an electronic countermeasure.
Freidman understood
better than anyone the draconian measures his enemy employed to
keep their activities secret. He, in fact, was the reason for much
of their paranoia. He had hunted and killed them in such a wild
variety of ways that it had now been several years since he had
gotten anyone close enough to take real action against them.
The director general
of Mossad had significant experience in the arena of assassination.
In 1972, when eleven Israeli athletes were taken hostage during the
Munich Olympics by the Palestinian group Black September, Ben
Freidman had been there. He had stood at the side of his mentor,
legendary Mossad Director General Zvi Zamir, while the German
police bungled a rescue operation that resulted in the deaths of
all the Israeli hostages.
To add insult to
injury, the two surviving terrorists were later released by the
German authorities for fear of reprisals. Israel had nowhere to
turn for justice, so they looked to Mossad. It was Zamir who had
convinced then Prime Minister Golda Meir that they must seek
vengeance. Meir agreed and directed Zamir to hunt down the
masterminds behind Black September and eliminate them. Over the
next nine months the blood flowed and Ben Freidman proved himself
to be one of Mossad's most efficient assassins.
His first hit was
barely a month after the massacre of the Olympic athletes. Mossad
wanted to send a signal to everyone, and their first target was
Wael Zwaiter, a PLO representative in Rome. On October 16 Freidman
approached Zwaiter from behind while the man was on a walk and put
two bullets into the back of his head.
Two months later
Freidman was part of a team that killed Mahoud Hamshari by placing
a bomb in the phone of his Paris apartment.
The device was
detonated by remote control and the PLO representative was
decapitated. Blood continued to flow and Freidman's Crowning
achievement came on April 13, 1973.
He was part of a
select force of Mossad agents and army commandos that launched a
raid into the heart of Beirut. The targets that night were three of
the PLO's most senior officials. Muhammad Naj-jar, Kamal Adwan and
Kamal Nasser were all gunned down in their homes. The success of
the operation had implications far beyond the deaths of the three
leaders. Information seized during the raids led to the
assassination of three more terrorists with ties to Black
September.
The victory, however,
was short-lived.
Just two months later
Mossad was to suffer its most embarrassing public moment. The
disaster occurred in the sleepy Norwegian ski village of
Lillehammer. A team of Mossad agents were sent to investigate a
possible sighting of the terrorist AH Hassan Salameh. The
inexperienced group incorrectly identified the target and then
proceeded to kill Ahmed Bouchiki, a Moroccan waiter. If that wasn't
bad enough, six of the team members were subsequently captured
while trying to escape. The men and women were put on trial and
five of the six were jailed. The international outcry was
deafening, and Mossad was officially ordered to get out of the
assassination business.
Fortunately for Ben
Freidman, he had not been involved in the Lillehammer incident, for
if he had, it would have marked the end of his career. Instead, the
disaster in Norway served to remind him, and many others, that they
needed to hone their skills further and redouble their efforts in
their covert war against the Arab aggressors.
Despite the official
ban on assassination, Freidman and his group of kidons continued to
hunt the terrorists that plagued his country. His Crowning
achievement came when one of his kidons infiltrated Hamas. One of
the group's leaders, and bomb engineers, had been a particularly
nasty thorn in the side of Israel for some time. His name was Yehya
Ayyash. The Israeli assassin took a phone call for Ayyash on a
phone that had been modified by the technicians back at Mossad. He
then handed the phone to the Hamas leader and walked away. Seconds
later a tiny charge of C-4 exploded, blowing a hole in the side of
the terrorist's head and killing him.
Tonight the stakes
were much higher. Ayyash had been but one terrorist, whereas this
evening there "would be many. Others would be sure to sprout up and
take their place if he were successful, but it would take the enemy
years to recover from such a blow. Hopefully by then, all
Palestinians would be expelled from the occupied territories and a
long tall wall would be built once and for all separating the two
tribes.
And then they could
turn on each other. This Jabril Khatabi was a good example of what
they were capable of. Freidman had no doubt that if they ever got
to the point when they no longer had Israel to blame they would
simply self-destruct.
Freidman's thoughts
were interrupted by the voice of one of his people.
"It looks like he's
changed cars again."
The director general
looked up at the wall of screens. On the left were twelve TVs, six
high by two wide. In the middle were four large screens that
measured four by six feet each and on the right there were again
twelve TVs. On one of the big screens a red laser dot marked the
roof of a white sedan that was moving through traffic. One by one
screens flickered as they were changed from one camera vantage to
another.
The advanced
surveillance room wasn't all that different than a news control
room. Right now the surveillance team's director and his two
assistants were busy changing camera angles. At their disposal was
an amazing array of surveillance equipment. Two satellites, over a
thousand traffic and security cameras from all over the country, a
specially equipped surveillance airplane circling the area at
fifteen thousand feet, and several helicopters were about to join
the fray just as soon as the sun slid over the long expanse of the
Mediterranean.
Freidman watched and
listened as his people worked computer consoles and joysticks,
carefully directing teams in the field to attempt a visual
confirmation that their man was still in the car. Freidman leaned
forward into the glow of the screens and cautioned his people not
to push too hard. The attaché cases were the key. He had to take
Jabril at his word; that he wanted these men dead every bit as much
as Freidman did. If he was right, Jabril would do everything in his
power to prevent the money from being transferred to a bag or some
other case.