CHAPTER FOUR.
September 22nd. Tel Aviv.
Tel Aviv was very different from the cold and wet of London. As Mike Edge sat soaking up the hot Mediterranean sunshine, heat shimmer distorted distant buildings and a dust devil sent sand and leaves whirling. The same breeze coming from the sea stirred the purple bougainvillea and scarlet hibiscus climbing the white walls of the apartment. Mike thoughtfully sipped a glass of iced tea as he looked out to sea. He was intrigued, on returning to his office he had found an abrupt message waiting: ‘Lunch, Sabra, today at one, Ben.’
For Ben Levy to make direct contact was unusual. US-Israeli relations were under considerable strain due to difficulties in the peace process, so Mike reasoned that something important could be in the offing. Ben Levy held the rank of Major General. He was head of “A’man”, or Israeli Military Intelligence, itself an integral part of “Tzahal”, the Hebrew acronym for Tzava Haganah L’Israel, or the Israeli Defense Force, otherwise known as the I.D.F.
By its nature, as a national service organization woven into the fabric of Israeli life, the I.D.F. gave Ben Levy contacts throughout the country at every level. His position as head of Military Intelligence gave him strong links with Mossad, the Israeli external, or overseas, intelligence gathering organization, and with Shin Bet, the organization responsible for internal security and intelligence gathering within the borders of Israel.
Mike knew that, as a senior officer in the Israeli intelligence community, Ben operated at the highest levels and the secrets he dealt in were global in their consequences. All these facts were going through Mike’s mind as he left his apartment; he was keen to learn what Ben Levy had to say. He headed for Hayarkon Street and entered the long modern rectangular building that was the Hotel Dan Tel Aviv. He was familiar with the hotel and went directly to the Sabra restaurant with its view out over the white sand beach and the blue Mediterranean. As anticipated, his old friend was sitting at the rear, back to the wall and with a clear view of the entrance across the busy tables. Mike walked through the buzz of the lunch time crowd to Ben’s table, but Ben did not stand up to greet him. Mike felt a chill run through him. The warm twinkle normally in Ben’s eyes was missing. He looked grim and tired.
‘Hi Ben, how’s business?’ Mike asked as they shook hands.
‘Shalom Mike, busy, as always in this part of the world.’
Mike sat down, merging with the rest of the customers in the crowded restaurant. They exchanged pleasantries and inconsequential chat as they each separately scanned the room, two careful men well used to operating under conditions of risk.
Then Ben said quietly, ‘Mike, events are under way that will require us to work more closely together – not just you and me but all the resources of our respective services.’
Mike looked at him, eyebrows raised, his attention sharply focused.
The waiter came with mineral water and took their order. Ben pulled out a packet of king size filter cigarettes and a lighter, extracted a cigarette and lit it, absently putting the cigarettes and lighter in the centre of the table.
‘That’s odd,’ Mike thought, ‘Ben doesn’t smoke, never has.’ Their eyes met.
‘Smoke?’ Ben knew very well that Mike didn’t smoke either.
Ben’s eyes went down to the pack of cigarettes and back up to meet Mike’s. Mike understood. He reached for the cigarettes, took one out, lit it and puffed out the smoke.
Ben cleared his throat and leaned across the table. He spoke quietly, his English perfect. ‘You know that since we destroyed the Iraqi nuclear facility at Osiraq, your people, in their wisdom, have limited the satellite information that they give to us?’
Mike nodded, his eyes narrowed, but he made no comment. It was a sore point. The satellite information the US government released to the Israelis covered only the area within thirty miles of their border.
‘Then you will not be surprised that we have had to resort to other more traditional methods?’
‘No. So?’
Ben looked at the cigarettes in Mike’s hand.
Mike slipped the cigarettes and lighter casually into his own pocket.
Ben nodded his satisfaction.
The first course of their meal arrived and they both stubbed out their cigarettes with relief. They enjoyed their meal, chatting away like old friends, sharing a bottle of good wine and good food in pleasant surroundings. Only Mike could see the edge of worry in Ben’s eyes. Only Ben could see the concern building in Mike.
‘I think I’ll call a cab,’ Mike said as they were enjoying the last of the wine, ‘better to get home safely than to regret it tomorrow.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ Ben agreed, ‘I’ll get the check while you order one.’
Mike went to the pay phone at the back of the restaurant. The number he dialed was not listed anywhere, and the man who answered was not a cab driver although he sometimes drove a cab. The cab he drove was kept in a lock-up garage close to the American Embassy.
‘Yeah hello,’ Mike said, ‘I need a cab, the name is Niemann and I am at the Sabra restaurant, in the Dan Tel Aviv.’
‘Okay, a cab will pick you up in 15 minutes.’
Mike hung up and went back to the table. Niemann was a code name, it meant that Mike needed a secure cab with unobtrusive armed escorts and armed driver to get him back to the Embassy safely.
Mike and Ben chatted over their coffee until the cab arrived. When Mike saw the driver enter the restaurant he stood up. Ben stood up too. As they shook hands, Ben looked straight at Mike, ‘be careful, my friend, serious trouble is brewing.’
‘Sure thing, Ben.’ Mike left with the taxi driver, a stocky, powerfully built individual in a black leather jacket and jeans. Now an employee of the US Embassy he had been an instructor in the US Navy SEALS. He was competent and deadly, which was why Mike had asked for his secondment to Tel Aviv. Underneath the loose black leather jacket was a Smith & Wesson model 29, a .44” magnum revolver in a quick release shoulder holster. It had a 270mm barrel and an adjustable foresight. Stopping power plus accuracy. Mike’s taxi driver was deadly with that too. As they got into the taxi Mike checked the street. In front of them a motor cycle courier was talking into his radio and his voice came over on the taxi radio wavelength. ‘Delivery picked up, returning to base, out.’ The vanguard.
Further down the street was another motorcycle courier from a different company. He started up his bike and pulled out after the cab; the rear guard was in place. The motor cycle couriers were also colleagues of Mike’s. Under their motor cycle jackets they too carried .44 magnum revolvers. Additionally in their couriers bags they carried sawn-off single barrel 5 shot repeating shotguns. Loaded with heavy number 6 cartridges they created havoc as short-range weapons.
Mike smiled grimly to himself. It would need a small army to stop this team, he was quite proud of the set-up he had devised. Taxis and couriers all carried radios and so communications were easy without being obvious. Motor cycles were fast, could zip through the most congested traffic in the event of an incident or to facilitate an escape in an emergency. They could go down alleys, steps and pavements where cars could not follow and, best of all, both were unobtrusive, a part of the every-day scene in any major city.
The small cavalcade made good progress through the busy streets, the motorcycle outriders keeping in radio contact with the taxi all the way and watching for following vehicles. The taxi did some double back maneuvers went twice round a couple of roundabouts giving the motorcycle couriers every chance to spot followers. None were in evidence, and the taxi pulled up at the entrance to the American Embassy. Mike paid the driver off from inside the cab, and whilst wiping his face with a large handkerchief strode quickly into the building. As the cab drove off its escorts melted into the city traffic.
September 22nd. Cairo.
In the large cool Cairo conference room, under revolving fans set high in the ceiling, Rashid Malik was bringing the meeting to a close, and the translated words were music to Alan Edg
e’s ears. ‘It is with great pleasure that I am able to confirm our requirement for the assistance which Mister Edge’s company can provide to us. As you all know the provision of a social services system for the people of Egypt has been a cause dear to my heart for many years. The main problems have been the complexity of setting up such a system for the size and diversity of our population, and the administrative difficulty of running it. With their presentation Mister Edge and his partner Miss Sutherland have shown us how it may be done. I therefore have instructed our legal department to draw up contracts for the provision of consultants, for the design of software packages, and for the supply of computer hardware for a pilot scheme to be carried out over a two year period. This will enable us to put the basic mechanisms in place. There will be an option clause in the contract giving us the right to speed up the program if it is successful. Mister Edge and Miss Sutherland of Technology Today Incorporated, I thank you for your help.’ Rashid Malik sat down.
Everyone else around the huge polished conference table stood up and clapped.
Alan Edge was grinning from ear to ear, he looked at his co-director Anna Sutherland; she too was delighted; the effort they had put in had been enormous.
Alan remained standing as the others sat down, his translator at his side. ‘Thank you, Mister Malik,’ he said, ‘I give you my personal assurance that your decision to use the experience and expertise of Technology Today will give you no cause for regret. My contracts department will liaise with your legal department on the form and content of the contracts over the next few weeks with a view to signing contracts as soon as possible. In the meantime I will allocate some of our top systems analysts to the project immediately so that preliminary studies may be produced.’ He sat down to a murmur of approval.
The meeting broke up and the representatives of both sides moved through the large double doors into an adjoining room. A sumptuous cold buffet was laid out on long tables down one side of the ornate room and smart waiters in immaculate white jackets and white gloves moved forward with trays of drinks.
Alan Edge took two large frosted glasses of carbonated fruit juice with ice and slices of orange floating on top, and moved over to join the tall, elegant woman who was his business partner. He handed her one of the drinks. ‘Great, just great, what do you think?’
‘Brilliant,’ Anna Sutherland replied, ‘I guess we’ve pulled off a major coup, but we’d better keep the lid screwed down tight until the contracts are signed.’
‘Damn right,’ Alan agreed, ‘which is why I’ve agreed to start early, we can catch any plays the competition may try to make from the inside.’
‘Sneaky!’
‘Yeah, well you gotta be. As soon as we get back to the hotel cancel our seats on the planned flight home and reschedule the tickets for a stop-over in London.’
‘Well, okay, but why?’
‘I want to go talk to an old pal of mine,’ Alan told her, ‘best darn systems analyst I ever met. Name of Mark Farzai, he speaks the language, would have made a politician of Machiavellian standards and his family is from Cairo. He’d be great to head up our team for this project, to run it from the inside.’
‘I know the name,’ Anna said thoughtfully, ‘If it’s who I think, the guy’s one of the best in the business. How come you know him? How are you going to get him to work for us?’
‘Yeah, it’s him right enough. I’ve known him for years, we were at college together, same fraternity, all that stuff,’ Alan replied. ‘He’s a freelance consultant working in the City of London, which he hates, because he has to wear a collar and tie, and we’re going to make him an offer he can’t refuse. And before you choke on the cost,’ Alan went on, hurriedly forestalling Anna’s reaction, ‘this first contract is worth millions, if we can give them what they need we’ll gain millions more.’
‘Hmm, I guess only the best will do.’
At that moment Rashid Malik came over to talk to Alan, and Anna took the opportunity to circulate and to gain some feeling for the mood of the Egyptian feasibility study team. There was much still to be done, and a few clues and tips gleaned now might be invaluable later on.
Anna Sutherland was a very shrewd member of Alan’s Board of Directors. A computer studies graduate of the University of California, Stanford Faculty, she had joined Alan’s company in its first year, choosing to start work with a promising and exciting young company rather than fight her way up the pecking order of an already established older one. The gamble had paid off. She had played a major part in the development and growth of the young company and Alan, recognizing her contribution, had offered her a directorship and a block of shares. This direct stake in Technology Today Incorporated added to her natural industry and intelligence had had the effect Alan expected. Anna was as dedicated to the company’s future and success as Alan was himself.
After an hour or so of informal discussions between the two sides, the reception began to break up. Being careful not to be amongst the first to leave, Anna and Alan departed as soon as was acceptable and went back to their hotel, the luxurious Mena House Oberoi, at Giza.
As soon as she got to her room Anna rang the ticket desk at Cairo airport. The direct Cairo to London flight that evening was booked solid and there were already half a dozen standby passengers waiting for cancellations. The best she could do was an Egyptian Airlines flight to Athens leaving half an hour earlier, but making a connection with an Olympic Airlines flight from Athens to London Heathrow. Using her company American Express Gold card, she booked two seats.
Although she could not know it, it was a fatal booking, which would lead to tragedy in the days ahead.
September 22nd. Tel Aviv.
Safely inside the US Embassy Mike Edge went directly to his office. He emptied the packet of cigarettes Ben Levy had passed him onto his blotter. Taking a slim bladed penknife from his pocket he carefully opened the folds of the packet. There were some strips of microfilm carefully taped to the inside of the folds of the lid. Leaving the debris on his desk he went quickly to the communications room. The communications officer on duty greeted him, as the guard checked Mike’s ID. ‘Hi Mike, what’s up?’
‘I’ve just received these strips of microfilm from a reliable source,’ Mike told him, ‘I need to know what’s on them as fast as possible.’
‘Okay, you got it, give them here, I’ll take them through to the photo lab.’
A few minutes later the tiny microdot images on the microfilm were enlarged and displayed on the screen of a reader-printer. Mike studied each frame carefully. The frames were of different sizes. The larger ones were of two types; maps, covered with symbols and annotated in Arabic script, and drawings; engineering design drawings.
Suddenly Mike realized what was in front of him. ‘Hot damn!’ he exclaimed under his breath. He moved to one of the smaller frames. It was a list, again in Arabic script. He moved on with increasing excitement. ‘My God,’ he muttered.
‘What,’ the communications officer asked, ‘what‘n hell’re yuh gettin’ all fired up about?’
September 22nd. Hellenikon Airport, Athens.
Dimitris Kosovos looked awful. Driving to his work in the half-light before dawn, he was dreadfully afraid. He had had no sleep, the blow to his head had left him with a sickening headache and his eyes were sunken into their sockets with worry. Dimitris was under no illusions, his wife and his adored children were at the mercy of Turkish fanatics and he knew they were perfectly capable of carrying out their promises. He was out of his depth; nothing in his life had prepared him for the circumstances he now found himself in. Only one thing filled his mind, he must do exactly as he had been told, in order to get rid of this terrible threat to Roula and the children. He drove on, knuckles white on the steering wheel of his old van. He shook his head to clear it and blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, soon he would be at the car park used by airport employees. Behind him, as he reached a deserted stretch of road, a dark saloon car flashed its lights. Dimitris pulled
off the road into a lay-by and stopped.
The dark car pulled in behind him and extinguished its lights. George Liani got out of the dark saloon, opened the trunk, lifted out a heavy cardboard box, and carried it to the rear of Dimitris’s old van. Dimitris opened the vans rear doors and helped shove the box inside.
In the box were the thirty pre-packed meal containers. Dimitris had explicit instructions what to do with them. He didn’t know what was in the containers - he didn’t want to know - he tried not to think about it.
‘Okay, you know what you have to do?’ George Liani’s eyes were hypnotic in their intensity. Dimitris could not meet those eyes. He nodded sullenly. George Liani grabbed a handful of Dimitris’s hair forcing him to look at him. ‘Remember your precious family. Remember my Turkish brother who is with them.’ He slapped Dimitris hard on the side of his head. ‘Tell me what you have to do.’ Dimitris recited carefully by rote his instructions yet again.
‘Remember I’ll be following you and watching your every move.’
Whey-faced Dimitris climbed back behind the wheel of his old van and gripped the steering wheel fiercely to stop his hands from shaking.
Reaching the employee’s car park at the airport, He parked his van in full view of the guard at the airside security gate, but some distance from it. He left his sidelights on, got out of the van, locked it and walked over to the gate, fishing his pass from his shirt pocket as he went.
‘Hey, you’ve left your lights on,’ the guard yelled as Dimitris approached.
Dimitris looked round. ‘Oh shit,’ he said, ‘I’ve left my lunch in the van too.’
‘Not a good start to the day,’ said the guard, and then, noticing Dimitris’s grey and drawn face, he said with concern ‘Hey, my friend, you okay?’
‘No,’ Dimitris said, ‘my brother-in-law came round last night to sample the new wine and we drank until four this morning. My head is killing me.’
‘Serves you right, you’re old enough to know better.’
‘Yeah,’ Dimitris agreed sheepishly, ‘I’m just going to pick up my truck. I’ll switch my lights out and pick up my lunch on the way out.’
‘Okay, but don’t forget or you’ll have a flat battery by the end of the shift.’
Dimitris held up his hands in surrender and walked in to work to collect his service truck. A few minutes later he drove out, the guard raised the barrier and Dimitris drove through. Turning immediately off into the employees’ car park he drove over and stopped his truck in front of his old van blocking it from the view of the guard on the gate. Clambering laboriously out, he walked round, unlocked his van and switched off the lights. It was the work of a moment to take the cardboard box and his lunch bag and put them into the passenger side of his truck. He locked his old van up again and, driving out of the car park past the security gate gave the guard a thumb up sign. The guard waved back, and smiled, pleased to have done Dimitris a good turn in saving him the nuisance of a flat battery.
George Liani, watching from the dark saloon car parked up the road, nodded to himself in grim approval.
Dimitris felt some relief, the first problem was over, and the containers were in the service truck. He drove to the food-processing factory where the airline meals were prepared. He presented the signed requisition for the meals for the next flight he had to service, and the ready filled trolleys of in-flight meals were loaded onto the truck.
Dimitris drove back towards the airport, the anonymous dark saloon car still following him. Dimitris knew the route well; he stopped at a popular roadside taverna used regularly by transport drivers. Parking his service truck between two large articulated trucks he quickly took the cardboard box into the back of his service truck. George Liani watched from the other side of the car park.
Opening the meal trolley furthest from the door, the one that would be loaded last onto the aircraft, he quickly began to remove the foil topped meal trays. Carefully he replaced the genuine airline meals with the color coded ones containing weapons and explosives from the cardboard box. Finally he marked two opposite corners of the trolley with small scraps of red adhesive tape. Stage two was now completed. Gaining a little in confidence, and carrying the box now full of real meals back to the cab of the truck, he drove to the Airport security gate he had come through earlier.
The same guard was still on duty and leaned out of the window of the security cabin as he saw the truck approach. ‘Feeling any better?’ he asked, as Dimitris pulled up. Dimitris pulled a face, and the guard, laughing, raised the airside barrier and waved him in.
George Liani watched him drive through from the roof level of the airport car park. Using his binoculars he watched as Dimitris drove out onto the concrete apron and over to the plane he was to supply.
As Dimitris reversed up to the open door he elevated the truck body on its hydraulic rams. Then he entered the plane by the flight of steps at the other door. He helped to load the trolleys of meals and to stow them in the storage bays. He made sure that the marked trolley went in last and was immediately accessible; and that it was not plugged into the power supply.
With relief he lowered his truck body and secured it, then jumping into the cab he drove to the employees’ rest room. He ran into the toilets and retched like a dog. His hands were shaking and his face grey and sweaty. He decided to go home and then, when this was all over, ’phone in sick.
George Liani put his binoculars away with a satisfied grunt. Stage three was now complete, the guns, ammunition and explosives were on the target aircraft. Flight OA 269, Athens to London Heathrow.
September 22nd. US Embassy, Tel Aviv.
‘Get John Henderson down here at the double, this stuff is red hot!’ Mike ignored the communications officer’s question in his urgency.
Joe grabbed an internal phone and punched out a number. ‘Here, you talk to him, the number’s ringing.’
Mike took the ’phone. ‘Henderson,’ a gruff voice said at the other end.
‘John its Mike. There’s something you should see immediately. Come down to the ‘photo lab, right now?’
John Henderson picked up the urgency in Mike’s voice. ‘On my way.’
John Henderson was the Defense Intelligence Agency head of station in Tel Aviv; he was a hub around which U.S. military intelligence gathering in the Middle East revolved. ‘Where’s the fire?’ he asked as he entered the room.
‘Not bust out yet, but it’s smoldering away, look at this.’
John looked at the screen; he moved a few frames across and studied each one. ‘Holy Christ!’ he said. He looked at Mike in disbelief. ‘If this is what I think it is, the President will need to see it.’
Mike nodded grimly. ‘Lists of invoices for chemicals used to produce germ warfare and chemical nerve agents. My guess on a first look is a form of anthrax virus, an unstable form, and VX or a new derivative as the nerve agent. The drawings are modifications to production plants that ostensibly exist to produce pharmaceuticals. The maps give locations. It’s on a huge scale. These other documents are the lists of chemicals already destroyed by the UN inspectorate. If this information is correct they have only located and destroyed a fraction of the materials purchased.’
‘Question is who has the rest of it?’
‘Iran probably, and some has been dispersed to Syria by the look of it. There’s enough to wipe out the entire Kuwaiti population, over run the Kuwaiti oil fields and then do the same to northern Saudi-Arabia and occupy the oil fields there; there’s also enough to damage Israel.
There was a short silence. John broke it, ‘and we‘re pretty sure there is dirty nuclear material to go with it. This has to go direct to the State Department and the Department of Defense, we’ll do a belt and braces job on it.’ He turned to the communications officer, ‘Joe, can we transmit this electronically to Defense? It must be on a secure system?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Email and Fax are out, the drawings and maps are too big, we can’t scan that size. The smaller fram
es we can do okay though.’
It was John’s turn to shake his head, ‘No, it won’t make any sense to them at the other end if we send it in bits. Make two duplicate copies of these microfilms; I want a copy in today’s diplomatic bag and I want one here for my use, all hell will break loose here soon.’
‘The diplomatic bag’s gone, sir,’ Joe said, ‘it’s sealed and on its way by now.’
‘Damn,’ John swore, ‘Okay, three copies, put a copy in tomorrow’s bag. Mike you’re going to Washington tonight, you can hand-carry the originals to Bolling HQ. I want you to brief them when you get there. This is too important to leave to normal channels. Some duty officer might put it through the system, or worse still, not recognize its proper significance and sit on it. I’ll ring Mary and get her to organize the quickest route to Washington for you. Have you any gear here for a short trip?’
Mike nodded; sudden trips were not new to him. He always kept an overnight bag packed in his office. ‘I’ll need some cash for contingencies.’
‘No problem, you can have a thousand dollars from the emergency fund. Come up to my office, I’ll give you the cash now. We need to talk anyway. Joe, ring me as soon as you have the duplicates made, they are not to leave the photo lab until I say so, understood?’
‘Okay sir, you got it.’
Mike and John went up to John’s office. ‘Sit down,’ he said, waving towards a couple of comfortable leather chairs, ‘let me get you some coffee.’ He went over to a filter coffee maker on a table in the corner. ‘Not long made,’ he said, ‘I’d just put the water in when you rang.’ He brought over the jug of coffee and two cups. ‘It’s Jamaican Blue Mountain,’ he said with a hint of pride. He sat down in the other chair and looked at Mike. ‘Well, what do you think?’ He wasn’t asking about the coffee.
Mike marshaled his thoughts. ‘Kuwait was a creation of the British when they controlled the region,’ he began, ‘in Iraqi eyes an artificial creation. Iran claims that it was Iranian territory before it was Iraq. They also want it back.’
‘Christ, what a prospect and what if they do deals with their neighbors. They could avoid the no-fly zones.’
‘It’s possible, and recent high level Iranian diplomatic missions have visited Syria.’
‘Yeah,’ John stroked his chin thoughtfully, ‘and the Israelis have as Prime Minister perhaps the single most hated figure in the Arab world, a person who could unite the Arab world against them.’
Mike nodded his agreement. ‘That’s right, Iran only has to adopt an Islamist standpoint and declare a “Jihad”. There is every bit as much hatred between Sunni and Shiite Muslims as there is between Catholic and Protestant Christians, but if a “Jihad” is declared, all the factions could unite against the new Israeli leadership. Worse still the old rivalries could be conveniently forgotten in a flood of religious fervor. Arab could unite with Arab; they would call each other brother and join forces against the western world.’
‘Dear God, the whole damn Middle East would go up like a powder keg. Just think what that would do to the price of oil and the world economy!’
There was a knock at the door and Mary, John’s secretary, came in. She smiled at Mike. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘what trouble have you been stirring up now?’
Mike grinned and put his hands up. ‘Not guilty, trouble just follows me around.’
Mary laughed. ‘Right, I forgot.’ Then turning to John, ‘I’ve got Mike booked on the early Concorde flight from Heathrow to Washington. The only problem is that I can’t get a seat on a direct flight from here to London, they’re booked solid. However I have booked him on to an El Al flight to Athens where he has to change to an Olympic Airlines flight to Heathrow. It’s a bit of a bind having to change at Athens but he’ll be in London in plenty of time to catch the Concord flight in the morning. It’s the quickest route available at short notice.’
September 22nd. Giza, Egypt.
With the flights to Athens booked, Anna looked out of the window of her room with some regret. The view was magnificent. Forty acres of lush gardens surrounded the hotel and looming massively in the background were the huge bulks of the Great Pyramids, wonders of the ancient world. She hadn’t seen any of it.
‘Oh well,’ she said to the fabulous view, ‘business before pleasure,’ and turned away to pack.
When she reached the foyer Alan was at the reception desk settling the bill. The Mena House Oberoi was very expensive, but it had been an inspired choice. Originally built at the foot of the Great Pyramids as a royal hunting lodge it had been converted to a hotel in 1869. The luxury of the air-conditioned rooms combined with the original arabesque Islamic architecture had ensured their comfort. The modern executive centre with its state of the art office systems had kept them in touch with their head office in California. The hotel’s gourmet restaurant, Al Rubayyat, had provided some memorable meals, and the large swimming pool had kept them in trim with twenty lengths before breakfast each morning. All these factors had contributed to the success of their trip.
‘Cheap at twice the price,’ Alan remarked as Anna joined him, ‘in the circumstances that is.’
‘Well, a couple of extra days would have been nice,’ Anna replied. `We both could do with a rest and a chance to do some quiet thinking on this new contract.’
‘Yes,’ Alan agreed, ‘you’re right. Once we’ve hired Mark Farzai perhaps we should take a few days off, go somewhere peaceful and do as you suggest.’
‘Sold to the lady in the silk suit,’ Anna replied laughing, ‘but I want some time to visit Harrods first.’
Alan raised his arms in mock horror. ‘Is there no limit to this woman’s demands?’ Laughing together they went out to the hired car to be driven to the airport. Their tickets were waiting for them on arrival. They checked in, picked up their boarding cards, went through security and passport control and wandered round the duty free shops to use up some spare time. When their flight number was called they boarded the Egyptian Airlines plane for an uneventful flight to Athens. The plane landed on time and Anna and Alan went through the transit system directly to the passenger lounge for their onward flight.
Flight OA 269, Athens to London Heathrow.
September 22nd. Tel Aviv.
Mike Edge settled into the back seat of the taxi as it pulled away from the Embassy entrance. One of the motor cycle courier escorts accelerated out into the traffic ahead. He checked through the rear window, the second courier was in place behind them. He relaxed as the driver moved the car expertly through the traffic, heading southeast out of the city for the main Tel Aviv to Jerusalem highway, the quickest route for Ben Gurion airport.
Mike opened his briefcase and began to make notes. He would have to do a presentation immediately on his arrival in Washington. He could use the material on the microfilm to cover the plan, the method of attack and the bases from which the Iranians and Syrians could operate. That was okay. What was not okay, and what he was likely to be asked to provide, was an opinion on the ability of Iran to implement the plan. A breakdown of the implications of such a series of attacks for the whole gulf region would be required, and ideas on what could be done to limit the damage and to forewarn neutral parties. Before he knew it he was outside the departure hall at Ben Gurion Airport.
The taxi driver got out and took Mike’s overnight bag out of the trunk, unobtrusively scanning the drop off point as he did so. Mike paid him exactly as he would any other taxi driver. The set-up was too good to be blown. The two motor cycle couriers had pulled up not far away. Mike was aware of their presence, but he barely glanced at them as he walked across the concourse. Going immediately to the check-in desk he presented his ticket, checked in his bag and collected his boarding card. That done he went straight through departures, security check and passport control, and headed for the gate for the Athens flight.
The flight took off ten minutes late but, courtesy of a tail wind, the pilot made up the time en route and they landed on schedule. Mike went through t
he doors marked transit passengers and found his way to the departure lounge for his flight.
Flight OA 269, Athens to London Heathrow.
September 22nd. Politia, Athens.
At the secluded villa in Politia, Abu Asifah assembled all the members of his team together. They were going out to fight on God’s behalf; it was fitting that they should pray and be of pure heart. Facing towards Mecca he led the assembled men in their ritual prayers, bowing, kneeling and prostrating themselves before their God. Their prayers complete, they lined up for a final check. Pockets were turned out onto the tables and the contents scrutinized carefully to ensure that no masses of metal were being carried which would set off the security screening devices. Briefcases and flight bags were checked. Nothing was missed; nothing permitted which could cause problems. Their documentation was scrutinized. Passports were checked, visas for their destinations double-checked, tickets checked yet again. Each man’s outfit was examined in minute detail; their clothing and their appearances had been varied as much as possible. Some had moustaches, some had not, and two had beards. They looked diverse, not like a team; dispersed amongst a few hundred other passengers they would be unremarkable. One feature however had it been noticed would have drawn a great deal of attention to these men. Many modern shoes have in-between the heel and the sole, a thin strong steel reinforcing shank. Airport metal detectors are tuned to allow for such a small mass of metal; they don’t go off every time someone with steel shanks in their shoes passes through. The steel shank in each terrorist’s right shoe was longer and thinner than the shank in the left shoe. Masked with kitchen foil, it was razor sharp, pointed, and had a tape handle at the blunt end. The blade thus formed was three inches long and, expertly used, was capable of penetrating to the heart or cutting a throat, but it would not set off a metal detector, particularly as the men carrying them had no other metal about their persons. At different times four of the men were dropped off at 96 Syngrou Avenue, where they picked up the airport bus for the twenty-minute journey out to Hellenikon airport. Two were dropped off in the centre of Athens at points where they could find taxis. One at a time they arrived at Hellenikon and checked in. One at a time they went through the security checks and through passport control. The two detailed for airport surveillance watched each one go through, ready to extricate them if there was a serious problem, but there was no hitch.
One by one the terrorists joined the other passengers in the departure lounge waiting for their flight. Flight number OA 269, Athens to London Heathrow.
Retribution Page 11