CHAPTER NINE.
Shatila, September 24th.
The returning hijackers were welcomed as heroes when they entered the underground car park and service area that was their Beirut headquarters. A celebratory feast had been prepared. A goat had been purchased, slaughtered in the proper ritual manner, and roasted. Rice and vegetables had been cooked; sweet cakes had been made from flour, honey and almonds. Tea and coffee were provided in abundance.
The operation was a success, the mood jubilant, but one man was not happy. The man organizing the feast stood apart from the hijack team and reflected. Much talking had been done, many fine laudatory speeches had been made and still no mention had been made of him, Najib Shawa, the man who had made it all possible.
Najib was worried. His part in these great events was not getting the recognition due to him. After all, it was he who had engineered the whole business. It was his contacts with Hezbollah that had attracted the necessary funds. It was his encouragement and support that had finally made possible the split from the parent faction. He had been the true architect of the Blood of Shatila, and now this upstart was getting all the credit.
His courage fuelled by righteous indignation, Najib Shawa came to a decision. He would bring this matter to the attention of the organization at the meeting called for this evening. Older and wiser heads would see the truth of the matter and curb the influence of this young hothead. They would give him, Najib Shawa, the credit and the proper status that was his due.
Beirut, September 24th.
The immigration official led Mike down a corridor, through an external door and out to an airport Land Rover. ‘Jump in,’ he said, and climbing into the driver’s seat, he drove away from the airport buildings.
‘Where are we going,’ Mike asked.
The man pointed to the Royal Air Force Transport Command aircraft parked well away from the rest of the planes on the concrete apron.
‘Oh no,’ Mike groaned, ‘I need a shower and some sleep.’
The immigration man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Speak to the man on the plane,’ he said as he pulled up at the foot of the access stairway.
A Royal Marines Commando Captain in combat dress came down the steps. He was the officer in charge of the detachment who had covered the release of the two terrorist prisoners.
Mike got wearily out of the Land Rover.
‘Mister Kelly?’ the young Captain asked.
‘Yes,’ Mike answered abruptly.
‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, sir,’ the Captain said, ‘but we have received orders from our superiors to take you to Cyprus with us. It is at the request of a Mister Henderson, whom I believe you know. I am instructed to tell you that he will be in Cyprus to meet you. He is sorry for the inconvenience, but you are not to be exposed to the press or media here in Beirut, and you are under orders to go to Washington as soon as possible.’
Mike was dismayed. He wanted to stay in Beirut long enough to make arrangements for his brother’s body to be shipped home. He wanted to get to know the girl his brother had been accompanying, and with whom he had endured the hijack, but there was no way out. John Henderson had pre-empted all his options. Mike knew that he had to avoid exposure to the media and he knew that his mission to Washington was one of both national and international importance.
Unexpectedly, the Lebanese immigration official came to his aid. ‘I am friend of a friend of yours, Mister Kelly,’ he said. ‘I am under orders to give you all possible assistance with matters here in Beirut.’
Mike looked askance at the man.
He stood his ground and matched Mike’s doubtful look with one of quiet competence. He took Mike’s arm and led him away a few paces. ‘I work for Major-General Levy.’
Mike looked at him in surprise.
‘Whatever you want done I can get done,’ the man said evenly, ‘I have adequate funds and contacts I assure you.’
Mike couldn’t refuse the offer, it was the logical solution, and as the man worked for Ben Levy he could be relied on.
‘Okay.’ Mike agreed with reluctance and asked the man about Alan’s body; told him he wanted it shipped home to the States; and to look after Alan’s friend Anna.
‘Everything necessary will be done Mister Kelly, you may rely on me,’ Ben’s man replied.
Shatila, September 24th.
The bleak, concrete walled, underground room was filled with men. Again Abu Asifah was the centre of attention. He addressed the assembled members of the movement. ‘Allah is with us. He has shown us the true path. Now that we have found it and traveled the first few steps He is giving us His victory!’
A roar of approval and agreement followed his words. Abu Asifah waited for the applause to die down.
A figure stirred in the shadows and stood up. In his high pitched voice Najib Shawa spoke.
‘Brothers, we have all made a contribution to these triumphs, my own efforts in the provision of funds are not inconsiderable...’
Abu Asifah eyed him sardonically.
‘...I made possible every...’
Abu Asifah cut him short.
‘Do you claim the credit for our success?’
‘Well, in my area of influence, I feel that I have...’
Abu Asifah cut him short again.
‘The credit which belongs to Allah, the Almighty, the all powerful, without whose strength we are as nothing?’
‘Well, no, of course not. Not that credit. But behind the scenes my organizational skills, my political efforts have...’
‘It is Allah’s gift, not politics or weasel words that has given us our success. It is action in Allah’s name, which will give us victory!’ Abu Asifah’s clenched fist smashed down on the table. The pressure lamp spluttered and hissed. The mood of the meeting was with him. He gave the credit not to himself but to Allah, to whom it rightly belonged. With consummate ease he made Najib Shawa seem self-seeking and self-centered.
Najib’s bid for recognition was brutally squashed.
But Abu Asifah had made a bad enemy.
Beirut Airport, September 24th.
Mike Edge, grim, tired and longing for a shower, climbed reluctantly up the steps of the RAF Transport Command aircraft. Entering the cabin he scrutinized his fellow passengers. They were a tough-looking bunch, dressed in desert camouflaged combat fatigues, and wearing the hard-earned Green Beret with its dull bronze badge. They returned Mike’s scrutiny with interest. There wasn’t a shifty eye amongst them; none of them needed to prove anything.
These guys Mike realized were men of the same caliber as Jim Savage, formed in the same mould. Mike felt safer than he had for a long time. A hard looking grey-haired sergeant sitting to Mike’s left stuck his hand out. ‘Dinger Bell,’ he announced, ‘who’re you?’
‘Mike Kelly,’ Mike replied. His hand felt like it was in a vice.
‘On the hijacked aircraft, were you Mike?’
‘Yeah; not very pleasant.’
‘Brave bastards, aren’t they?’ the sergeant said scathingly, ‘waving guns at unarmed civilians, making war on women and kids. I wish we could have a go at ’em, we’d go through ’em like a dose of salts, eh lads?’
‘Damn right Sarge,’ one of the marines agreed, ‘take the buggers on any day!’
‘Bloody politicians won’t let us though will they,’ the sergeant went on acidly, ‘too damned scared of what the press and the loony left would have to say. It was the same in Northern Ireland. We could’ve cleaned that rat’s nest out overnight if we’d had a free hand.’
‘Yeah, the Israelis would do it,’ another marine agreed. Heads nodded in agreement.
Mike remained silent, the Commando sergeant had given him food for thought, and his mind was racing. These guys were British military personnel, an extension of government, and as such, their expertise was not available for civilian or commercial use. But there must be plenty of ex-military personnel of the same caliber out there in the wider world.
The “fasten seat belts” sign came
on and the RAF Air Quartermaster went through the standard pre-flight instructions. The aircraft taxied out to the runway and lined up for take-off. Moments later they were in the air and en-route for Cyprus. Mike smiled quietly to himself, ‘God help anyone who tries to hijack this flight,’ he thought and then another thought struck him; the girl on the hijacked plane, he didn’t know anything about her. Well, it was too late now. Tired, angry and longing for a shower, he hunched down into his seat and went to sleep.
Shatila, September 24th.
In the dark smoke-filled room, Abu Asifah continued to control the meeting. ‘We must not make the error of resting on our success. We must keep up the pressure, keep up the momentum, we must strike again.’
His audience howled their agreement.
‘Our next victory,’ Abu Asifah paused for effect, ‘will be to blow one of the Infidel aircraft and all its unbelieving passengers out of the skies.’ There was a hiss of in-drawn breath from the assembled terrorists. Abu Asifah permitted himself a grim smile. This would open the eyes of his followers some more. Was there no limit to Abu Asifah’s commitment to the Cause? ‘And how is this to be achieved, Abu Asifah?’ Najib Shawa asked with a sneer in the silence that followed. Perhaps Abu Asifah was going out on a limb with this idea. Perhaps he could be discredited.
‘We shall have a bomb put on an aircraft in a suitcase,’ Abu Asifah declared.
‘But unaccompanied suitcases are not allowed on board by any of the airlines.’
‘That is true, but the bomb may be in the suitcase of a traveling passenger.’
‘Do you mean carried by one seeking Martyrdom?’
‘Yes, perhaps, or by one of the stupid Infidels themselves,’ Abu Asifah replied.
‘But no Infidel could be found who would be willing to do this.’
‘Only if they knew what they were carrying.’
‘So who will arrange this matter?’ Najib asked.
‘I will arrange it. Most of our men are a little over-exposed at the moment, but the momentum must not be lost.’ Abu Asifah paused and thought for a few moments. ‘Has the second part of the payment to our Turkish brother been made?’
Najib Shawa, his private thoughts a seething mix of wounded pride thwarted ambition and jealous hatred, almost missed the question directed at him. A nudge from the man next to him brought him back to the present.
‘Yes, yes, several days ago,’ he said cautiously.
‘Hmm. No doubt he could do with more funds?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure he could,’ Najib Shawa admitted quietly, whilst in his heart black hatred raged. Without his access to secret terrorist funding this upstart would be able to achieve nothing. But how could he refuse the funds in front of the people he himself aspired to lead?
‘Can more funds be arranged? The same amount as before, payable in two parts?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Najib Shawa wound his hands together in his frustration, ‘but as you all know, only I can arrange that.’
‘Very well, we will use our Turkish brother for this operation; he has proved most efficient and reliable in his efforts on our behalf. I will contact him. Make the funds available.’
‘In the name of Allah, it shall be done,’ Najib Shawa said smoothly. ‘Yes, just like that,’ he thought viciously. ‘Two million US Dollars just like that, via my contacts, for your glorification. Well, we’ll see who wins in the end. The pen is said to be mightier than the sword. Politicians control armies. I will use you and I will destroy you. I shall be the one whom the world knows as the true champion of our people.’
He would need help, outside help, but he knew where he could get it. All that was missing was a plan.
British Sovereign Base Area, Akrotiri, Cyprus, September 25th.
‘The bastards shot my brother!’ The words came out hard, flat, and loud enough to make John Henderson flinch. ‘I’m going after them John, I don’t care what it takes, I’m going to take them out. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”, the only kind of language they really understand. Don’t forget I had to sit and watch as they murdered my brother. There has been too much pussyfooting around with these damned terrorist groups. Our great, free, democratic country is being made to look ridiculous; we’re becoming a laughing stock around the world.’
‘Sure Mike, sure,’ John Henderson tried to be as soothing as he could. ‘They’ll get their just desserts in the end, their kind always do.’
‘You don’t understand, John. I want to kill them personally. It’s the only thing that will give me peace.’
‘I do understand Mike, really I do, but we can’t go around being judge, jury and executioner, not in our business. You know that. We gather information these days, not scalps.’
‘I don’t want scalps - I want heads.’
John knew Mike’s background and realized that he had deadly intent. He decided to play for time. Maybe in a few days Mike’s anger would have gone off the boil, and if he had other things to occupy his mind maybe his fury would abate.
‘Listen Mike, I need you to complete the mission to Washington, Bill Anderson has gone out there in your place with a second set of microfilms but he hasn’t got your in-depth knowledge. Defense are demanding information. The President and the Defense Secretary want info to present to the UN. Will you do it?’
‘I have to go back home for my brother’s funeral,’ Mike said slowly, ‘I might as well go via Washington. How long do you think it will take?’
‘A day at the most, probably less.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you a day there,’ Mike agreed. ‘Then I want some leave to go over to the West Coast to attend to Alan’s funeral. I guess a few days, maybe a week after that to get myself back to normal would be a good idea too.’
‘Sure, take all the time you need once the Washington end is sewn up.’
John thought his tactic of time easing the anger was working. He was soon disillusioned.
Mike held up the dossiers made during the hijack. ‘Okay, but when I get back I’m going after these assholes,’ and he threw the dossiers in John Henderson’s lap.
Athens, September 24th.
Lieutenant Georgiou sat at his desk and began to review the information he had gleaned. He started with the note. The checks against some handwriting samples found in the Kosovos farmhouse indicated that Dimitris Kosovos was the originator. A chain of connections led to his employment and to the hijacked flight; from there the connections came back via the content of the note to the murder of Dimitris and his family. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the Kosovos family had been the lever and Dimitris Kosovos the means used by the terrorists to get their equipment on to flight OA 269.
‘Well, so far so good, now the big question, who were the terrorists?’ the lieutenant asked himself. He decided to write a preliminary report of his investigations and submit it to his boss. It would give his boss the means to keep the higher authorities off his back and leave him free to get on with his job. He swiveled his chair round, pulled the computer keyboard towards him, and began to type.
He was halfway through when the sergeant came in shaking his head, ‘Nothing doing, the prints on the car keys and the prints on the shotgun cartridge are from two different men, but well, see for your-self. These are the nearest matches, and even I can see that they’re different.’ He dropped two sets of photographic fingerprint enlargements onto the desk.
The lieutenant studied them with a magnifying glass. ‘Mmm, yeah, there are very definite differences. Okay, so we have two men, neither has a criminal record in Greece, they are possibly Turkish and have links with Palestine. Could this Andreas Kokalis guy be one of them?’
‘I’ll get a forensic team round to his flat right away, I’ll go down there too, maybe we’ve missed something obvious,’ the sergeant said.
The lieutenant nodded. ‘Organize a thorough search on his background while you’re at it,’ he told him. He took the enlargements of the fingerprints and put them in his file; then went back t
o his report.
The sergeant went to the outer office and gave instructions to a couple of detective constables. One he sent to do a search of the criminal records and one to do a search of the civil records for a Mister Andreas Kokalis.
He himself went to forensics and made arrangements to have Andreas Kokalis’s place turned inside out.
Istanbul, September 25th.
George Liani was pleased. The second payment, for the successful completion of his operation inside Greece, had been transmitted by key-tested telex from a bank in Switzerland to his account in Istanbul. A small part of the funds from that transaction had been used to rent a new apartment at the top of an anonymous modern block in the district known as Sishane. He walked over to the window and looked out over the Golden Horn towards the great dome of the Sulimanyie Mosque. Also clearly visible was the Topkapi Palace, for so many years the centre of power of the Ottoman Empire. He thought of how the centre of power had moved back and forth over the centuries between Palace and Mosque, as the influences of religion and state waxed and waned. Soon the power of religion would be pre-eminent again. And he would be the author of the change.
The phone rang, bringing him out of his reverie. He answered it abruptly. A voice said in Arabic, ‘Your brother has been taken ill; he will be operated on in two days time, in the evening.’
‘Very well, I’ll come at once,’ he replied in the same language, and hung up looking thoughtful. The call was a prearranged code message, a message he had not expected. He had more work to do.
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