In shadowy spy wars, deaths are to be expected. It's considered an extremely risky business and people do tend to get killed, or, at a minimum, ‘exposed’, forcing them to return to their home country in disgrace. But the damage to the CIA’s network in Lebanon had been greater than usual, reaching a crisis status with their ability to undermine or manipulate the enemy's ability to gather information. The CIA’s once vaulted skills had been eroded as the agency shifted from outmaneuvering rival spy agencies to fighting terrorists.
Suddenly, the U.S., Britain and Israel began losing contact with some of their top spies.
Using the latest SEEKER software supplied by Iran, Nasrallah's spy-hunters unit began methodically searching for spies in Hezbollah's midst, searching something as basic as cell phone data looking for anomalies. This simple analysis identified cell phones that, for instance, were used rarely or always from specific locations and only for a short period of time. Then it came down to old-fashioned, detective work: Who had information that might be worth selling to the enemy?
The effort took years. During this time, at least 100 Israeli assets working for telecommunications companies or those in mid-level military positions were apprehended.
Back at CIA headquarters, the arrests alarmed senior officials. The agency knew it was vulnerable and susceptible to the same analysis that had compromised the Israelis.
This allowed Hezbollah to identify assets and case officers and unravel at least part of the CIA's spy network in Lebanon.
Nasrallah's televised announcement was followed by finger pointing among departments inside the CIA as the spy agency tried to figure out what went wrong and contain the damage.
SHIEK HASSAN NASRALLAH ROSE AS fast as his girth would allow from the comfort of his leather chair, his aides hastening in the American Ambassador, James Folkes.
“Ambassador,” said the Sheik in greeting, his robes flowing as he moved, his hand extended. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Welcome to my humble, yet modest home,” his outstretched arms taking in the opulent fireplace room in the Quin Palace, the palace built in the 12th century for one of King Suleiman’s wives.
“Thank-you for seeing me on such short notice,” replied Folkes, gritting his teeth at having to deal with a known terrorist. “And I must say, it is a pleasure for me also,” he lied. His six-foot athletic frame outfitted in his hand-tailored suit provided quite a contrast to the Sheiks flowing white robes. He knew he was far from his Harvard educated roots as soon as he stepped inside the Palace. Raised on the south side of Boston by an alcoholic father who was a master at losing a job, Folkes found it a constant battle just trying to survive. Since his Mother died of breast cancer when he was twelve, Folkes essentially raised himself and assumed the caregiver role to his father. He had to, he promised his Mother on her deathbed to take care of the old man. His Mother knew his father would eventually die young from the alcohol. But he was still his father. They “couch surfed” with friends and neighbors through Folkes remaining time at South Boston High School. With no money to speak of between the two of them, he managed to assemble a wardrobe of two pairs of pants and three shirts from the local Salvation Army. Most days he wore the same clothes as the previous day. He would just iron the creases out so they wouldn’t look half bad. But he excelled at academics, promising himself he would one day use his gift to get himself, and if still alive, his father, out of South Boston. Amazingly, Folkes finished as Valedictorian. His status qualified him as “disadvantaged scholar” and he was awarded a full-ride to Harvard. Unfortunately, his father would never see his son move on to Harvard, dying the week before his High School graduation of acute alcohol poisoning. With no family to speak of, he was truly on his own. For his High School graduation Valedictorian speech he chose to speak about his life’s experiences; of his constant struggle just to find a place to sleep for the night and then study into the early hours of the morning with only the glow of a flashlight. His teachers and classmates sat enthralled, none, except his few close friends, realized his predicament for all of his school years, some weeping openly. He went on to state that if someone like himself, with nothing; no home, no mother, no money, and now, no father, could graduate as Valedictorian and go onto Harvard for free, anyone could do it. Only in America could someone rise up from nothing to be something.
This is why America would always triumph over evil. When simple individuals such as himself could rise up to be an Ambassador for his country, this spoke volumes about its system.
As he now looked around at his present surroundings, he realized he was a long way from South Boston. He always took comfort in that speech, especially when he was about to meet with an important figure. Now, in the presence of pure evil, he was about to make a deal with the Devils representative. A deal that could have far-reaching repercussions.
After the customary greetings were exchanged, strong tea along with dates and olives were served. It was the Sheik who spoke first, brushing away his aides. “We are not so different, you and I,” he began.
Folkes smiled slightly in response, but in reality wanting to reach across the table and punch the bastard in the face. Better yet, put a bullet in his head. He knew this man had personally ordered the execution of an untold number of people, Americans included.
The Sheik continued: “We can search all of history, seeking the evolution of human progress. When you do, you will see how far we have progressed from barbarism. I think you and I have an opportunity to end our struggles.”
Folkes nodded once more before launching into his own prepared speech, supplied by the best Langley could afford. “Of course you are aware, Israel won’t be happy with my being here. Neither will Iran nor Saudi Arabia. Just wait until the Chinese and Russians find out. And as far as the Lebanese government is concerned, well, I don’t really think there is a Lebanese government so we shouldn’t have any trouble from that end.” Folkes finished off his tea and rose to walk over and admire a tapestry that filled the entire wall. He needed a slight pause in the conversation to collect his thoughts.
“It’s from the 12th century, English I am told,” said the Sheik, well versed in his history. “I understand it was taken in battle from a well-heeled crusader just north of our present location. It is my gift to you if you so desire.”
Folkes politely declined the offer. “I couldn’t fit it into my luggage,” he lied, in truth not wanting anything from this murderer. “But I thank you for such a grand gesture.” He returned to his seat.
He cleared his throat a few times, not agreeing with what was about to transpire but, he had higher ups to answer to. “Our purpose here is to defuse a potential flashpoint between our friends.”
The Sheik nodded. “Yes, you are right. Please forgive me. I have allowed some regrettable incidents to cloud my better judgment. We must learn to trust our brethren to keep their word.”
“In that case, we have much to discuss.” Folkes looked around the room, him finding it hard to focus on a known murderer and liar. He reflected back to when he first was appointed Ambassador. His mentor, a Harvard professor, himself once an Ambassador to France, imparted to him some advice he would never forget. It was over a glass of scotch. They were sitting in front a roaring fireplace, both of them rocking away when his professor said: “One of the main duties as Ambassador is performing just like a Shakespearian stage actor. Toss in a lot of pomp and circumstance with some fluff thrown in for good measure. His job was to keep the peace and wave the flag. And deal with the occasional pompous asshole.” Folkes knew this was just such a time.
“Sheik Nasrallah, allow me to show you what the United States is prepared to offer you in return for your cooperation.”
CHAPTER 73
BORDER POST SIX:
JORDANIAN/ISRAELI BORDER
The rusting, black, 1994 BMW, with its two young male occupants attracted little attention as it crept towards the Jordanian/Israeli border crossing in the early morning light. Luckily for them traff
ic consisted of only two donkey carts, both in the process of being thoroughly inspected by Jordanian Border Guards as the two men watched intently from the comfort of their car.
The driver of the BMW nervously checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Timing was everything. That he understood. But the sole task they had worked on for many weeks had proved much harder than he had expected. He usually worked alone but wisely rejected that idea. He knew from previous experience that at least two people would be needed just to beat the security checkpoints. The Israelis would think one Muslim presented the possibility of a suicide bomber and hence, additional scrutiny of the vehicle. But two? No, the Muslims would never be imprudent enough to waste two people on one job.
In a false panel located between the second row seat and the trunk, the men had concealed a sealed copper and lead case filled with cesium-137. Ten sticks of dynamite wrapped around the case completed the crude bomb. They were, as instructed, to deliver the radioactive material to a predetermined location in Tel Aviv. A location meant to kill as many as possible through radioactive fallout. The fallout would consist of tiny bits of bomb residue that would affix themselves to the rising dust. The nature of the blast, being set off at ground level, would maximize the fallout. The death count was expected to exceed 5,000 and render the center of Tel Aviv uninhabitable for 10,000 years.
The men making payment, Iranians and an old Nazi, had offered them a Swiss account worth $1M Euro in the event they lived or for their family if they died.
Surely, Allah had smiled down on them, they thought.
They knew the material could have but one likely purpose - construction of a dirty bomb. The crudely fashioned explosive would release a mere fraction of an atomic weapon's destructive power, but still be sufficient enough to render several city blocks uninhabitable.
The passenger lit up a cigarette, nerves getting the best of him. He took three to four drags before tossing the butt out the window. ‘I don’t like the waiting,” he said impatiently to the driver.
“Relax, my brother,” replied the driver knowingly. “Everything has been taken care of by our friends on the other side.”
“I do not like nor trust Jews,” he spat back.
“Yes,” replied the driver, “but I do. At least the ones we are dealing with. They are people who are motivated by greed such as you and I.”
The donkey carts had moved on. The Jordanian Border Guard waved them forward; his outstretched hand demanded their passports. He provided a cursory inspection to the first several pages of the men’s passports, before handing them back. He leaned in the driver’s side, eyeing the passenger and then looking to the empty back seat. “Open the trunk,” he ordered as he walked to the rear of the vehicle. Ahead of them a second Border Guard stared menacingly at them as he fingered his Tec-nine machine gun.
“I don’t like it,” mumbled the passenger under his breath, ready to reach for his 38 he had concealed beneath his seat.
The driver smiled at the second guard as he spoke to his passenger. “Don’t panic. Everything will be okay. Just don’t make any sudden moves or our friend here will shoot both of us.”
The border guard searching the trunk found, in plain view, a business sized manila envelope with his name written on it in black ink. He looked from side-to-side, when he was confident no one was looking, he promptly folded it once before tucking it in his pants. Satisfied, he now closed the trunk and walked up to stand beside his partner, promptly waving them through.
The driver smiled at the border guards as they passed.
The border guard who had searched the trunk nodded in return before pulling the manila envelope from pants pocket, greedily ripping open the envelope, he reached in to extract ten, $100 bills, promptly handing five to his grinning partner. The five hundred dollars they each received represented more than three months’ salary. They each laughed aloud as they retreated to the comfort of their air-conditioned hut contemplating their newfound riches.
The BMW now approached the second border checkpoint, this one marked by concrete blocks that were purposely placed in a serpentine pattern to slow approaching traffic to five kilometers per hour. To their left, in blue and white lettering, a large sign announced the border of Israel.
The driver turned to his passenger: “Allah Akbar,” he said. The passenger responded in kind. “We will enter the land of the infidels and accomplish something no one has been able to do; ever. Take out the center of an Israeli city,” he said solemnly.
“Good morning,” said the middle-aged border guard to the men, his outstretched hand mimicking the Jordanian guard, indicating for them to hand over their Passports. Behind him stood three guards, each with an Uzi slung low across their chest.
He fingered through each page, looking for areas they may have recently traveled to. He then leaned forward into the car and waited until he had their full attention. Looking for telltale signs learned during his Mossad training. “What is the purpose of your visit?” He said in near perfect English as he returned the documents to the men, scrutinizing their body language as they responded.
As practiced many times before, the younger of the two, the passenger, was first to speak. “We are visiting our uncle in Nabuz,” he replied in halting English. He then paused while his eyes focused a little more intently on the guard. “We are to celebrate his birthday. He turns eighty today!”
The guard nodded in understanding. “Open the trunk, please,” he said matter of factly. A second guard walked the perimeter of the car moving along a mirror on wheels that reflected up and underneath the cars underbelly.
The driver did as he was asked, pushing the button on the cars dashboard, the trunk popping open in response.
The guard thoroughly searched the trunk for several minutes, knocking on the panels, and then opened the rear doors, searching the back seat area, noticing nothing of particular interest. He nodded to the other border guard with the mirror, him nodding in return.
“Okay, move on,” the first guard said.
The driver and his passenger smiled to each other, nodding to the guard as they drove on.
The passenger was the first to speak once they cleared the checkpoint. “We did it. We actually beat them at their own game. The bastards will pay dearly for all of their crimes against our brothers.”
The driver shook his head. “It was too easy. They let us in.”
“So what,” responded the passenger. “At least we are across the border. All we have to do now is drive the 100 kilometers to Tel Aviv and leave the car in the city center. We can be home by midnight.”
The driver smiled at him, getting caught up in his passenger’s euphoria. “Maybe you are right.”
One hundred meters in front of them, alongside the road they drove, sat a military van equipped with radiation detectors. As they passed by, it triggered loud audible alarms from within.
The radiation alarms beeped several times each day. Almost always set off by natural sources of radiation, such as bananas or even scrap metal from Iraqi tanks destroyed in the war by American military depleted uranium shells.
This was different. The meter pegged off the scale. The soldiers looked to each other, knowing exactly what they had. “This is it,” one soldier said to the other. He quickly grabbed his cell phone; dialing a number he was recently provided. “Your vehicle has just driven past us,” he said to the unidentified person. “It’s a rusting, black, 1994 BMW with two passengers. No small arms were noted during the border inspections.”
SILVERMAN HAD HIS FIVE MAN TEAM already in place awaiting just this call. He knew the capabilities of his team and that they alone would be able to handle the situation. But even he had to defer to the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister had authorized an “F Plus” state of readiness for the Israeli military, the highest state that could be authorized short of war. There was no chance he would allow this vehicle to reach more than five miles into his territory before it would be eliminated. Every possible tu
rnoff from the main road was covered by soldiers camouflaged from the ordinary eye. Silverman knew the terrorists would stick to the main road leading from the border post because it eventually linked up with the main highway north to Tel Aviv.
It’s just what the old Nazi said they would do. It was the quickest route.
Silverman’s snipers were positioned at a bend in the road where it flowed down a small hill. The car would have to slow to manage the turn, setting up a perfect shot for his snipers. From atop a bluff overlooking the bend Silverman waved to his men, it was an agreed upon signal that their prey would approach in a matter of minutes.
It was also time to alert the Prime Minister.
THE BMW’s DRIVER SLOWED as he approached a bend in the road, a road sign announcing Highway 6 in 25 kilometers. “I don’t like this,” he said to his passenger. “It was all too easy. They just let us in.”
His passenger nodded in response. “It might have been Allah’s will,” he started to say before reconsidering. “But you might be right. I’ve had a more thorough search when I walked through a border post with my lunch pail in hand, let alone being in a car. Let’s turn around and go down one of the many side roads we passed. It might take us longer but the result will still be the same in the end.”
At that moment two shots penetrated the windshield, one aimed for each terrorist, each bullet finding its mark, killing them instantly. The now driverless car continued rolling forward before it crashed into a dirt embankment, the driver slumped over the steering wheel, his passenger slumped against the dashboard.
Silverman and his team quickly surrounded the car. Silverman nods to one of his men in a protective radiation suit, the soldier holding a hand-held digital radiation detector. Silverman signals for the soldier to move forward in search of their weapon. As the soldier gets within 10 meters of the car, the distinctive sound of audible clicks could be heard. Once at the vehicle he expertly waves it over the car’s engine, the clicks getting quicker. As he proceeds to the rear of the car, the detector reaches a steady tone. He carefully places the detector on the ground, signaling for another soldier to provide him a crow bar. Within seconds he manages to pull down the back seat, then the side panel, exposing the radiation bomb. He nods to Silverman that it was still disarmed.
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