by Oliver North
“I understand why you would feel this way,” said Rotem. “But the way the United Nations was trying to carry out assassinations when your mission was compromised is entirely different from the way we would handle it here. We get our orders from a small, secret council made up of an official from the Ministry of Defense, another from the Internal Security Service or Shituakh, the IDF Chief of General Staff, and a member of the Israeli judiciary. This council reviews requests for actions of termination, and the decisions have to be unanimous. What happened to you, Colonel Newman, could never happen to us.”
“So this council decides who lives and who dies. How does a terrorist make the list?”
Rotem was feeling a little fidgety at the idea of revealing state secrets, but General Burach had told him that the American Marine had full clearance to this information. “Our intelligence services keep a list of known ‘targets' and updates it regularly. It's a list of about a hundred names. When some are taken care of, they add others.”
“But many people—even here in Israel—say that assassinations are a violation of the Geneva Convention,” Newman said.
“No...that is not true. When a person is selected for extrajudiciary removal, it's because that person is an enemy terrorist, making war against us. The Geneva Convention forbids killing of innocent civilians. It doesn't cover someone who is a party to the conflict. We have chosen this way because we found it necessary to protect ourselves.”
Newman waited.
“Yes, we kill terrorists,” Rotem said, “but our goal is to do so before they have a chance to blow themselves up on a school bus, or among Israeli women shopping in the marketplace.”
Rotem saw the look on Newman's face. “This is not a new idea, Colonel Newman. I didn't invent my job. Nor was it invented by any of the other Duvdevan units. You see, our country has been forced to live by this credo for more than thirty years. As you know, there are countless numbers of terrorists from many different countries who make it their goal and mission to destroy Israel. It is my job to make sure they are not successful. Instead of waiting for them to attack us and then respond, we learn of their plans and make certain they cannot be implemented. We must kill them first.
“If I don't kill them first, they might come and board one of our buses and blow up a dozen schoolchildren. If I don't kill them, they might put a bomb in a crowded marketplace and take out scores of innocent people.
“Our government has debated this in every political and religious forum in our nation. One of our chief rabbis cites justification for what we do, based on a twelfth-century doctrine from the Talmud. Israel is fighting a war of mitzvah, and it means we have a right to self-defense. We might have to kill a hundred terrorists in order to save a thousand innocent men, women, and children from being killed or maimed. It is justified.”
“So...based on what you know about this cell that's holed up in Syria with our wives,” Newman said, “are any of these guys on your ‘hit list?’”
“Yes. They are now.”
PFLP Safe House
Hims, Syria
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
2330 Hours, Local
Although it was nearly midnight, Rachel was still awake. Her mind was reeling from all that had happened since she and Dyan had been seized just after nine that morning. It seemed to her that the timeline had to be wrong—that the kidnapping had happened several days ago. She lay on the floor atop a filthy mattress, still dressed in the clothes she had been wearing when she was grabbed. Dyan was sleeping fitfully across the small room, also on the floor. A pile of old newspapers formed a pillow for her head.
The women had not been treated as harshly as they had feared. Their captors gave them something to eat and drink when they got to this old limestone building, about three hours ago. True, the men were rougher than they needed to be when they searched them: one of the men slapped Rachel when he found her cell phone inside her jacket pocket. He took it and threw it violently across the room, smashing it against the rock wall. The blow across Rachel's face made her nose bleed again, and the cut inside her lip stung enough to distract her from some of the other aches and pains she was feeling.
They had tried to question her about the phone, wanting to know if she had contacted anyone. But the terrorist who spoke the best English, the one who seemed to be the leader, was not there, so Rachel had told them that her husband was out of town and could not be reached, and that there was no one else at home to take her call. She also told them, convincingly, that she did not call the police—only her babysitter, to ask her to keep her child until she returned.
The captors locked the women in the cramped room and gave them no lamp, furniture, or bedding, other than the two thin, dirty mattresses.
Dyan was sick, either from her pregnancy or from the rough handling and confinement in the hot, airless metal cage that had detained them during the long trip to the terrorists' safe house.
Rachel tried to recall everything she could about pregnancy from the nursing classes she had taken in college. She prayed Dyan wouldn't have any complications brought on by their ordeal.
Just before exhaustion overwhelmed her, Rachel began to think about her own child. She had been able to reach Ay Lienne and ask her to watch James until Peter returned. She knew her two-year-old son was in good hands—at least for the time being. As she pictured her little boy, asleep in his crib, she began to cry softly. The tears were still wet on her cheeks when she fell into a fitful, restless sleep.
Ben Gurion International Airport
Tel Aviv, Israel
Wednesday, 18 March 1998
0030 Hours, Local
“So how did you know my real name was Peter Newman? How long have you known that I wasn't really John Clancy?”
The two men had been sitting at a conference table in the hangar office for more than an hour, waiting for Newman's son to arrive and for an intelligence officer from IDF to bring them the latest on the kidnapping.
“I couldn't share all the details even if I knew them, and I don't,” said Rotem. “But I do know that in early February, both Shin Bet and Mossad received a new ‘BOLO' notice from your FBI that there was another alert for an IRA terrorist named Duncan. We know the IRA has worked very closely with the Libyans, the PFLP, and even Hezbollah, so we ran the photo through the facial recognition software, and even with your beard, your face came up as a match.
“It took less than forty-eight hours to figure out where you lived and what your alias was. That's when I was assigned to keep an eye on you, to learn what you were up to, and to keep track of anyone you met. You may recall, that's when my wife and your wife first met. I asked her to do that, to befriend Sarah—I mean, Rachel—so that she would get close, and we could start to build a profile on you.”
“Swell.”
“The trouble was, Dyan really liked your wife. They—how do you say it?—‘hit it off' right away. And every night when I was home, she would berate me that the intelligence services had it all wrong, that ‘John and Sarah Clancy are just nice Christians sent to run the Hospice of Saint Patrick.' It was getting so that even I believed her.
“But then, just a week or so ago, our signals intelligence people intercepted something—I don't know what—from the Russian Intelligence Service communications channels that linked ‘Clancy,' ‘Duncan,' and ‘Newman' together. We went back further in our records and found a very nice photo of Major Peter Newman in Israel in 1993, here with a group of Marine officers for the Desert Storm Tactical Symposium. Do you remember that trip?”
“Of course. We were here for three days.”
“Well, you made quite an impression. That's why, when we figured out who you really were, the decision was made simply to keep an eye on you. Everyone up my chain of command knew that a man with your credentials couldn't be a traitor or a terrorist. We were about to make some quiet inquiries when our wives were kidnapped.”
Newman sat quietly for a few moments, thinking about what he had just been
told.
“I'm concerned about two things, Major Rotem. First, what prompted the FBI to issue the BOLO in February? And second—but of greater concern—how is the Russian intelligence service involved in all this?”
“I don't know the answers to either of those questions, but I shall inquire.”
As Rotem spoke, there was a knock at the door. Rotem opened it to admit another IDF officer, carrying a cloth briefcase.
“Colonel Newman, this is Captain Zakheim. He is one of our intelligence officers, and he has the most recent information.”
The captain entered without any formalities, took a videotape and a DVD out of his briefcase, plugged them into a combination VCR/DVD player, and then turned to Newman.
“Colonel Newman, I want you to see if you recognize any of these people.”
Newman stared at the screen, horrified as he watched the abduction of his wife and her friend. The entire operation lasted less than fifteen seconds. Then an enhanced version came across the screen. The image of each of the men's faces froze on the screen. But on one view, the frame froze as one of the men held Rachel by the hair while another man pinned her legs as they tried to throw her into the van. The terror on Rachel's face made Newman want to turn away.
“Do you recognize any of them?”
“No. Do you?”
“Two of them are PFLP. At least one appears to be a well-known Hezbollah operative,” said the captain. “It's unusual for them to operate together, but not unprecedented. What is most unusual is for an operation of this kind to take place in Jerusalem—particularly inside the walls of the Old City.”
“Do we know where they are now?” asked Newman, still staring at the fear-filled image of his wife.
“They are probably in Hims. Inside Syria. Out of our reach.”
“Thank you, Captain. That will be all,” Rotem said. “You may leave the material. I'll see that it is returned to you.”
“Are they really out of reach?”
“Well, not necessarily,” said Rotem. “I've undertaken some planning. A rescue mission might be possible, but risky. Six of my men have volunteered to help get them back. I have permission and have been promised IDF assets—within reason.”
“Are six men enough?”
“I hope so, because that's all the Ministry of Defense is going to allow us to take into Syria. Besides, we don't want to take a chance on too many of us, in case of a problem or capture.”
“Are these guys experienced in counter-terrorism?”
“I'd put them up against your SEALs, Rangers, or Delta Force any day.”
“They're that good, huh? And that's why you're only taking six men?
“Actually we'll only take four—plus the two of us. We'll follow the coastline, below aircraft radar, and land on the beach in Syria. Once there, we'll rendezvous with four additional people from inside. That'll give us a force of ten.”
“Good...that sounds about right,” Newman said. “Can you fix me up with a weapon and some other gear?”
“Over there in that locker by the door. We can get you some boots when we know your size.”
As Newman was going through the gear and checking the automatic Uzi, there was another knock at the door. This time Skillings opened it. A figure outside motioned to him, and Skillings stepped out of the hangar bay, closing the door behind him. A moment later Skillings was back. He poked his head inside. “Sir...your neighbor has arrived with James.”
Newman dropped the gear on a map table and hurried out the door. Across the inside of the hangar, a police car had pulled up nearby and the police officer from the passenger side got out and opened the rear door.
The first face he saw was the wife of the hospice manager. “Ay Lienne, I'm so sorry to put you through all of this.”
Then he saw his son, lying across the backseat, asleep with his head in Ay Lienne's lap.
“He was asking for his mommy and daddy after dinner,” she said, “but he hasn't been cranky. He was just wondering where the two of you were. Any word...?”
“Not yet, but the kidnappers will probably contact us later this morning, most likely with a ransom demand. Can I impose on you to help me—will you go back to our apartment with these policemen and wait? If Rachel...I mean Sarah, or the kidnappers call, I need you there to reassure my wife that James is safe and that I am taking care of things. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Ay Lienne replied. “Is there anything that you want me to tell the kidnappers if they ask why you are not available to take the call?”
“Tell them the truth—that I was in Cyprus when it happened and am not yet back in Jerusalem. That's all you need to say. Then take a message. The police and one of Major Rotem's men will be there with you. They'll know what to do.”
Newman reached into the back of the police car and picked up his little boy. James wriggled as Newman lifted him, then snuggled against his father's chest.
After watching for a moment, Gunnery Sergeant Skillings leaned over to whisper in Newman's ear. “Sir, I really ought to be moving along with your son. Your sister's Aero-Med flight is due to land at 0600 on Cyprus.”
Newman looked at the sergeant, then at his son, sleeping in his arms.
“Don't worry, sir. You know your sister will take good care of James...until his mommy and daddy come to get him.”
“Thanks, Gunny.”
Newman's eyes had misted. James roused from his sleep.
“Daddy?”
Newman looked at his son, then bent down and stood him up on the floor of the hanger. The sleepy little boy looked around at all the colorful activity and lights, and blinked several times.
“Daddy.” He hugged Newman's leg.
Newman wiped his eyes, then squatted down, face-to-face with his son.
“How's my boy? Did you come to see Daddy?”
The little boy nodded and looked up at Skillings.
“Do you remember our friend Amos?”
Again the boy nodded.
Skillings reached down with his big hand and let the boy grab his forefinger to “shake hands.”
“Hey, pal…Daddy's going to go get Mommy. It's far away, so you can't come with me. You get to go with Amos on the airplane. You'll stay with him and your Aunt Nancy until Mommy and Daddy come to get you. OK?”
James clung to Newman.
“Daddy. Stay wif Daddy.”
Swallowing hard, Newman had to peel the boy's hands from his neck and hand him over to Skillings, who took James gently in his big hands. He talked softly into the boy's ear as he walked away, toward the C-130. “You're gonna see your Mommy and Daddy again, real soon,” Newman heard Skillings saying. “But first, we're gonna go for an airplane ride...”
Newman could hear James start to whimper as the gunnery sergeant walked with him up the ramp of the big transport craft. He had to turn away.
A few minutes later, the tail ramp closed and the big turboprop engines began to whine and then roar. Without pausing, the big craft lumbered toward the runway for takeoff. Newman watched it climb quickly into the black, moonless sky.
The boy's father felt a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Major Rotem said softly, “He'll be fine, Colonel Newman. He's in good hands. I know you've had a difficult day, but we're running out of night. We need to go over the plan once more with our whole team, and then we must go. Our aircraft is almost ready.”
“I'm OK,” Newman said. “I'll get my gear and get dressed. I'll be ready to go in five minutes.”
Lovebirds Gentleman's Club
Low Street at Orleans
Baltimore, Maryland
Tuesday, 17 March 1998
1930 Hours, Local
Bob Hallstrom had looked furtively around as he dropped the package into the Out of Town mail chute at the old U.S. Post Office on Fayette Street in Baltimore, some thirty-two miles from his FBI office at the State Department in Washington. This out-of-the-way mail drop was only one of the many elaborate steps Hallstrom t
ook to avoid detection by his FBI colleagues.
For this package, he had carefully weighed the reinforced envelope the night before at home. On his way to work this morning, he bought stamps at the Mailboxes, Etc. shop at Tyson's Corner, then put them on the parcel in his car in the parking lot. Later, after work, he had driven all the way to Baltimore to drop the package into the mailbox. His Russian handlers—and FBI or CIA investigators—would have a difficult time tracing the package to him. Of course, the return address was fake, including his cover name—Julio Morales.
The FBI mole didn't like to use the U.S. mail to ship his stolen secrets to the Russians, and he only did it when he couldn't wait the forty-eight or more hours it might take for a Russian intelligence officer to see and respond to his “Emergency Call Out Signal,” a chalk mark on a mailbox down the street from the Russian embassy. In the package Hallstrom had just mailed were two computer disks and a coded cover letter, setting up a new series of dead drops and visual codes.
But Bob Hallstrom had other reasons for coming to Baltimore—reasons that had little to do with tradecraft. He also liked to frequent a seedy joint where the drinks were bad and the girls were worse. The Lovebirds Gentleman's Club was terribly misnamed. A degenerate dive and locale for all kinds of illicit and illegal activity, it was a place where teenagers could score liquor with a phony ID and where the bar was headquarters for drug dealers and petty thieves fencing stolen goods. Hallstrom knew that it was also a place to buy a fake ID, a bogus driver's license, or even a passport. It was the kind of place where a guy like him, in a suit and tie, was noticed as soon as he walked in.
All the windows in the place were painted black; Hallstrom had to stand alongside the bar for awhile until his eyes adjusted. The place really assaulted all his senses, and he once again ran through his reasons for being here. He only drank an occasional glass of wine, so it wasn't for the alcohol. He was a militant nonsmoker, so he certainly didn't crave the thick haze of tobacco stench that hung in the air. And it wasn't the loud, grating noise billed as music that drew him here. Actually, it was one reason alone—the nasty, edgy thrill that he got from watching the topless dancers.