The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

Rotem, Newman, and the other Sayeret team members had arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule at the rendezvous point and were concealed in heavy shrubbery alongside the dirt road that ran east and connected to the Hims highway. Here they were to meet four Duvdevan operators who had been inside Syria, collecting intelligence when the kidnappings occurred. “Don't be surprised when you see them,” Rotem had said.

  “Why, what's wrong with them?” Newman whispered.

  “Nothing. They're just different. You'll see.”

  When they arrived, precisely on time, Newman couldn't believe they were Israelis. They were in a beat-up Toyota van, dressed in tattered civilian garb, and appeared to be a group of Arab or even African laborers. Rotem came out of his concealment and embraced their leader. He called him ‘captain,' although he didn't look like an officer to Newman. As far as the American was concerned, all four of them looked like emaciated refugees.

  Rotem brought the captain and one of the sergeants into the brush, while the other two babysat the van with the engine compartment open, pretending to have a mechanical problem. Given the appearance of their vehicle, it certainly appeared plausible.

  Rotem introduced the captain and the sergeant to Newman, but Pete missed their names. It hardly mattered; the captain's news was all bad.

  “We have to call off the operation. The women are not there.”

  “What do you mean?” Rotem asked.

  “We went in as close as twenty meters, and the place was empty. We used NVDs to check it out. There was only one man, probably a watchman, and nobody else was there.”

  “Do you think that they might have been there earlier, but left?”

  “Hard to say. We got there at 0200 and no one was there. We waited until dawn to see if they were just late in getting there, but no one showed up. By then, it was too late to call off your coming here.”

  Newman was peering from Rotem to the other man. “I thought you said you knew where they'd be.”

  “They were there,” Rotem said. “I know their ways...they took the women there from the train. It's always the way they work.”

  Major Rotem was silent. Newman knew the instructions from Rotem's superiors were very clear: if the women were dead or could not be located, they had to withdraw. The Israeli MOD wasn't about to risk having one of its special operations units hunted down inside Syria.

  Major Rotem turned to the undercover commander. “It's not your fault, Captain Naruch. I thought our intelligence was good. Either we had a leak...or they're just being extra cautious. In either event, we could be chasing all over the Syrian desert looking for them and still never locate them.”

  He turned to Peter. “I'm sorry, Colonel Newman, but my orders are clear. We must return to Israel until we either hear from the kidnappers, or we get better intel.”

  Newman nodded reluctantly.

  “Captain Naruch, you and your trackers return to your tasks. We'll signal you when we know more. If you see or hear anything about the two women, report it immediately and we'll come back.”

  The captain merely nodded and then he and his sergeant rejoined their comrades at the van. After checking the road in both directions, they slammed the engine compartment closed, jumped back into the vehicle, and roared off down the dirt track as if the devil himself was on their tail.

  After they had been gone for about ten minutes, Rotem, Newman, and the other men got back into the Desert Raider and headed cross-country to the southeast, in the general direction of Tall Kalakh.

  “We must get to a different extract point for pick up,” Rotem told Newman. “We'll pull into the forest and hope the Syrians don't have any patrols along the Lebanese border today.”

  As they drove their strange new six-by-six vehicle toward the hills to their south, Major Rotem used his encrypted RF radio to call Tel-Nof and tell them to send the helicopters back to get them. When he finished, he called to the driver, “Slow down. We have plenty of time before sunset, and I don't want to be sitting around too long in one place while we wait. Let's try to find some concealment where we can wait without being seen.” The driver nodded and slowed down, looking for scrub vegetation that he could drive the vehicle into if they saw anyone or heard any Syrian aircraft overhead.

  Late in the afternoon, when they arrived at their harbor site, a few hundred yards from the extraction LZ, Rotem ordered them to cut branches and shrubbery to camouflage and conceal the vehicle. When they were finished, he told the men to rest at 50-percent watch. “If anyone sees anything—military, police, or civilian—do not engage unless you are spotted...and do not kill unless the person tries to escape or fires on you.”

  Once his men were posted, Rotem turned to Newman and said, “You should rest, my friend; I must monitor the radio for instructions.”

  “I will, in a bit. Tell me, Major, those four men in the van—they don't appear to be Israelis. Are they Syrian agents of the Mossad?”

  “No.” Rotem paused for a moment before continuing. “They are from one of our ‘Tracker' units. Captain Naruch is an Ethiopian Jew. So is the sergeant who was with him. The other two men are Israeli Bedouins. They are all members of the IDF; and they have been operating in Syria for more than four months.”

  “Do you think they'll find our wives?”

  “We will find our wives. And I will kill those who did this to them.”

  RELUCTANT ACCOMPLICE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PFLP/Hezbollah Compound

  Hamah, Syria

  Wednesday, 18 March 1998

  0800 Hours, Local

  Yalla! Yalla! Get up—now! “One of the kidnappers burst into the dimly lit room and was standing, silhouetted in the doorway, pointing an AK-47 at Rachel and Dyan. Hungry, thirsty, sore, and dirty, the women had dozed off, trying to conserve energy. Now one of their captors was screaming at them in a mix of Arabic and English to get up and come with him.

  The two women were pushed roughly, half-stumbling, toward the large room at the front of the building. Rachel could see there were several more terrorists now than there were before. In the dim light she counted seven, including the one who came to get them. They seemed to be simply hanging around, some leaning against the packing crates and boxes that lined the walls, one standing smoking by the only window, occasionally peering out the filthy panes as though he might be on lookout or watch. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the odor of unwashed bodies. As she was shoved forward, Rachel looked for the man who had arrived in the Mercedes, but she could not see him.

  The two women were pushed toward the only furniture in the room, a battered table and four wooden chairs. The remnants of someone's crude breakfast, scraps of pita bread, date pits, a half-eaten apple, and empty plastic water bottles, remained. The man behind Rachel jabbed the barrel of his assault rifle into her ribs and commanded them to sit. He gave the order in Arabic, but both Rachel and Dyan understood him and stopped.

  Three other terrorists came forward. One grabbed Rachel by the hair, jerked her head forward toward his face, while another pinned her hands behind her. She could smell the terrorist's foul breath.

  Is he going to rape me?

  Rachel writhed violently as she tried to resist. Suddenly the kidnapper behind her pushed one of the wooden chairs into the back of her knees, and she collapsed into its frame. Two other terrorists grabbed Dyan by the shoulders and slammed her into another chair.

  One of the men said something Rachel couldn't understand, and two coarse ropes were produced. The man roughly yanked the rope across her arms as he prepared to tie her up. The rope burned, leaving painful red traces of its path, but she did not cry out. The four men took their time tying the women to the chairs, their hands wandering freely as they did so. As the rough rope cut painfully into her skin, Rachel noted that their hands were rough, unwashed, their nails broken and encrusted with grime.

  Rachel and Dyan were both tied in the same manner—legs pulled to the side of each chair and their ankles lashed to the back legs
, wrists bound behind their backs. Rachel felt exposed, vulnerable, and helpless. While the four men worked at ensuring that there was no way either woman could flee or fight back, the other three terrorists smirked and made lewd gestures.

  Rachel heard an English voice with an accent she couldn't recognize.

  “Please, gentlemen,” the voice said, “show some respect. These are women, not cattle. You don't have to be so rough with them. They are, after all, our guests.”

  The four who had been tying the women to the chairs stepped aside, giving Rachel a view of the person who had spoken. As she had suspected, it was the man she had seen getting out of the Mercedes.

  “Who are you? You sound almost like an American. What do you want with us?”

  “Well, actually it's you that I want, Mrs. Newman. And no, I am not an American,” the tall man in the suit said, smiling.

  “My name is Sarah Clancy. You've got the wrong person.”

  “No,” the man said, his smile gone as he sat down on one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table, placing a small camera and newspaper in front of him. “Your name is Rachel Newman. I know you well, although I have not seen you in years. But you are looking quite well. Are you all right?

  Rachel did not answer. Who is this man? And how can he possibly know my true identity?

  The man reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a photograph. Reaching across the table and shoving the breakfast detritus aside, he showed it to Rachel. It was a picture of her, with Peter, taken with a telephoto lens. “One of my...uh...associates took this picture. Do you remember?”

  Rachel shook her head. She was becoming more and more confused and frightened.

  “That's you, Mrs. Newman. And your husband. You had just reunited with him after he had been gone for some time. You don't remember it? It was taken on March 10, 1995, in Larnaca, Cyprus. It was taken just before the two of you were, ah, ‘killed' in a terrible explosion. Now do you remember?”

  Dyan let out a faint moan as Rachel's eyes widened in fear. Rachel still didn't know who the man was who had gone to such extremes to capture her, but she guessed that he was somehow responsible for trying to kill them before.

  “What do you want?” she asked him, her voice faint and revealing a slight tremor.

  “I only want to talk to your husband, Mrs. Newman, and ask him for a favor. In return for that favor, I will agree to return you to him.”

  “You're insane! I need to get back to my child. You took me away from my son! You've put my friend and her unborn baby through a terrible ordeal. What kind of person does terrible things like that?”

  “Mrs. Newman, it's too bad you were taken away from your child, and I'm sorry about your friend here,” he said, nodding toward Dyan, “but it can't be helped. I'm sure there are people your husband can call upon to take care of your boy while he does this little favor for me. Please don't worry about your son. If your husband does exactly what I ask him to do, you'll see your little one sooner than you think. But in the meantime, I want to take your photograph once again. Here...let me place this newspaper in front of you so the headline shows. It will tell your husband you are alive and well as of today.”

  He picked up the camera and placed the latest edition of the International Herald Tribune on her lap, leaning the paper against her chest. As he did so, Rachel noticed his hands. They were soft and smooth, carefully manicured, in contrast to the hands that had been pawing over the two women earlier. As the man carefully adjusted the collar of her blouse, she detected the faintest hint of cologne. Satisfied with her appearance, the man in the suit stepped back and took a picture of each woman. The miniature flash made Rachel blink.

  “Aren't these new digital cameras wonderful, Mrs. Newman? I can take your picture and send it right away to your husband. If you'll just give me his e-mail address, I'll send it to him along with my instructions.”

  What should she do? The man obviously already knew a great deal about her and Peter. Would they be jeopardized any further by his knowing Peter's e-mail address? She was tired; she wasn't thinking straight. The letters and numbers of Peter's e-mail address ran across her mind. Was she thinking it, or had she just said it aloud, in her fatigue and confusion?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Newman,” the man said.

  I said it aloud. Oh, Peter, I'm sorry …

  “I can only hope your husband is as cooperative as you have been.”

  The man gestured at one of the kidnappers, telling him in a mixture of English and Arabic to give the women something to eat and lock them back inside the room in the rear of the building.

  When they were taken back to their confinement, Dyan asked in a whisper, “Is that true? Are you really this other person?”

  “Yes.”

  As they ate, she told Dyan the real story of the past three years.

  Hospice of Saint Patrick

  Old City, Jerusalem

  wednesday, 18 March 1998

  2100 Hours, Local

  “Mr. Clancy, I am grateful to God to be able to see you again!”

  Isa Boyian had come running down the stairs to open the front door of the hospice as soon as he heard Newman's voice over the intercom. If he was surprised to see his boss in military clothes, accompanied by an Israeli military officer, he didn't show it.

  Though he was practically breathless, Isa still managed a running commentary and a string of questions as he, Newman, and Rotem walked up the stairs to the main reception desk.

  “Have you received any word about Mrs. Clancy? My dear wife, Ay Lienne, has cried every hour since she brought little James to you at the airport. Do you know that we have Israeli policemen staying here? I told them they could not be here because this is a religious site, but they said you approved.”

  Newman put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. “You did everything right, Isa. Please tell Ay Lienne how grateful I am for the care she has given to James. He's now with my sister on Cyprus. Has...uh...Sarah called again?”

  “I do not know, Mr. Clancy. The policemen have been answering the phones. They only allow me to talk if it is something to do with one of our guests or a call pertaining to the hospice. They have even set up recording devices at the switchboard.”

  Newman reassured Isa, repeating again that he had done everything properly. Then he led Rotem off to the apartment he and Rachel shared. As he approached the door, he was once again overwhelmed with emotion. This was the place where he and Rachel had resurrected their marriage, where they had laughed and cried, made love, and lived life as it was meant to be. Here they had played with their infant son and prayed together as they watched him grow. It was here they had finally become a family. Here had been their home. And as he put the key in the door, he suddenly realized it never would be home again—no matter what happened.

  Rotem put his hand on the Marine's arm. “Wait a moment, Peter.”

  Newman stopped and looked at the Israeli soldier. The wives of both men had been kidnapped. The two husbands had flown together into Syria on a rescue mission. Less than three hours ago, just after sunset, they had been snatched out of a small clearing along the Lebanese-Syrian border by an Israeli CH-53 helicopter. And though the operation had been flawless, it had also been a failure; neither man was any closer to seeing his wife than he had been the night before.

  “I know that this is very difficult,” Rotem said. “You have been through a lot, and it's not yet over. Inside you will find several policemen. They've been through everything in your home, looking for clues to help find your wife. The same thing is happening at my apartment. But here, the police may ask you about your true identity. If they do, it will help if you are honest with them. I will stay as long as you want; then I will go to my apartment and pick up some uniforms and personal things.”

  “I understand.”

  Newman opened the door. There were three men in the small living room, all wearing civilian clothes. The tallest of the three rose from the chair where he was making notes on a
small tablet.

  “Good evening, Colonel Newman, Major Rotem. I am Detective Aaron Marks.” He pulled out a badge that identified him, in Hebrew and English, as a detective lieutenant in the Israeli National Police—the IP. “I have been assigned to this case.”

  The three men shook hands and were introduced to the other two men, technicians who had been monitoring the recording devices they had hooked to all the telephones and extensions in the entire hospice.

  After Rotem left to return to his apartment, Marks said, “When I was downstairs in your office, I noticed you have a fax machine. I checked it in case the kidnappers tried to contact you in that way, but there were no messages. But I also noticed your computer there. It's possible they tried to e-mail you. Have you checked your e-mail messages lately from some other location?”

  The idea caught Newman by surprise. He had not thought of email at all. “C'mon,” he said, “let's see.” The two men hurried down the marble stairs to Newman's office. He went to his desk, turned on the computer, and logged on to the Internet. He clicked on the “mail” icon and glanced through the list of new e-mails.

  There!—from an unknown sender, but the subject box said, “Letter from Rachel.” Newman opened the e-mail, and the message came up on the screen:

  Peter Newman:

  This message is being sent to you to prove that your wife enjoys good health and safety in my house. A photo file is attached to this message that will confirm my protection and hospitality.

  Your wife wishes to be reunited with you as quickly as possible, and I can arrange this immediately. However, in return for this, I shall expect you to do me a favor. I will explain all to you when we are together.

  As soon as you receive this message, reply to the “OK” and no message text. I will then telephone you at your home with further instructions. Do not contact U.S. or Israeli authorities or your wife will be executed.

  The return address of the sender was a random combination of letters and numbers that Newman hardly noticed as he opened the JPEG photo file attached to the e-mail. He could feel his heart begin to race as the image appeared on the screen: his wife, bound to a chair with a newspaper propped in her lap.