by Oliver North
Tango Rendezvous
9 km South of Birin Village, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1445 Hours, Local
Rotem watched as Captain Naruch's vehicle came into view. He was a kilometer east of where he had left his men and the Desert Raider vehicle. Rotem and his team had arrived at the rendezvous first and found cover quickly. Naruch's instincts were good; no matter which of the two cities they were taking Newman to, the Israeli commandos were less than forty minutes from either location. Rotem's men had spread a camouflage net over the vehicle and established a defensive perimeter while their commander took a look around.
A half hour earlier, Rotem had endured a fascinating—but frustrating—experience. From the Israeli observation post, he could just see the train tracks two kilometers to the east. As he watched, a train approached from the south, and he turned to the team's communicator and said, “Rafi, where does the satellite say Newman is?”
After checking, in a matter of seconds, the communicator called out, “Major, he's right there!” Rotem looked and saw the trooper pointing to the train.
Rotem moved quickly to look at the laptop, set up on the hood of the Desert Raider. There on the screen's map display was Newman's “tattle-tale,” the blip of his tiny satellite transponder, moving across the screen as well as on the railway tracks in the valley below.
“Well, at least we know...that means they didn't take him off the train in Hims,” said Rotem. “Let's hope they take him off in Hamah and not all the way at Aleppo.”
Shortly after the train passed out of sight, Captain Naruch and his four-man undercover team arrived at the rendezvous. They parked their vehicle alongside the ancient bridge over the Nahr Al Asi, or what little was left of the shallow river that the Desert Raider had crossed about twenty minutes earlier. One of Naruch's men put the hood up on their decrepit-looking vehicle, while another poured a half-quart of oil on the ground beneath the crankcase to make it appear as if the vehicle had broken down. After checking up and down the road to ensure that no one saw them, they removed their weapons and equipment from the secret compartment built into the floor plates of the vehicle and walked, one at a time, over the ridge to rendezvous with Rotem's team.
Just as Rotem was about to brief Naruch and his men, one of the soldiers bumped the cord connecting the tiny satellite antenna to the computer, and the little “umbrella” fell off the top of the Desert Raider, breaking the signal-lock with the satellite. When the laptop screen went blank, the soldier operating the system jumped up to reset the antenna, carefully aiming it to the point in the sky where the satellite was parked, but by the time he tried to re-establish the signal, the blinking green icon that represented the American was not visible on the map of the area. The soldier operating the system began trying various adjustments.
After nearly thirty minutes of trying, someone suggested that they reboot the system and re-enter the coordinates. To Rotem's great relief, this plan worked; Newman's position came up immediately.
“Oh, man...look where he is,” Rotem said.
“They evidently took him off the train at Hamah...but now it looks as if they're taking him by car or truck somewhere east of here,” Naruch said. “They've got a real head start. It will take us an hour to get to where they are now, and they're still driving east—away from us.”
“Where are they taking him—and why? What's over there?” Rotem said.
The computer operator zoomed out on the map, and the answer became more apparent.
“They're heading toward Salamiyah, sir. That's thirty-five kilometers, cross-country, line of sight, from here.”
“This is bad,” Rotem said. “They're still on the move.” The major turned to his Ethiopian tracker. “Captain Naruch, have you or your men been into Salamiyah? If they take him there, can we go into the city to get him?”
“No, sir. There's a Syrian Army garrison guarding the city. The Army and the Interior Ministry police routinely set up roadblocks and checkpoints.”
“Well, why are they taking him there? Do the Hezbollah or the PFLP have offices there?”
“Not that we know of, sir. But these guys are smart. They're doing it to make sure that their prisoner is not being followed. I think we'd better just sit this out for awhile and see where they end up, sir.”
Rotem ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Yes, you're right.” For the first time since taking off from Israel, Ze'ev Rotem was feeling something like despair; he was getting no closer to rescuing his wife, and he might never again see his American friend alive.
Centre Market Square
Salamiyah, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1605 Hours, Local
Newman was wedged in the backseat of an old Land Cruiser between his two bodyguards, trying to stay awake. He noticed that sometimes his two escorts had the same problem. But they knew he wasn't going to try to escape; they were taking him to see his wife.
The Marine hoped he was on the final leg of this odyssey. The driver had been waiting for them when they disembarked from the train in Hamah, and up until they entered the city limits of Salamiyah, they had made reasonably good time. But now they were stuck in the Syrian version of evening rush hour.
At four o'clock in the afternoon, the marketplace lacked the swarming hustle and bustle of the early morning hours; still, there were hundreds of shoppers lingering among the crowded stalls and produce stands. The narrow streets were congested with traffic of all kinds—people, beasts of burden, cars and trucks, bicycles, scooters—and more people.
After slowly grinding along for ten minutes through the crowd in the waning light, one of the two guards said something to the driver in Arabic. The car pulled over to the side of the narrow street, and Newman's guards motioned for him to get out of the car.
As they got out, Newman could sense people looking at him. He felt out of place, the only Westerner visible on the street. There were others who wore jeans and T-shirts, but their features were Arabic; fortunately, his tanned skin, beard, and long, dark hair made it a little easier for him to blend in.
His two guards walked on either side of him, as they had all day. They escorted him for several blocks through the bazaar to a shop at its edge, one of the many permanent structures with windows, doors, and a sign. Newman had a little trouble with the Arabic script, but he thought he could make out “Mahediran Jewelry.” His guess was confirmed when his guards took him inside and he saw display cases of rings, bracelets, watches, and other jewelry.
Once inside, one of the guards pulled down the shades on the front windows and the door and then turned the lock. The other guard posted the sign that said “closed” in Arabic. A man behind the counter, whom Newman guessed to be the proprietor, looked up and, when he saw who had come in, immediately picked up his coat and left by a rear door.
“Sit,” one of his guards ordered. Newman sat on a nearby stool, placing the two knapsacks that he had brought with him on the floor beside his feet.
They waited silently nearly twenty minutes. Newman heard activity in the back and the sounds of someone entering the shop. He turned to look, hoping to see his wife, but instead saw a tall man in an expensive European suit. Two other men, carrying automatic weapons, flanked the well-dressed man. The tall man paused a moment, silhouetted by the dim light behind him, then walked out of the shadows and into the well-lighted shop.
“Komulakov!”
“My dear Colonel Newman, you are truly like a cat with nine lives. I see that you took Simon Harrod's advice to lose that military haircut. Your hair is quite long now, isn't it?”
“Where are Rachel and her friend?”
“They are safe—for now. It was you I needed, you see.”
“I want to see my wife.”
“Oh, there will be time enough for all that later. First, I need to make sure you aren't being followed.”
“What do you want?”
“Patience, please, Colonel Newman. May I r
equest that you take off your clothes and let my men search you for a transmitter?”
Newman stood slowly and began pulling off his shirt.
“Oh, and...what do you have in the knapsacks?” Komulakov said.
“A change of clothing for the women. Any problem with that?”
Komulakov gestured, and one of the armed men grabbed the knapsacks.
As Newman undressed, one of the guards pulled out a pair of latex surgical gloves while the other watched, weapon at the ready. The terrorist with the gloves forced open the American's mouth. Then he inspected under Newman's arms and the bottoms of his feet. The terrorist shoved Newman over a jewelry counter to probe his rectum and groin for a hidden transmitter. Finally, he reached into a case and took out what looked to Newman like a hand-held metal detector, similar to the kind used at airports, and ran it over Newman's abdomen.
While Newman was being subjected to this personal indignity, Komulakov had another of his thugs carefully go through the Marine's shoes and clothing while a third searcher did the same with the garments Newman had brought for the women. He used a sharp penknife to cut the straps on the knapsacks and opened up several seams in the bags and some of the clothes. By the time he finished, the bags were virtually useless, and at least one blouse was destroyed.
Eventually, all three men were satisfied that Newman was not wired—neither his clothing nor those items he had brought for the women.
“Get dressed,” said Komulakov. “You have five minutes with your wife before we leave.”
“Leave? For where?”
Komulakov left the room without answering.
As he was dressing, Newman heard a door slam in the back of the shop. He was tying his shoes under the supervision of three armed men when the rear door slammed again. Then, just as he stood upright, he heard “Peter!”
Rachel was in his arms. His face was buried in her hair, her arms around his neck, her breath on his face, his arms pulling her body close. She was crying, “Peter...Peter,” laughing and sobbing at the same time.
“Rachel...oh dear God, thank you...thank you!” He soaked in the love and energy of her being while he clung to her.
When he finally opened his eyes, Newman looked up to see Komulakov standing in the doorway at the rear of the shop.
“We will leave you alone for five minutes.”
The two guards who had escorted him here exited the front door to stand outside, barring escape. The third man followed Komulakov into the back room while the Newmans had their reunion. It was only then that Peter noticed Rachel was garbed in black like an Arab widow.
“Are you all right, honey?” he asked, looking into her eyes, seeing the swelling from her broken nose, the cut on her lip.
She nodded. “Yes, and so is Dyan. But what about James? Where is he—is he all right?”
“He's fine...and safe—with my sister Nancy,” he whispered, so no one else could hear. “I put him on a plane with Gunnery Sergeant Skillings, who took him to Cyprus. She flew over to take him back to the States. He'll stay with her—safe, honey—until all of this is over.”
“Thank God,” Rachel said, tears welling in her eyes. “I've been so worried about you both.”
“Yeah, I've been a bit concerned about you as well, Mrs. Newman,” Peter said as lightly as he could. “Is Dyan handling things all right?”
“Yes, she's in the van behind the shop. They wouldn't let her come in. She's OK, but she'd just learned she was pregnant when she came to see me on Tuesday. She's been having a little morning sickness, but other than that, she's fine. Peter...are they going to let us go now?”
“I doubt it, honey. Not yet, anyway. Whatever it is Komulakov wants with me, he'll probably keep you as a hostage to make sure that I do what he wants.”
He leaned close and whispered so that he couldn't be overheard.
“Rachel, make sure you and Dyan wear the change of clothes I brought for each of you. It's important that you both wear those things. You'll recognize whose clothes are whose when you open the bags. But it's absolutely important that you both wear those clothes. Do you understand?”
“I—I guess so,” she said softly.
“I can't tell you what's going on, but things are not as out of control as they seem. We'll be getting help...”
He kissed her gently on the lips because of the cut, but his kiss was long and tender, reassuring her of his love and protection. They held each other in a tight embrace until Komulakov came back into the room.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Newman,” the Russian said, “but it's time for you to go. I'm afraid you'll have to say good-bye to your husband for awhile. Your permanent reunion will have to wait until he finishes an assignment I have for him. And please be patient; it may take a few weeks before he can complete everything.” At this, Komulakov made a gesture, and the Syrian woman stepped past the Russian and took Rachel by the arm.
Newman's emotions ran the gamut from sadness to anger in seconds at the words of the former KGB officer. Keep it together, Pete. For Rachel.
Rachel looked back at him. “I love you, Peter...always.”
Newman bent over, placed the two bags of clothing in her arms, and squeezed her hand.
“Trust me. And remember what I said. I love you.” Then he watched his wife being taken out through the back of the shop and heard the door slam. He looked at the Russian.
“You miserable excuse for a human being. Someday I'm going to tear out your heart.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Komulakov. “I can break you like a twig.”
Newman lunged for the Russian but was immediately grabbed by the two Palestinians who had re-entered the front door behind him. One of them clubbed Newman viciously on the head with the butt of his gun, and the American dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Rachel held her tears until she was out the back door of the shop and inside the van. The Arab woman sat on one side of her, an armed terrorist on the other. Dyan sat mute behind them, armed men flanking her as well.
As the van pulled away from the shop and back down the alley, the shadows lengthened, and the driver turned on the headlights. Rachel began to sob so uncontrollably that Dyan reached forward and squeezed her friend's shoulder.
“Shut up!” someone ordered in accented English. “You stop—or I will shut your mouth for good!”
Frightened, Rachel realized she needed to hold in her emotions. She forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings. As the vehicle pulled out onto the main street, she checked her watch—ten minutes after five.
She noticed it was beginning to get dark; the crowds had thinned considerably from what they had been earlier. But there was something else different. In the gathering gloom, she tried to figure out what it was.
There...the faint scent of cologne. She knew it wasn't any of the men or the woman who had been guarding them. They all smelled— but not of cologne.
She caught it again. And then she noticed—the man sitting in the front passenger seat was different. On the way into the city, the seat had been occupied by one of the young thugs who had kidnapped them in Jerusalem. This was an older man, shorter and heavier. And he was wearing a European style sport coat.
“Who are you?” Rachel asked.
“Ah, that is better. You see, you cannot let your emotions rule over you,” the man said. It was the same voice that had just threatened her. But now, it sounded controlled, almost friendly.
“Who are you?”
“I am Leonid Dotensk, a business associate of General Komulakov. He has asked me to watch over you for awhile.”
Komulakov. That was a name she remembered hearing from Peter. She struggled to remember what her husband had said—then it all came rushing back: Komulakov was a renegade KGB general; he had caused the death of Peter's men in Iraq three years ago; he had been behind the explosion on the Pescador that had almost killed them both. Komulakov was the reason they had to live under aliases in Jerusalem. Now she had good reason to fear
“the European.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“It does not matter,” said Dotensk. “It is enough for you to know that we will stay in Syria, but far, far away from here—far from prying eyes and ears.”
Tango Rendezvous
9 km South of Birin Village, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1710 Hours, Local
Rotem was growing more desperate by the moment. Uncertain about Newman's final destination and with the two women's whereabouts unknown, Rotem had taken Captain Naruch's advice; they had been waiting in their harbor site for signs of further movement.
For more than an hour, Newman's tracking signal had been stationary in Salamiyah. They had activated the signals for the two transponders sewn into the women's brassieres, and they came up on the screen stationary—like Newman's signal.
Rotem was preparing to tell his men to post a 50-percent watch around their small perimeter so they could eat in shifts prior to setting out listening posts for the night, when the sergeant watching the laptop motioned him over.
“Sir, we have movement on the screen.”
Rotem jumped up and looked at the display. Newman's icon hadn't moved. But the other two, the women's, were moving away from Salamiyah at fairly high speed.
“Captain Naruch, look at this.”
As the Ethiopian tracker came to look, Newman's signal began to move as well.
“The women are moving east, and Newman is moving west toward Hamah,” Naruch said.
“What do you make of that?” Major Rotem asked.
“I'm not sure. There isn't much to the east, besides the Euphrates Basin and a lot of desert. But it appears as if Colonel Newman is being brought back west, toward Hamah—or maybe even to Hims.”
This entire operation is a disaster in the making, Rotem thought. “Their geographic separation makes a simultaneous rescue of all three impossible with this few men,” he said quietly.
“Yes, sir. And unless the vehicle with the women stops relatively soon or they release the women quickly, we have no chance of catching up to them before dawn.”