by Oliver North
The Israeli commander knew it was true. He desperately wanted to rescue his wife, but his hope for that—at least for this night—was fading fast, as the icons sewn into the women's clothing moved farther away by the minute.
“We have no choice.” Rotem said quietly. “If we're going after anyone tonight, we can only reach Newman. Alert the men to be ready to move as soon as it gets dark.”
The computer operator zoomed in on the map they were watching, and the men could see more details. It was obvious now that Newman's signal was following the highway from Salamiyah back to Hamah.
“It's too bad they aren't taking him to Hims,” said Naruch. “We know where that safe house is. But my men and I have only been to Hamah once. We're going to have to wait until they stop for the night before we can close up on them.”
After an hour, as darkness closed around the small Israeli commando unit, Rotem said, “All right, let's shut it down and get ready to move.” But just as Naruch and his men prepared to go back down to the highway to board their “disabled” vehicle, the computer operator called to the two officers.
“Look at this, Major.” He pointed to the zoomed-out view on the computer screen.
“The two signals for the women have stopped moving.”
Rotem called to the men to wait a moment before continuing their preparations to move out. As the two senior officers intently watched the screen, there was no movement for several minutes. Still they waited.
Naruch said, “Major, we must act now. They haven't moved in ten minutes. I don't think they're going any further east.”
“Or…” Major Rotem swallowed, then forced the words from his throat. “Or they may have killed the women and left their bodies in the desert.”
“We can't think of that as an option just now, sir. Come on, Major, let's go to Hamah first, and then we'll see about the other signals. If we move quickly, we may be able to rescue all three of them before dawn.”
Rotem tried to add the clues up some other way, but he simply couldn't escape the dread that was engulfing him. The terrorists have Newman. That's what they wanted. The women are no longer of any use to them. The reason they were headed east was to take them out into the desert and kill them.
DEALING WITH THE DEVIL
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PFLP/Hezbollah Compound
Hamah, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1930 Hours, Local
Newman was first aware of the throbbing of his head. His second feeling was of motion—he thought he was in an automobile, though he couldn't be sure because of the blindfold. Looking down, beneath the rag that covered his eyes, he could see blood on his shirt. Probably from my scalp where they whacked me. He remembered the jewelry shop, going for Komulakov, then being struck from behind.
Stupid time to try and jump Komulakov, with his goons all around me. At least the bleeding seems to have stopped. Now, if I could just lose this headache …
But the headache wouldn't go away. He tried to brace his back against the door or sidewall of the vehicle—he couldn't tell which because his hands were tied behind him, and it was hard to sit in any one position very long without shifting his weight. Newman tried to sleep, his usual way of dealing with headaches. But it was impossible to sleep, between his awkward position and the bouncing of the vehicle.
The vehicle eventually stopped. Newman listened as the engine was cut. He heard a grunted command and another voice acknowledge what was said, then the sound of a door opening. Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms, dragged him out of the vehicle, and stood him upright on the ground. By now, Newman surmised that he had been in the back of a van and, judging by the chill in the air, it must be getting close to dark.
The cooling air cleared his mind, making him instantly alert. He was standing somewhat clumsily—his hands were still tied—when another hand grabbed the front of his belt and pulled him forward. There must be three of them, one on each side, another in front.
Newman heard a door open, and they marched him into a building with a concrete floor, from the feel of it. After only a few steps inside, he heard a heavy, wooden door slammed closed, and he was jerked to a halt by the hands that gripped his arms. Then he heard a voice he recognized.
Komulakov said, “Cut him loose. Put him there.”
Newman felt his hands being cut free, but the men who held his arms didn't release him. Instead, they pushed him down into what felt like a wooden captain's chair, and his arms were tied to each of the arms of the chair. Likewise, his ankles were tied to the chair's front legs.
“Uncover his eyes.”
The blindfold was removed, and he tried to look around, but the sudden exposure to the light of even the single incandescent bulb lighting the room made his eyes water. After a few moments, the room came into focus and he could see the tall Russian standing in front of him, a Makarov 9mm pistol in the former KGB officer's hand.
“How did you find me?” Newman asked Komulakov. The instant he spoke the words he felt a strange sense of déj à vu. He remembered asking the same question to Gunnery Sergeant Skillings—was it only twelve days ago? “You must have found a way to get into the U.S. government classified files.”
“You are very perceptive, Colonel Newman. Yes...that is precisely how I found you. And my discovery has given me a problem that only you can help me solve.”
“Me, help you? You're out of your mind.”
“No, I'm not, Colonel. You see...this problem began long before I met you, but you made so much trouble for me three years ago that I am no longer in a position to deal with this problem myself. Now you must help me make this problem go away because I have a most important undertaking ahead of me.”
Komulakov knew he had to be very careful about what he told the American. Newman didn't need to know about his political aspirations. But Newman did need to know that Komulakov's problem had a name: Julio Morales. Morales could divulge Komulakov as a KGB spymaster, could document his years of espionage in the United States. Komulakov reasoned that he could weather that storm, as long as he didn't get handed over to the Americans for prosecution. What reallyworried the former KGB general was the prospect of Morales trying to save his own skin by telling about his arrangement with the Soviets and, later, the Russian government. If that happened, Komulakov knew, it would only be a matter of time before Moscow figured out that for every $100,000 that Centre had sent to Morales, only half of it ever actually arrived to the spy. The balance had ended up in Komulakov's numbered bank account in Aruba.
Komulakov knew of KGB officers who had ended up kneeling on the floor of a death cell in the basement of Moscow's Lefortovo Prison, waiting to be shot in the back of the head for embezzling far less than he had. Komulakov had no intention of leaving this world that way. Handled carefully, Newman would make sure it didn't come to that.
“Let me tell you this much, Colonel Newman. Helping me is to your benefit as well, and I don't mean simply the safe return of your wife—although that should be reason enough. I'm sure that you must have learned that, in my earlier days, I was a KGB officer stationed in the United States. Well, one of the spies I recruited inside your government some twenty years ago, as it turns out, is still working for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. Can you believe it—after all these years?”
“I have my own reasons for wishing him silenced,” Komulakov said. “I don't want him to be caught, but I also want to keep him from revealing all that he knows. I can tell you this much, Colonel Newman. This man has betrayed your country's most important and most serious classified secrets. He is also personally responsible for giving us the names of at least a dozen double agents, whom we have liquidated.”
“What are you talking about? What double agents?”
“Colonel Newman, we needn't play games with each other. Do the names Polykov, Yuzhin, Motorin, and Martynov mean anything to you? Or, on your side, Miller and Howard, Barnett, Peltin, and the Chinese guy, Wu-Tai Chin? This man gave the
m all to us.”
“Are you talking about Ames? Is that your spy?”
“No. Ames, as you know, has already been discovered, and he is talking. He's spilling his guts to save his skin from the gas chamber or a lethal injection—or however you Americans eliminate your traitors. No, it isn't Ames. This mole is someone your people haven't found yet. He has been far more productive for us than Ames. Ames gave up three of the same double agents—people inside our government spying for yours, but this guy has given us many more—and he is much more ruthless. He gave up three of his countrymen overseas simply because they might have achieved a penetration inside the KGB that could've led to his discovery and shut down his spying. No...this fellow told us about spies inside the Soviet Union who had been spying for your government for years...knowing that when he gave us their names they would be executed. And I think he turned in some of them just for sport. Can you imagine that?
“And as to the kinds of secrets that he brought to us...well, they were worth their weight in gold. Not just the Top Secret U.S. Double Agent Program, the MASINT Program, a number of KGB assessments, and even your government's nuclear programs. He revealed a number of sophisticated U.S. and British technical programs, and best of all, he gave us the details on your Continuity of Government program—the means by which your country expected to survive a Soviet nuclear first strike. It was quite a treasure trove—unprecedented really.
“Now...while I regret closing that door to our Russian intelligence bureaus, I have some, ah, personal interests to protect.”
“At some point, I gather you're going to tell me why I should care?”
Komulakov smiled. “Because I want you to find this mole and kill him for me.”
“You've got to be kidding.”
“Not at all. This man has served his purposes, and while he is a liability to your country, he is even more of a liability and a threat to me personally.”
“But I still don't see why you're telling me all this. You have enough contacts and money to do this on your own. Why are you asking me to do your dirty work?”
“There is one simple reason: I don't know who he is.”
Newman stared at the Russian, uncomprehending.
“Actually, this man came to us and wanted money for secrets. I just happened to be the officer in Washington at the time. I responded to his overture and was credited with recruiting him, but he really was a ‘walk-in,' as we say in the espionage business. And because he has always used a fictitious name and almost always used dead drops for contacting us, I never was able to find out who he is.”
“Gee, I'm really sorry. You must have been so disappointed.”
“Sometimes he mails things to us,” Komulakov said, “from New York, Chicago, Baltimore—Baltimore was the most recent one. You see, he has been somewhat inactive lately, so he had to contact me by name when he found a file that had your name in it, as well as mine. That's how I learned you were alive. After that, I contacted him to try and find out where you were. He's very well placed—and very smart—because he deduced you were in Israel, and apparently learned your pseudonym. And...here we are.”
Newman shook his head. “If you don't know who he is, how do you expect me to find him? That could take years.”
“We don't have years, my dear Colonel. In fact, we have very little time. It must be done quickly. I will assist in every way I can, but I cannot go back into the United States to find someone to do the job. You must do it. In return, I shall give you your life and that of your wife. I think that is a generous offer, don't you?”
Newman was very quiet for several seconds. “Well, who does this guy work for? FBI, CIA, NSA, military? If you don't know who he is, do you at least know where he is?”
“I told you, I don't know. I don't know his real name, I don't know where he lives, or what agency he works for. You'll have to dig him out based on the files he provided to us,” Komulakov said. “You'll probably need someone highly placed in the U.S. government to help you. Now...we will have something to eat, and then I will brief you on information you'll need.”
25 Piers Dock
Iskenderun, Turkey
Thursday, 19 March 1998
2000 Hours, Local
“It was a good dessert, Samir; thank you for bringing it. How about another piece?” William Goode held out the plate toward his guests. “I've tasted baklava everywhere in the Middle East, but this has to be the best I've ever eaten.”
“I am glad you like it,” said the young man seated across from Goode. “My father selected it from a local bakery owned by aPalestinian friend. He and his family are Christians too. The Palestinians make the best baklava.”
Samir held out his plate for another helping of the dessert. “My father felt bad that he could not come. He sent the baklava as a gift, when I came here in his place.”
Goode placed a small piece of the honey-and pistachio-filled pastry on Samir's plate and held out another piece to the third man. “Golz?”
Golz Kadri, Deputy Director of Operations of the Milli Istihbarat Teskilati, the Turkish Intelligence Service, waved his hand. “No, my friend; it is indeed very tasty, but I have already eaten more than I intended.” He daubed his lips with a napkin and looked at Goode. “
What you have told us here tonight is very disturbing.”
Goode took another small piece and put the plate back down on the table.
“You're right—it is disturbing. That's why I'm here.”
“May I ask,” said Samir, “how you two gentlemen came to know each other?”
Kadri and Goode looked at each other and, after a moment's silence, Kadri shrugged and gestured to the retired CIA Clandestine Service officer.
“We met when I was in Ankara on government service, back in the '80s,” Goode said.
“Golz was then a junior police officer.” No need to add the “secret” in front of “police,” Goode thought, or mention that I was the CIA station chief at the time.
“Interestingly, we met in church, one affiliated with the same community of believers with which your father is associated.”
Goode withdrew a small metal fish from his pocket and held it up.
“So, Mr. Goode, you are one of the Believers!”
“The Believers, yes.” Goode smiled at Samir's enthusiasm. “That's one name, but the fellowship has many different names. In Rome, they call themselves Il Regno—‘The Kingdom.' Sometimes they're called the Community of Saint Patrick, as they are in the Christian sections of Israel. Here in Turkey, and in Syria, you call yourselves The Believers.” Goode shook his head. “An amazing vision: to live out the practices and beliefs of Jesus Christ in the modern world—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the poor, praying for one another, and working for justice and peace.”
“And what had led you there, Mr. William Goode?” Samir's phrasing clearly reflected the very formal English his father had taught him.
“My wife and children were murdered in the Congo,” Goode said. “I spent years searching for some meaning to that evil and ugliness, and never came up with any decent answers. But I ultimately found my answers in Christ, who gave my life meaning and purpose. I found Christ in this community of believers that includes people like you, and your father...and my friend, Golz. I can go nearly any place in the world and find such a community of people. I'm always amazed at that.”
“How did you come to know about my father?” asked the young man.
“You know, actually, I've never met him. But after he rescued Peter Newman in Iraq, I learned from Peter that your father was a Christian too. I stayed in touch with him through the church here and through the Newmans, while they were in Jerusalem.”
“You mean the Clancys in Jerusalem,” Samir said, smiling.
“Yes, of course, the Clancys.”
“And so,” said Samir, turning to Kadri, “that is why you called my father last week and asked him to come and meet you here?”
The MIT officer nodded. �
��Lieutenant Colonel Newman had just been asked to undertake a difficult mission for his government, but we knew he would need help. Then his wife was kidnapped three days ago, and that mission was put on hold. But before that happened, I sent that e-mail to your father, Yusef.”
“I see...and how did you come to know my father?”
“I met him with The Believers in Istanbul. That was about five years ago. If I remember correctly, Yusef had come to the city to pick up a load of microwave ovens.” Kadri smiled. “I have never met a man with so much energy and business success, yet also a man of so much devotion to his faith.”
“Yes, he has great faith,” the son agreed. “And he would have been here himself, but for the flu that he contracted on his last business trip. And even his faith was not enough to overcome my mother's objections to his getting out of bed before his temperature returned to normal!”
“Well, I'm praying he recovers quickly. There's some very important work that must be done,” said Goode.
“How can my family help?” asked the young man.
“We can't delay much longer on the original mission Colonel Newman was to have conducted before the kidnapping. That mission may be the most important thing any of us will have to confront in our lives.”
“Surely you are not saying that you want my father and me to help find the nuclear weapons in Iraq?” Samir's face was pale, his eyes large as he looked at Goode.
Goode looked from Samir to Kadri. “We have no choice. And neither does Peter Newman. Despite his concern for his wife, those terrible weapons must be found—regardless of what happens to her.”
Sayeret Harbor Site
1 km SE of Hamah, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
2000 Hours, Local
Major Rotem and his commandos were well hidden among the large rocks just east of Assad Highway, Syria's major north-south thoroughfare. The four-lane road ran from the Jordanian border in the south, through Damascus, Hims, and Hamah, all the way to Aleppo in the far north of the country. From their vantage point, a kilometer southeast of Hamah, the Israelis could see their objective: a large farmhouse, a barn, and several outbuildings, all surrounded by a masonry wall about seven feet high.