"Do the Syrians have war games planned? Do they have a contingency plan for driving the Israelis into the sea?"
She laughed as the car hurtled through the streets. "Of course. Every Arab nation in the world has half a dozen. They are wish machines, fantasies."
"Do any of the Syrian fantasies include the use of poison gas?"
She caught his arm. "Do not play games with me. The Russians stole the gas from the United States, at least that is our guess. Then used it in El Salvador to discredit the United States. Now you are here and you know Hassan and the Russian KGB man. Why are you in Syria? Is there a connection with the gas?" She stared at him in the bouncing car. "Was more than one canister of the nerve gas stolen?"
"Six were stolen in a vicious attack on a storage facility. None have been recaptured. One was used."
The car stopped in front of a low building. It was fully dark now. She motioned. "Come, we have much work to do, you and I. I will introduce you to some people, and we will talk and plan. We must prevent the massacre of a whole nation."
14
Ahmed Hassan stood in front of a plain wooden table in a top-secret office at the Atsi military air base just outside Damascus. He smiled at the six men gathered there, the best planners and strategists in the Syrian military establishment. Hassan wore his military uniform, the brigadier stars shining on his shoulders. There were two colonels and another brigadier and two three-star generals sitting around the table. At the far side sat Aleksandr Galkin.
"Good evening, gentlemen. It is set. We have total approval by our president, prime minister and the war council. Now it is up to us. For those of you who have not met our new friend from Moscow, let me present Colonel Aleksandr Galkin, one of the top men in the KGB and second in line to be advanced into the Politburo, the governing authority in the Soviet Union."
Galkin stood, nodded. "I am honored to be here, gentlemen. I will offer any assistance that I can."
He sat down and Hassan thanked him.
"We have word that our special cargo aircraft has cleared Halifax on its second leg from Vancouver, British Columbia, in Canada. It is now scheduled to fly directly to Lisbon, Portugal, for refueling, then nonstop to this field here in Damascus. We expect that the cargo will arrive late tonight, if everything goes well."
"What might go wrong?" a colonel asked.
"I'm not even thinking about that, Colonel. We have cleared the Halifax airspace, and right now the plane is over international waters. The big danger point is passed. After a routine stop in Lisbon, our aircraft with its five packages will be on its way home.
"Now we have only the final implementation of Operation Deathrain. As we planned, the whole exercise has been set up and carried this far as a training sequence. Could I have a full report?"
One of the brigadiers stood and moved to a turnover chart.
"Briefly the six planes are ready and waiting. They have been modified according to your specifications to hold the canisters. The pilots are volunteers. The targets are as we determined some time ago, the traditional targets: one canister to be sprayed over Haifa, two over Tel Aviv and Jaffa, and two set for Jerusalem.
"The actual spraying of the chemical will begin at the lowest level upwind of the target, depending on the speed of the wind. Each successive pass will be made a thousand feet higher to help the pilot avoid any of the spray. It is estimated that it will take no more than two passes of about ten miles each to empty the tanks. Colonel Farags will explain our work in developing a reliable method for opening the nozzle while airborne."
The smallest man in the room stood. He was uncomfortable, but quickly gave a detailed explanation how the valves would be opened with the use of electrical relays and solenoids. Once they were open, there would be no way to close them. He sat down quickly, sweat showing on his forehead and on his shirt under his arms.
"Any questions?" Hassan asked.
He waited a moment and looked around the room.
"I can assure you that once the attack takes place, our ambassadors in every Arab state including Egypt will be alerted and asked to launch immediate coordinate attacks on Israel from every possible border area. Our planes will make a first strike on their airfields to knock out all their aircraft. We will, of course, use fighter protection for our spray planes. We know Israel will bring up its aircraft, but we will divert them if possible and protect our spray planes at all costs."
He looked around the room.
"My friends, this day has been centuries in coming! We have dreamed of such a strike for hundreds of years! Now it is almost within our grasp. I see no problems. When the other Arab states realize the scope, the daring, the destruction of our raids, they will cheer us and join, and together our armor will smash through the Israeli border defenses, our paratroops will land behind the lines and our combined armies will rush over them, driving all still alive into the sea like lemmings!"
The military men stood and cheered. Hassan smiled broadly and thrust both fists over his head.
"Death to Israel!" he shouted.
"We will physically drive them into the sea!" someone else said.
The cheering went on and on. When Hassan stopped, the others did too.
"We have as our honored guest an expert in matters such as these. I would like his comments on our plans and strategy."
Everyone looked at Galkin. He rose, frowning.
"This is one of the most deadly attacks upon any people throughout history. It will work, it is brilliant, and I offer my wholehearted congratulations!" He beamed at them. "If I could give you any better methods, tactics, weapons or suggestions, I would not hesitate to do so. But I can't. I assume you have ultratight security at all points where the actual canisters are to land and be stored. I am not sure of the timing, but every second those canisters are on Syrian soil, they pose a horrendous danger to the Syrian people. Again, my most sincere congratulations. The moment the canisters touch ground here, they will be transferred into your hands, and the agreed-upon financial arrangements will be completed."
Hassan nodded as he thought of the financial agreement. Galkin would be rich, could do whatever he wanted to for the rest of his life. Any man can do a lot with five million U.S. dollars — twenty million Syrian pounds! He had demanded specific payments of one hundred pounds of gold in one-pound bars in twin suitcases; diamonds of four to six karats worth at least a half million dollars; and three hundred thousand dollars worth of blue-chip negotiable American stocks. The balance of some three and one-half million would be deposited the same day in a numbered Swiss bank account. Hassan had agreed quickly to the terms. The five canisters were priceless. The Syrian government had been willing to pay ten times what the Russian had demanded. He had not bargained at all. Aleksandr was a small-minded man who had small thoughts, small plans.
"Gentlemen, that ends our formal meeting. We're on schedule. If any of you has any problems or cautions, anything at all that might prove to be a delay, tell me as quickly as you can. This project, Operation Deathrain, has the highest priority of any action that this government is now engaged in. We expect nothing but total success. Thank you."
The meeting broke up. Two of the men left to check on specifics of the program. The rest talked as they stood around the big table.
Hassan motioned for the KGB man to step to the side. He spoke softly.
"You told me you had total approval from your government for our operations. Today I learned from our department of external affairs that the Soviet government has heard nothing of this plan. Why did you lie to me?"
"Choose your words carefully, Ahmed. I did not lie to you. I told you I would inform you if my government had any reservations about the plan. No one had contacted me with any objections to Operation Deathrain."
"But only because you did not tell them about it! If you did not lie to me, you deceived me. I am troubled. Have you deceived me about anything else? Are the canisters actually the same as the one that was used in El Salvador? That is a vita
l question you must answer immediately."
"You can answer that as well as I, Ahmed. You saw the canisters in Vancouver. You saw the lettering on the metal. You can test each canister if you wish. I have no doubts at all that they are the same as the first one."
"We will. It may hold us up a day, but we must test."
"As for my government, I have not reported in as I was supposed to. By now I have been posted as a casualty or a defector. Soon Moscow will receive notice of my tragic death in El Salvador. I was burned beyond recovery, dead and buried deep in the jungle. An unfortunate tragedy. The rebel general himself will send the telegram.
"As soon as I receive my payment for goods delivered, and after you test the canisters, I will be on my way. I think first I will stay in London. It is a free city with much to offer a person willing to pay for it, no?"
"I do not know. I live for my country. I am in the process of making history for my people!"
"And it might also vault you into the presidency, am I right, General Hassan?"
"There have been whispers. Who knows?" Hassan nodded, then held out his hand. "All right, Aleksandr. I believe you."
Voices rose from the table. The two moved back toward the others.
"I still say there is too big a price!" a voice said. "There are more than a hundred thousand Arabs living in the areas that are to be sprayed. How can we slaughter a hundred thousand of our own people!"
Aleksandr stepped forward quickly.
"My new friends, the phrase that we all must consider here is 'acceptable losses.' Say the gentleman is correct and that a hundred thousand loyal Arabs die when the gas falls. What are the enemy's losses? The death toll for the Jews could well reach four million! Think in percentages. Think of the lost ones as a sacrifice for victory!"
15
That night, when Bolan stepped into the dark room off the black alley in Damascus with Luana, he realized he knew little about her, and that this could all be a trap, but he was sure it was not. He sized up people quickly, and Luana was the genuine article, Mossad, field trained, deadly and fanatically dedicated.
"Fifteen," Luana said in the darkness. There was not a glimmer of light anywhere.
From the darkness came a relieved sigh of pent-up breath.
"Ah, yes, fifteen — the delightful small one, Luana. It is all right, my friends. If she comes, whoever comes with her is a friend, else he is dead."
The light came on and Bolan saw a small room in one of the older Damascus dwellings. It could have been there since 312 B.C. when Alexander of Macedonia stormed into town as the head of the fifth foreign nation to conquer Syria. Lots of stone and plaster, low lights and rugs on the floor. Six men sat around a small table. A woman scuttled out the door with a large coffeepot.
"English?" the man at the head of the table asked.
"American," Bolan said. "A guest of the management." He turned to Luana. She touched his shoulder and nodded, then sat in the empty chair and began speaking rapidly in Hebrew. Bolan felt he might as well be on an outer planet. He understood nothing she said.
Two of the men stood and began shouting at each other in German, then quieted. The heavy man who had spoken to Bolan earlier now looked up at him.
"You met General Ahmed Hassan in El Salvador? You were there at the time of the slaughter of the rebels?"
"I rode on the truck that carried the canister. I saw them blow the valve off as it rolled down a steep embankment toward the rebel camp below. I heard the cheers of the killers. Haven't you seen photographs?"
"Such photographs can be faked."
"These are not. And I believe that Syria wants to dump those canisters on Israel's biggest cities. Has there been any preparation, any secret exercises by the Syrians here during the past few weeks?"
"Several, Mr. Scott. They play at war all the time. But this is serious. They would bring deadly gas like that into the air base here. From the Western Hemisphere they usually route their planes through Lisbon for refueling. We'll get our man there and see if the Syrians expect a plane in from Canada anytime soon." He pointed at a man at the table, who quickly rose and left.
"We will notify Jerusalem at once and make contingency plans," the heavy man continued.
Bolan nodded his agreement. "It is absolutely essential to destroy or capture the canisters on the ground before they can be loaded into whatever planes the Syrians plan to use to spray the gas."
"Yes, yes. I agree," the spokesman said. He stood. "We use few names here. Call me Lucky, and you are Mack Scott. We will do everything we can. I understand you are not an official representative of your nation, not CIA or FBI. We can work with you just the same. We will have plans for the gas if it can be captured. We'd prefer that, in everyone's interest, it not be released into the air. I would not wish that even on Syria. Now we have much work to do. Thank you, Mr. Scott, for coming."
"Anything I can do, let me know." Bolan saw Luana beside him. She motioned and they went into another room, down a narrow hallway and into the street.
They took a taxi for a mile through the darkness, then left it and walked three blocks along winding streets that had been cattle paths more than three thousand years before. They slipped into the shadows of a four-story masonry building and climbed the back stairway to the second floor.
Luana opened a door, reached inside and turned on the lone electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. She looked around quickly, and he saw she had her hand in her purse. When she found no one there, she relaxed, closed the door and smiled.
"My humble home. I lived for three years in New York, and my place wasn't much better. This is my Arab apartment. Everyone here thinks of me as an Arab. You must not be seen at the window or coming or going."
"And you don't mind my staying here?"
"Not at all." She took off her jacket and smiled. "Mr. Scott. I was in the Israeli army for two years. For the last ten months I was stationed with an intelligence unit on the border where I lived in a bunker with three men. I am not shy and they were not aggressive. It worked out fine."
"Just a thought. You are an extremely attractive woman."
"Thank you. Now I have to change and get ready to go out. I have a late date with a very important Syrian. He is the number-two man in their intelligence operation and not a careful person."
"Will you be gone all night?"
"If this takes all night, it takes all night."
Luana did not turn her back as she changed clothes. Quickly she stripped down to her bra and panties. She wore no panty hose. She began dressing in more typical Arab costume.
"There is one address you should watch," she said. "If anyone leaves, follow them. It could be nothing, and again it could be important."
She gave him the address on a piece of paper. Then she wrote her own address on another slip.
"Memorize this one — I'll help you pronounce it." She did until he had her apartment location learned. "Now don't do anything dangerous. If someone leaves that address — a man, a tall man with a heavy beard — try to follow him, but don't let him trap you."
"I've had the basic spy-tail course."
She laughed. "Good, you'll need it." She was ready. At the door she reached up and kissed his lips. It was more than a casual goodbye.
Bolan nodded. "I liked that."
"Good. See you back here as soon as I can learn what this lout knows and get away from him. He never wants me to be there in the morning."
In the street she went one way and he the other. He took a cab. The taxi stopped at the address, but Bolan asked the driver to continue down the street half a block. They were in a modern section of Damascus with sidewalks, wide streets and a few cars and buses. It could have been almost any middle-size city in the world except for the Arabic lettering on the shop signs. Bolan paid the fare, got out and faded into the shadows.
Soon he moved up two or three stores and waited again. The target of his watch was across the street, and there were lights on inside. From the window it appea
red to be some kind of a tailoring or fabric store.
He pushed back into the darkness of a storefront and waited. This was the worst part. He had no weapon, not even his cane. A trio of teenage youths roamed past, obviously not following the old ways. Two of them wore blue jeans. The third had on white pants and no shirt. If it was not a Muslim country, Bolan would have wagered all three were drunk.
An hour later the lights in the shop snapped off and soon a figure emerged from the front door. A tall man with a beard locked it in three places, put the keys in his pocket, looked both ways and then began walking away from Bolan on the other side of the street.
Tailing him was child's play in the darkness, with the shadows and the wide street. Four blocks down he crossed over to Bolan's side. He looked behind him. Fifty feet away, the Executioner slid into a dark shadow and became invisible.
Twice more in the next block the bearded man in the dark clothes looked back. By then Bolan had crossed the street and was parallel with him, or perhaps six paces behind.
For a second the nightfighter lost the man, who had darted into a gaping black alley that was little more than six feet wide. Bolan could see into it from across the street. Six long, slow heartbeats and he could find no motion, then there was a shaft of yellow light as a door opened, closed. The Executioner sprinted across the street and stepped into the alley. It was another of those basement entrances. A sign on the door showed a leg of lamb roasting over a spit. This had to be another eatery.
Bolan entered without a missed step, found himself in a dimly lit restaurant. It was not a spot where he could sidle up to the bar and order a beer. Alcoholic beverages were available in most Syrian restaurants, but not as readily as in the States. A beer, maybe. Where was the big guy with the beard? A waiter type approached him. The Executioner motioned him closer.
"Mi ami?" Bolan said, holding up both hands and looking around. The waiter shook his head.
The combatman tried again with a word dredged up from his dictionary. "Sadig," Bolan said and looked around. The Arab nodded and replied something. The warrior looked from one side of the eatery to the other, but did not find the tall man with the beard.
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