He turned away and faced the lights of Elat, putting the boat out of his mind, and concentrated once again on his task.
The air in his suit gathered at the top keeping him on the surface like a large float. He raised an arm, pulled the cuff away to allow the air to escape, and as it did so he sank slowly beneath the water.
The sea was pleasantly chilly around his head and he swam slowly to keep himself just below the surface while he felt for the line tied to his side and pulled the compass board attached to it into his hands. The nuclear device hung heavily from his waist several feet below but out of the way. He checked the compass that he had already preset, levelled off and started to fin gently along. He did not have to look at anything other than the compass and depth gauge to get to his target. The estimated time it would take him to cover the distance was somewhere around two and a half hours. His oxygen bottle should provide enough gas for three. The depth gauge was needed to keep him close to the surface and important for two reasons: first, the deeper he went the more oxygen he would use because of the increased pressure; and second, pure oxygen could become poisonous beyond a depth of ten metres. The one factor he had not been able to calculate was the tide. The charts were not accurate enough for that and he was going to have to rely partly on luck to get him to his target before he ran out of oxygen.
Zhilev had not swum with a compass board in almost two decades and he had forgotten how boring it was, like a pilot flying a plane at night with no visibility and nothing to look at but his instrument panel. The tiny fluorescent sea anemone glowed around the board, across his hands and along his body, streaming off him as if he were a spacecraft on reentry into the earth’s atmosphere. This was the time for silent thought while his feet beat a constant rhythm propelling him along slowly, and Zhilev went over his plan for the next phase of the operation. He had no doubt that he would come ashore, one way or another, in Israel.
After thirty minutes, Zhilev stopped his forward passage and headed slowly up. He controlled his ascent carefully allowing only his head to break the surface, hoping to see Elat directly ahead, but it was slightly to his right. That indicated a current pushing him to the left, but, thankfully, it was small. He had carried out dives such as this for thousands of hours in his lifetime and was confident he had maintained a true course. All he needed to do was make a slight adjustment to counter the current. The town seemed as far away as it had been when he started but he was aware this could be more illusion than fact. He studied the lights for a moment and decided some aspects had changed and he was indeed getting closer. He pushed himself below the surface using the board as a fin and checked the oxygen gauge. It was still three quarters full. Had it been much less, he would have turned the bottle off and risked swimming on the surface for a while, breathing air, but he felt that would not be necessary. There was enough O2 in the cylinder, he was sure of it.
Now that he was actually crossing the Gulf of Aqaba, he wondered if he would have got away with swimming in from the Mediterranean, directly on to the Israeli coastline, but he was confident he had made the more difficult but wiser choice. Fifteen years ago he had been part of a team that had supplied the Palestinians with arms from one boat to another in the Mediterranean, and he remembered the briefing regarding the Israeli coastal defences and how good they were rumoured to be in places. The Gulf of Aqaba was much more difficult for them to secure because of the diving and water sports which took place in Elat harbour, as well as the many pleasure boats that sailed this Gulf. The defences here were weak against this kind of approach and the risks for Zhilev greatly reduced.
An hour later he stopped to check his position, gently breaking the surface once again, and this time he was pleasantly surprised to see that he was not only bang on target but quite close to the port. He could make out dozens of boats alongside the jetty and the windows of several towering hotels just beyond. He estimated the distance to be around six hundred yards and dropped below the surface once more. The gauge on the oxygen bottle indicated it was a quarter full, more than enough to complete the journey. He set off at a steady pace and spent the time going through the final surfacing procedures.
Twenty-five minutes later lights appeared above him, diffused and rippled by the water, and a few minutes after that they disappeared indicating that the jetty had cut them out and he was now very close. He slowed his pace and was about to reach in front of him for obstacles when suddenly his head slammed into something solid, the shock almost making him lose his mouthpiece. He dropped the compass board that sunk to the end of its line and felt the object. It was rough and barnacled, with a curve to it that dipped away below him. A boat. He followed it down, passing beneath it, and followed it up the other side.
Zhilev carefully broke the surface to find himself between a pleasure craft of some kind and the jetty. He pushed his facemask up on to his forehead and looked around. The rusty corrugated metal wall of the quay went straight up to a line of rails running along the top of it. A few yards away a ramp came down on to a floating platform that pleasure boats used to load and offload passengers. There were voices, the thud of disco music and then a burst of laughter that sounded like girls.
He made his way to the edge of the platform, keeping beneath the ramp and out of sight from the quay above. Once he reached it, he moved around until he was close against the wall of the quay and in the shadows, then held on to the side while he untied the device and attached it to a ring on the platform. He unbuckled the diving harness, pulled it off his shoulder and, with a firm yank, ripped the air hoses out of the bag. Oxygen gushed from it as it deflated and he released it to let it sink to the seabed. After dumping the two rocks from his pockets, he removed his fins and let them sink along with his facemask. He then took a firm hold of the top of the platform and hauled himself out.
Sitting on the edge of the wooden platform, he unzipped the suit and pulled it off as quickly as he could, placing his shoes to one side. Zhilev dug a penknife from a pocket, slashed the suit from toe to neck and lowered it into the water, pushing it under until enough bubbles escaped and it sank. He pulled on his boots, tied up the laces and stood up to sort out his creased clothes and smarten himself up as best he could. The bump on his head throbbed and he felt it to check for blood but the skin was not broken. His sleeves and collar were wet where water had seeped in but otherwise he was dry. He untied the device from the ring, hauled it out of the water and headed up the ramp and into the bright lights of the quay, acting as naturally as a worker coming off one of the boats.
As he stepped off the ramp, several young girls dressed sexily despite the cool air walked past talking energetically. The source of the thumping music was a building in front of him on the corner of the quay, the windows in the top floor washed in coloured lights flashing to the rhythm of a heavy beat. Zhilev hated disco music and did not understand the Western nightclub culture having never experienced anything like it in his life. Young people were everywhere, on balconies around the club, and walking up and down the broad exterior stairs that led to the entrance. None of them seemed to give him a second glance as he walked away.
In front of him, across a broad paved concourse, were several towering hotels vying for an ocean view with massive neon signs on top of each displaying such names as the Hilton and Sheraton. He headed for a dark area to the side of the nearest where a thick collection of manicured bushes grew.
As he walked towards the bushes he looked around to see if many people were about. Several couples were strolling casually, enjoying the night air, or moving to and from the disco in various directions, but none immediately close by. He slipped into the bushes and crouched by the windowless side wall of the hotel that towered above him. From his hidden position he could see the next hotel’s car park which was almost full. He checked his watch. It was ten to eleven. His timing was perfect. Any later and it might have proved much more difficult to carry out the next phase.
A pair of headlights turned a far corner and headed a
long the road that ran along the back of the hotels connecting their main entrances. Zhilev hoped this would be his quarry, but as it passed the entrance and continued along the road, it became quite recognisable as a police Land Rover. It drove out of sight and another car turned the same corner in the distance and followed the road. When it reached the car park entrance it slowed, turned into it and came to a stop in a space. A moment later the lights and engine died, the doors opened and an elderly couple climbed out. Zhilev shifted his weight in anticipation, watching them unblinkingly like a leopard weighing his prey. The couple removed some plastic shopping bags from the back seat and unenergetically made their way along the back of the hotel towards the main entrance, the opposite side to the waterfront. Zhilev left the device on the ground concealed by the bushes and stepped out and on to the concourse. He looked back to see if the log was visible, suddenly feeling naked without it. It was the first time in almost two weeks it had left his side. He looked back for the couple and lost sight of them as they passed the corner of the hotel. He walked quickly through the car park and on to the pavement where he located them at the main entrance. A security guard was talking to them, and, after he had made a cursory check of their baggage, they entered the building.
Zhilev moved smartly off after them and as he approached the entrance the security guard turned to look at him. The guard was a young man in civilian clothing and had a metal detector in his hand.
‘Hello,’ Zhilev said with a broad smile as he headed for the single glass door. He must have looked an unlikely guest with his dishevelled clothes and hair, and matted growth of beard.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the young man said in a heavy accent, holding his arm out to bar Zhilev’s way. ‘Are you staying in the hotel?’
‘Not yet,’ Zhilev said, smiling. ‘I look for a friend here. If he is here, I stay.’
The guard looked Zhilev over from head to toe as if he was unsure about letting him in.
‘Sorry for clothes,’ Zhilev said in a friendly manner. ‘I on boat, fishing. My friend has clothes.’
The young man stared into Zhilev’s unwavering eyes, shrugged and held up the metal detector.‘I need to search you,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ Zhilev said acting surprised, and raised his arms. ‘I have nothing,’ he said as if it were a joke.
The guard did not return the smile and ran the detector across Zhilev’s body. It beeped loudly as it passed one of Zhilev’s side pockets.
‘Ah,’ Zhilev said as if remembering what it was. He reached into the pocket and held out the small knife, his smile just as broad.
The guard ignored it since his prime function was looking for guns and bombs, and scanned the rest of Zhilev’s towering frame. There were no other beeps.
‘Okay,’ the security guard said and stepped back to allow Zhilev entry. Zhilev nodded a thanks and headed through the door into the cavernous lobby with varying ceiling heights and floor depths defining a bar, restaurant and seating areas. Zhilev could sense the guard watching his back but ignored him as he scanned quickly about. The reception desk was the other end of the lobby and the elderly couple were in front of it talking to the receptionist.
As soon as he saw them, they moved off and headed down a corridor behind the reception counter. As they turned a corner and out of sight he set off briskly after them.
He walked past the receptionist who did not look up at him and followed the corridor to the corner where he paused to look around it. The elderly couple were standing quietly looking up at a line of floor numbers above a pair of elevators. The sound of a bell announced the lift’s arrival and the doors opened. As the old couple stepped inside, Zhilev followed.
The old man pushed the tenth-floor button and as Zhilev jumped through the closing doors, the couple could hardly take their eyes off him. Zhilev went to push a button then acted as if the tenth was also his floor, nodded, smiled at them and then went back to staring at the doors. Zhilev could feel their eyes looking up at him as the lift gently ascended. He glanced at them for a second and they looked away but only until he faced the doors again, then they continued to stare at him, unsmiling, habitually suspicious. In the confined space Zhilev was suddenly aware of a foul smell and realised it was coming from him. He had not washed for a week or more and in the warmth of the hotel, with the sea drying in his hair, he must have smelt much worse to the old couple since he had grown accustomed to it.
The lift came to a stop and the doors opened. No one immediately moved and Zhilev smiled, motioning politely for them to alight first. They stepped out of the elevator and Zhilev followed, trying to walk much slower than them, which was impossible as they shuffled up the corridor.The old man turned to look at Zhilev who passed alongside his wife doing his best to act as if he was not sure where his room was. The couple stopped outside a door and Zhilev carried on.
The old woman had the key card in her hand, wiggled it into the slot and pushed down the handle but the door would not open, and after several failed attempts the old man forgot about Zhilev, put the bags down and took over, snapping at her in Hebrew. Zhilev glanced over his shoulder in time to see the handle go down and the door start to open. He turned round immediately, gauging his pace and, as the old man picked up the bags and the couple stepped over the threshold, Zhilev accelerated forward and brutally pushed them inside. He threw the door closed behind him and as the old man regained his balance and turned to face his assailant, Zhilev delivered a blow to the side of his neck so powerful it must have snapped a vertebra for the man’s knees immediately buckled and he dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The old woman watched her husband fall in horror and as she turned to Zhilev she let out a shrill scream. Zhilev reached out and placed one of his massive hands over her face and the other behind her head, squeezing them together as tight as he could. She continued to scream but it was muffled to near silence as he increased the pressure, her bifocals shattering against her face as if in a vice. The hold was airtight and she grabbed at his fingers to prise them off but for this feeble old woman it was an impossible task. Her nails clawed at his hands and broke against the leather skin leaving barely a mark. Her legs kicked out as the last vestiges of oxygen in her lungs were used, and her eyes bulged then turned up in their sockets as her life ebbed away. Her hands dropped to her sides and hung limply and only then did Zhilev realise he was holding her off the floor. He gently lowered her down and released his grip, and stepped back to look at his work.
He suddenly felt ugly and turned away so that he would not have to look at them. He had had to do it, he told himself. They were old and at the end of their lives anyway and there was no other way to complete the next phase of his mission. Then he saw himself in the large mirror on the wall above the bed and did not recognise himself. He looked far worse than he had imagined and appeared to have aged years in the last few weeks.
Zhilev removed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, removed the rest of his clothes and placed them on the bed. When he was naked, he walked into the bathroom and climbed into the bath. It took him a minute to figure out the shower and get it warm and then he immersed himself in the spray. He went through several bottles that lined the bath, unscrewing the caps and pouring the contents on to his head until they lathered, and began to wash himself thoroughly. He rinsed himself off, stepped out of the bath and grabbed a towel off the rail. As he dried himself, he searched through the washing bags, found a razor and shaving foam and set about removing his facial hair. After drying his face and feeling and looking a little younger again, he went to a cupboard outside the bathroom and sorted through the old man’s clothes. He’d hoped there might be something he could wear but it was all ridiculously small. A pair of socks and underpants was all he could find to fit and he went back to his musky clothes on the bed and got dressed, leaving his old socks and underwear on the floor.
Zhilev searched the old man for his keys, picked him up, placed him inside the cupboard and went back for the woman. He packed her on
top of her husband and closed the door, the intention being that the maid might not find them immediately the next morning, giving him as much time as possible before the search for him commenced. As a final touch he ruffled the bedclothes, making it look as if they had spent the night in bed.
Zhilev went back to the front door, listened against it for a moment then carefully opened it. The corridor was clear.
He closed the door behind him, walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty. The lift arrived and he stepped inside and pushed the lobby button.
The journey seemed to take an age and when the doors opened several young couples were outside, talking and laughing and barely giving him a chance to get out before they piled inside.
Zhilev headed across the lobby to the entrance and stepped through the door ignoring the young security guard who watched him as he walked away.
Zhilev went directly through the car park and into the bushes. A few seconds later he emerged carrying his bag, walked to the couple’s car, opened the driver’s door and climbed in. A quick search of the glove compartment produced a couple of tourist maps, which he quickly studied. The road system looked uncomplicated and if it was well signposted he would have no problems finding his way out of the town.
The Hijack Page 23