Hysterical screams burst from the group of hostages.
“Ok, ok…everything’s ok. Azim,” Rhinefeld shouted to the guard. The professor was back up and walking slowly toward the man. His palms were open and facing Azim.
“Everyone, quiet down.” Rhinefeld shouted over the loud din of the cries. He looked to Matt on the floor. He was unconscious, his jaw beginning to swell.
Outside the door a clattering of boot heels echoed across the stone floor as the other men responded to the commotion.
The terrorist raised his rifle again and in a flash smacked the professor in the face with the bottom of the rifle. Rhinefeld hit the floor. Azim was kicking him in the stomach. After a few wrenching blows, the professor’s vision funneled into a hazy white blur and he blacked out.
Republic of Dubai airspace
Imam Nazari had decided to change the weekend’s itinerary. He had told the reporters that he sought a more intimate location for the ‘Special Press Summit’. He cited, “viable death threats” as the reason. They were in the air less than six hours after arriving in Syria. In truth, the move from the estate house in Syria had been part of the plan all along.
The Imam sat next to the man whom he referred to as his “Minister of coordination and administrator of special events and activities”. It was a running joke between the two men. A mockery of the long titles that so called, Sovereign Nations, gave to the government roles of those in the upper echelons.
Nazari and Hassan Bishara leaned in toward one another. They were among friends and people they knew they could trust still, they spoke in whispers.
“And what about the Shaikh?” Nazari asked the younger man.
Bishara frowned and turned his head from side to side.
“Uncooperative,” he stated plainly. He seemed uncomfortable with this particular question. Nazari picked up on it instantly. Nazari had known the Syrian all of his life and he knew how to read his expressions without error.
The aging cleric placed a wrinkled brown hand on Hassan’s shoulder.
“I am sure that you did what you had to.”
Bishara nodded in agreement. “You will have no trouble taking over Hezbollah now.”
Nazari smiled. “Perhaps. But there is still much to be done. I doubt Hezbollah will readily lend itself to a hostile takeover. Their mid-level leadership may require additional encouragement.”
Hassan contemplated this silently. “They’ll be there.” He said.
The two talked for over an hour about the future. It seemed Bishara was certain they were to succeed. “He is young,” the older man thought to himself. “He has learning to do.”
Still, Nazari was proud of him. He had completed the first phase of the mission without compromise. The death of Shaikh Samara had been somewhat expected. Nazari never truly thought that he would join their cause. Samara had always been heavy in the arrogance category. Now that the Shaikh was no longer an issue, Nazari had one last thing to worry about. There would be others that would attempt to rise up and seize control of Hezbollah once they learned of their leader’s demise, but Nazari doubted any would have the nerve to go against him. What worried the cleric, was that this was only a small piece of a very complicated puzzle. Everything would have to fall into place at the exact right moment, or else the plan would fail. He was skeptical. He closed his eyes and eased his head against the soft plush leather headrest. The drone of the aircraft’s twin gas turbines lulled him to sleep in minutes.
Bishara turned on his iPhone and proceeded to get down to one last piece of business. He opened his email and composed a short draft.
He looked outside the window of the aircraft. Off to the starboard side, about 1000 yards away, was a little white spec. That was the plane that was transporting the small gathering of reporters that had been with Nazari and company since Geneva. Bishara had been amazed at the amount of wealth Arab benefactors were willing to spend on Nazari. They had yet to say no to an expenditure. But he was even more shocked by the United Nations wonton use of “aid” money. Nazari literally controlled billions, most of which the Palestinians had received during Yasser Arafat’s reign. Arafat had used the boon to fill his own coffers, rather than build infrastructure in Gaza.
“Everything is going well,” he wrote.
“You know what to do. You may begin. Praise be to Allah! We are counting on you, Saleem.”
Washington D.C.
Brad Ward paced back and forth on a rough plot of grass. The National mall was a large rectangular field, situated between the Capitol building and the Washington Monument.
The President’s press conference had him stewing. It had been little more than political posturing.
Graham Vanderbilt had declared that the United States would not stand for the wholesale abduction of its citizens. In the very next breath he said they would work through diplomatic channels to secure the release of the students, wherever they were. Basically, the administration didn’t like the situation its people were in but they weren’t going to do anything about it.
Brad was furious. He dialed the number to an old friend and placed his cell phone to his ear. A lady with a slight British accent answered.
“Thank you for choosing Bombay travel agency, how may I help you?”
“I need to speak to Tom Kingsley please.”
“I’m sorry, Tom who?” She asked.
Brad knew the drill.
“Password is…Tandem Six Moxley.”
The senseless combination of words informed the individual on the other end of the line that Brad had access to their operations. If he had given an incorrect password she would have told him he had the wrong number and ended the call. There was a brief pause.
“Hold please, I’ll patch you through.”
Brad stopped pacing and looked around the mall. Things were different today. He could feel a tear form in the corner of his eye as he thought of his brother.
His mind flashed back to his visit from Edmond Bailey. The National Security Advisor had been riled up from the events of the day but not enough to keep him from wondering why Brad rented a shabby one bedroom apartment two miles down the street from a forty acre ranch that the DIA agent owned outright. Brad had chosen not to speak about Nancy to the Advisor.
“Brad my friend, how are you?”
The voice on the other end filled Ward’s ear, so that he had to pull the phone back from his face until he could get the volume adjusted. He brushed Nancy out of his mind. Even in his thought life, his wife had to wait.
“Hey Tom, I’ve been better. I need to know what happened yesterday. You guys are the only eyes and ears on the ground that I have out there.”
Kingsley knew what Brad was referring to without him saying.
Brad had worked with Kingsley since starting the field chapter of his career. The two men had forged a sincere respect for each other while slipping in and out of “Hot Spots” like Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran. The work they had done together existed outside of the typical missions that were sanctioned by the United States, in what was opaquely termed, “Unconventional Warfare”.
“What can you tell me?” he asked.
“I don’t know much, to be honest. But I hear they want the Mujahedeen for this.”
The Mujahedeen was a group of Afghan rebels. They were holdovers from the 1979 war between the Soviet Union and Afghanistan. The Central Intelligence Agency along with numerous Special Forces units trained, armed and fed the rebels during the cold war in an effort to keep Russia from gaining a foothold in the Middle East. Once the Mujahedeen had successfully expelled the invading Red Army, they began training their sites on their true enemy, America.
After 9/11, the Mujahedeen was labeled a primary target by the Bush Administration. Osama Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda came from within their ranks with scores of other new public enemies and radical offshoots, all clamoring for blood in the wake of the violence of that day.
“Other than that, all I know is that some college kids were
ripped from a site in Zefat,” he said.
“Why? Are you point man on this, or are those Washington clowns just riding you to come up with a scapegoat?” Kingsley asked.
Kingsley was always a straight shooter, he never minced his words. It was one of Brad’s favorite qualities.
“One of those college kids is my brother.” The sentence hung in the air for a few seconds before either man spoke again.
“I’m sorry to hear that Brad.”
Kingsley searched for comforting words but emotion was one area of his personality that had never fully developed. Part of Kingsley’s lack of an adequately reassuring reply was the facts in yesterday’s events. It didn’t look good for the students.
“It’s okay Tom. Where are you right now?” Brad asked, knowing that Kingsley’s special bag of skills would always keep him somewhere in the Middle East.
“Bahrain, unofficially of course.” Kingsley snorted as he said this. He had a tough time with politicians who sent his team on missions they were afraid to own up to.
Brad wished he was on the ground there. The pressure he felt would fade exponentially the closer he was to ground zero.
“Tom, I’m coming out there.” Brad blurted out before he’d had time to think about it.
“Do you think you can provide some Intel by the time I’m in Bahrain?”
Brad’s mind instantly went from angst and frustration to planning mode. This was what he was good at. He couldn’t just sit around and watch a handful of Bureaucrats, who had no vested interest in sticking their wormy little necks out, do nothing.
“Sure, I can take a couple of days off. You’ll need some gear. Text me a packing list.” Kingsley said.
He felt like he should caution his friend about getting this close to the action when he was emotionally involved. But he couldn’t imagine himself being talked out of it if it were his brother, so he decided against it.
“Within the next twenty hours. I’ve got to be there Tom. It’s driving me nuts being this far removed from the situation.”
Brad had a feeling that Tom was going to ask about Nancy. He tried to end the conversation abruptly.
“Alright, I’ll…”
Tom didn’t miss the dodge at all.
“How’s Nancy?”
7
Azraq Jiden–a private island in the Arabian Sea
Ben grabbed his luggage from the co-pilot at the back of the plane and followed the group of reporters to a small building on the edge of the runway. From the air, he had spotted a sprawling complex. In the center of the island stood fifteen small buildings, one massive auditorium and a large mansion. Several long piers jutted out from the home’s wrap around porch and stretched far into the surrounding sea. Three huge container ships were anchored a mile off of the island’s eastern shoreline.
The Israeli agent could hardly believe his eyes when he gazed upon the private island. Mossad had greatly underestimated the Imam’s support.
As the group walked toward the building, another aircraft touched down on the runway behind them, its wheels screeching as the rubber hissed on the hot pavement. This one was slightly larger than Nazari’s two Gulfstreams, but much older and less refined. The pilot wasted no time taxiing the aircraft to the side of the runway. A few seconds later another jet came in on approach and set down, then a pearl white Dauphin helicopter. The reporters gawked as the air show unfolded before them.
Ben’s stomach turned in a knot. He had no idea where he was, and the remoteness of the island all but guaranteed a significant delay in any response that the Mossad might launch on his behalf.
By the time the first aircraft opened its passenger door and began offloading its guests, Ben was almost at the entrance to the building. He watched as two guards shuffled down the steps and spread out at the base of the aircraft’s door. They wore the traditional Arab garb but there was more military in their presence than culture. This caught Schweitzer’s attention.
“Are you coming?”
Ben broke his concentration to look back and see Emily Stansborough holding the door open. He thanked her and stepped inside. A cold breeze hit him in the face.
The Israeli spy maneuvered himself between two reporters and a window they had been standing in front of.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. He placed his suitcase down and fished a paper cup out of a plastic sleeve next to a water cooler in front of the window.
He filled the six ounce cup and placed it to his lips to hide the fact that he was watching the Tarmac. The last passenger was just starting to de-board. A very familiar face emerged at the top of the aircraft’s steps. A chill ran down his back. He needed to get to a phone.
Quneitra, Syria
Day 3
“Professor?” Matt whispered quietly.
His cheek was flat against the floor, where a small circular spot of blood had transferred from the edge of his mouth to a cracked tile.
“Yeah, Matt I’m here.” Rhinefeld said as he raised his head. He saw that Matt’s left eye was swollen completely shut. Blood had pooled over the eyelid, changing the skin’s pigment to a dark blue.
Matt and the professor had been separated from the group after the incident with the canteen and brought to a small open bay shower next door. The room was a perfect square with rusted shower heads protruding from dull green tiles every three feet. The cold, hard floor was canted slightly toward a drain in the center of the room where a single, lifeless light bulb hung from a mangled housing above them.
They were each covered in blood, some dry, some fresh.
Throughout the night, Saleem’s men had taken turns beating them, sometimes until they lost consciousness, sometimes just until they were dizzy and vomiting. Then, in the morning, Saleem himself had appeared. A man had followed quickly on his heels toting a small camcorder.
The video had taken only a few minutes to make. Saleem had talked about Israel’s unworthy status in Palestine and America’s shameful partnership with the Jewish state. He spoke over his hostages trembling shoulders and into the camera. At no point did he broach the subject of ransom. The Palestinian didn’t speak about money, or releasing political prisoners or any of the other ordinary demands placed on the heads of the captured. In fact, no requests were made at all.
Saleem had left as soon as the video was complete and the beatings had stopped.
“Do you think they’re okay?” Matt asked. There was a tenderness in his tone though his voice was weary and strained.
“Yeah Matthew, I think they are. I haven’t heard anything from their room all night.”
Rhinefeld was exhausted. He’d not eaten in more than two days and his body had been too sore to sleep.
A fear he had never known before welled in his heart each time he heard a footstep outside their door. He wasn’t afraid for his own safety but that of the students. Every new sound made his stomach flutter, as he waited for the moment when their captors lost control of their emotions and monitoring gave way to rage.
Rhinefeld worked against the pain in his body to slide across the floor to where Matt lay. He had to stop more than once to catch his breath. In a fatherly gesture the professor gently placed his hand atop Matt’s shoulder. The younger man winced and recoiled at the light touch. The professor guessed there were probably broken bones in his body, which complicated their situation considerably.
Matt attempted to lift himself off the floor but couldn’t. His whole body responded with sharp stabbing pains. It felt like pins being shoved into his muscles.
Rhinefeld became aware of a faint drumming noise. He looked up to see one of their captors standing at the door. The drumming was the sound of the man gently tapping a shell casing against the front grip of his assault rifle. The man stared back with intense, lifeless eyes.
“Can we have some water?” He asked. He needed the water as well as Matt but he also wanted to see if the man understood English.
“Wait here.” Came his reply.
It was a r
ather absurd idea, Rhinefeld thought. Where would they go? They had no clue where they were, were locked in a room and they could barely move as a result of their wounds.
The man returned with three canteens that were identical to the one they had drank from the day before. Rhinefeld struggled to stand. His legs were weak and stiff. Each movement produced a dull throbbing in his muscles and tendons.
The Arab reached out and handed the professor one of the canteens. The round metal canister was a few degrees cooler than the room, it felt good in his hands.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Rhinefeld resisted the anger that rose in him as he thought of how basic a need for water was. The fact that he even had to ask for it, showcased their ruthlessness.
After several excruciating attempts, Matt was able to get his torso up off the ground. His legs felt pretty much useless. Rhinefeld unscrewed the cap on the canteen and held the jug up to his friend’s mouth. Matt gulped in a huge slug of water; most of which shot out of the sides of his lips and soaked his shirt’s neckline.
“You don’t want to lose any of this,” Rhinefeld warned.
“Who knows when we’ll get it again,” he added as he looked up at the guard.
“Thanks professor,” Matt said holding himself up off of the floor with his hands. He pushed against the ground and slid himself up to the closest wall. He could still see out of his right eye, though it too retained some swelling from the beatings. He looked at the guard.
He was thin, like the rest of his comrades but shorter. He didn’t look to be older than twenty. Matt tried to piece together in his head why someone would choose the life this young man had. He imagined that he’d probably come from an Islamic family, perhaps from one of the infamous Palestinian refugee camps. He had probably gotten ahold of some ‘radical fundamentalist’ teaching from one or more of the plentiful clerics that preached violence as a means to convert the world. The more he guessed at how the man had come to be whom and where he was, the more Matt questioned his own survival.
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 5