by Nick Cook
Ulm noticed the way Shabanov had glossed neatly over the matter of the Soviet Union’s ‘contacts’ with its old friends in the Middle East. Before the New World Order, the Kremlin had financed organizations like the PLO in the fight against the West. He cracked his knuckles under the table, the sharp pain reminding him that this was real.
‘Someone in the Lebanon had information and was prepared to part with it - at a price,’ Shabanov continued. ‘A meeting was arranged in London. It was at this point that the Comrade General put us on alert and I was briefed. Wherever this organization was based, we were to be sent in to destroy it. There was a buzz of anticipation throughout the 2nd Chief Directorate: we were almost there. And then Al-Hasakah blew up in our faces.’
‘That was them?’ Jacobson gasped. ‘We thought Al-Hasakah was an accident.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Ulm said. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell you’re talking about.’
Jacobson turned to him. He seemed elated. No matter that their Middle East intelligence network had let them down again. The sands of the Middle East had shifted to reveal a tantalizing new truth.
‘Last month, a Soviet-built gas pumping station at Al-Hasakah in the Syrian desert blew up during an inauguration ceremony. The explosion killed the Syrian Minister of the Interior, dozens of other attendees, and, crucially, wiped out a Soviet delegation led by Mikhail Koltsov.’ He turned back to Shabanov. ‘Your minister for the petro-chemical industry, I believe.’
‘Correct in all but one detail, Mr Jacobson. Koltsov and his associates did not die. That information was released to spare our ally, Syria, any further embarrassment over its appalling lapse in security. Our delegation was captured in its entirety. And by the same organization that perpetrated this latest outrage at Beirut. We have firm proof that both Koltsov and your ambassador, Franklin, are being held at the same location. Our friends have decided to declare war on the United States as well, it appears.’
‘So who are these people?’ Ulm asked.
‘They call themselves the Angels of Judgement,’ Shabanov said. ‘They’re a staunch, ultra-fundamentalist Islamic organization led by a man who operates under the nom de guerre Al Saif. Or in English, the Sword. Their base is located in a secluded valley in southern Lebanon. And that is where he is holding our hostages.’
‘I’ve never heard of them,’ Jacobson said.
‘Believe me, Mr Jacobson, the GRU’s conclusions surprised your counterparts in Moscow also. But the information supplied by our informant puts the matter beyond doubt.’
‘In southern Lebanon?’ Ulm said. ‘But everyone saw that boat head out into the Mediterranean.’
‘Yet your Navy never found it.’ Shabanov glanced from Ulm to Jacobson and back again, waiting for a denial, but he got none. ‘That is because the terrorists transferred the hostages into small rubber craft and scuttled the fishing boat. While the US Navy was looking for a vessel with a distinctive radar signature - remember they had seen it on TV - our friends had put ashore further down the coast. As we speak, they are established within the boundaries of the Sword’s camp.’
‘How come you’re so certain about all this?’ Ulm asked.
‘Once you know where to look, the rest is relatively easy,’ Shabanov said. ‘Comrade General Aushev has the important facts at his disposal. I was able to receive a full run-down on the situation while I was inside our embassy.’
‘Then you must know who is behind these... Angels of Judgement,’ Jacobson said. ‘From their modus operandi, from the advanced state of their technical know-how, it seems obvious to me that the sponsor nation must be- ’
Shabanov cut him off. ‘Nobody, Mr Jacobson. The Angels of Judgement would appear to be a new dimension in terror. They are entirely self-sufficient. Of course, it is no secret that we used to finance such organizations - just as you, Mr Jacobson, supplied the Mujahideen with the Stingers - but that is all behind us now. Without super-power support, many of these terrorist organizations have simply ceased to exist. But not the Angels of Judgement. They have established themselves in a secluded location that is difficult to spot from the air, that is heavily fortified against attack, and which caters for all their needs... housing, agriculture, schooling, training. The Sword has thought of everything. What worries the GRU - and will doubtless be of concern to you, Mr Jacobson, being an Arabist yourself - is that there is a fascinating precedent for the Sword and his Angels of Judgement.’
Jacobson nodded slowly as his mind chewed over the clues. ‘But to find it you would have to go back many centuries, Colonel.’
‘To the end of the eleventh century, to be exact,’
Shabanov said. ‘When Hassan Sabbah established himself in an impregnable fortress called the Eagle’s Nest in the mountains of Persia. Having built his self-sufficient community, Hassan trained his fedayeen in the art of political assassination, indulging them with excess as incentive and reward. Wine, women, and especially drugs - hashish - were given to his warriors.’
‘The hashisheen,’ Jacobson said. ‘The Assassins. Scourge of the ruling Seljuks and later the Crusaders who invaded from Europe. Hassan was the world’s first Islamic terrorist. And he, too, declared war on the East and the West. The parallels are, as you say, fascinating.’
But Ulm’s thoughts had drifted beyond the history lesson to an aspect of Shabanov’s briefing that he found almost as disturbing.
‘Roman, I notice you have not mentioned the precise location of this camp,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘When would we obtain that information?’
‘In good time,’ Shabanov said.
‘The price of membership?’
‘I don’t follow, Elliot.’
‘We don’t get to know the location until... the day of the mission itself, maybe?’
Shabanov’s blue eyes blinked innocently. ‘Let me put it this way, Elliot. General Aushev thought that your premature possession of such knowledge might endanger the spirit of co-operation between us.’
‘You mean he’s worried we’d go off and do this thing on our own.’
‘Is that true?’ Jacobson asked the Russian. ‘The Romeo Protocol is meant to be an expression of trust between our two countries. The very highest expression, in fact.’
‘Really, Mr Jacobson?’ Shabanov enquired. ‘Imagine our surprise, then, when we found that Spetsnaz, the Soviet Union’s elite, was to work with a unit that had disgraced itself in Panama. A unit that is now exiled in the wastes of the New Mexico desert. Is that your highest expression of trust, Mr Jacobson?’
‘Now wait a minute - ’
Ulm raised his hand. ‘Forget it, Jacobson. Why pretend?’ He turned to Shabanov. ‘What are you saying, exactly?’
The Russian smiled. ‘Whatever your worth in the eyes of the Pentagon, Elliot, I have complete faith in you and your Pathfinders. I want you to know that.’
The declaration made Ulm feel no less uneasy. He felt disoriented, unsure as to which of these two men was his best ally.
‘All right, Roman. Let’s talk tactics. You and me. Alone.’ Ulm turned to Jacobson. ‘Give me a day and I’ll let you know if this thing’s workable or not. After that, it’s in your hands.’
The waitress with the Texan drawl and endless legs came over to the table to take their order. Ulm asked for another beer, while Shabanov stuck to bourbon. Ulm noticed the girl’s lingering looks over Shabanov’s athletic body. Even out of uniform, the Russian was a striking man.
Ulm, at something under five feet and nine inches, with a twice-broken nose, short, thinning hair, and the body of a prize-fighter past his prime, couldn’t exactly say the same about himself, but he never begrudged his somewhat brutish looks. His womanizing days had been over for a long time. He admired the waitress’s ass, delicately hidden as it was by the tassels of her miniskirt, as she disappeared off to the bar. Marriage had been good to Elliot Ulm, but it hadn’t stopped him looking.
The low-lit bar of the small, seedy hotel across the stre
et from TERCOM was in stark contrast to the helicopter gunships, assault rifles, stun grenades, and other hallmarks of low-intensity conflict that the two of them had discussed all afternoon in the cold isolation of the briefing-room.
By the end of the day, both he and Shabanov had a good idea of the sort of resources they would need.
The piped muzak delivered its rendition of a song Ulm recalled from his college days. It was the third time it had come round that evening. The only other drinkers in the room got up to leave as if in protest. Apart from the waitress, he and Shabanov were the last occupants of the room. It was fast approaching one in the morning.
During the afternoon, Shabanov had drawn sketches of the terrorist camp, marking its location at the end of a steep-sided valley, the dimensions of the compound and the layout of the buildings, and its defences. The Russian had announced his intention to build a facsimile of the terrorist encampment close to their training base, so that Spetsnaz and the Pathfinders could practise their assault until perfect. It seemed a good idea. Ulm wished he could say the same for TERCOM’s overall strategy. There was something inherently wrong about doing business with the Bear.
‘The war’s over, Elliot.’
Ulm wondered if mind-reading figured amongst the Russian’s many talents. ‘For some people.’
The Russian waved his glass theatrically. ‘Where do you stand?’
‘I’m paid to obey orders. Some are good, others suck. But they’re there to be carried out. It’ll take time for us to adjust.’
Shabanov leant forward conspiratorially. ‘That’s why our task is so important. A joint mission in a field as sensitive as special operations is truly historic. And a rescue operation, more so. Everyone talks about the new world order, but there will be no law, no order in that world without policemen. Don’t you see, Elliot? This mission, once it is announced, will show the world that Russia and the United States will have earned the right to be the guardians of the new law.’
‘As long as people like your General Vorobyov exist, you can stick that in a book of dreams.’ Just a few days before, Major-General Vorobyov had given an interview more or less advocating a return to the Cold War. It had fed the fears of alarmists in most US newspapers who feared another coup.
‘Ah, but Vorobyov is a reactionary.’
‘Who believes your President’s policy of ‘reasonable sufficiency’ in defence is a joke. That’s a dangerous kind of reaction.’
‘Vorobyov and men like him have retired. We are the new generation.’ Shabanov shrugged. ‘Of course, when I was a younger man I shared some of their sentiments. But you have to see things in perspective. We believed NATO was our bitter enemy. We were conditioned to think that way. As a soldier I have always obeyed my orders without question, as you would expect. When I was recruited into our special forces it was a different time, like a dark age for us. What you saw at Ryazan bears little resemblance to the school I entered almost twenty years ago.’
Shabanov took another sip of bourbon, rolling the alcohol on his tongue. ‘I remember the day the commandant accused me of stealing another recruit’s food. In front of the whole school he told me to stick my fingers down my throat and empty my stomach onto the frozen earth of the parade ground. We were treated worse than dogs, our hearts filled with malice, ready to discharge it against the enemies of Communism. A lot has changed...’
‘What made you change?’
‘Afghanistan.’
Ulm noticed a slight slurring of the word. ‘Why?’
‘Nine years of… special reconnaissance, that’s why.’ He took another pull from the glass. ‘At least, that’s what we called it. Hill fighting, close-quarter work, scouting, forward air control, designating guerrilla targets for our jet bombers... all in a day’s work.’
Shabanov stared into his glass. ‘Some of the men went insane and there were suicides.’ He snorted. ‘Not during the war, you understand. When we got back. Those fucking peaceniks. To them, special reconnaissance was rape, murder, burning, looting...’ He emphasized each one by thumping his fist on the table. ‘For a while, the radical papers were full of it. I think we Afghantsi deserved better, but glasnost consigned us to the rubbish heap. Only Bitov, my senior sergeant, and I remain from my platoon of 79.’ He drained his glass. ‘Glasnost has a lot to answer for.’
‘Maybe General Vorobyov hasn’t retired after all,’ Ulm whispered.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing.’ Ulm felt like someone had just walked over his grave.
The waitress approached with the check. Shabanov made no move to pick up the tab, but that didn’t bother the American. It had been made clear to him by USSOCOM that the Russian was their guest in all matters. Judging from the figure at the bottom of the check, Shabanov wasn’t looking the gift horse in the mouth. Ulm’s head told him he hadn’t exactly held back on the beers either.
He looked up to find Shabanov standing over the waitress, a good head taller than her, in spite of her legs. She held his gaze, as if he had her in a kind of spell. Ulm blamed the surrealism of the scene on the number of beers he had drunk, but something in her eyes made him look again, lower this time. Shabanov had pulled her skirt around her midriff and was moving his hand up the inside of her thighs towards her paper-thin panties. It was at that moment that Ulm realized that what he thought he had read as complicity in her eyes was in fact a look of horror and revulsion. Then, like an animal breaking the lock of a car headlight beam, she brought her hand up and slapped him hard round the face.
The waitress ran crying from the room and Shabanov tilted his head at Ulm, laughter rocking his body. Ulm pulled the Russian from the hotel into the rain. He hailed a taxi, ordering the driver first to the Soviet Embassy, where he deposited Shabanov, then to TERCOM, where he would spend the night.
CHAPTER 8
‘Good morning. Here are the BBC news headlines at seven o’clock...’
Girling pulled the pillow over his head to block out the news reader’s voice. He could have used a week’s extra sleep.
‘There has been a vital breakthrough in the hunt for the terrorists who carried out the Beirut massacre two nights ago and the simultaneous kidnapping of the US Ambassador to Saudi Arabia and nine of his staff.
The words barely registered. It was publication day. There were another seven days before the next edition of Dispatches hit the streets. Today he could have slept, but he had forgotten to reset the radio-alarm and it was too far away to turn off.
At the back of his mind, however, a voice told him to listen. He was no longer merely Tom Girling, Science and Technology Correspondent. Beirut was his story now.
‘According to a report in Dispatches, the authoritative weekly current-affairs magazine, the attack was the work of an extreme Islamic terrorist organization called the Angels of Judgement...’
Girling lifted the pillow off his head. That was their story. Stansell had called back with confirmation. He was pleased. Pleased for Stansell; and pleased for Kelso. Their editor had found his exclusive at the eleventh hour and then some.
And now the Angels of Judgement were making the lead spot on the national news. No doubt, it was enjoying similar billing with other media outlets. The wire agencies would have picked it up; Reuters, the Associated Press, Agence France Presse... all flashing the news around the world. And Dispatches’ name was up there, too, in lights.
Girling smiled. Kelso, the survivor, had his big stick for the meeting. Lord Kyle could not possibly shut them down now, could he?
‘We have this report from Douglas Kennedy...’
Girling listened as the principal facts of the story he had written the night before from the nuggets Stansell had provided were churned out by the radio reporter. That the BBC had credited Dispatches so generously did not surprise him. The magazine had a very competent publicity machine that was ready to disseminate its best stories to the mass media in return for a hefty acknowledgement.
The line trotted out in the report was that the
Angels of Judgement seemed to be a new breed of terror organization. Independent of larger groups like the PLO and Hizbollah, they were resourceful, dedicated, and furnished with the necessary funds to carry through a complex operation like Beirut. Worst of all, no one knew where they had come from.
It was then that Kelso himself came over the air-waves. His voice conveyed a sense of gravitas that befitted the story. Even if Dispatches was able only to cite ‘diplomatic sources in Cairo’ as its primary informant, Kelso’s deep and sombre tone gave it an unquestionable authority. The interview had been recorded over the telephone, probably late the previous night. Girling could hear the self-satisfaction in his editor’s voice. Kelso was enjoying himself.
‘Our exclusive report highlights a number of interesting points,’ Kelso said pompously. ‘The ability of a hitherto unknown group of terrorists to strike with seeming impunity at innocent civilians, despite recent assurances by Western governments, is particularly alarming. Secondly, so-called experts in other sections of the media have been labouring under the misapprehension that a substantial Middle Eastern power such as Iran or Libya was behind this incident. Our report has shown this not to be the case. The Angels of Judgement are very much on their own...’
The interviewer asked Kelso to elaborate.
‘Well, from newspaper reports earlier this week -reports that were confirmed by members of my staff, by the way - we know that the US Air Force was ready to launch a punitive strike against the perpetrators of the Beirut operation - not unlike Reagan’s venture against Libya in 1986. The fact they didn’t was underlined by the revelation that they had no idea who they were meant to be bombing. That information was to have been obtained when special forces stormed the airliner to rescue the hostages, we understand. But, tragically, the Angels of Judgement acted before a rescue operation was given a chance.’