“I’ll meet you right here at one tomorrow. If you’re not here I’ll be back at one-ten, then one-twenty. If you don’t show up by then, I’ll go back. If they catch you, you’ve got to keep quiet until then.” Kamal had stopped and glared intently at his sister. “For God’s sake, if something should happen to the car and you show up late at the garage, be sure I know it’s you.
Because once I get back there I’ll be ready to set it off at the first noise I hear.”
He squeezed her hand. “Ma salaam,” he said. “All will be well, inch’
Allah.”
Then he strode off alone, off to his last lonely vigil with his rats and his bomb in the midst of the people and the city he proposed to destroy.
* * *
“Come here, baby.”
Enrico Diaz sprawled on his gold silk mattress like some Oriental nabob, his head and shoulders leaning against the black walls of his flat, his knees drawn up, legs spread apart, the soft satiny folds of his djellabah falling down to his bare ankles. He was flying, winging to a distant place on the coke he had snorted ten minutes ago, the blood surging in his brain as his mind fled through clear, crystal prisms of delight.
Two of his girls lolled in a corner of the pad, sharing the joint whose slightly rancid odor mingled with the Ceylonese incense burning in the bronze censers hanging from the walls. His third girl, Anita, squatted like a suplicant on the gold-covered mattress before Rico. She was a twentyfive-yearold Swede from northern Minnesota, a lanky raw-boned girl whose blond hair tumbled in unkempt strands to the small of her back. It was to her that Rico’s command was addressed.
“Yeah, honey.”
Anita snuggled forward toward the pimp. Her fleshy lips were fixed in the sullen pout everyone told her made her look like Marilyn Monroe. She was wearing skintight emerald disco pants Rico had bought her-albeit with her own earnings-and one of the strapless black lace bras she wore to work because she could snap it off with one deft gesture and flick it challengingly at her waiting clients.
“You know what your man did for you today?”
Anita shook her head.
“He buy you five years.” Enrico drew out the number, lacing it with the Southern intonation he so despised.
“Hey, honey, you …?”
“Yeah. I seen a man, we got those charges dropped.”
Anita was about to gush out her gratitude when Enrico sat bolt upright. His hands shot out and grabbed two fistfuls of girl’s hair. Brutally, he jerked her forward. She shrieked.
“Dumb cunt! I told you never to stiff no John, didn’t I?”
“Rico, you’re hurting,” Anita whispered.
The pimp’s response was to yank harder. “I don’t want no cops sniffing around my women.”
Rico dropped one of his hands, reached under the mattress and drew out a switchblade knife. Anita gagged with terror as he snapped the steel blade open. Before the petrified girl could move, he whipped it across her lips, keeping the blade a precise eighth of an inch above their pulpy surface. “I oughtta streak your lips.”
A razor’s slash down the lips was the pimp’s traditional vengeance on a girl who has strayed. No surgeon, no matter how skilled his fingers, could fully repair the cut.
“But I ain’t.” Rico snapped the blade shut and tossed the knife over his shoulder. With tantalizing, lascivious slowness his free hand took the hem of his djellabah and inched it up his dark, muscular calves to his knees, then back down his thighs, revealing the dark cavern of his crotch and the slowly stiffening form of his member. While his left hand continued to hold the terrified Anita’s head firmly in place, the right reached leisurely toward his snuffbox for a pinch of coke. With sensual, deliberate gestures he patted the white powder around the tip of his organ, then once again grabbed Anita’s head.
“Now,” he announced, “you going to have a little talk with my friend down there. You going to tell him you sorry you gave old Rico so much trouble.”
He pulled the girl forward, thrusting her head into his groin. Obediently, she bent to her task, long red fingernails dancing their way around his testicles as her slithering tongue licked at the coke.
He released her head and leaned back against the wall. “Yeahhh,” he groaned in pleasure.
That was when the doorbell rang.
At the sight of the two men in old GI khakis and black berets standing on his doorstep, Rico went limp. The taller of the two jerked his head at the staircase. “Vdmonos,” he said. “Hay trabajo-let’s go, we’ve got work to do.”
* * *
In Jerusalem, the carillon of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher tolled 2 A.M. Tuesday, December 15. Each resonant note was hurled across the old city by the winter wind sweeping the hills of Judea. Eyes half closed in strain and sadness. Menachem Begin studied the warring members of his government assembled around him in his Cabinet Room. Just as he had foreseen it would, the President’s threatening phone call had produced the bitterest, most acrimonious debate the room had ever known; worse than those that had preceded the 1967 war, more vindictive than the recriminations that had followed the 1973 conflict, more impassioned than those that had led to the raid on Entebbe.
While the heated words swirled around him, Begin silently reckoned up the balance of the fourteen men who shared with him the responsibility of governing their nation. As he had expected, the most vigorous reaction to the President’s threat had come from Benny Ranan. The former paratrooper was on his feet now, waving his arms, urging a full and immediate mobilization of the Israeli Defense Forces to oppose any American intervention on their soil.
His most ardent supporter was Rabbi Orent of the religious parties. It was a strange but fitting union, the mystic believer and the indifferent atheist, the synagogue and the kibbutz, the man who loved the land because God had given it to his people and the man who cared for it because it could be made to bring forth good fruit. A lot of Israel’s strength, Begin thought, was reflected in that alliance.
To his surprise, the most articulate advocate of a compromise with the Americans had been his Minister of the Interior, Yusi Nero, a man the Israeli public usually labeled a hawk. Seize the occasion to force from the Americans and the Soviets guarantees so ironclad their state could never again be menaced, he argued. That would allow them to begin reducing the crushing armament burden which would destroy their nation in the long run more surely than Qaddafi and his bomb.
Begin leaned forward, clearing his throat to get his ministers’ attention.
Despite all the tensions of the day he remained as cool and as poised as he had been at dawn when the President’s first call came in, the clean white handkerchief folded in his suit coat pocket, the tie firmly knotted and precisely in place.
“I would like to remind all of you,” he said, “of what is our fundamental responsibility to the nation and to history. We must remain united.
Whenever we Jews have allowed our enemies-or our friends-to divide us, the result has been a disaster.”
“My dear Menachem.” It was Yadin, drawing quietly on his pipe as he spoke.
“It is all well and good to speak of unity now, but if we are confronted with this disaster it’s because of a policy you insisted on following in total disregard of its effect on our unity. Taking Arab lands for these settlements=’
“Arab lands!” The voice of Rabbi Orent exploded through the room. The leader of the religious parties was as far removed from the traditional image of the pale, stoop-shouldered rabbinical student as it was possible to be. He was six three, a two-hundred-pound former discus thrower and paratroop captain who was an outspoken supporter of the Gush Emonim, the Block of the Faithful, the movement whose followers had defied their countrymen, the Arabs and most of the world by flinging up their settlements on the land seized by Israel from Jordan during the 1967 war. “Once and for all, let it be clearly understood that there is no such thing as Arab territory or Arab land here. This is the Land of Israel, the eternal heritage of our fathers.
The Arabs who have dwelt upon it have done so by usurping our right. They have no more claim to it than a squatter has to the dwelling he has taken over while the owner is away!”
The words that Orent articulated with such passionate intensity reflected the ideas of the founder of the Gush Emonim. Ironically, it was not to Begin or Arik Sharon or Moshe Dayan or any of the other legendary figures of modern Israel that the settlers owed their loyalty, but to a man who, like Orent, was a rabbi. He was a frail ninetyyear-old who might have been a survivor of the world that had disappeared forever into the gas chambers of Dachau and Auschwitz, a gentle Eastern European ghetto patriarch dispensing wisdom and cheer to his grandchildren at the end of the day. Rav Zvi Kook was anything but that. The wizened, bearded old man, barely five feet tall, was, however improbable, the heir to the mantle of militant Judaism, the successor to the vengeful warriors of the Old Testament in whose pages he had found the source and justification of the messianic vision that inflamed him and his followers.
Like most ideas capable of inspiring men to zealotry, his benefited from their great simplicity. God had chosen the Jewish people as His Elect to reveal His Nature and Works to mankind through prophecy. He had promised Abraham and the Children of Israel the land of Canaan as evidence of the bond between them. Just as a tree can bring forth fruit only when its roots are plunged into the soil that gives it life, so, Rav Kook taught, the Jewish people could realize their God-given destiny only when they were installed upon the land-all of it-that God had deeded them. Go forth and claim it, he had told his followers, as the instruments of God’s Holy Will, the vehicles of His prophecy.
“Be not deceived,” Orent intoned, waving a warning finger at Begin. “No Jew can renounce our claim to the land God deeded us. Our settlers went forth to nourish our land with their sweat and toil, but they will nourish it with their blood as well if anyone tries to take it from them.”
Begin shuddered, both from the prospect of civil strife and from the implacable fanaticism in the rabbi’s voice, a fanaticism he well knew he had done much to encourage. Sadly he turned to Yaacov Dorit, the commander of the Israeli Defense Forces. The Israeli leader had a genius for forcing his Cabinet to a decision by forcing it to confront, as starkly as he could, the issues before it. “General,” he asked, “can we count on the Army to evacuate the settlements forcibly if it is ordered to do so?”
“Are you going to tell the Army why?”
Begin blinked, perplexed by Dorit’s reply.
“Because if you do,” the General went on, “they’ll never do it. The Army reflects the majority of this country, and whatever the majority thinks about the settlements, it’s not going to be in favor of manhandlingand maybe killing-Israelis for Qaddafi. Or even to save New York.”
“And suppose we don’t give them the real reason?” Begin inquired.
“Then they won’t do it either.”
Begin turned an infinitely sad regard to the men at the table. “You see, my friends, I do not believe we have the option of capitulating in front of Qaddafi’s threat, even if we wanted to. We would destroy the nation in civil disor der and bloodshed if we did.” As he spoke, he employed a revealing nervous reflex, twisting the frame of his glasses between his thumb and forefinger. “I will be accused of falling prey to the Massada complex for what I am about to say, but it i9-my sincere belief we have no choice. We must resist Qaddafi, and the Americans if it comes to it.”
“The Americans are bluffing,” Ranan growled. “I don’t believe they’ve got the military capacity to come in here, and if they do we’ll tear them to pieces.”
Begin eyed him coolly. “I wish I shared your sentiments, Benny.” He sighed.
“Alas, I do not.”
* * *
From the reception this kid is getting you’d have thought we were bringing in Yassir Arafat himself, Angelo Rocchia mused. The car that had sped the Arab he had arrested from the Long Island Bar and Grill to the cellar of Federal Plaza had pulled up in front of the direct elevator reserved for FBI use; two other cars each filled with agents had stopped just behind it. Their occupants, hands ready on concealed weapons, swarmed around them as protectively as Secret Service men shielding a President in a hostile crowd.
Angelo got his first good look at his quarry in the fluorescent glare of the elevator. He was in his late twenties, a pale, almost fragile figure with uncombed black hair and a thick drooping moustache that seemed somehow a pathetic boast for a virility he did not possess. Above all, he was a worried, perplexed young man; Angelo could almost smell the fear oozing from his glands like some malodorous secretion.
Everyone, Dewing, the Police Commissioner, Salisbury of the CIA, Hudson, the Chief of Detectives, was waiting for them when the doors slid open on the twenty-sixth floor. For just a second, after the Arab had been led away for a hasty arraignment, Angelo and Rand were celebrities.
“Good work,” the Police Commissioner said in that mellow baritone he reserved for promotion ceremonies and Communion-breakfast speechmaking.
“First break we’ve had all day.”
As soon as he had been fingerprinted, photographed and arraigned, the Arab, who had given his name as Suleiman Kaddourri, was led into the FBI’s interrogation room. The room was as far removed from the public’s idea of what an interrogation center should look like as a Hamburger Heaven was from the Tour d’Argent. In fact, it resembled nothing quite so much as a middle-class suburban living room. Thick wall-to-wall carpeting blanketed the floor. The prisoner’s chair was a comfortable deepblue sofa covered with scatter cushions. In front of it was a coffee table with newspapers, cigarettes and a bubbling coffee maker. A pair of armchairs were ranged on the opposite side of the table for the FBI interrogators. The whole, carefully contrived atmosphere was, of course, a hoax designed to relax and disarm a prisoner. Every sound in the room, from the lighting of a match to the rustle of a piece of paper, was picked up and recorded by sensitive, noise-activated microphones in the walls. From behind two of the halfdozen watercolors on the walls, television cameras focused tightly on the prisoner’s face. On one wall was a huge photomural of the skyline of New York. It concealed a one-way viewing window. Behind that window was the interrogation room’s semi-darkened control booth from which a dozen senior officials could see and hear everything that went on inside. Angelo’s special status as the arresting officer won him entry to the booth. Fascinated, he studied the faces in the gloom around him.
“Hey, Chief,” he whispered, gesturing to an ‘unfamiliar figure in a white open-necked shirt whose collar was pressed down over the lapels of his blue suit, “who’s the new girl in town?”
Feldman’s eyes followed his glance. “Israeli intelligence,” he answered.
“Mossad.”
In the interrogation room itself, the Arab, his handcuffs removed, was perched warily on the edge of the sofa. Frank Farrell, the Bureau’s Palestinian expert, was pouring coffee as gaily, Angelo thought in disgust, as a waitress serving breakfast at a Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge. The second FBI agent in the room, Leo Shannon, a genial New York Irishman who specialized in interrogations and terrorist negotiations, reached into his pocket and laid a white card on the table. Angelo groaned.
“Would you believe it?” he said to the Chief of Detectives. “Guy wants to blow up some gas that’s going to kill Christ knows how many people in this city, and they got to give him the fucking card?”
Feldman gave a resigned shrug of his shoulders. The “card” was the slip of paper all New York policemen and FBI agents carry bearing the warning to a prisoner of his civil rights based on the Supreme Court’s Miranda decision.
Shannon “gave” it to him by informing the Arab he could remain silent if he chose or refuse to talk except in the presence of a lawyer. Everyone in the control booth tensed. It was a critical moment. Their efforts to find Qaddafi’s hydrogen bomb could come to a dead halt right here. If the man asked for a lawyer it might be hours before they could start to question
him, hours more before they could make a deal with his lawyer to let him off in return for talking.
Whether from ignorance of the law or indifference, the Arab gave Shannon a halfhearted wave of his hand. He didn’t need any lawyers, he said as the men in the booth sighed gratefully. He had nothing to say to anybody.
Behind Angelo, the door to the control booth opened. An agent in shirtsleeves stepped in, blinked a second in the shadows, then stepped over to Dewing. “We’ve got a sheet on him from the prints,” he announced triumphantly.
The men in the booth tightened into a knot around the FBI’s assistant director, forgetting for a moment the scene on the other side of the one-way glass. As soon as the Arab’s fingerprints had been taken they had been sent to FBI headquarters in Washington, where the memory bank of the Bureau’s IBM computer compared them with millions of prints taken from everyone arrested in the country during the past ten years. A second computer out at Langley put them into a CIA IBM containing all the fingerprints of Palestinian terrorists available to the world’s intelligence agencies. That machine had registered “tilt” three minutes after ingesting the prints. It had identified them as belonging to Nabil Suleiman. He had been born in Bethlehem in 1951 and had been picked up and printed first by the Israelis after an antigovernment demonstration at Jerusalem’s Arab College in 1969. In 1972 he had been arrested for possession of a firearm and given six months in jail. Released, he had disappeared for six months, an absence subsequently traced by Mossad to one of George Habbash’s PFLP training camps in Lebanon. In 1975 he had been identified by an informer as one of two men who left a charge of explosives in a shopping basket in Jerusalem’s Mahne Yehuda open-air market. Three elderly women had been killed and seventeen other people injured in the explosion. Since then he had vanished from sight.
“Did you run his prints past State and the INS?” Dewing asked as he compared the photograph attached to the file with the man in the interrogation booth.
“Yes, sir,” the agent who had brought the file answered. “There’s no record of a visa. He’s an illegal.”
The Fifth Horseman Page 40