And that is when I became involved, when His Royal Highness Prince H…had asked me to convene and host these impromptu gatherings – when he had asked me to become their ‘third party’.
***
I had purchased Hacienda de la Tranquilidad back in 1984.
Loosely translated as: ‘Estate of Tranquillity’, it is a large white Moorish styled ranch set in undulating foothills, just north of the hilltop village of Mojácar, in the Andalucia Province of southern Spain. Nestling in between mixed groves of olive and walnut trees, it had been an abandoned and derelict shell when I had bought it – but, like its name, I had fallen in love with the feeling of tranquillity that it had indeed offered. Over the next couple of years, I had poured money and love into the property, completely renovating, restoring and refurbishing it in true Moorish Andalucia style. Set in fifteen acres of countryside, the work had turned the Hacienda into a stunning six bedded farmhouse, air conditioned throughout; with fully refurbished out-houses and stables; an ornamental fountain at the front; and a covered terrace, swimming pool, poolside bar and summer kitchen, at the rear. There had also been a Moorish styled bungalow built in the grounds, which had been ideal for Jim and Mary.
Jim, formerly a professor of Slavonic Studies, at Cambridge University, had been a ‘reader’ for MI5 up until him leaving in 1987. Both he and Mary, his wife, had loved Spain and had jumped at the chance of being the custodial guardians of ‘Tranquillity’…Mary had enjoyed pottering in the garden – and Jim had just enjoyed pottering.
‘Tranquillity’ had been the ideal location for the first informal tripartite gathering, between the intelligence agencies of Egypt, Jordan and Israel. Suitably remote, and off the beaten track, it had still been readily accessible for those attending – just ninety kilometres by road from the airport, at Almería. Travelling independently of one another, Jim had made separate individual trips in his seventies VW T2 minibus to collect the three intelligence agents, from the airport – Carl had been his last pick-up. Donkor, the representative from the Egyptian GIS; and Saleh, the representative of the Jordanian GID, had been relaxing in the pool when Jim had arrived back at Tranquillity with Carl. I had met Donkor and Saleh before but Carl, Mossad’s representative, had been new to me – although I did know of him, by reputation. The trip from the airport, in rush hour traffic, had taken almost two hours – and the VW T2 minibus did not have air conditioning. Consequently, when Carl had emerged from the sliding side doors of the VW, he had been positively dripping in sweat.
“Hi – my name is Carl.” Blowing a globule of sweat from off his nose, the newcomer had introduced himself.
About five ten, with the lean build of an athletic runner, his pale facial tones had extenuated his dark chestnut hair. I had instinctively recognised the Mossad agent to be every bit of the killer that he was – takes one to know one!
“That really looks refreshing,” he had added.
I had thought that he had been referring to the carafe of chilled iced lemonade, which Mary had prepared and had positioned under the shade of the extended canopy – but far from it. Walking directly past the table, on which the jug had been placed, he had dropped his jacket and overnight bag on to the patio floor and, kicking off his shoes, had dived fully clothed into the pool. He had broken surface immediately alongside the two Arab intelligence agents, causing them to openly laugh, politely, at his desperation to cool down. In perfect Arabic, with but a hint of a harsh Palestinian accent, Carl had introduced himself to his new associates. I had left them to it – to get acquainted with each other. In the evening, after they had washed and changed, and after both Donkor and Saleh had said their evening prayers, we met up for dinner on the poolside terrace. Mary had prepared a typical Andalucian paella for our guests, with cordial and juices, for Donkor and Saleh, and a selection of wines and ice cold beers, for Carl and myself. After the meal, as a group we had just chilled out, enjoying the company of one another – putting off the real intent and purpose of our little ‘get-together’, until the morning.
After breakfast, we had made a start. I had pretty much outlined to them that my role was purely that of a facilitator and, if required of me, I could provide them with input to, or from, the Western Intelligence Communities – namely the CIA, MI5 and MI6. Between the three of them, they had quickly discussed the aspirations of their individual countries as to where the talks may lead, and had agreed a mutually acceptable agenda, with one common objective and purpose – honest and frank cooperation between their respective agencies. Donkor, the Egyptian GIS agent, had wanted to start first, outlining known terrorists and their associates, operating or training in Egypt and in the Sudan. Saleh had been next, going into quite some detail as to those terrorists and terrorist cells, identified by the Jordanian GID, as being operational throughout the Middle East. Carl had been more than content to listen to the other two – preferring to speak last.
I too am quite happy to listen and let others talk first. This enables those who are desperate to say what they want to say, to say it and, once having said it, they are much more prepared to listen. Sometimes, they say exactly what you were going to say – and then you can just endorse what they have said. On other occasions, there may be a few disparities between what they have said and what you were going to say – you have the benefit of understanding their point view and adjusting yours to subtly modify theirs. And, on those occasions, where they are talking absolute crap, you have the advantage of retrospection and of being able to succinctly tear their argument to pieces by carefully formulating your own, capitalising on the inherent weakness of theirs.
On that first day, we had finished by early afternoon, and the four of us had made full use of the pool, again. After the evening meal – a meal of chicken risotto – we had spent the evening talking about a variety of subjects: the two Arabs had been mad on football – but unfortunately, I had not. However, we had soon found common ground in films and movies, and had spent an enjoyable evening together, talking about our own individual favourite films and genre. Donkor and Saleh had retired to their rooms, well before midnight, leaving just Carl and myself to chat away the night…to find that we had a common interest – history. We had both studied Ancient and Modern History; Carl formally, as an academic pursuit; and me informally, purely as an intellectual interest. But it had not been the Roman occupation of the Middle East that had kept us talking throughout the night and on into the early morning; it had been the politic and military history of the Second World War. We had become so engrossed in our discussions that we had failed to keep track of time until the sun had shed its first light of dawn. But that morning, at breakfast, you would not have been able to tell that we’d only had four hours sleep, between us – but that is all the sleep that I ever need.
All three intelligence agents had been in communication with their respective agencies, and each had brought feedback from previous day’s session. Mossad had checked out and verified the information that Carl had been supplied with, by the two Arabs – and it had all been good solid intelligence. So much so, that they had authorised Carl to divulge further crucial intelligence to the Egyptians and the Jordanians – but it was to be of far more relevance to the Egyptians, though. Carl had given a name – just one name, but an important one.
The Egyptian Islamic Jihad movement had one sole aim and purpose…to overthrow the Egyptian Government and replace it with an Islamic State – sounded familiar! The al-Jihad, as it was more commonly know then, had pursued its goals by acts of terrorism – namely bombing, shootings and assassinations. Then, in the late eighties, it had changed its structure – it had become a ‘blind-cell’ structure. In essence, this had effectively meant that members of one group, or cell, did not know the activities or identities of another group, or cell. Thereby, if any member of al-Jihad had been captured, under interrogation they would not be able to divulge the identity of other members, or groups. This had meant that the blind-cell structure of al-Jihad had been impenetrabl
e to the Egyptian authorities, frustrating any and all attempts by the Egyptian General Intelligence Service to effectively counter the terrorists – that is, until Carl had given them a name.
Immediately on receiving this information from Carl, Donkor had excused himself to contact his superiors, back in Cairo. Later, in the afternoon, Mary had discreetly interrupted our session to tell the Egyptian that there was an urgent call from Cairo, for him. Again, Donkor had excused himself from the group, as he had gone to take the call. He had returned a short while later and had walked directly up to Carl, placing his arms around the Mossad Agent, in a strong embrace, kissing him on both cheeks.
“Brother, you have been of great service to my county and country men,” he had said, his voice quivering slightly. “And we are truly indebted to you.”
The name that Carl had given to them had been the name of the membership director of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad – the al-Jihad. And, when he had been arrested by the Egyptian General Intelligence Service, they had found a computer with a database containing every member of al-Jihad detailed on it: their names, aliases, addresses and ‘safe’ houses. Within days, over eight hundred members of the terrorist group had been rounded up and arrested!
That evening, there had been something of a small celebration at Tranquillity. It had been the last evening together and there had indeed been something to celebrate – a new found bond of cooperation and friendship between the three intelligence agents. Any guarded distrust, that the Arabs might have had towards Mossad, had evaporated when Carl had passed on the name of the senior al-Jihad official to them. In two short days, there had been a coming together – an informal discreet relationship, which still exists today. Mary had prepared a feast of roast chicken, legs of lamb, salted sea bass and an assortment of roasted Mediterranean vegetables, accompanied with saffron and herb infused rice. And, that evening, that very special evening, all three intelligence agents had insisted that Mary and Jim should join with them at the meal – to join in their mutual celebration. Carl had brought his flute with him and, after dinner, had treated us to pieces of classical Baroque music – he was, and still is, a very accomplished flautist. Not to be outdone, Mary and Jim had joined in the musical ensemble, Mary with her pitch perfect delicate soprano voice contrasting, yet complimenting, the deep melodic base tones of Jim’s baritone. Even Donkor and Saleh had joined in the evening’s entertainment, softly singing Arabic lullabies that they had remembered from their childhood, accompanied by Carl on his flute.
Me – unfortunately I can’t sing – won’t sing.
After every one had retired for the night, Carl and I had sat out on the terrace till the soft light of dawn, discussing all of manner of things – something that we had regularly done on our subsequent meetings with one another.
That is, until Carl had gone feral!
CHAPTER SIXTY
In those early days, Carl and I had talked mainly about history – both ancient and modern.
But, then, over a period of time, Carl had begun to confide in me his concerns and his doubts, over the way that his government had been handling the Palestinian problem. He had passionately believed that the building of Jewish settlements, on the West Bank, had been the main root and cause of Palestinian unrest. He had passionately believed that this blatant occupation of land, and the eviction of the Palestinians from it, had been a serious determining factor in alienating Israel from the Arab world. He had passionately believed that it was giving fuel to the fire of terrorist fervour and Islamic Zionist hatred.
“After all, we are all of the one tribe – we are all of the one Father,” he had quoted. “It’s just religion that fucks it all up.”
Carl had also fervently disagreed with his agency’s counter-terrorism tactics and strategies. The fact that all Mossad targeted killings had to have the direct approval of the Prime Minister, had generally restricted them to being retaliatory in nature and, being retaliatory, had meant that extreme excessive methods had usually been employed. The air or helicopter gunship strikes, that followed, inevitably resulted in collateral damage – the injury and death of innocent bystanders. Carl had argued, with his superiors, that selective pre-emptive targeting was a far more effective means of dealing with terrorism. It would enable terrorists to be targeted before they became a real and credible threat to Israel – before they had chance to kill Israelis. Their targeted killing could be ‘discreetly’ carried out – without risk of collateral damage to the local populace. Carl had argued that, as unintended as they might have been, the killing and injuring of innocent civilians had only served to encourage yet more recruits to the militant factions; and further alienate the Arab populace against Israel. He had also argued that targeted killings were far too important to leave to the sole executive decision and approval of the Prime Minister. But, within the Mossad hierarchy, Carl’s views had been treated as extreme and potentially radical – and he had been ‘encouraged’ to resign from the Agency. Mossad had believed that he would go back to his academic studies and lecturing, but he hadn’t. Instead, he had put his arguments into practice and had gone out killing Palestinian terrorists. But, unfortunately, as well as killing the bad guys, he had also killed one or two Arabs being groomed by the CIA as potential double agents – and the Americans had wanted him stopped!
***
I had finally caught up with Carl in Barcelona.
Las Ramblas is a boulevard of shops, cafés, bars and restaurants, just over a kilometre in length, which runs from Port Vell, at the southern most end, up to Placa Catalunya, in the north. To the east of the Ramblas is the Raval area of Barcelona and, to the west, is the Barri Gotic, the Gothic Quarter. At night, the southernmost end of the Ramblas, to all intents and purposes, becomes a red-light area, with prostitutes and pimps hustling sailors and tourists, alike. But, at ten o’clock, that bright sunny August morning, the prostitutes and pimps had been nowhere to be seen.
At the southern end of Las Ramblas is a bar, with a terrace on its first floor, which had looked out directly over the busy boulevard. Carl had been sitting alone at a table at the far northerly end of the terrace, a glass of mineral water and a Nokia mobile phone in front of him. Carlos had been sitting just a couple of tables away, a bottle of Rioja in front of him, his head ostensibly buried in an art catalogue.
If you are going to spend time in a bar or cafe keeping someone under surveillance, you create far less attention to yourself if you have a bottle or carafe of wine to take measured sips from – rather than make yourself obvious by spending hours sipping from the same small coffee or water.
Carlos had already been sitting at his table when Carl had arrived. Getting there a good ten minutes before the ex-Mossad Agent, he had positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the terrace and the boulevard, below. John-Luke had entered shortly after Carl, sitting at the opposite end of the terrace to Carlos and the ex-Mossad Agent, where he had a clear view of the door. In French, John-Luke had ordered a bottle of Syrah. From his flat knapsack, he had taken out a copy of ‘French Baroque Music: From Beaujoyeulx to Rameau’, pulled out a silk page marker and had proceeded to read. I had waited a few minutes before entering the quite terrace bar. The ex-Mossad Agent had recognised me instantly but, apart from moving his right hand to the front waistband of his trousers, he had shown no outward sign of recognition. I had walked slowly and deliberately over to his table, keeping my arms out to the sides, giving him no cause to use the .22 cal Beretta 71, concealed under his loose fitting shirt.
“Christian,” I had greeted out aloud, stopping to do a slow turn around with my arms raised in the air. “What do you think of my new very tight t-shirt?” I had asked him, slowly lowering my arms back down. “Not much I can conceal under this is there. Okay for me to sit down?”
Carl had nodded, but had still kept his hand on the butt of the .22 automatic tucked inside his waistband. “Of course ‘Paul’, and what brings you here to Barcelona?” he had asked, keeping up the with the i
mpromptu name deception for the benefit of anyone who had cared to listen – never use real names in public.
“The Americans,” I had replied, sitting down immediately next to him, purposely on his right hand side – made it slightly more difficult for him to draw and use his gun on me.
“They told you that I was here?”
“No, the Jordanians did.”
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 30