by Vince Flynn
Freidman understood better than anyone the draconian measures his enemy employed to keep their activities secret. He, in fact, was the reason for much of their paranoia. He had hunted and killed them in such a wild variety of ways that it had now been several years since he had gotten anyone close enough to take real action against them.
The director general of Mossad had significant experience in the arena of assassination. In 1972, when eleven Israeli athletes were taken hostage during the Munich Olympics by the Palestinian group Black September, Ben Freidman had been there. He had stood at the side of his mentor, legendary Mossad Director General Zvi Zamir, while the German police bungled a rescue operation that resulted in the deaths of all the Israeli hostages.
To add insult to injury, the two surviving terrorists were later released by the German authorities for fear of reprisals. Israel had nowhere to turn for justice, so they looked to Mossad. It was Zamir who had convinced then Prime Minister Golda Meir that they must seek vengeance. Meir agreed and directed Zamir to hunt down the masterminds behind Black September and eliminate them. Over the next nine months the blood flowed and Ben Freidman proved himself to be one of Mossad’s most efficient assassins.
His first hit was barely a month after the massacre of the Olympic athletes. Mossad wanted to send a signal to everyone, and their first target was Wael Zwaiter, a PLO representative in Rome. On October 16 Freidman approached Zwaiter from behind while the man was on a walk and put two bullets into the back of his head.
Two months later Freidman was part of a team that killed Mahmoud Hamshari by placing a bomb in the phone of his Paris apartment. The device was detonated by remote control and the PLO representative was decapitated. Blood continued to flow and Freidman’s crowning achievement came on April 13, 1973.
He was part of a select force of Mossad agents and army commandos that launched a raid into the heart of Beirut. The targets that night were three of the PLO’s most senior officials. Muhammad Najjar, Kamal Adwan and Kamal Nasser were all gunned down in their homes. The success of the operation had implications far beyond the deaths of the three leaders. Information seized during the raids led to the assassination of three more terrorists with ties to Black September. The victory, however, was short-lived.
Just two months later Mossad was to suffer its most embarrassing public moment. The disaster occurred in the sleepy Norwegian ski village of Lillehammer. A team of Mossad agents were sent to investigate a possible sighting of the terrorist Ali Hassan Salameh. The inexperienced group incorrectly identified the target and then proceeded to kill Ahmed Bouchiki, a Moroccan waiter. If that wasn’t bad enough, six of the team members were subsequently captured while trying to escape. The men and women were put on trial and five of the six were jailed. The international outcry was deafening, and Mossad was officially ordered to get out of the assassination business.
Fortunately for Ben Freidman, he had not been involved in the Lillehammer incident, for if he had, it would have marked the end of his career. Instead, the disaster in Norway served to remind him, and many others, that they needed to hone their skills further and redouble their efforts in their covert war against the Arab aggressors.
Despite the official ban on assassination, Freidman and his group of kidons continued to hunt the terrorists that plagued his country. His crowning achievement came when one of his kidons infiltrated Hamas. One of the group’s leaders, and bomb engineers, had been a particularly nasty thorn in the side of Israel for some time. His name was Yehya Ayyash. The Israeli assassin took a phone call for Ayyash on a phone that had been modified by the technicians back at Mossad. He then handed the phone to the Hamas leader and walked away. Seconds later a tiny charge of C-4 exploded, blowing a hole in the side of the terrorist’s head and killing him.
Tonight the stakes were much higher. Ayyash had been but one terrorist, whereas this evening there would be many. Others would be sure to sprout up and take their place if he were successful, but it would take the enemy years to recover from such a blow. Hopefully by then, all Palestinians would be expelled from the occupied territories and a long tall wall would be built once and for all separating the two tribes. And then they could turn on each other. This Jabril Khatabi was a good example of what they were capable of. Freidman had no doubt that if they ever got to the point when they no longer had Israel to blame they would simply self-destruct.
Freidman’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of his people. “It looks like he’s changed cars again.”
The director general looked up at the wall of screens. On the left were twelve TVs, six high by two wide. In the middle were four large screens that measured four by six feet each and on the right there were again twelve TVs. On one of the big screens a red laser dot marked the roof of a white sedan that was moving through traffic. One by one screens flickered as they were changed from one camera vantage to another.
The advanced surveillance room wasn’t all that different than a news control room. Right now the surveillance team’s director and his two assistants were busy changing camera angles. At their disposal was an amazing array of surveillance equipment. Two satellites, over a thousand traffic and security cameras from all over the country, a specially equipped surveillance airplane circling the area at fifteen thousand feet, and several helicopters were about to join the fray just as soon as the sun slid over the long expanse of the Mediterranean.
Freidman watched and listened as his people worked computer consoles and joysticks, carefully directing teams in the field to attempt a visual confirmation that their man was still in the car. Freidman leaned forward into the glow of the screens and cautioned his people not to push too hard. The attaché cases were the key. He had to take Jabril at his word; that he wanted these men dead every bit as much as Freidman did. If he was right, Jabril would do everything in his power to prevent the money from being transferred to a bag or some other case.
24
Rapp jerked open the helicopter door and stepped to the ground. He scanned the perimeter of the landing area looking for the general, even though he doubted the officer would be so polite as to meet his visitors as they landed. Colonel Barboza joined him and they walked underneath the spinning rotors of the Huey.
At the edge of the landing area the two men were greeted by an eager lieutenant dressed in BDUs, jungle boots and a black Special Forces beret. He saluted Colonel Barboza crisply and introduced himself as General Moro’s aide-de-camp. With that brief introduction out of the way, the man did an about-face and led them down a path. The place was a standard military field camp. Located in a grassy clearing about the size of two football fields, it consisted of two rows of big green tents set atop wooden pallets.
From the satellite photos he’d studied, Rapp knew what each of the sixteen tents were for, which ones served as bivouacs for the troops to sleep in, which tent was the mess hall, medical tent, command center and most important, which was the general’s tent.
What Rapp hadn’t been able to glean from the satellite photos was what perimeter security was in place along the tree line. On the plane ride over, Coleman had mentioned it was very curious that there was no barbwire laid out around the camp’s perimeter, and no foxholes or machine-gun nests dug into the obvious defensive positions. In Coleman’s mind Moro was either derelict in his command or had very good reason not to fear an attack by the guerrillas.
At the expected tent the aide stopped and rapped his knuckles on a wooden sign that, amazingly enough, had the general’s name on it. As a matter of course, U.S. Special Forces personnel in the field went to great lengths to hide the rank of officers. There was no saluting, rarely was rank displayed unless in a subtle way that could only be noticed up close, and men were taught not to all stand facing a commander as he talked. This last part was the most difficult to teach since the military had drilled the chain of command into their heads from their first day of boot camp.
Moro was either very proud of the fact that he was a general or he ha
d no fear of letting the enemy know where to find him. Rapp suspected the sign on the door indicated a bit of both.
From inside the tent came the word, “Enter.”
The voice was not menacing, casual or aloof. If anything, it sounded merely a bit curious. As he stepped into the dark tent he was forced to take his sunglasses off. There, sitting behind a small portable desk, was the general in a pair of camouflage pants and a green T-shirt. Rapp immediately noticed that the general was in tip-top shape. His arms were long and lean, with powerful biceps straining against the tight fabric of his shirt.
The general made no effort to get up and greet them and Rapp casually observed the interaction between Barboza and Moro. He watched the junior officer salute his superior in a way that was within the proper guidelines, but was noticeably lacking in both enthusiasm and respect. It was the bare minimum required by the military protocol and nothing more.
Barboza turned, waving an arm toward Rapp, and said, “This is Mr. Rapp. He works for the CIA.”
The smallest of smirks formed on the general’s lips. It may have been a smirk of recognition, or just a show of disrespect for the CIA. Rapp watched Moro with the detached analytical eye of a professional. The general made no effort to get up and shake his hand, and Rapp made no effort to extend his. The two men silently studied each other until the mood grew uncomfortable. Rapp had a strategy to employ and a crucial part of it was to keep Moro off balance until the time was right.
Moro sat motionless, his hands gripping the armrest of his wood and canvas chair. Rapp had played this game before, and he was sure the general had also done so countless times with his subordinates and probably even a few American military advisors and State Department officials.
What was different this time was that Rapp wasn’t some American diplomat who was worried about offending the general’s sensibilities. Rapp was intent on doing much more than that, and he sincerely hoped that in the process he would thoroughly upset the diplomatic applecart.
It was the general who blinked first. His smirk turned into a full-blown smile and he asked, “To what do I owe the honor of receiving the infamous Mr. Rapp of the CIA?”
Rapp took the insult as a compliment. He had two choices. He could either maintain the cold attitude of a man who obviously distrusted Moro, or he could join the general in his parlor game and try to gain his trust, or at a bare minimum, ease his mistrust. He decided on the latter. With a smile of his own Rapp replied, “There is no honor in receiving me, General. I am just a humble bureaucrat in the employ of my government.”
This caused Moro to laugh loudly. “A humble bureaucrat. That is good.” The general slapped his thighs enthusiastically and looked at a confused Colonel Barboza. “Colonel, I see you have no idea of the fame of the man you have brought to see me.” It was obvious that Moro enjoyed this advantage over the younger officer. “You should read more. Mr. Rapp is an American icon. Mr. Rapp is America’s counterterrorist.”
Rapp did not join in the general’s laughter. He found very little humor in what he did for a living. When Moro had settled down, Rapp said, “General, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to have a word in private.”
Moro looked from Rapp to Barboza. He studied the colonel for a moment with a look on his face that hinted of a deep-seated contempt. “Colonel, you are dismissed. I will send for you when we are done.”
Barboza remained impassive. He saluted the general and then turned to Rapp. “I will be waiting for you outside.”
When he had departed Moro offered his visitor a chair. Rapp took a seat and settled in.
“I assume,” Moro started, “that since you are America’s counterterrorist, that you are here to discuss the progress I have made against Abu Sayyaf.”
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Rapp replied, “I wasn’t aware that you’ve made any progress.”
The general chose to ignore the comment, instead smiled and said, “Your Agency is famous for getting its facts wrong, Mr. Rapp. I don’t know what you have been told, but the terrorists have suffered over a hundred losses in the last month alone.”
“So you say,” replied Rapp with a straight face.
Moro could not let this pass. Indignantly, he asked, “Are you questioning my honor?”
Rapp wanted to say that it was worthless to debate an attribute that the general did not possess, but that might push him too far in the wrong direction. Ignoring the question Rapp said, “General, I am a practical man, and I have been told you too are a practical man, one with amazing capabilities.” Rapp threw in the last part as a blatant attempt to flatter the general. “We both know what it is like to be in the field with politicians beating on us for results. I am not here to attack your integrity, but I do know for a fact that your men have not killed even half the enemy that you have just claimed.”
Moro sat motionless for a moment, struggling between admitting the truth or sticking with his propaganda. He decided to do neither. “Mr. Rapp, what is your point?”
“My point is, General, that I know things about you that your own government does not.” Rapp let the innuendo hang in the air. He could feel the comforting lump of his Beretta under his right arm. He would not hesitate to kill the snake sitting across the desk from him. Coleman and his team appeared to have run into some trouble, so it looked like it was up to him to handle the situation. He’d already pieced together a plan that he felt would work.
If Moro made the slightest move for his side arm, which was in its holster hanging from a peg on the tent pole behind the general, Rapp would have to ad-lib a bit, but he was still confident that he could accomplish his mission and avoid being torn limb from limb by the general’s troops. Once he showed Moro the goodies there was a very real chance that things would spiral out of control.
With a furrowed brow, no doubt caused by Rapp’s unsettling words, Moro tried to figure out why this assassin had come to visit him. The first and most obvious answer was quickly dismissed. Moro’s men were fiercely loyal to him. The American would never make it out of here alive if he were to try to kill him. With a disarming smile, Moro said, “Mr. Rapp, you have me at a disadvantage. I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Salty sweat poured down Coleman’s camouflage-painted face as he tried to keep up with Wicker. It was a hopeless task. Wicker, a decade younger and thirty pounds lighter, seemed to have an inexhaustible source of energy as he scampered up the mountainside. This was not to say that Coleman was past his day, it was rather that Wicker was a very unusual man. He could move through the jungle, in near silent fashion, at a pace that was impossible to match. Coleman was wise enough to factor all of this into his decision before they started their scramble up the hill and had told Wicker not to wait for him.
Back near the footbridge, Coleman had made the difficult choice of splitting his team in two. Stroble and Hackett were to carefully track the terrorists while Wicker and Coleman went on to support their primary mission. This was one of those battlefield decisions that would either be looked back on as ingenious and gutsy, or glaringly stupid. Like a football coach deciding to go for it on fourth down rather than kicking a field goal, the wisdom of such a decision is always dependent on the success of the gamble.
The physical screening process for SEAL candidates is well known, but what is often overlooked is that the men who run the Naval Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado place an equal amount of importance on intellect and character. In short, a physically strong warrior who follows orders makes an ideal infantry soldier. In the modern battlefield their every move is monitored by a battalion, brigade and sometimes even a force commander. They are chess pieces on a very intricate board that need to be moved in a precise way.
The world of Special Forces, however, is very different. A physically strong warrior is a good start, but a strong, intelligent warrior is absolutely dangerous. SEALs are taught from Day One that operations rarely go as planned. It is drilled into them that quick, intelligent decision making wil
l invariably enhance the chances for a successful mission, and contribute to the very survival of their unit.
They need to be able to operate behind enemy lines often without the aid of artillery and close air support. They are rarely involved in major battles unless their mission is to take out a select high value target prior to the launching of the main battle. In short, they are taught to operate independently from their command, within mission parameters, for sustained periods of time behind enemy lines.
It was not in Coleman’s character to abandon Rapp, but the kidnapped American family had appeared like a gift out of the predawn mist. It was a gift he could not pass up. Coleman paused briefly to catch his breath and take a drink of water from his camel pack. He placed the small hose between his lips and sucked in a mouthful of water. Wicker was far ahead of him now. At least seventy-five yards. He caught a glimpse of him as he scrambled over a rock shelf and disappeared from sight. A shadow moving in the shadows.
Coleman started again in earnest, on all fours, pawing and pushing his way up the steep mountain. He was both thankful and leery of the cover provided by the trees that enveloped the landscape. They traveled in the same gully that ran from the top of the mountain all the way to the sea. At times it was like a gorge and at others a babbling brook. Up on this high steep part there were more exposed rocks and less grass and moss. The torrential rains of the region washed away anything that wasn’t anchored down by the roots of the trees and the surrounding undergrowth.
It would be nearly impossible for anyone below to see them. They traveled just off to the side of the gully where the leafy limbs of the trees provided good cover. Coleman worried about what might be waiting for them at the top. Mountaintops are a prized possession among opposing forces. They offer a bird’s-eye view of the lay of the land and provide crucial intelligence. They also offer a nice perch to set up a counter-sniping team.