Benjamin could feel the small knot in his stomach growing. He had an old habit of his left eye twitching when he felt anxious but he overcame that obvious problem with practice. Never show anyone you’re disturbed, he would repeat to control his eyelid. The knot in the stomach was not visible to anyone and he used it as a barometer, knowing when instinct had overtaken his mind and body.
Mark Heckman picked up the papers and headed to his office on the run. When Big Ben raised his voice it was time to get the job done, or one’s career would come to an immediate halt. Mark Heckman set out to get more information on Nasih Rahman and his aunt, Johara Araff.
Abdul-Aziz and Rashad’s families had no connection to radical Islamic clerics or terrorist groups. Their presence in London would not raise any flags to the Mossad.
The El Huda Boy’s School, with the help of Abdullah Khamayseh, arranged for Abdul-Aziz and Rashad to study at the English Language Institute, the premier language school in London. They had arrived as foreign exchange students with one-year visas. A Syrian couple by the name of Samir and Amber Maloof were recruited by the Syrian embassy to house the teenagers for a sum of money never disclosed. The Maloof’s were chosen as the family of choice, since they were both Christians and had no political affiliation with radical Islamic groups.
Mark Heckman reluctantly knocked on Benjamin Werner’s office door. It had been forty-eight hours since he was told to have a complete dossier on Nasih Rahman and his aunt Johara Araff.
“Come in and shut the door,” barked Benjamin.
His tone of voice didn’t make Mark very comfortable. He handed the report over and waited for the fireworks. He kept looking at Benjamin’s face to see any reaction to what he had written, but there was none.
Only Benjamin knew the knot in his stomach had grown to the size of a grapefruit. “This woman Johara works for the Syrian embassy and she’s screwing some guy who’s employed by the British Secretary of State of Defence —and the MI5 is aware of this?”
Mark countered. “They believe she can be useful in providing information and they have allowed this to continue. They claim that they feed false information to her to see if it surfaces anywhere, allowing the MI5 to pinpoint any Syrian agents.”
The doubting Benjamin was curious. “It appears from the report that they have been seeing each other for the better part of five years. What positive results have happened?”
Sheepishly Mark answered, “Really none to this stage. All the information seems to have gone into a black hole, never surfacing any place that the MI5 can point to.”
“That’s just great. What else do they know?” Benjamin said sarcastically.
“She’s had phone conversations with Ahman Rahman, Nasih’s uncle. All have been recorded, but there’s no indication of any wrongdoing or covert activity. It’s all about family, Nasih’s education and his coming to England. Either it’s totally above board, or they’re one hell of a clever group.”
Benjamin slammed down the report and stood up. “Something is very wrong here and I can’t put my finger on it. This woman has been fed bogus information for five years and it hasn’t yielded any results? It’s too clever and too cunning to be a coincidence. I want agent Abraham Stevens in London to tail this woman Johara and her nephew Nasih, day and night. I want every resource available to understand why Ahman’s nephew is in London. Get me Peter Thompson at MI5 on the phone now and let’s discuss a joint effort with him.”
Peter Thompson had been with British Intelligence since the end of World War II. He had been embroiled in the political fiascos by members of parliament, turncoat spies and KGB infiltration, and had participated with several covert actions around the globe including the assassination of a European Prime Minister who was selling MI5 agent lists to the highest bidder.
When Peter received the call from Benjamin Werner, he hardly raised an eyebrow.
“Benny, Benny,” as he liked to call Benjamin, to his intense dislike. “We’ve been aware of Ms. Araff’s activities with William Nicholas Cavendish for many years now. We’ve fed her information to see if it would surface somewhere in the Middle East or in a terrorist organization but not one item planted ever came up. What do you want me to do, Benny? Arrest her for giving the guy a hummer?”
Peter’s sarcastic tone was grating on Benjamin’s nerves, but he kept his mouth shut.
“And the teenager,” Peter continued to ramble on, “If you want to spend the time and resources tailing a wet-nosed, seventeen-year-old, then be my guest. I’ve neither the manpower nor resources to help you. Maybe you haven’t heard, but the IRA has us plenty busy these days. But if old Billy Boy the Bopper hears something, I’ll give you a call.”
Peter hung up the phone smiling at his own instant wit.
Peter Thompson shook his head and reached for his bottle of Balvenie single malt Scotch whisky and poured half a glass. “I must be getting old,” Peter said to himself. Normally I would have at least some interest in this request, but frankly I can’t be bothered. Picking up the phone he dialed a familiar memorized number.
“William, Peter Thompson here. I just got a call from Benjamin Werner of the Mossad. He seems real worried about your girlfriend Johara and her nephew. What do you think?”
William was angry that the Mossad knew about his personnel affairs and answered abruptly, “I’ve baited this woman for several years and nothing has come of it and as far as her nephew, I’ve yet to meet him. She talks of his desire to go to the Museums and ancient Roman ruins in Bath. He’s something of a history buff and sounds more like a pansy than a terrorist or agent to me. I think the Mossad is just overly paranoid and is barking up the wrong tree once again.”
“My conclusions are the same. Sorry to have bothered you.” Peter hung up the phone and never gave the incident another thought.
The doorbell rang at Johara’s apartment Saturday afternoon.
“I’ll get it,” said Nasih.
Johara was still in the bedroom getting ready.
Opening the door, Nasih immediately held out his hand and said, “You must be Sir William Cavendish, whom I have heard so many great things about. Please come in.”
“Well thank you. Your aunt has spoken about you many times. It’s my pleasure to finally meet you.” After shaking hands, William closed the door behind him.
Johara walking down the stairs said, “William, please sit down. I would like you to get better acquainted with my nephew.”
Nasih immediately took the lead. “I find London fascinating, with a rich history and much entertainment. I’ve enjoyed the museums and of course Piccadilly Circus.” I need to keep him focused on my hobbies, not my personal life.
Sir Cavendish took the bait and spent the next half an hour talking about London and England’s history.
Nasih said, “I understand that Bath is rich in Roman history and I would certainly like to explore the area.”
“Yes,” replied William. “You must plan a visit there before you leave.”
Nasih turned to his aunt, “I think that’s a great idea, don’t you?”
“Well, I don’t know. What do you think William?”
“If Nasih likes history so much, then I would certainly recommend he’d go.” Then William, still very upset that the Mossad had pried into his private life, blurted to Johara, “I don’t understand why the Israeli intelligence agencies are so concerned about your nephew. He seems to be such a proper young lad.” Damn, I just screwed up royally.
Johara jumped up from her chair. “Why would my nephew be the target of the Israelis? He has never been in trouble and is only a student. Why are the Jews always looking to persecute the Palestinians?”
Nasih only shrugged his shoulders. My Uncle Ahman is right. The Mossad is watching my every move.
After William and Johara left, Nasih went to his room and re-read the note that his Aunt had given him from the Syrian embassy.
All three of you must go to the Masjid ibn Taymeeyah Saturday evening at seve
n o’clock. Wear your El Huda jackets. You will be contacted there.
Abdul-Aziz and Rashad arrived at Johara’s apartment to accompany Nasih to the Mosque. Mossad agent Abraham Stevens, who had been assigned to the case, followed the trio.
It wasn’t long before Nasih spotted the agent tailing them. As the three walked, Nasih said, “We’re being followed and he’s more interested in me than you two. We’ll split up and separately go to the Masjid ibn Taymeeyah.”
“Are you sure?” asked Rashad.
“Positive. We’ll split at the next corner. He’ll follow me.”
Agent Stevens watched as the three teens stopped shook hands and went in separate directions. “Bastards,” he muttered to himself, “maybe they’re on to me.” He then continued to follow Nasih Rahman, previously identified as his main target.
Nasih walked to the entrance of Victory Station and took the escalator down to the Underground platform. He pretended to be reading a poster as he watched the agent step off the escalator and turn away from him. Perfect, he thought. I’ll lead this Zionist agent on a wild goose chase, giving Abdul-Aziz and Rashad time to get to the Mosque ahead of me.
Nasih then boarded the next train and took it to the Finsbury Park station. At Finsbury he walked to the opposite platform and returned to Victory Station.
Agent Stevens was pissed. This little jerk is playing games with me. I’ve no choice but to stay with him.
On the train back to Victory Station, Nasih could only laugh at the agent. Now I must not lose him to really make him mad.
Exiting the station, Nasih hailed a taxi. He got in slowly, making sure he was followed. “Brixton Mosque,” he told the driver.
Arriving at Masjid ibn Taymeeyah, Nasih went to the door of the Culture Centre and knocked. As the door opened he turned and waved to the agent before going in.
“That little bastard baited me the entire trip,” seethed agent Stevens. By now the ever-present London rain was pouring down and he couldn’t find shelter close to the front entrance of the Culture Centre. “Well, he knows I’m here so I’ll just make the best of it,” said Agent Stevens to himself as he unfolded his umbrella.
Inside the Centre, Abdul-Aziz and Rashad were waiting for Nasih.
“What happened? Did you lose him?” asked Abdul-Aziz.
“I didn’t want to lose him. I just didn’t want him to see the three of us here together.”
A voice spoke from inside a room. “Don’t worry. Besides, he won’t see anyone leave except Nasih. There’s a separate entrance to the house next door and from there you can exit through an alley. Come in and sit down.”
The teens entered the room to find three men who rose from their chairs. The man who was previously speaking said, “I’m Faris Shurrab and this is Bashir Moussa and Wael Qassem. We have been each assigned to bring the mission to its conclusion here in England. We’ll be your mentors for the next five years.”
After introductions, the teens were briefed on the plan and date to be in Bath, England. The meeting went on for two hours on how they would proceed after taking over their new identities.
Upon completion Faris stood up. “We’ll all leave by the secondary entrance except for Nasih. You will go out the front door and proceed home. Here are several books for you to carry. They are meaningless, except for the top one. Make sure you accidentally drop it for the agent to retrieve.”
With that, the meeting broke up and Nasih did as instructed, walking out the front door into the rain, while Abdul-Aziz and Rashad left through the alternate exit. He spotted the agent a few doors away standing under his umbrella. Nasih ran to the bus stop. Waiting under the shelter, Nasih jumped on the first bus, making sure he dropped the book.
Agent Stevens watched as Nasih left. He looked at his watch. It’s ten-thirty. He walked over to where the book was dropped. Bending over to look at the title, the cold rain water ran off his umbrella and down the back of his neck. The History of Bath, England? What a frigging waste of my time.
CHAPTER 12
THE SETUP, 1983
Jonah Meyerson, Howard Lieberman, and Daniel Schonfeld, were not aware that the London branch of the Muslims For Justice for the past two and a half years trailed and documented every detail of their lives.
First and foremost they were Jewish orphans, whose childhoods were marked by being shuffled from one foster home to another, except for Howard Lieberman who lived with his grandmother.
None of the three had established permanent family ties. Two of them had no formal Jewish upbringing. Only Howard Lieberman attended synagogue and that was very infrequently. None had the traditional Bar Mitzvah when they turned thirteen. Though they were one to two years older than what was required, their height, weight, hair, eyes and build were quite similar. At an age when males grew from adolescents to young men, these changes in features were not uncommon.
Jonah Meyerson
Jonah grew up in the London Borough of Hillingdon, in the western section of Greater London. He graduated in 1982 from Abbotsfield School at Clifton Gardens, Hillingdon, where he was a modest student with a B-minus average. He applied and was hired as a baggage handler at Heathrow Airport working for British Airways.
Only a month on the job, a new employee was assigned to work with him. His name was Bashir Moussa, whose parents had emigrated from Morocco, or at least that’s what his documents stated.
Bashir and Jonah slowly became friends. Never were politics discussed. Sports, girls and fast cars were the topics of the day along with the universal hate of the superintendent who constantly badgered the help to increase productivity. Soon they were drinking beer at the local pub, watching soccer and playing darts. The friendship had become cemented.
Jonah would speak many times about his desire to further his education.
“If I could muster up enough money to pay for tuition, I would attend a decent university.”
Bashir’s commented, “Jonah, I believe someday you’ll achieve your goal.” It was a sarcastic remark, but Jonah took it as a compliment.
Bashir had arrived in London four months before. Born in the slums of Tehran, Iran, he had completed his secondary education when he was caught up in the escalation of protest against Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. The Shah was known as a ruthless ruler and had been condemned by many nations of violating human rights.
The Shah was deposed in 1979 and Bashir welcomed the change and joined the Revolutionary Guard, quickly demonstrating his ability to manipulate his fellow Iranians.
Those in control noted Bashir’s skills. In 1982 he was asked to take a special assignment in England, working for the Muslims For Justice. He was more than happy to further the cause of the Islamic Revolution and to avoid being put on the front lines of the Iran-Iraq War, where so many of his fellow countryman had been killed. Their funerals as martyrs soon became so frequent that there were whispers in the streets of wholesale slaughter.
Daniel Schonfeld
Daniel was from Croydon, one of the southernmost boroughs of Greater London. He attended the Purley High School for Boys, whose reputation for strictness and caning was known throughout England. Daniel had been a somewhat rebellious young man who received beatings from the schoolmaster on a regular basis. He took this in stride since it was better than the fists of his drunken foster father that rained down upon him almost on a daily basis.
Despite all his hardships, Daniel was a straight-A student excelling in mathematics. He, too, lacked the funds and ambition by the time he graduated from high school to pursue a higher education. Right after graduation, he stuffed his meager amount of clothing in a backpack and left home, wandering around looking for an inexpensive hotel before finally taking a room at a Lewisham hostel.
Daniel searched for employment daily. Rummaging through the newspaper classifieds, he saw an ad for a clerk at Lake and Associates, Accounting Firm. Daniel answered the advertisement, and he soon found that Lake and Associates consisted of Melville Lake, and the only associate he had wa
s his cat, Balance.
Melville had been in business for forty years and of late he noticed that the misplacing of reports and other valuable papers were increasing. “Time to get a clerk, to keep me straight,” he remarked to Balance.
Melville had spoken to Balance while he worked since he found him in his basement some fourteen years earlier. But the conversations were getting longer and he was sure it was time to retire. He had advertised the business for sale a couple of times, but had no takers.
Daniel entered the establishment clutching the classifieds. “I understand, Sir, you’re looking for a clerk?”
Melville looked up suspiciously at Daniel Schonfeld in his scrubby jeans and long hair.
“Clerk? You want to be a clerk in an accounting office?” Melville remarked sarcastically. “Your appearance is less than exciting, your hair is a mess and you probably couldn’t add two and two together. Here boy, look at these figures that I just completed. There are over seventy entries on this sheet and it must be perfect. Do you know the word ‘perfect’?”
Daniel picked up the sheet and studied it for a minute. “Your second column is added wrong.”
Melville taken aback by the statement grabbed the sheet from Daniel. “Son, I don’t need your insults. Leave.”
As Daniel was walking out the door he stopped and turned towards Melville. “I’m staying at the Middlesex Hostel just a few blocks away if you want to get in touch with me.”
The following morning Daniel heard a knock on the door.
The desk clerk announced, “There’s a gentleman downstairs that wants to talk to you.”
Still tucking in his shirt, Daniel proceeded to the lobby where Melville was standing.
“Son, I owe you an apology. You were absolutely right and I would have made a grievous mistake. I don’t know how you did it. Gather yourself up and come to my office this morning. You can have the job.”
Daniel Schonfeld settled in quite comfortably working for Melville. He still had his room at the hostel and every day he would spend ten hours with Melville, including Saturdays. Daniel was very introverted and he didn’t have any friends. He was content to work or to have a beer at the local pub and go back to his room.
The Third Cell Page 10