The Third Cell

by Anthony D'Egidio

  On the patio the young men were given large mugs of Guinness Stout and charcoal-grilled steaks. It was a very relaxing atmosphere. Sports, especially soccer, and women were the main topics of discussion.

  Faris had served shots of single malt Scotch whiskey along with the Guinness, and the young men were feeling the effects of the alcohol.

  Jonah Meyerson and Daniel Schonfeld were having a discussion about how great the food and drink was, when Jonah slurred, “Say Daniel, aren’t you Jewish?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Well, I’m sure this bloke sitting next to me, with a name like Howard Lieberman, is Jewish also, but it seems as if our hosts are all Arabs. Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?”

  With the alcohol clouding his judgment, Daniel replied, “It doesn’t matter to me who they are. They’re friendly enough buggers and they certainly aren’t going to gain anything from me. I don’t have a pence to my name.”

  “Yeah you must be right. I’ve no brass and I’m without family, so who would care?” said Jonah taking another long sip of his Guinness.

  The food and drink at the farmhouse were taking their toll. By late afternoon, Bashir was lacing the Guinness with Xanax, an anti-anxiety drug, to put the victims into a deep sleep. One by one they passed out.

  Additionally they use hypodermic needles to inject alcohol into their bloodstreams, keeping the young men in the drunken stupor.

  Faris viewed the scene. “Make sure you inject them once an hour. Be careful with the dosage. I don’t want them awake or dead until the accident takes place.”

  Bath, England

  Nasih, Abdul-Aziz and Rashad checked into the Newberry Bed and Breakfast in Bath. Nasih placed a call to his Aunt Johara and the group went out to explore the ruins. It was two o’clock and they were not expected to be at the farmhouse until ten.

  Nasih kept looking at his watch as the day was dragging.

  “Damn, Nasih,” Rashad quipped, “you’re making me nervous as hell looking at your watch every ten minutes.”

  “You’re right, but I’m very concerned about finding the farmhouse in the dark. I suggest we head there and once we identify the location, stay in the area and arrive at ten o’clock as planned.”

  All three agreed. Turning the Hillman Avenger around, they drove through the English countryside towards Ashwicke Road, five kilometers away.

  The written directions stated they should go east on Oakford Lane until it intersected with Ashwicke Road and then make a left turn. Approximately sixty meters from the intersection on the right hand side of the road would be the entrance to the farm, marked by two field stone pillars.

  Following the directions they turned north. Rashad spotted the farm and pointed, “There it is! It’s seven-fifteen and we still have three more hours.”

  The trio continued north on Ashwicke, coming upon a turn in the road half a kilometer from the farmhouse. Nasih slowed the car as they looked at the town of Bath nestled in the valley below. Nasih downshifted and the Hillman Avenger rocked as it made the turn.

  They continued driving on Ashwicke, finally reaching the town of Marshfield.

  Abdul-Aziz was bored. “There are no sharp curves or hills. Let’s turn back.”

  On Ashwicke Road, they were having the time of their lives exceeding the speed limit and flying around the turns.

  “You’re going to get us killed and destroy the mission if you don’t slow down,” shouted Rashad, from the back seat.

  Rashad had no sooner made the statement than they heard the wailing of a police siren behind them. Nasih pulled the car over on the shoulder of the road.

  “We’re doomed,” remarked Rashad who tended to be more excitable than the other two.

  “Don’t say anything in English, speak in Arabic and I’ll do all the talking.” Nasih rolled down the window.

  Special Constable William Alton walked up to the car, observing the three inside. “You boys are trying very hard to meet the devil?”

  Nasih answered him in Arabic. “Hal beemkani mosa’adatuk? (Can I help you?)”

  The constable thought, damn, why me? Ever so slowly he asked trying to keep his composure, “Do you speak any English?”

  Nasih replied in his very worst, “I do speak little.”

  The constable raised his eyebrows as he let out a sigh. “Give me the papers for the vehicle.”

  Nasih handed his passport out the window.

  Constable Alton gave it a brief look and shook his head. “No. Not a passport. I need papers for this vehicle.” He slapped his hand on the hood. “Vehicle papers.”

  Nasih almost laughed but the other two were so petrified they could hardly breathe. Nasih reached into the glove compartment, got the registration document and handed it to the constable.

  “The damn thing is registered to the Syrian embassy and a Johara Araff,” Alton muttered to himself as he read the document. “Who is Johara Araff?”

  “My aunt.” Nasih replied, saying as little as possible.

  The constable reviewed the paperwork one more time. What kind of problems am I going to have dealing with a foreign embassy car? More trouble than it’s worth on this salary.

  Trying to put a little fear into Nasih as he handed back the paperwork, Alton said, “Keep within the speed limit or next time I’ll arrest you!”

  “Your papers,” the constable said to Rashad and Abdul-Aziz, who only gave him a blank stare back.

  Nasih pointed to his passport saying, “Asre. (Hurry up.)”

  Both boys scrambled to hand them over and after a quick review, the constable tossed them back in the car and left. All three boys breathed a sigh of relief.

  As Nasih watched the police car drive away he said to the others, “That was close. He could have disrupted the entire operation.”

  Rashad pointed his finger at Nasih. “It would have been your own fault, driving like a maniac on these roads.”

  They headed back to Bath to find a restaurant and waited until ten o’clock.

  Constable William Alton was pulling a double shift. He returned to the small substation in Marshfield to finish out the day. It was eight o’clock at night and, having already put in twelve hours, he was tired of driving.

  The Mossad

  Abraham Stevens was arguing with a doctor at Ravenscourt Park Hospital about his release.

  “Mr. Stevens, you’ve received a nasty blow to the head and you have a broken arm. If I release you now and you have a relapse, then I’m responsible. I’ll not let that happen. You’re going to be in overnight!” The doctor left the room.

  Abraham had previously telephoned Mark Heckman in Israel and explained the problem. “I’ve been involved in an accident and the three suspects are without surveillance. Yeah, I’m fine, but my car is smashed. I haven’t been able to reach Benjamin. Apparently he’s away this weekend at a Dead Sea resort.”

  Abraham at this time was more worried about his Harrington Alpine than Benjamin Werner or the Arab teens. The last I saw of the Alpine, they were hooking it up to a tow truck. I don’t even know where it’s been taken.

  It was close eight o’clock when the bedside phone rang.

  Abraham answered, “Hello.”

  “Abraham this is Benjamin Werner. I reviewed the incident with Mark. On the surface it seems like a simple accident, but there are too many coincidences for me. Nothing I can do now. They’re in Bath and we know nothing. We’ll have to recoup on Monday.” He abruptly hung up.

  Abraham, holding the dead phone in his hand, finally put it down. The callous bastard never even asked me how I was feeling.

  The Demise

  Nasih and his companions arrived at the farmhouse just before ten. Nasih immediately sought out Faris Shurrab and told him of the incident with the constable.

  Faris thought about it for a moment, and then smiled. “This is good luck for us. Since he saw the three of you in the car, he’ll think it’s the same three persons. Let’s get you and the others changed. I
want all of your clothes to place on the Jews.”

  The three Jews had been stripped of all clothing and been outfitted with new underwear and socks that could only be purchased in the Middle East. The clothes from the three Arab teens were placed on each of them. A problem arose when Rashad’s athletic shoes would not fit Daniel Schonfeld.

  “Leave them loose and slip them on anyway you can,” ordered an impatient Faris.

  Eventually it was Wael who got the shoes over Daniel’s feet, crunching up his toes badly. The wallets the three Arab teens were carrying were placed in the trousers and the Jews were then carried to the Hillman Avenger.

  Faris turned to Nasih and his two companions. “Stay put and out of sight inside the farmhouse. We should be no more than thirty minutes at the most.”

  The group headed by Faris drove to the accident-staging area on Ashwicke Road. There were a total of three cars, all driven by the mentors.

  Faris Shurrab drove the Avenger with the three Jews. The other two cars followed; one remaining south and the other going north of the accident site. The location was picked because of the sharp turn and ravine it overlooked.

  Faris looked at his watch. 10:50. Time to get started.

  Faris placed the three Jewish boys in their proper seating areas, with Jonah Meyerson in the driver’s seat, Howard Lieberman in the passenger seat and Daniel Schonfeld in the back. Two of the foreign passports were placed in the glove compartment and one under the back passenger seat with a metal plate placed on top of it.

  The rear of the vehicle was jacked up and the engine started. Faris then put the transmission in second gear. The rear wheels were turning slowly as the car idled. Large amounts of petrol were poured in the interior of the car and on the bodies of the Jews.

  A thin Balsam wooden board that had been soaked in petrol for five days was then placed between the accelerator and the front of the seat. The engine roared to 4,000 rpm.

  Stepping back, Faris threw in a lit rag that instantly set the interior of the vehicle into flames. Pushing the car off the jack, the wheels squealed as the tires hit the pavement. The car lurched forward and plunged over the ravine, hitting the trees below with a loud explosion.

  Faris quickly gathered up the jack, the petrol can and waved his flashlight. The sentry cars, having seen the fiery vehicle going over the ravine were already departing from their locations. Jumping into the car, Faris and the other mentors sped back to the farmhouse.

  As the men entered the house, Nasih and the other teens were barraging Faris with questions. He held up his hand to silence them. “Sayasla naran thata lahabin (Burnt soon will he be in a Fire of Blazing Flame)!”

  The Investigation

  Constable Alton half asleep, heard the Marshfield fire station siren. He looked at the clock on the wall. Six minutes after eleven. I hope it’s nothing to prolong my watch. I’m dead tired.

  The constable turned up the emergency radio to listen to the chatter. Good, apparently it’s only a brush fire.

  Alton was settling back in his chair to finish his shift when the radio crackled to life with the Ashwicke Fire Captain’s voice. “Alton, you better come to Ashwicke Road and take a look at this. A car has gone over the ridge.”

  Damn! It’s going to be a long night. William Alton shook his head as he hit the mike. “I’ll be right there.”

  Constable Alton arrived on the scene as the fire fighters were just putting out the last of the brush that had been burning. The fire truck’s spotlights beamed on a vehicle some seventy-five meters down the hill. It was apparent that it was badly burned.

  “Has anyone gone down to take a look?” asked the constable.

  The fire captain answered, “Too dangerous in the dark while spraying all that water. We’re going to lower a man on a rope momentarily. I only hope he doesn’t injury himself.”

  One of the volunteer fire fighters was positioned over the ridge and four men held the rope as he inched his way down. The glare of the spotlights was blinding the fireman’s eyes, making it impossible for him to see a good foothold on the slope, and he slid several times. Reaching the car he took out his torch and shined it inside the vehicle. He turned his head and swallowed back the bile in his throat. Trembling, he radioed from the scene, “We’ve three badly burnt bodies, two in the front seat and one in back. I can’t tell if they are men or women. It’s pretty horrible, and it smells very bad.”

  Constable Alton took the Captain’s radio. “Can you tell what kind of car is it?”

  The fireman struggled to climb back up the hill. “Pull me up,” he barked into the radio. “I can’t move upward because of the slope and everything is soaked with water.”

  The men at the top of the hill strained to raise him.

  “Hold it right there,” the fireman shouted.

  The fireman viewed the back end of the vehicle. “I think it’s a Hillman Avenger, Sir.”

  Constable Alton radioed back, “See if you can make out the license plate.”

  The fireman put his torch on the plate to read off the burnt numbers and letters, as Alton compared them to the license number he had taken previously.

  “I’ll be damned,” Alton blurred out to the fire chief, “that’s the same car I stopped earlier today for speeding and it had three Arab teens in it. It’s registered to the Syrian embassy. This is going to be one pain in the ass accident for all of us.”

  Dawn broke before a tow truck could be hooked up to the car, hauling it up the ridge. Getting to the vehicle from below was impossible due to a thick growth of trees that blocked access.

  At seven o’clock on Sunday morning the car was hoisted to the road above. The charred bodies were burnt beyond recognition. The ambulance crew had the gruesome job of straightened out the bodies while the remains were still warm. Placing each one into a body bag, they left for the morgue in Bath.

  Constable Alton followed, fighting sleep and having drank too much coffee, felt his stomach burning as he thought about the charred vehicle and the three young boys he had stopped the day before. Why on my watch? Something this spectacular happens once in fifteen years and with my luck, I’m on duty.

  Arriving at the morgue, Constable Alton followed the workers as they placed the body bags on separate tables.

  Dr. Basil Miller arrived obviously irritated that he would be called in on a Sunday morning. “What have we here?”

  “I stopped this car yesterday for speeding and it had three Arab teens in it. Last night it was involved in an accident and all three are dead.”

  “What were they doing here?”

  “They didn’t say, but I identified the car by the license number and it’s the same vehicle. It’s registered to the Syrian embassy.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows rose up. “The Syrian embassy and you’re sure it had three teens in it?”

  “Yes and not only that, we recovered a partially burned passport of one Abdul-Aziz al Hummos, the same as I had seen yesterday.”

  The doctor didn’t have much motivation for the task ahead. He quickly inspected each of the body bags, unzipping and looking at the burnt remains.

  “Constable Alton, if you give me a sworn statement, I won’t have to go through the nasty business of performing an autopsy on the bodies. The smell of burnt flesh is something I don’t relish working on.” The doctor then added as an afterthought, “That’s unless their families request it.”

  The three bodies were then moved into the refrigerated chambers.

  Agent Dennis Penefield had been pressed into service with the injury of Agent Stevens. He wasn’t very happy doing surveillance on Sunday morning. It was 10:15 A.M. when he saw a police vehicle pull up and double park in front of 120 Chester Square.

  The agent picked up his tape machine and recorded their actions. “Two London police officers are at the entrance. A young woman that fits the description of Johara Araff has opened the door. After a brief discussion with the police she has collapsed. The officers are helping her up. The man who was
accompanying her picked her up and took her inside, followed by the police.”

  Inside the townhouse Johara was crying uncontrollably and William couldn’t calm her down. “I knew I should have stopped him from ever going there,” said Johara as she wiped at her tears. “Deep down I always knew something would happen. Ahman and Amila will never forgive me for my stupidity.”

  Agent Dennis Penefield watched for several more minutes before the officers left the premises and departed in their car. He recorded their departure and called Mossad headquarters in London and asked one of the agents if they could find out what was going on.

  It took over an hour before the agent reported back. “The police went to Johara Araff’s home to inform her that her nephew, Nasih Rahman, was killed along with two other Arab boys in a car accident just outside of Bath last night.”

  “Has anyone contacted Benjamin Werner about this?”

  “Not that I know of, maybe you should contact him yourself.”

  Dennis left for headquarters to make the call.

  The Maître d’ interrupted Benjamin’s lunch. “Sir, I have a very important call from London for you. Please come with me.”

  Benjamin and his wife Rachel were vacationing at the Hamlet Dead Sea Resort. It was a short, four-day getaway to relax and spend some quality time together before going back to Tel Aviv on Monday morning.

  “What is it?” snapped Benjamin as he picked up the phone.

  “It’s Dennis Penefield about the three Arab teens.”

  “You located them?”