Presumptuous bastard, thought Daniel, probably hoping that Iraq will not invade Israel also.
Daniel was torn by the conflict. He wanted Iraq to save face and accept the withdrawal resolution, giving peace to the Arab world, but he also wanted to see the Iraqi Army inflict massive casualties on the infidels that made up most of the Coalition forces.
The world through the eyes of television saw the massive bombing attack on Baghdad and the rest of Iraq. The entire infrastructure of the country was being destroyed. Iraq in retaliation launched SCUD missiles into Israel.
February 23, 1991: Ground forces launched their campaign against the Iraqi Army. Saddam Hussein had welcomed this part of the conflict for he envisioned that his army, which had fought Iran to a standstill for eight years, would bog down the coalition forces in a long and drawn out war. What he and the rest of the naïve world, including most news reporting agencies, didn’t expect was the total annihilation of Hussein’s military within one hundred hours of ground fighting, forcing Iraq to surrender.
The three cell members, following the war, were stunned. The power of the coalition forces was overwhelming.
Jonah concluded, the armies of the Western Powers are not their weakness, but their civilians are. The only way to force concessions by the Western Powers and Israel is to strike at the most vulnerable. Strike when least expected and utilizing tactics that all the armed forces in the world could not prevent.
Daniel couldn’t keep the Israeli General’s words out of his mind. Cakewalk!
CHAPTER 19
ERADICATION, 1991
Abdullah Khamayseh
Abdullah’s aggressive recruiting at El Huda over the past fourteen years hadn’t gone unnoticed by his benefactors. A high-rise condominium overlooking the Red Sea in Jedda was his reward. He moved out of his small quarters at El Huda in early January 1991 into his new home.
Since the Gulf War, the Saudi Arabian government was investigating all immigrants that had entered the country over the past twenty-five years. Reviewing Abdullah’s activities, the Saudi Arabian Mabahith, the feared secret police, discovered the schoolteacher living in a luxury condominium. After threats by al-Qaeda on Saudi oil facilities, anyone associated with an organization banned by the government was either jailed or deported.
Only four weeks after Abdullah had moved into his new condominium, he heard a knock on the door.
Who could this be so late?
Opening the door he was greeted by four of the Saudi Arabian Mabahith.
An officer walked in after the four agents.
“Are you Abdullah Khamayseh who teaches at the El Huda School?”
“Yes, I am Abdullah.”
“Tell me Abdullah, how does a schoolteacher afford such a luxurious home?”
“I was left an inheritance,” Abdullah lied.
“And who was your benefactor, the Muslims For Justice?”
I have been uncovered. They will put me in jail and torture me. I am afraid the mission and cell members in the United States will be compromised.
Shouting, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar (God is the greatest),” Abdullah made a bolt to the terrace and from the twenty-third story flung himself to his death, crashing through the glass pyramid that covered the building entrance.
The Amir, when hearing of Abdullah’s suicide, was satisfied. He did a righteous act for Islam and saved me the trouble of having to get rid of him.
The Amir couldn’t be more pleased with the progress of the cells. All three had completed their education and were implementing the second phase of the mission, becoming legitimate Jewish businessmen within the United States. The three mentors were to be recalled from London to their native countries and officially retired from the operation.
Bashir Moussa
Bashir was ecstatic upon his return to Tehran in March 1991. Each of the mentors had been given strict instructions not to contact any of the cell members or the mentors once leaving London.
Bashir, upon returning to Iran, continued his participation in the Revolutionary Guards. As a reward for his excellent work, he was given a two-week vacation at the ski resort in Dizin, located one hundred twenty kilometers north of Tehran. The International Ski Federation certified Dizin, one of the highest ski areas in the world, for competition.
Bashir had been given this perk before as a member of the Revolutionary Guard, but only for a weekend at a time. He had become an expert skier and he relished the idea of spending time on the slopes honing his skills that had been diminished during the nine years in England.
On the second day while Bashir was eating breakfast, he noticed two young people sitting at a table near him. The woman was looking directly at him.
To Bashir’s surprise after finishing their meal they walked over to his table.
“Pardon me,” said the young man holding out his hand. “My name is Armeen and this is my sister Goli. We are both instructors and I noticed you skied the slopes like an expert. Have you been here before?”
“My name is Bashir Moussa. I was here skiing these slopes many years ago. I have been working in London for the last nine years and my skills need to be honed.”
“London, how interesting,” said Goli. “I wish to travel some day. You must tell us all about your adventures, but not now for I have students to instruct.”
“Would you mind joining me for dinner?” asked Bashir to her, almost forgetting where he was. I’m not in London. “That is, of course, with permission of your father.”
“My father wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. But my brother Armeen will join us.”
That evening the two ski instructors listened to Bashir tell of his time in London working for the Iranian Embassy and how the western society was awash in moral decay.
Before leaving for the night Armeen said, “Bashir, please join us on the early morning runs before the amateurs ruin the day.”
“Thank you for inviting me. I will see you in the morning.”
For the next week the two instructors accompanied Bashir on runs down the slopes before their classes. Near the end of the second week Armeen approached Bashir. “Would you like to ski a new run near the end of the Ghaleh lift? The run will not open to the public until next season, but we’ve been using it for months. It has the steepest incline of all the slopes at nineteen degrees, dropping some six hundred meters over only seventeen hundred meters.”
“It sounds like a great challenge. I have skied all of the slopes to the point of boredom.”
That following morning the trio took the lift to the Chalet area and transferred to the Ghaleh lift. Reaching the drop-off point, they covered almost one thousand meters horizontally before any semblance of a trail could be located.
“Not very much of a trail,” remarked Bashir. “I can only see a few tracks.”
“It’s not well-marked but if you follow my instructions, you’ll have no problems,” said Armeen. “About two hundred meters down the slope you must veer left around a large outcrop of rocks. After that the slope is well-marked.”
“What happens if I go right?”
“We’ll visit you in the hospital,” said Goli.
“I’ll go first and then you can follow,” shouted Armeen as he skied down the trail.
Bashir was pulling down his goggles when Goli stopped him. “I think your left binding is loose; you’d better check it. This is not a place for you to lose a ski.”
Bashir took about thirty seconds to check and secure both bindings, then waving he took off down the slope. The delay prevented him from seeing Armeen in the falling snow, but based upon the instructions, he was careful to avoid the large outcrop of rocks as stated. He veered left, continuing about eighty meters, when he found himself at the edge of a cliff. Straining every muscle in his body he tried to avoid the ledge, but he found himself hurling into space.
I’ve been sacrificed for the cause, was Bashir’s last thought, as his body spun in free fall at a hundred kilometers an hour, striki
ng an outcropping of jagged rocks two hundred eighty meters below.
Wael Qassem
Wael arrived at Faris’ home carrying a box. “I have all the shredded documents you requested,” said Wael as he handed the box to Faris.
“Let’s dispose of this permanently.” Faris led Wael to the laundry sink. Once there, Faris placed the shredded paper into the sink. He then put on a pair of rubber gloves. “We’re going to put Muriatic acid on the paper,” said Faris as he picked up a gallon jug. “Stand back.”
Faris poured the acid into the sink, emptying the entire contents. He took a second jug doing the same.
“How long will it take to dissolve?” Wael asked, holding his nose.
“We’ll be done in less than ten minutes,” said Faris as he stirred the paper into an unintelligible mass. Turning on the hot water he flushed the contents down the oversized drain.
“That was the last of the documents we had in our possession. All that’s left is in our minds.”
As Wael was leaving Faris added, “I hope you will enjoy your time back in Egypt.”
Wael was in high spirits as he reflected on his upcoming return to his homeland. I so longed to be back in Egypt. The nine years in England has seemed like ninety. I never could adapt to the depressing rainy weather. But now I am very happy. I have been promised a condominium in Maadi, one of the wealthiest suburbs in south Cairo, along with a pension of four hundred Egyptian pounds per month and a job in the Maadi district government. I’m financially set for life.
Arriving in Cairo, Wael proceeded to the Hotel Al Monzer in the heart of the Khan Al-Khalili district of Cairo where a room was reserved for him. The Khan Al-Khalili district hosted one of the largest Oriental bazaars in the world. Countless alleyways and narrow pathways would lead into a maze of shops. A perennial tourist trap at any time of the day and night, the bazaar would be teeming with people.
Wael checked into the hotel under his forged Egyptian ID of Mohammad Osahar Hajaj. At check-in the desk clerk handed Wael a sealed envelope. In the room he opened and read the instructions.
At 7:30 P.M. you are to proceed to a jewelry shop owned by Abdul-Azim al-Jazzar. Once in the shop, seek out the manager and tell him you are Mohammad from London.
Wael left the hotel and wandered the dark streets for almost half an hour before locating the jewelry store. Entering he asked, “May I see the manager?” When the manager appeared Wael announced, “I’m Mohammad from London.”
The manager took Wael to a back room of the store. “I have to bring you to another location where the financial transactions will take place. Please give me a couple of minutes.”
The manager went out to the sales area and made a phone call. After a few minutes he returned. “Just follow me and I’ll direct you to your destination.”
Stepping out the rear door of the shop they found themselves in a narrow alleyway that meandered past the back entrances of the bazaar’s many stores. Crossing the street, they were in the midst of several shops.
“Here’s where you’ll find the Iranian Copperware Imports.” The manager pointed to the causeway between the outlets. “Go to the back door and identify yourself.”
“Are you not going with me?” a hesitant Wael asked.
“I must get back before my employees rob me blind.” The manager turned and left.
Wael followed the alleyway for about forty meters, barely making out in the dim light the Iranian Copperware Imports sign. As he knocked on the door a piano wire garrote whipped around his neck with such force he dropped to his knees. He tried with all his might to break the hold, but the two-hundred-sixty-pound man holding the wire was not letting go. Within seventy seconds Wael’s body went limp as he asphyxiated.
Another man stepped out of the shadows. “Let’s move quickly.”
“I’m going as fast as I can. I need to make sure there’s no identification. Help me wrap his body in the canvas tarp.”
The two men carried the tarp with Wael’s body out of the alley and threw it on the back of a pickup truck.
Driving to the slums of Imbaba took over an hour. Once there the men maneuvered their pickup around the piles of trash, then finally pulled over.
“Hurry,” said the driver. “We’ll dump him now. This place gives me the creeps. No one in their right mind would be here after dark.”
The two men rolled out the tarp and threw Wael’s body on the rubbish, raising a cloud of flies as it hit.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said the driver as they threw the tarp in the back of the truck and drove off.
After the truck left, several hidden men who had been observing from afar converged upon Wael’s body.
When the police found Wael’s body the next day, it had been completely stripped of clothing by the dump scavengers. Another killing in Imbaba didn’t raise the eyebrows of the local police who had seen too many bodies over the years.
Faris Kamel Shurrab
Faris was the last to leave London. He had a letter waiting for him at the London Central Mosque delivered by carrier from the Syrian embassy.
The envelope had two wax seals; both were intact. Faris felt a nervous excitement as he opened the envelope. He removed the letter, a passport and a one-way ticket to Damascus. I heard rumors that the Muslims For Justice was looking for senior operatives to interface with cells in other foreign countries. I’m ready to take on a new assignment.
A smile spread as Faris read.
You will proceed to Damascus under the name of Javed Yousuf, whose name is on the passport and tickets. At the airport you will proceed to the airport lockers and place a book in number 114 and lock the door. Go to the coffee shop near the lockers and you will be contacted. Your contact will provide you with lodging and transportation to the meeting at the Syrian Chemical and Fertilizer Company.
Odd that we would meet at a chemical company, thought Faris.
June 10, 1991: Faris landed in Damascus. Leaving customs he found the airport locker area and as instructed he placed the book inside the locker. There are 114 chapters in the Qur’an. The significance was not lost on him.
Faris left the locker area, found the coffee shop and waited.
He was having a second cup of tea when a tall slim middle age man approached Faris holding out his hand. “I’m Salah Aflaq. I am here to provide you transportation and lodging.”
Faris rose to shake the man’s hand. “I am Javed Yousuf, my pleasure to meet you.”
“I will take you to my humble apartment,” said Salah. “Tomorrow afternoon we shall go to the plant.”
Driving to his apartment, Salah only spoke about the city traffic, the weather and Syria.
Strange, contemplation Faris, he has no interest in the Islamic Revolution?
Salah Aflaq had no interest because he was not connected with Muslims For Justice or the Islamic revolution. He was a low level employee in the Syrian Chemical and Fertilizer Company and thought he was picking up a client from London. He didn’t understand the security measures given to him, but with ten thousand Syrian pounds in his pocket, equaling four weeks’ salary, he asked no questions.
Faris and Salah spent the early part of Tuesday driving around Damascus, where Salah gave Faris a tourist view of a city that had been populated since 5000 B.C. Again the conversations revolved around the city, local politics and the economy. After having a late lunch they left for the Syrian Chemical and Fertilizer Company. The city of Duma was a maze of warehouses and manufacturing facilities.
Not the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen, thought Faris as they pulled up to the guardhouse at the entrance to the chemical plant.
The buildings were in need of repair and painting. The chemical fumes from the processing of sulfur had yellowed the roofs, giving them a gold-like appearance in the late afternoon sun. They were shown to a conference room where Salah left Faris alone.
Within ten minutes a gentleman wearing dark sunglasses and dressed in a business suit came into the room and warml
y shook Faris’s hand, but never introduced himself.
“I’ve been monitoring your actions for the past several years. Please tell me everything about the mission and where we currently stand.”
Faris knew instinctively that he was in the presence of the Amir. I hadn’t expected the man to be so young and so elegant in his dress. His suit is impeccable, probably custom made. He appears to be in his early forties and his skin has a leathery texture, similar to someone who has been in the sun too much.
For two hours Faris and the Amir discussed minuscule details about actions taken in London and how the three mentors left no clues to who they were or where they had resided.
“I’ll be in touch,” the Amir said as he rose and left the room.
Faris thought, I expected something more from this meeting. At least a new assignment for all the hard work and personal sacrifices I made for the past nine years.
Two men came in the room. The first man announced, “We were told to give you a brief tour of the facility before you leave.”
I’m not up for any tour, but if the Amir has requested it, I must go.
Faris was lead through the chemical manufacturing complex. They entered a small building with ventilation fans whirling.
“We must have a significant air circulating. This is where we produce hydrofluoric acid,” one guide declared over the noise.
Faris looked over the room and asked, “What’s hydrofluoric acid?”
The guide explained, “This acid is one of the most corrosive chemicals known to man. It must be kept in polyethylene or Teflon containers for it will dissolve glass in minutes. You can see from the structure of the vats that we store the product in before shipping.”
Faris looked into one of the vats from the platform when he noticed the room had become quiet. What happened to the ventilation fans? He looked around for the guides only to discover he was alone.
My throat is burning from the fumes. I need to get out of here. Faris went to the door and found it locked. My eyes and chest are burning; if I don’t get out I will die. He searched desperately to find something to break the door glass with. Spotting a fire extinguisher, he removed it and tried to fling it against the glass. Before it could leave his hands he collapsed from the exposure to the acid fumes. As he lay on the floor taking his final breaths he thought, I should have known I was expendable.
The Third Cell Page 20