Laura Atwood was furious. After she dropped off the Brussels agent in the underground parking garage, she drove back out, in case Omar had a car waiting for him outside. It was an old trick to park in an underground location, as he did, then run out and hop into a waiting car or a bus. The fact that Omar had killed the Brussels agent seemed to confirm that he must be on the move. Otherwise, why risk this?
Now they lost the trail and would have to start all over again. They had come so close to nabbing him. He was probably back in the quagmire of the terrorist camps in Lebanon, and it would take forever to flush him out again. She knew Omar was far too smart to return to the apartment from where he had been followed in Beirut.
From her room at the Amigo Hotel near the Grande Place, she placed a call to Pat Brent in Virginia.
“Think there is a slight chance he might still be in Belgium?” asked Brent.
“Sure, and if I hold my hand over the North Sea, it will part like Moses separated the Red Sea. This man is no fool. He’s long gone by now,” replied Laura. “Let’s not waste any more time here. I’m going back to Beirut.”
The return flight to Beirut seemed to last forever and Laura felt terribly depressed. The people in Brussels had screwed up the best opportunity to get their hands on the terrorist. She had a bad feeling about this. This man Omar was a cut above the average killer. He was smart and didn’t waste time. He covered every angle. He did his homework and carried out his mission well. There were no clues, no traces to pick up, no fingerprints. Even the hotel room in Brussels offered no clues. There wasn’t even any garbage to shift through. The Palestinian had removed anything that might help identify him. Sure, the Belgian police had promised results, but she wasn’t holding her breath. They had nothing to go on. The hotel register and airport entry card were dead ends. There was no trace of him ever leaving the country, which meant he probably drove or took the train. If her instincts were correct, he had probably driven to France, Luxembourg, or the Netherlands. Cars were seldom stopped at the borders that were gradually disappearing with the Eastern expansion of the European Union becoming more of a reality every passing day.
Then there was this affair with Chris Clayborne. That bothered her too. Chris was getting too serious. She could not afford to get involved; not now. On the other hand, it provided her with a better cover. A male companion in the Arab world was always a good thing to have, but she was starting to feel guilty for using Chris as she did. Or was she really using him? At times she actually enjoyed being with Chris. She enjoyed making love to him. He was nice and kind to her. She needed the warmth he provided, and his contacts were valuable. Beirut was not an easy place to live, especially when you were a female American spy working for the CIA. If the Palestinians or the Lebanese or Hezbollah ever found out, her life would not be worth a devalued Lebanese lira.
17
LONDON, ENGLAND
Omar woke up startled. His first reaction was to reach for his gun, usually placed under his pillow, only his gun wasn’t there. He was somewhat disoriented, and for about a second or two, unsure of where he was. Was he in Beirut, Baghdad, Brussels, or London? The complete darkness of the room added to his disorientation. He thought for a fraction of a second that he might be dead. Maybe that’s what hell was: darkness. Total darkness. But Omar quickly recovered. It suddenly came back to him. Of course, he was in London.
Omar was drenched in perspiration, his hair clinging to the back of his neck. The nightmares simply would not go away. He had been having these same horrible dreams over and over, every night, since the Brussels affair. It had been several days now, but still they kept recurring, night after night. In his dreams, Omar kept seeing the face of the American agent he had killed. The face of a man who knew he was about to be killed looked at him. Looked straight into his eyes and asked, “Why? Why, my son, did you choose to kill me?”
In his nightmares, Omar saw the soldiers he had killed in the helicopter with his first mortar, back in Iraq. He saw the bodies flying out of the giant mechanical bird as they fell to the ground. Some were on fire. Only, in his dream, they didn’t hit the ground—they would fly away. In his nightmares he could see the eyes of the agent he had killed in the parking garage, though in reality he hadn’t even had time to see the man’s eyes. It all happened so quickly. And every time he looked into those eyes, they suddenly turned into his father’s eyes. Though by now, Omar was not sure what the eyes of his father looked like. He decided he wouldn’t look at the dead man’s eyes, but it was impossible. Why was this happening to him? He had killed before, in Iraq, and it never bothered him. He never even stopped to think about the killing he was doing before. There was a war, and he had to kill the invader. But now it felt so strange. Until a few days ago, until he came to Europe, these facts had never bothered him. Why were they getting to him now?
Then he dreamt that he was trying to escape and was being chased by a helicopter. The soldiers who were on fire were cursing him; some were shooting their M16 rifles at him. Bullets kept hitting his back, though they were ineffective. Omar laughed; he laughed hysterically. Then he woke.
Omar looked at his watch. It was still early morning in London, only six. The young Palestinian rose, took a shower, and ordered a cup of coffee from room service. The strong coffee made him feel better. Omar was bored with sitting still. After Brussels, he was eager to get to the US and on with his assignment. But he had to wait until he got the green light from the Doctor. Meanwhile, that meant staying in his hotel room and waiting for the phone call. Zeid and the Doctor were trying to figure out how word of his presence in Brussels was known so quickly. Was there an informer within the group? That’s what they wanted to find out before proceeding with the plan.
A very young and very good-looking Kurdish maid came by his room every morning around ten to clean and make the bed. She could not have been older than seventeen, but was already married and had two children. She complained to Omar that her husband beat her. He was often drunk on cheap arak and would take his frustrations out on the poor woman.
The second week Omar was in the hotel, the maid entered the bathroom while he was enjoying a bubble bath. Embarrassed, the young woman was about to leave when Omar called her back. “Wash my back,” he told her.
Instead, the pretty young woman removed her clothes, revealing a body as white as milk, and joined Omar in the bathtub. Her long black hair came down to her well-rounded buttocks.
Other than a couple of prostitutes, Omar had never had sex before. He was good-looking, with short, curly, jet-black hair, and kept his body in shape by exercising at least two hours a day. He felt the maid’s soft skin touch his. He lay back in the soapy water and looked at the young maid. She straddled him, dipping her hand under the warm bubbles. She found Omar erect and gently guided him inside her, then started a slow up-and-down motion, creating gentle waves in the bathtub. Omar, as though possessed by a demon, started moving furiously. She shook her long, smooth, dark hair over Omar’s head, partially covering his face. She placed her lips on his and whispered, “No, no. Slowly, slowly, relax, make the pleasure last.”
Omar could not control himself and burst inside her moments later. They remained in the tub for more than an hour, Omar caressing the maid’s amazingly white, smooth body. Her large breasts felt good to touch. Omar then carried her into the bedroom where he made love to her once more.
Had it not been for the young Kurdish maid, Omar would have gone crazy locked up in that hotel room day after day after day. At least she provided good entertainment. Omar often wondered what it would have been like to have a steady girlfriend, to have someone to share thoughts and ideas with. To have children with. The maid was a good lay, but they hardly spoke to each other. When she had turned fifteen, the poor child had been married off to a fifty-seven-year-old man. Her husband was a vegetable vendor, carrying large crates of fruit and vegetables on his back from dawn to sunset. By the time the old man got home at night, he was far too tired to care for his y
oung wife, whose sexual appetite never seemed to wane.
TEHRAN, IRAN
Shortly before dawn the following morning, the Doctor headed to Damascus by car, where he boarded an Iran Air jet bound for Tehran. After debating the plan all night long with the Thinker, an even greater plan had begun to slowly take shape. The sheik’s initial blueprint was good; in fact, it was more than good—it was excellent. But the old man had failed to fully grasp the dynamic potential of his proposal. It had far greater consequences. Given the new biological weapons promised by the sheik, this would be the greatest strike by any group against the Americans and their Israeli allies in history. There was no doubt the world would wake up and listen to them after this strike.
In the Iranian capital, the Doctor needed to solicit the help of yet another party. By the time the plane landed in Tehran, the Doctor was satisfied with his revision of the plan. The Thinker was right: not only would the revised plan instantly derail the peace talks forever, but it would also cement the Front’s role as leader of the resistance to the peace process. It would show the Americans that there could be no halfway solutions. Palestine was not negotiable.
An hour later, the Doctor was ushered into the office of Ayatollah Firamarz Kazemi. Officially, Kazemi was the head of the Islamic Reform Movement, a staunchly conservative fundamentalist movement grouping thousands of followers and encompassing several members of parliament, including two prominent cabinet ministers. Much to the dismay of the president, Kazemi’s position commanded much power, both inside the country and abroad. Using a legion of sympathizers recruited by loyal agents through an intricate web of mosques and Islamic teaching centers scattered around Europe and the United States, the Ayatollah had constructed a vast network of supporters in his personal crusade against the United States and Israel, his sworn enemies. Kazemi’s position was further strengthened through close ties he had cultivated over the years with various extremist Palestinian groups like the Doctor’s PSF.
Kazemi was a tall, thin man in his late fifties. Like most members of the Iranian clergy, he wore a black beard, robes, and a turban. Six years spent in Evin Prison during the Shah’s rule had fomented his hatred of America, which Kazemi blamed for supporting the Shah. After the Islamic Revolution, Kazemi was placed in charge of uncovering past relations between the CIA and Iran’s SAVAK intelligence agency. The more he discovered, the greater his hatred for America grew. The Central Intelligence Agency believed he was responsible for numerous attacks against American and western European interests in the Middle East and Europe. The CIA also believed that Kazemi maintained close ties with al-Haq’s group in Egypt. And they were not mistaken.
After the usual greetings, the Doctor came right to the point. “Excellency, how would you like the chance to strike at the very heart of our enemy, while the United States is rendered completely impotent?” asked the Doctor.
“What exactly is on your mind?” the imam asked, and avoided adding, “other than your insatiable need for more money.”
“As you know, the Americans are in an election year. Both the president who is running for reelection as well as the number one contender representing the Republican party, Senator Richard Wells, are trying very hard to appease the Jewish lobby by flirting in a very dangerous manner with the Zionist state. The president is pushing the American Congress hard to pass a bill that will provide the Zionists with nearly $2.4 billion in financial aid, above what they already receive. The package will also lift the arms embargo, giving the Zionists practically an unlimited supply of American armament, including F16 airplanes, Patriot missiles, and advanced radar equipment.”
“Yes, I am well aware of all that,” said the imam, lighting a cigarette.
“All of our requests for greater justice, for consideration for the Arab Palestinians have gone unheeded. We are being ignored by both the present administration and Wells’s people,” continued the Doctor. “The Zionists are stalling while building more settlements in the West Bank and expelling more of our people. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Americans have nothing to worry about, and are conducting themselves with even greater arrogance. It is time to show them and the world that millions of Arabs and Muslims cannot be ignored forever, just for the sake of a few votes.” The Doctor paused to test the Ayatollah’s reaction. It was what he had hoped for.
“Yes, my friend, you are right,” said the Ayatollah, speaking slowly and in a low voice, forcing the Doctor to lean forward. “We cannot accept to have Zionists rule the world, to have them lead America by the nose. You know, my brother, that the Iranian people will stand by your side, by the side of justice. Tell me exactly what is on your mind.”
“We will shortly have the chance to hurt the Imperialists and bring home a message to the Americans and the Zionists. We will strike hard. Very hard. Your Excellency, we have a plan that will make the very earth tremble in America. It will make every American wake up and react to the injustice that is taking place in occupied Palestine. It will be carried out with the greatest media coverage ever assembled. We will have the largest audience there to watch us, live on television. It will be the biggest coup in modern history. Your Excellency, as I said, we have to proceed very cautiously on this one. If ever one single word got out, the Imperialists will spare no effort to track every last one of us down and kill us all. Therefore, for your own safety, Excellency, and for the safety of the operation, and with all due respect, I will only tell you the minimum you need to know. I myself will only be told the minimum I need to know,” lied the Doctor. The truth was that he did not fully trust the Iranians. But their help for the success of the operation was essential.
“Excellency, we are in a position to eliminate the next president of the United States with live world television coverage. We will strike one hard blow. We need your blessing as well as your political and financial backing.”
“That is quite a feat you propose, my dear Doctor.”
“Yes, Imam. We have the means to do it. We have a good plan. But we will need your help. The help of some of your diplomatic personnel.”
The imam remained silent for a long time. The only sound came from a clock on the wall. The Doctor stared at the wall clock for nearly fifteen minutes, watching the hands move slowly before the imam answered.
“Very well Doctor, I accept. You shall have my backing. Let me know what you will need.”
18
LONDON, ENGLAND
It had been two and a half uneventful weeks, during which time Omar practically never left the hotel room. His orders from the Doctor had been to lie low to avoid the risk of being seen. The time for action would come soon enough. This next mission was far too important to jeopardize now.
Finally, the day did come. Zeid appeared unannounced at the hotel one morning, surprising Omar with the Kurdish maid. He sent the maid away and told Omar he was to fly to the US in three days’ time. In the meantime, they had a lot to go over: details to study and plans to finalize. The complete details of the plan were known only to the Doctor, the Thinker, and Sheik al-Haq. The final piece to the intricate puzzle of the attack was not even revealed to Omar. It was a shame that Omar would have to die in the attack, but there was really no alternative.
Omar’s journey would now take him to the United States. He was to pose as a Jordanian electrical engineer and was given a passport bearing his photograph and the name of Marwan Raheem. It was a real passport that was stolen two days earlier from a Jordanian businessman staying in a Beirut hotel. It would be another week before the theft was reported, and by then, Omar would have thrown the passport away. It would have served its purpose.
But before proceeding to the United States, Omar had to meet a man called Sean O’Connor, an ex-IRA man who would help him on the final leg of his journey. O’Connor was a renegade who now sold his service to the Russian mafia, Sheik al-Haq, and any others willing to pay the asking price. Though a renegade, O’Connor maintained a code of honor and once he accepted a deal, he remained
loyal and would never sell out his employer. It was how he managed to stay alive.
The rain and chilly London weather surprised Omar. In October, Beirut was still nice and warm. The ring of the telephone brought Omar out of his sleep. It took him a few seconds to situate himself. He picked up the phone on the second ring, glancing at his wristwatch. It was almost ten o’clock in the morning. He looked around the strange hotel room. He had left the television set on, but had killed the sound, and the flickering image threw frantic shadows around the room.
“My name is Sean O’Connor,” said a man with such a heavy Irish accent that the Palestinian had trouble comprehending at first. “I understand you have a gift for me from the good Doctor.”
“Yes, yes, I do,” answered Omar, propping himself up on his elbow.
“That’s grand,” said O’Connor. “Have a taxi take you to a pub called the King’s Arms, on Clapham Common, just south of the river. Ask for me at the bar. I’ll be there at half nine tonight.” The man hung up.
The pub was noisy, crowded, and filled with cigarette and cigar smoke. Omar made his way to the bar. Dozens of young people seemed to be enjoying themselves, men and women drinking different colored beers, ales, lagers, and other alcoholic beverages.
“Get you something, mate?” asked the barman.
“Where is Sean O’Connor?” A gentle hand tapped Omar on the shoulder. The Palestinian turned around to see the face of a handsome, clean-shaven man in his thirties smile at him. The man had long black hair that ran down to his shoulders. The man extended his hand.
“Omar, is it? I’m O’Connor, Sean O’Connor. My friends call me Connor. Come, let’s sit upstairs.”
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