Sean O’Connor grabbed two pints of Guinness from the bar and handed one to Omar before heading for the upper floor of the pub.
Omar followed Sean up a flight of stairs where they selected a table in the corner, in front of a large, round window overlooking the entrance of the pub. The back exit was only a few feet away. Years of living one step ahead of the law had taught the Irishman to always take extra precautions.
O’Connor had received his training with the Irish Republican Army. Much like the Palestinian, O’Connor too was opposed to a partial settlement in his native land. Northern Ireland was not to be shared with the Protestants. He fell afoul of the IRA after eliminating a British Member of Parliament without the IRA’s approval. Since then, he had been on the run and used his old contacts to propel his new business. Sheik al-Haq found him most useful. Arabs in England stood out and were easily noticed by British Intelligence.
“You are being followed,” said O’Connor.
Omar felt unprotected in this large city that he did not know. Unlike Brussels, London was overcrowded, making it much more difficult to notice a tail. He looked quizzically at his new acquaintance.
“I followed you from your hotel, to be sure, and you have a tail, laddie. Not bloody Brits though. We know the bastards, MI6 and the SAS—the bloody British elite force, you know, the Special Air Service—when we see ’em. Kind of smell ’em, you know. You get used to it after all these years. You know what I mean, laddie? Think it could be the Yanks perhaps?”
“Yanks?” repeated Omar. He had never heard that term before.
“Yeah, the Yanks, you know, the Americans. The fuckin’ CIA . . .”
Omar shrugged. He hadn’t noticed he was being followed. “Are you sure?”
“Bloody ’ell, man, yes I am sure. There are two of them, there are. There in that dark blue Ford Scorpio,” said the Irishman, pointing out the large window. “One’s a lass, a good-looking girl, too. We’ve never seen ’em before.”
Omar glanced out the tinted pub window, and saw a man get out of the Scorpio and head towards the pub.
“There’s no need to worry,” said Sean O’Connor, reading Omar’s mind. “The bastard won’t be allowed upstairs.” O’Connor made a slight nod toward the stairs, where two large men were sitting blocking the passage. “They’re friends of mine,” said O’Connor. “Drink your Guinness and we’ll lose them in a short while.”
“I have heard much about you,” said Omar to the Irishman. “I heard through mutual friends that it was you who took care of the British soldiers in Gibraltar.” Omar looked straight into the Irishman’s eyes.
Sean O’Connor just smiled. “You have good friends,” he said.
“The kidnapping of a cousin of the Queen last year, that was you too, I understand. It paid off. The English released four of your men in Belfast.”
“Yeah, well, the bloody English have to be reminded every so often that the events can affect other parts of the bleedin’ Kingdom of Great Britain and bloody Northern Ireland too, you know. It’s not just Northern Ireland. We can hurt them here as well, and we have.” The Irishman took another sip of his beer. “What about you, laddie? You seem to have impressed quite a few people, I understand.”
It was Omar’s turn to smile.
“But on to business. You will enter the United States using this passport,” said the Irishman. He handed Omar an Irish passport. “It’s real, not fake. It has been lent to us by its owner. The similarities are striking. Learn the details and memorize them. When you land at Kennedy, make sure you arrive any day of the week except Thursday and Friday. Then, at immigration, go only to booth number sixteen. Remember, only number sixteen. One six, got that?”
Omar nodded.
“We have a few friends in the American Immigration Service. Especially in the Boston area, but in New York too, where you are to enter.”
“This is sure?” asked the Palestinian.
“You need not worry. Yes, we are sure. Our sources are excellent.”
“Why New York?” asked the Palestinian.
“More people, larger airport, immigration officers have less time. They are overworked and our friends operate easier.”
“You have done your research, I see,” said Omar.
“We have many friends who are sympathetic to our cause,” said O’Connor.
One of the burly Irishmen guarding the stairs came over and whispered something in Sean O’Connor’s ear.
“The man, the Yank, he is asking about you at the bar,” said O’Connor.
“They must die, then,” said Omar. “If they have seen my face, they must die.”
“Fine,” said O’Connor, downing the last of his Guinness in one swig. “Let’s go, then. I’ll brief you more later.”
O’Connor led Omar outside the pub just as the American agent headed back to his car. Omar stopped briefly outside the pub and looked at the Scorpio. A woman was sitting in the driver’s seat. He glimpsed her face as the man opened the car door to get back inside the vehicle and the interior light came on for a few seconds. But it was long enough for Omar to get a good look at the woman and he instantly recognized her as one of the passengers on his flight from Beirut. She was the one with the eyes. Yes, he recalled clearly how he almost classified her as a non-threat. Then he saw her eyes.
Then, just as quickly, the interior of the car went dark again. Omar could not help but smile at her. A car came from the opposite direction and its headlights briefly illuminated the woman’s face, giving Omar a clear view of the woman’s face. Her eyes, that ice-cold look, those piercing eyes momentarily froze Omar in his tracks. There was definitely hate in those eyes. Although he only caught a quick glimpse of her, he could clearly see this was a woman on a mission; a woman with a purpose. It sent a cold shiver down his spine.
The rain had stopped, but it was still chilly and Omar pulled up the collar of his leather jacket. Omar and O’Connor walked south, towards Clapham Common, before turning right. The Ford Scorpio followed at a safe distance. Omar and the Irishman turned towards the fire station just off the Common. It was a one-way street and the man in the Scorpio was forced to leave the car and follow them on foot. They continued for a few hundred yards, walking slowly, taking their time, and then veered right into a small, dark, side street leading to Grafton Square: a nice residential block with a group of houses facing a small, fenced park. The man from the Scorpio followed the pair into the alley, when suddenly two pairs of hands grabbed him off the street into the lower entrance leading to the basement of a townhouse. Before the agent could react, a knife had already been inserted through his ribs, piercing his heart. He died without making a sound.
Meanwhile, the woman driving the Scorpio had gone around Clapham Common and pulled up outside the alley, waiting for the other agent who now had disappeared from view. At first, Laura Atwood took little notice of the drunk approaching her. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw the Palestinian and the Irishman coming out of the alley, towards her. The drunk had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and was looking through his pockets for matches. As the man neared the Scorpio, he pulled out a .45 with a silencer attached, aimed at Laura and shot repeatedly through the windshield. Laura stepped on the accelerator while ducking her head under the dashboard. She hit a parked Mini, ripping off its rear fender, but managed to free her car and race away. The gunman continued to empty his gun into the Scorpio. The windshield was shattered and the left rear tire punctured, but Laura continued to drive away at full speed. By now, Omar and the Irishman were just a few feet away. She saw they were armed too and had started firing at her. The car jumped the curb as Laura tore across the well-manicured grass on Clapham Common, zigzagging as she drove. One bullet hit her side mirror, shattering it. Laura pressed down on the accelerator, pushing the Scorpio as hard as she could. The car skidded on the wet grass and Laura lost control, hitting a tree in the middle of the Common. Still partially dazed, Laura looked at her rearview mirror and saw the Palestinian and the
Irishman approaching the car. Miraculously, a crowd of people, including a policeman on patrol, ran towards her. The Palestinian and his friend turned away and disappeared into the London night. Laura Atwood cut the engine, buried her face in the steering wheel and started to cry.
Laura Craft’s cover was blown. She wasn’t certain that the terrorist had actually seen her face clearly, or could even identify her, but going back to Beirut would amount to suicide. His friends had seen her. She was not sure how long they had been following her and when they had picked her up. They might have even photographed her. She knew Langley would order her immediate return to Washington. It was too dangerous now to venture back to Beirut. Besides, there was still the “taxi driver” in Beirut. He could identify the terrorist, and no one had seen his face.
Before leaving London, Laura called Chris Clayborne in Beirut. She told him she was being transferred to the States and that the transfer was immediate. Chris insisted she wait for him; he would fly to London in the morning. They could at least spend a few days together in London.
19
WASHINGTON, DC
The borrowed passport and forged US visa given to him by Sean O’Connor got Omar through British security, and he was now about to test US airport security. But first he needed to rid himself of all other documents. As the aircraft entered North American airspace, Omar locked himself in one of the plane’s toilets and shredded all other documents before flushing them down the toilet. The next step of the operation was going to be critical. For about thirty minutes, Omar would be totally defenseless and at the complete mercy of United States Immigration officers. There was no other way. It had to be done if he was to enter the United States. But the Irishman in London was confident and seemed to know what he was talking about. Omar was confident that his plan would work. Besides, Omar had taken risks before. He knew he could fool the Americans. He had fooled them, and others, before. It seemed to be getting easier, fooling people, thought Omar. Deep inside him, he enjoyed raising the stakes every time. It had almost become a game between him and those chasing him. He had always managed to remain a step ahead of them. He was smarter than they were and he would continue to fool them. But it pushed him to go further and further every time.
There was always the risk that the Americans could turn him back, but Sean O’Connor’s information was solid. His Irish friend had told him that their man in immigration at Kennedy Airport would look out for him if there was a problem. Still, he had to be careful. But then again, Omar had always been careful. He laughed at the thought. How can one do the job he was doing and talk about being careful? That was how he survived. He had been careful to the extent that this could be at all possible. There were no photographs of him. They didn’t even know his real name. The only enemy agents to have seen his face had died in London. Or so he thought.
Omar queued up for passport control, along with hundreds of other arriving passengers, all foreigners. There was a separate line for US citizens and green card holders. Both lines were moving fairly quickly and within minutes Omar found himself in front of a US immigration officer who stamped his passport and waved him on.
Omar was relieved to walk out of the terminal building into the fresh air. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and took a deep breath of afternoon air as he walked out into the open. Kennedy Airport was a mess and reminded Omar of an Arab souk. People were running around in every direction, pushing and shouting. Taxi drivers were screaming back at police officers who were screaming at them. Large buses were blocking roads already blocked by an armada of yellow taxis and other cars. Passengers pushed and shoved each other as they darted to catch their flights. A group of Hasidic Jews hurried by with a gaggle of children in tow. A squadron of Japanese tourists followed a man holding up a small red-and-white flag.
Omar left the international terminal and took a shuttle bus to the TWA domestic building. He scanned the electronic board where arriving and departing flights were listed and randomly chose a flight leaving for Minneapolis, Minnesota, in one hour and twenty-five minutes. But he had one more thing to take care of first.
Omar easily located the Irish Tavern on the arrival level. The bar was crowded, but he found an empty stool on the far end of the room. The barman greeted him and asked what he would like to drink.
“A Guinness, please,” said the Palestinian. “By the way, I am a good friend and acquaintance of Sean O’Connor from Belfast. I understand you have something for me.”
The barman walked away without replying and returned a moment later with half a pint of Guinness and a menu. Omar opened the menu and found a small sealed envelope inside. He slipped the envelope into his inside jacket pocket, finished his beer, paid, and left the bar. He found the men’s room and locked himself in an empty booth. He took out the envelope given to him by the barman and took out a Massachusetts driver’s license bearing his picture. The name under the photograph said Stavros Papadopoulos and gave a fictitious address in Boston. There was also a credit card with the same name. He signed the card, copying the signature on the driver’s license, pocketed both items, and left.
Omar returned to the TWA departure hall, where he purchased a ticket and paid for it in cash using the name of Stavros Papadopoulos. With his good Mediterranean looks, Omar could easily pass as a Greek or an Italian. Anyone trying to trace Devin Callahan would stop at a dead end outside Kennedy International Airport. The Brooklyn address did not exist, just like the Boston one. No one would ever realize that Stavros Papadopoulos, alias Devin Callahan, alias Marwan Raheem, was in fact Omar al-Kheir, one of the most deadly terrorists in the world. He was lost inside this huge country called America. Looking for him now would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. There was simply no way he could be traced, or found. It was a perfect plan. Omar smiled at the thought. Oh, how easy it was to fool these people. They believed too easily. Much too easily. By now Omar had fully regained his confidence. Victory would come soon enough.
By now Omar was quite certain that no one was following him. After entering the United States in New York, doubling back between terminals—giving the appearance that he was lost, had anyone taken notice—he flew to Minneapolis. He followed the same ritual there too, going back and forth between two airport terminals. After landing in Minneapolis, Omar changed planes once again, heading to Washington, and as he did on the previous flights and at the air terminals, he scrutinized the faces of every passenger on the plane. There were none who had flown with him from New York, he was quite sure of that. This time, he was certain that no one had followed him. The trail was clear and all links with his past were severed.
The US capital’s brightly lit landmarks looked resplendent from the air as Omar’s plane came in for landing at Washington’s Ronald Reagan National Airport. Omar recognized the Pentagon, the seat of America’s imperialist strength from where the American military commanded its troops around the world. The Capitol, with its large dome dominating one side of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the Washington Monument, that looked like an Egyptian obelisk, were visible from miles away. And there was the Potomac River, snaking its way between the capital and Virginia to the south. It was just like the films he had seen.
Omar suddenly felt the same excitement he had experienced when he entered Israel clandestinely several years ago. It was the same tingling sensation he felt before every mission, when all the pieces started slowly falling into place. It was a mixture of adrenaline and fear, of hatred rising to the surface yet again. It was the only time when anything started making sense to him. His palms felt sweaty, as they always did before every mission. That feeling would only go away once he was safely back on home ground, on familiar territory. Now, he was on enemy ground once more, and everyone around him was to be considered hostile and potentially dangerous. The Americans, who for so long had aided his enemies, were now going to pay. Revenge was almost at hand. But he had to be careful. Yes, the Americans were naive, but strong. Their intelligence service, the CIA
—or was it the FBI—could still stop him, prevent him from accomplishing his mission. The Americans always claimed the CIA never operated on American soil, but Omar could not believe that. He had to remain alert. Whoever it was could still get to him. It was time for renewed caution. His survival instincts were not going to let him down.
The sheer number of Arab and Asian taxi drivers outside Washington’s Ronald Reagan National Airport surprised the Palestinian. It was not something he had expected in America’s capital city. A Pakistani taxi driver dropped him off at the J. W. Marriott on 14th Street, just a few blocks from the White House, where he was able to get a room registering under his new identity.
Omar spent the first several days getting acquainted with the city. For his plan to work, he needed to know the layout of the town. The American capital was a pleasant city, and Omar found it easy to get around in. Much easier than London. The streets had numbers and letters of the alphabet. The numbers ran north–south and the letters east–west. The confusing part was the avenues bearing the names of various states that ran diagonally, but for the most part, he found it was not a difficulty city to operate in.
On his third day in Washington, Omar signed up for one of the tourist tours of the capital. He found it was a simple way to get around and study parts of the city he needed to discover and commit to memory. It was a perfect cover. No one really ever gives tourists a second look. Omar paid particular attention to the Capitol building, studying its layout and the surrounding buildings. He bought a tourist map and spent hours scrutinizing every street, every small detail. He found an army surplus store near his hotel, where he bought a magnetic compass. Next he found a large stationery store and bought a red felt pen and the kind of compass used by architects and draftsmen. He spent several days at the Library of Congress going over back issues of the New York Times, the Washington Post, and Time and Newsweek magazines. His only interest was in the January 21 editions of the papers, starting in 1900 and jumping four years to 1904, 1908, and so on, until he reached the most current editions. The publications were all on microfilm and easily accessible. The more he scanned through the microfilm, the greater his excitement grew. This was getting better all the time. Every photograph he looked at confirmed his idea. He returned the microfilms and walked out. He hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him back to his hotel. On the way, Omar spotted a French restaurant and asked the driver to stop. He bought a copy of the Washington Post and found an empty table on the restaurant’s outdoor terrace, where he sat and ordered lunch. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the date on his newspaper. It said November 1. He still had a little more than two months to prepare himself. So far, things were going just as planned.
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