by Oliver North
FROM: NARNIA FARM, OLIVER L. NORTH, LTCOL USMC (RET)
TO: SAILING VESSEL PESCADOR FOR WILLIAM P. GOODE
Taurus Express Station
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Aleppo, Syria
Thursday, 9 March 1995
1600 Hours, Local
As the train pulled into the Aleppo station, Newman was relieved to realize it was exactly on time. The next moments would be critical. The little girls had napped most of the way, but for the past half hour, they had been playing with a couple of tiny dolls and talking softly with each other as they sat, polite and well-behaved, beside him.
When the train stopped, the women reached for their belongings and stood up to get off the coach. Newman picked up the smaller girl and carried her off the train, holding the hand of the other little girl and helping her down the steep stairs. The two women trailed behind, but they all stayed in a cluster and looked like a typical Middle Eastern family—at least Newman hoped so.
He saw the soldiers when he stepped off the train. There were several of them. This time they were only stopping people at random; some were questioned, and others were being shown the poster with his photograph prominently positioned in the middle. The two women separated and took up positions on either side of him. The mother took the other hand of her daughter, and they all crowded close together. They passed the first soldiers without receiving so much as a glance. Several other Syrian soldiers manned a second checkpoint, at the platform entrance. One looked directly at Newman, and smiled when the little girl in Newman's arms waved at him. Newman and his “family” went inside the train station, and the grandmother pointed to a nearby bench. They sat in the large waiting room while the older woman purchased their five tickets to Elbeyli and Newman's single ticket to Iskenderun. When she came back she handed them out with a smile.
Newman looked at the clock on the wall and then at the ticket. They had only an hour to wait for the train to Elbeyli. He fervently hoped that there would be no more questions or paperwork inspections from the Syrian authorities while they waited.
At one point, about ten minutes before their train was due, a Syrian railway policeman came into the crowded waiting room and began to eyeball the waiting passengers. The young mother of the girls, realizing that their inactivity was inviting scrutiny, opened up a tourist brochure for Aleppo, the second largest city in Syria and one of the most ancient cities in the world. She began using the pictures in the brochure to explain to her daughters the history of the region. Newman and the grandmother feigned interest in the presentation, and the policeman's gaze roved elsewhere.
Once he walked away, the young mother leaned back and let out a deep sigh. It was then that Newman realized what a great risk they were taking for him. By now, having seen the posters at every stop, they had to know that they were in the company of the man being sought by the authorities. Yet simply because Samir had shown them a little metal fish and asked for their help, they were placing themselves in jeopardy to help him.
He heard the whistle as the Elbeyli train approached. A wave of passengers pressed toward the door to the platform. Despite the efforts of the soldiers and railway police to inspect every person crowding out onto the platform, it was impossible, and Newman passed through the portal, bending over, pretending to smooth the collar of the older girl's blouse, his face obscured by the gutra draped over his shoulders.
They boarded the train and stayed in the middle of the crowd until they once again found a compartment to themselves. And again, when the conductor came to collect tickets, Newman was “asleep” with the little girl dozing on his lap.
Everything worked as it had before, and the little “family” avoided attracting the interest of any of the Syrian authorities aboard the swaying train as it made its way north to the frontier. None of them had taken note of the large, European-dressed man who had entered the station waiting area just prior to the arrival of the train and who had passed by their compartment.
As the sun was setting, Newman noticed that the train had slowed and he watched out the window as it pulled into the station at Elbeyli, Turkey. Once again the women gathered up their belongings and, as they had before, formed a phalanx around Newman and the girls. But this time there was a sign in Arabic, French, and English that said CUSTOMS. Newman's blood ran cold at being asked to produce documents. As he was looking warily about for a way out of the station without having to pass the booth where a dozen or more officials were checking identity papers and occasionally opening the migrants' bags, he noticed the same poster that had been so prominent on the Syrian side of the border. This poster, with his face above the name and the phrase “For Terrorism—Dead or Alive” in English, French, and Arabic, was hung on the wall opposite the customs inspectors.
As he stared into his own eyes in the poster, he felt a tug on the sleeve of his thobe. It was the young mother. She was holding up her Syrian passport, open to the first page. Inside was a picture, not just of her, but a family of four. In the photograph, her deceased husband sat beside the woman now holding the passport. In front were the two children—one of whom was now asleep on Newman's shoulder, while the other clung to his finger. Without attempting a word, the young mother looked from the photo to Newman and then nodded her head toward the customs queue. He understood immediately and seeing no alternative, proceeded toward the booth with his adopted “family.”
When he had looked at the photo Newman realized that the deceased husband looked nothing like him, and the inspector would surely see that immediately. But for some reason, he recalled the words of Samir—“The guards will see what God wants them to see.” Was it again time for him to have some faith?
The uniformed clerk took the grandmother's passport and the one offered by the mother, and he opened them on the counter before him. He pored over them, flipping through the pages, looking for the appropriate exit stamps and visas. He flipped back to the front and looked at the pictures, then at the weary travelers in front of him, then back down at the documents.
Newman could feel the sweat running down his back as the uniformed man reached for something below the counter. Newman felt the muscles in his shoulders tensing for action. But then, with an officious flourish, the customs official took the hand stamp he had retrieved from under the counter and pounded it twice, once in each book, with the imprint of the Turkish government. He handed the documents back to the women.
By the time they exited the station and came out in the center of the little border town, it was dark. Newman walked with the women and the children for a block from the station, still carrying the youngest girl. As Newman put her down, he kissed his finger and tenderly placed it on her cheek. She giggled. He did the same for her older sister, who likewise giggled. The young mother reached out her hand to shake his. He took it and held it with both hands while he looked into her fatigued, attractive face. He tried to tell her with his eyes how grateful he was for their help. He did the same with the grandmother. The older woman nodded, bent down on one knee, and drew an outline of a fish in the dirt, then stood and pointed to Newman, then herself, and upward. She smiled broadly, then turned to lead her family up another street.
Newman watched them walk away—the girls looked back a couple times and waved—then he strolled toward what he thought was the business district of the little border town. As he walked he noticed that there were very few men wearing Arab garb on the streets. Nearly everyone wore Western-style dress. In a public rest room he disposed of the thobe, tagia, gutra, and igal he had been wearing since shortly after Habib rescued him in Iraq. Beneath the thobe he was wearing the brown cotton shirt and linen trousers Samir had bought for him back in Dayr Az Zawr. He wore sandals, and because the night was cool, he decided to keep the woolen mishlah to use it as a cloak. As he was changing, he heard the voices of two men entering the rest room. They were speaking a language Newman hadn't heard since parting company with Samir: English.
He let the two men ex
it in front of him and watched them walk up the street toward some lighted shops. He waited a few minutes and then went in after them. It was a restaurant, and there were a group of young people at a booth in the corner. One of them looked up, saw him, and waved him over.
“Are you an American?” one of the girls asked.
“Canadian,” he replied.
“Come join us. We're going dancing later; you can come with us.” The young blonde spoke English with a Nordic accent. She slid over and made room for him beside her in the booth.
Newman learned that they were part of an international student group that was studying ancient architecture. They were out for a “night on the town” before they took the morning train to Ankara and then to Constantinople. They had been here in the little town of Elbeyli for three days as they explored the ruins of old churches, castles, and forts in the area and they were ready to move on. Newman followed along as they bar hopped from one establishment to another, drinking strong Turkish tea and an occasional beer when they could find it. But as the evening grew later, more and more of the restaurants closed. So the group decided that it was time to go dancing at the hotel where they were staying.
Newman walked with them. It was little more than a youth hostel as far as he could tell. Somehow, the students had convinced the management to let them haul the furniture from the courtyard and had brought the TV out of the common room to catch the music from American MTV, which the hostel was apparently pirating from the satellite. Someone else produced some beer. And thankfully for Newman, no one came around to bother him or the celebrants.
The Marine found a quiet corner as far away from the TV and dancers as possible. He sat back on what seemed to him to be something akin to a beanbag chair back home. There he kept out of sight until almost 11:30 P.M. when he quietly got up, slipped out the door, and walked up the street to catch the midnight train to Iskenderun.
Her Royal Majesty's Officers Guest House
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U.K. Sovereign Base Area
Larnaca, Cyprus
Thursday, 9 March 1995
0015 Hours, Local
Even though she was familiar with the effects of “jet lag” from her years as a flight attendant, Rachel was exhausted. General Grisham's C-17 had flown straight through, thirteen hours from Andrews Air Force Base to the Royal Air Force facility at Akrotiri, on the western side of Cyprus. When they landed, one of the Air Force stewards had told them, “The local time is 1800.” Rachel changed her watch to 6:00 P.M.
After a brief arrival greeting from a British admiral, General Grisham and his party of six, including Rachel, were loaded into two Suburbans. Two vans carried heavily-armed men in front of and behind them and they drove seventy-five miles east to the British base at Larnaca. Rachel noticed all the security and the bullet-resistant glass in the windows of their car and asked why.
Grisham had replied, “Like so many other places in this part of the world, this beautiful little island is divided. In July 1974, Turkey invaded the island, ostensibly to protect indigenous Turks from the Greeks who have governed the island for centuries. Shooting started. The UN has a mandate to resolve the dispute—and they have hundreds of peacekeepers here. But like so much of what the UN does, it hasn't worked, and to this day the island is divided. Both sides still shoot at each other. All this extra protection is in case we get caught in the crossfire.”
Rachel had been impressed with the answer. It was understandable, succinct, and spare. It was clear to Rachel that General Grisham didn't waste a lot of words. Yet, on the long flight here, he had been more than willing to talk to her and answer her every question.
In fact, she remembered that there was only one moment when she recalled him becoming just a bit impatient. One of his assistants had come into the VIP compartment and told him that he had a satellite phone call from Headquarters. The connection had been more than a little loud so Rachel couldn't help but hear both sides of the conversation:
The officer in Washington had said, “The National Security Council is making inquiries about your trip and wanted to know your itinerary. We haven't told 'em anything about your stop in Cyprus. But somehow the NSC is aware that you are at least stopping in the island. They now want to know when you'll be headed to Incirlik. What do you want us to tell them?”
Grisham responded, “Blast those people, who's asking—Harrod?”
“No, it was one of the hired help.”
“Well… don't answer just yet,” said the General. “If Harrod himself calls, tell him I'll call him back. Then contact me right away.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” said the voice coming from Washington.
“Anything else?”
“You've had several telephone calls from a retired Army general. Says his name's General Bob Storey. Do you know him?”
“Name sounds vaguely familiar. Is he the guy that got that cushy job with that high-tech company in California? What's he want?”
“I don't know, sir. He wouldn't tell me. He just said that it was very important that he talk to you at your first opportunity.”
“All right, I don't want to call him on this phone. Send me the number via secure e-mail at Larnaca and I'll call him when I get there. I'll call you after we arrive. Out here.” And with that he hung up the phone, shaking his head.
But to Rachel, he had been nothing but patient and polite. Now, riding in the guarded and bulletproofed Suburban, she realized there was one more question that was burning in her mind. She decided to risk the general's patience an additional time.
“Is … is this going to turn out OK for Peter, General?” Rachel asked.
“I don't know. I don't have the gift of prophecy. But I do have a gift for solving very difficult problems, and if that isn't enough, we can also pray.”
Her face must have registered her surprise.
“Rachel, I've learned that the good Lord welcomes people from every walk of life,” Grisham said. “He doesn't want us to make war on each other, but He doesn't reject soldiers just because they serve in uniform. If you go to Matthew's Gospel in that Bible you have there, you'll find that Jesus commends a Roman centurion, a member of the occupying army, for his faith.”
“Does your faith mean a lot to you?” she asked.
“It's everything to me. It's even the motto of our Corps—Always Faithful.'”
Rachel paused a moment and said, “Well, when I started to think about God … and my life … and the things going wrong with my life, I began to see a lot of things coming together.” Rachel wasn't sure why, but she felt such trust toward this kind general who was helping her, it seemed natural to tell some of her story. “It seemed like every-where I turned, there was another Christian. All my life I wasn't sure what it even meant to be a Christian, and then my friend Inga told me how Christ had changed her life. Then another friend, Sandy, told me how she and her husband had turned their marriage around when Christ came into their lives and their home. It all began to make sense to me. Then, last Sunday I went to church and later went to lunch with the pastor and his wife. They showed me how Christ could change my life as well … to forgive me … give me peace of mind … and even restore my marriage,” she said.
“You and Pete having some rough times?” the general asked her.
Rachel told him how she had given up on the marriage and had been looking for the right moment to serve Peter with divorce papers. “But you know, General, I had a chance to see that I was as much to blame as Peter for the problems in our marriage. When I prayed and asked Jesus to take over my life, to make me clean and right in His eyes, something happened to me. I can't quite explain it, but somehow I know that God changed me—He turned my life inside out and has given me assurance that everything that I read in the Bible, the things my friends have shared with me, and my own spiritual seeking have all come together with a clarity that I've never known before. Do you understand?”
General Grisham smiled, and then he reached
across and patted her arm. “Yes … I do understand. I understand perfectly. Welcome to God's family.” Rachel recalled that moment with fondness.
They reached the British base at Larnaca and now she was in the comfortable “Visiting VIP Quarters.” It was just after midnight. An entire day of her life had disappeared in an aircraft on the way here. What would the next hours bring?
A maid tapped on Rachel's door and asked if she needed anything. Rachel smiled at the olive-skinned young woman and shook her head. The maid left, closing the door behind her. Rachel thought it was odd that a maid would be on duty so late. Maybe that's just how they do it here, she thought as she got ready for bed.
25 Piers Dock
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Iskenderun, Turkey
Friday, 10 March 1995
0300 Hours, Local
William Goode had arrived at the 25 Piers dock in Iskenderun at exactly 1800 the previous evening. He had berthed the Pescador between piers 9 and 10, so he could periodically check for Newman's arrival without attracting too much attention. He went to meet with an old friend, a member of the Intelligence Service of the Republic of Turkey.
They met in a crowded restaurant along Attaturk Street, a venue that the Turk often chose for meetings like this. As they shared tiny cups of strong Arab coffee, Goode handed the Turk intelligence officer a manila envelope. Inside were several photographs he had downloaded and printed from the e-mails he had received before leaving Larnaca, two lists of essential biographical data that he himself had compiled, and fifty one-hundred-dollar bills. The Turk asked a number of questions, noted Goode's answers on a slip of paper, and then excused himself, telling the white-haired American that he would meet him aboard the Pescador before midnight.