by Ragen, Naomi
Through coded messages taken out of prison under visitors’ tongues, he communicated with the Hamas bigwigs abroad, and together they worked out the internal organization of the Hamas in Israel: it was terrorism with a corporate structure. There were departments for recruitment, funding and job placement; departments in charge of communication, propaganda and internal security.
Released from prison, Khalil was put in charge of his pet project: The al-Mujahidoun al-Felastiniyoun cells, that vied with each other in the blood-thirstiness of their planned attacks against civilian targets. To hone their skills, they practiced on their own people. With encouragement from the Saudis, they killed drug dealers, prostitutes and liquor salesmen who defied Islamic law. In consequence, Hamas suddenly found itself awash in Saudi cash.
Musa el Khalil was paid handsomely for his work. For the first time in his life, he had wealth beyond the imaginings of any who had come from his tribe. He built a red-tiled villa in Bir Naballah, bought a black Mercedes and married the prettiest and most voluptuous daughter of another Hamas operative. She was fifteen.
The problems began when the Israelis began to understand who they were dealing with and began deporting Hamas operatives. To his surprise and delight, the election of Yitzhak Rabin in 1992, and secret negotiations with Yassir Arafat in Oslo, led the Israeli prime minister to rescind deportation orders. What followed was a banner year for Musa, with over 192 acts of terror in Israel that spread death and mayhem all over the country. When the Israeli government finally deported him and 415 other Hamas terrorists over the border to Lebanon, Musa used it as the ultimate photo opportunity.
It became a media circus. During the day, amid corps of cooperative reporters, he shivered on camera over makeshift pots of soup. And at dusk, when reporters conveniently disappeared, he partied with members of Hezbollah and Iranian intelligence, attending workshops in advanced terror techniques.
Facing worldwide condemnation to repatriate the “cold and starving men,” Israeli leaders caved in once again. One hundred well-trained terrorists were led back into the country, and the others, including Musa, had their banishment period reduced to only two years.
Musa el Khalil made good use of that time. Sent to southern Sudan to the elite Pasdaran camp run by Iranian intelligence, he was schooled in how to make inexpensive pipe bombs from acetone and detergent. How to connect less than a hundred grams of explosives to gas cylinders, grenades and hundreds of carpenter’s nails in order to kill dozens and destroy everything within a ten-foot radius. How to plant trip-wire land mines to explode cars.
But Khalil wasn’t satisfied. One of the problems with planting bombs was the alertness of the well-practiced Israeli civilian, who nine times out of ten discovered these devices in time. But what if, he thought, there were no suspicious packages? What if the bomb was a person, a person who looked like everybody else?
Facing the skepticism of his colleagues that anyone would be willing to come to such a gruesome end, Khalil set out to prove them wrong. He went searching for men and women who had no expectations from life at all. Amid the squalor of Gaza and the West Bank, he had no trouble finding them. Befriending mosque loners, young men from poor families who were terminally ill, the unemployed, the unmarriageable, he began to work. Brainwashing them with videotapes that promised them part in “a unique operation that only you can carry out” and the reward of a ruby palace set in a “place near Allah and his prophets” and a heavenly harem of seventy-two virgins who would help him “drink from rivers of honey,” he found to everyone’s shock—including his own—that there was no end to the waists willing to strap on ten or fifteen kilograms of explosives; enough to blow up an entire hotel, a whole school, or an entire busload of unsuspecting people on their way home from work and school; enough to fill anyone who survived with enough nails in their lungs, brains, livers and eyes to make them wish they hadn’t.
Aided by Oslo—which took the responsibility of fighting terror out of the hands of Israelis and put it into the hands of the PLO—Musa enjoyed eight years of unmatched successes, helping to ensure that Israelis would find themselves the target of one terror attack every hour, every day. It was an unprecedented triumph.
It was just then, at the height of his career, that Musa el Khalil began to get nervous. He saw the Oslo agreements collapsing and realized that he had enemies—relatives of those he’d killed, Hamas members who envied his rapid rise—who would be more than happy to see him pick up a cell phone and have it explode in his ear. He worried that in that explosion, something might also happen to his family. Worse, he worried that it wouldn’t, and that his beautiful young wife would be available to another man.
The idea tortured him.
In the ten years of their marriage, she had grown even more beautiful. She had given him six children, four sons and two daughters. He wanted himself and his family out of harm’s way. The opportunity arrived when the head of operations in the U.S. wanted to replace the head of operations in Amman with his cousin, and needed information leaked to the Mossad that would get the present head murdered by secret agents. Musa, who felt each man had his time on earth decided by Allah, had no problem arranging for destiny to take its course. He was rewarded with a plum job: coordinator of operations in Western Europe.
He took his family to Malta and set them up there. In a short time, he received a forged Libyan passport from Khadaffi’s cooperative regime, allowing him to travel alone by ferry from Tripoli to Valleta, and from there to Paris.
His job in Europe was diversified. He collected cash from Muslim and European supporters and made deposits. He also continued to be involved in all stages of planning terror operations in Israel. Officially, he was the final authority on confirming how and when such operations would be undertaken. And how they would end. Most of the time, though, he let local operatives run their own show.
With the help of the fax machine and computer set up in his elegant Avenue Foch hotel room, he received information from operatives in Israel and sent back coded instructions. When he wanted to communicate, he sent out two identical messages with coded instructions to two separate locations.
Sometimes he looked at the little portable machine on the elegant Louis XVI desk by a bed canopied in blue watered silk and smiled. He had come a long way from filthy huts packed with greasy explosives.
Gradually, something happened to Musa el Khalil. Far away from his wife and children, from the arid landscape of refugee camps and terrorist training grounds, he suddenly opened his eyes to the wonders of being free and alive with money in his pocket in a city like Paris. He strolled along the Seine. Paid a visit to the Eiffel Tower, riding to the top with childish delight. He had his suits custom-made, developed a taste for forbidden brandy and fine cigars, and sank deeper and deeper into the indolence of a career that left him plenty of time for nightclubs and brothels.
On May 9, it was past midnight when he finally returned to his hotel room after a wild night with one of his favorite call girls. He felt elated, and a bit dirty, as he turned the key in the door, looking forward to undressing and washing himself in a long, hot bath of soapy water. To his surprise, he heard the phone ringing insistently when he opened the door.
He wasn’t expecting a call.
He picked it up, frowning, but as he listened, his face gradually relaxed, finally broadening into a large grin. It was the famous Russian arms dealer, known only as V.C. Khalil had been trying, unsuccessfully, to contact him for months. He wanted to talk, and also, apparently, to deliver personally a large donation in cash.
Khalil loved cash, especially cash handed to him personally that no one else could count. It would help him to cover gambling debts, and increase the action and variety of his nightlife. He was also flattered at the sudden invitation to the famous nightclub where one needed a private pass or membership to enter and mingle with the likes of V.C.—not to mention heads of rich Arab sheikdoms, supermodels, French politicians and famous hairdressers. V.C. said he would be waiting outside t
o usher him through its famous oak doors and its forbidding security.
Khalil didn’t think twice. He smelled his underarms and shrugged. A bath would have to wait. He straightened the diamond pin on his tie and walked jubilantly back out into the lively Parisian night. He hailed a taxi, giving the driver the address of Chez Ariana.
Chapter Thirty-one
Kala el-Bireh, Samaria (West Bank)
Friday, May 10
5.00 A.M.
MARWAN BAHAMA DOWNLOADED his e-mail. There it was. The coded message from Musa he’d been waiting for He went to the Web site indicated. As he read the carefully worded document, his face grew red and his fist tightened. He got up, slamming his fist into the wall. The startled men around him backed away, exchanging glances that were both furtive and alarmed; when Marwan Bahama was angry, no one was safe.
He took in the alarm of his men and tried to calm himself. Maybe there was some mistake. Some misunderstanding. The message couldn’t possibly mean what he thought it meant. He went to the second Web site, then he printed out both messages. He held the two up to the light. The letters overlapped perfectly.
“Ibn-al-Mutanaka”, he cursed under his breath. “Boos teezi!” he screamed. The men around him, used to foul language, blushed. He sat down and went through the letter once again, looking for the special code words that would indicate it had been sent under duress, or was fake. But no matter how much he pored over it, he could find no indication that it didn’t mean exactly what it said: he was being relieved of his command of the operation. The two settlers were to be handed over to Ismael. The e-mail said Ismael would pick up the prisoners in the late afternoon and that until then, they were to be well treated.
Under his breath, he wished his knife a speedy entry into the heart of that gawwaad Ismael, and that ibn-al-Mutanaka Musa el Khalil, grown soft from whores, forbidden wine and pig-tainted food in the decadent capitals of the degraded western world. None of his demands had been met. Not one! Why should he let the Jews go? This was his operation. His! His successful planning and execution. Their blood belonged to him. Why should Ismael have the honor and glory of the kill?
“Khara beek!” he screamed at the missing man who had upstaged him. He had never liked Ismael, with his ironed, British shirts and superior attitude.
He glanced at the men who stood around him sweating, their eyes wary, their hands behind their backs, fingering prayer beads. The thermometer had risen to almost thirty centigrade, and except for the lazy rotation of a single ceiling fan, the fetid air, reeking of stale cooking oil and cigarettes, lay over them as thick as a fog, and as unbreathable.
“Look, look at what orders we have been given, brothers! We have been betrayed!” he screamed. His men picked up the papers as Bahama threw them to the floor, reading. Bahama kicked the wall, and plaster snowed down on the floor. “Before I turn them over, I will have a little talk with them, the Zionists, no? Is that not owed to me, at least?”
He went swiftly to the door and began unlocking the cell.
“Marwan, please. Be careful. The orders are from Musa himself. There must be a reason,” his second in command said mildly.
Bahama turned to him. With stunning swiftness, Bahama grasped the man’s beard and kneed his groin with such forcefulness that blood began to darken the light cotton material around his crotch. Then, using his own head as a battering ram, Bahama butted him full in the stomach, until the man lay stretched and gasping on the plaster-covered floor.
The other men hung back. No one moved.
Panting, Bahama moved again toward the holding cell.
It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Like a predatory night animal, he sought his helpless prey. There, in the corner, he saw the blanket move, the whites of eyes. The man. But where, he thought, was the child? The little Jewish whore? The video was over now. She didn’t need to be a movie star anymore.
He walked toward Jon, then pulled off the blanket.
But the child wasn’t there.
“Get up,Jew dog!” he screamed.
Jon stumbled to his feet.
Bahama switched on the light, his eyes darting swiftly around the filthy room. He searched the piles of garbage, scattering them to the floor. He kicked the papers and pieces of cloth, but his feet did not meet the resistance of young flesh.
“Where is she?!” he shouted, shaking Jon.
Jon said nothing. He felt the vicious kick to his face and heard his teeth crack.
“Where? Where is she? Talk or die!”
With effort, Jon allowed a small smile to curl his bleeding lips.
Bahama went wild. “Where is she, where is she, where is she?!” He panted, each exclamation punctuated by another vicious blow.
In a good place, Jon prayed. In a good place, he repeated to himself until, mercifully, he lost consciousness.
Chapter Thirty-two
Hotel Intercontinental
Fast Jerusalem, Israel
Friday, May 10,2002
7:00 A.M.
JULIA AWOKE WITH a feeling of heaviness behind her forehead, and the drumming of small hammers at her temples that were, she knew, her body’s familiar disciplinary actions against itself for three or four gin-and-tonics too many. Still, she had no regrets. There had been an excellent reason for every single one of them.
The first was for being left standing outside the prime minister’s office after the press conference, searching in vain for her driver, not to mention her erstwhile boyfriend, the Polish charmer, who had disappeared like a genie in a bottle. The second was for having to listen to Jack Duggan’s threats all day Thursday if she failed to get hold of the second video in time for the evening news. Drinks three and—maybe—four had to do with the fact that Ismael Abadi was not answering his cell phone, and had disappeared with the staff car and presumably the videotape as well. He was nowhere; beamed up whole by aliens, she thought irritably. Without him, she reluctantly admitted to herself, she was just one more clueless blond Brit with a microphone in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language. And to top it all off, the bureau was holding her responsible for all of it. As if!
She groped her way into the bathroom, surveying the evening’s damage in the mirror. God.
She splashed cold water on her mascara-streaked cheeks and wiped off the lipstick mustache. With unsteady hands, she tore a brush through her hair. At least that was all right. That and her eyes, those blue eyes (although contact lenses to deepen the color would be a worthy investment, she often thought).
Lovely eyes, she contradicted herself defiantly. Golden hair.
Screw Milos.
She tossed her head and went back to find her cell phone, once again dialing his number. The fact that he had been filming Ismael, and the fact that both of them had very conveniently disappeared at the same time, left her with questions she wanted answered . . . No one picked up. Then she tried Ismael’s number. It rang and rang and rang.
Listless, she flicked on the television, flipping through the channels. She stopped, stunned. There it was, on a two-bit local station, the Hebrew-language channel two news: her video! BCN’s exclusive! Dr. Margulies and the child, and the gun-toting Hamas militant spouting belligerent Islamic rhetoric, all accompanied by a voice-over in Hebrew!
Her video! Her network exclusive!
No wonder Ismael was nowhere to be found. That little rat . . .!
She flipped to the other stations. CNN was broadcasting. Sky was broadcasting. BBC was broadcasting. Only BCN had nothing.
She stood there in her underwear, livid, confused, and worst of all, helpless. All day yesterday, she had been expecting Ismael to deliver the tape to her at any moment. That, at least, had been the agreement between them as they discussed it in the car on the way to the press conference. She’d allowed herself to be persuaded by him that to go back personally to the sheik’s would be a waste of time and an unnecessary danger. He was better off, he’d told her, handling it alone. At the time, she’d
been secretly delighted. Who needed another bumpy ride into the wilds of the terrorist-infested countryside? Besides, she’d calculated it would give her extra time, time she’d planned to spend with Milos . . . She watched the video, furious. That smooth-talking Islamic rat had stabbed her in the back—and after she’d gone out of her way to be so understanding, so sympathetic! Her phone, she saw, had sixteen messages. She flipped through them. All of them were from Jack Duggan, with the exception of one or two from Sean Morrison. She’d be back on the next plane to Heathrow. No one would help her with her bags. And this would be her last foreign assignment, if they didn’t fire her altogether.
What had she done wrong? What? she asked herself despondently, when suddenly the answer dawned on her, a bright neon light flashing in her consciousness with a one-word revelation: Milos. Outside of Duggan and Morrison, he was the only other person besides herself who knew about Ismael’s involvement in acquiring the first tape, and the coming delivery of the second. And now the tape—her tape—was being whored around, common property of practically everyone except her own network.
Could Milos have tipped someone off, even unwittingly? And what could have gone wrong with Ismael? Had he been bribed? Threatened? And why would these men she liked and trusted do this? To her?! When she’d been so professional, so kind, so . . . stupid, she thought, her hands shaking with fury as she dialed Milos’s bureau number. Someone answered in Polish. “Can I speak to Milos Jankowski, please? No. I can’t understand you. Oh bloody hell, just put him on, will you?” she screamed. “What did you call me, you piece of Eastern Eurotrash!” she said hotly, before slamming down the phone. They said he didn’t work there. Had they misunderstood? Or had she?
There was no point in trying to call. She’d have to physically track Milos down, then find Ismael. Worse came to worse, she thought with a touch of desperation, she could always get Jack to find another fixer and make her way back out to the sheik’s house alone. What if she got an exclusive interview with the sheik? Or maybe . . . her heart began to pound . . . or maybe an exclusive interview with the Jewish doctor . . .