Retribution

CHAPTER EIGHT.

  Beirut Airport, September 23rd.

  Intense diplomatic activity went on behind the scenes. All nations concerned were pushing for military or police action to resolve the problem without giving in to the terrorist’s demands. Britain refused to consider the release of the two terrorists responsible for the airport massacre, and offered the use of a specialized SAS unit to storm the plane. Israel could not get agreement on the release of the terrorists in her jails and offered the use of a special Israeli Commando unit to do the same job. America and all the European nations were exerting pressure to save their nationals, but the elected Greek government, dominated by the P.A.S.O.K. party, would take no action against the friends of its prime fund donator, the pro-Palestinian Libyan dictator. And poor battered and divided Lebanon needed all the support it could get from the Arab world.

  Stalemate.

  The hours on the aircraft dragged past in great discomfort. With the terrorist leaders consent, iced water had been sent out to the aircraft to relieve the passenger’s thirst. It gave most of them diarrhea. No one had been allowed on board to clean the toilets. The smell and the heat and the flies got worse. Time dragged by. No progress was made.

  Abu Asifah allowed another three hours to pass then he spoke to the control tower on the radio again. ‘Half the allotted time has gone; if you do not meet our demands by the deadline another passenger will be shot; an Israeli or an American. You have been warned; on your heads be it.’

  The media representatives, who were given unrestricted access to the country’s communications, picked up his warning. They broadcast it to the world.

  Abu Asifah switched the radio off. ‘Let them stew a little longer,’ he thought.

  Israel was the first to grasp the nettle. The Israeli Government announced that they would release five hundred Palestinian prisoners from its jails. The terrorists were jubilant and from one of them word leaked out to the passengers, who were greatly relieved.

  Abu Asifah was unmoved, all his demands must be met, not just some of them. The passenger’s new found hopes were dashed.

  The second deadline arrived.

  Again Abu Asifah’s tongue traced the scar in the roof of his mouth. The taste of cordite and gun oil came back. He barked a command. Two of his men grabbed one of the American passengers and cut him free. They dragged him to his feet. It was Alan Edge.

  Mike Edge’s sharp intake of breath caused Anna Sutherland to look up.

  ‘Dear God, no,’ she whispered, appalled at what she saw.

  Mike’s hands gripped the armrests of his seat, his knuckles white, his body shaking with stress.

  Alan, his face pale, was dragged forwards. He was silent. He was manhandled into the forward doorway.

  Without a moment’s hesitation Abu Asifah shot him in the back of the head.

  As the shot rang out Anna cried out in protest. ‘No! No! Oh please God Noooo...!’

  Mike, his jaw clenched the veins and tendons in his neck standing out like cords, made a thin keening sound.

  The sound of Alan’s body hitting the concrete with a sickening smack reached them. Anna began to sob. Mike’s eyes were closed. Tears squeezed between the tightly clenched lids and ran down his suddenly haggard face.

  Flight OA 269, September 23rd.

  Mike Edge sat white faced and silent in the first stage of shock. A cold anger was building inside him, a rage all the more fierce because of his inability to retaliate. ‘I’ll get the bastards, Alan, all of them, if I have to follow them to the ends of the earth,’ he promised quietly. ‘How can they assume the right to take such action, however just they consider their cause to be? How can they believe that they are doing it in the name of God? All the skill, all the resources I can muster I will use.’ He breathed the words as if to his dead brother’s spirit.

  Gradually, Mike became aware of Anna’s racking sobs. He reached out to her and putting his arm around her shoulders he pulled her close, as much for his own need as for hers, both needed the comfort of another human being.

  For a long time, her head on his shoulder, he stroked the long shining hair away from her temple comforting her, and gaining comfort from her too. Pulling a clean white linen handkerchief from his top pocket, he pushed it into her hand. In taking it Anna moved her arm, her sketchpad slipped from her lap and fell open on the floor at her feet. From the page Mike’s own likeness stared back up at him. An idea struck him. He began to talk to Anna in a low and urgent voice, still stroking her hair.

  ‘Listen to me, stop crying. I need your help to nail these butchers. You can help me, you must help me, do you understand?’

  Gradually his words penetrated Anna’s grief. The idea of making these evil people pay for their vicious actions penetrated her mind. Anna shook herself as though she could physically shake off what had just happened. If there were something positive she could do she would do it. Anna Sutherland was tough.

  ‘Anything, you name it, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good, now listen, that sketch you’ve done of me, can you do some more, of the hijackers?’

  ‘Well... I suppose, but won’t it be risky?’

  ‘Yes, but I can keep watch and warn you if any of them come near. If we’re careful, they’ll never cotton on.’

  ‘So we’ll have mug shots to take with us when this is all over?’ Anna gave her nose another blow, ‘But you better keep a damn good lookout.’

  ‘You bet,’ Mike agreed, ‘I’m going to start compiling dossiers on each of them; all the bits and pieces of information I can see or remember.’ The look on his face was grim.

  ‘I’m glad I’m on his side,’ Anna thought, as, warily, she began to sketch.

  Mike began to make notes. He jotted down everything he saw. Habits, distinguishing marks, mannerisms, everything his trained eye spotted. As the light failed and night fell, dossiers on the six men began to grow.

  OA 269, September 23rd.

  There is a phenomenon associated with hijackings, and the similar business of hostage taking, called the Stockholm syndrome, in which the persons taken hostage begin to identify with their captors. This began to manifest itself in the hijacked aircraft. People, without realizing it, began to empathize with their abductors. Mike had attended lectures on this subject during his training and recognized it as soon as it began to happen. He described what was happening to Anna and she saw immediately what he was talking about. Her reaction was typically direct. ‘How can they crawl to them,’ she asked scathingly.

  ‘I’m going to join them.’

  Anna looked at him in disbelief.

  ‘We need information on these individuals, and I don’t care how we get it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Anna understood.

  Mike fished about in his wallet. He pulled out a photo of a young woman and two small children. He waited for an opportunity to speak to one of the hijackers. When it came he asked about their aims, their friends whom they were trying to release from jail, and, getting something of their point of view, he worked the conversation round from friends to families. He gave the terrorist the photograph of the pretty young woman and the two little children. ‘My wife and children,’ he said. The hijacker took the photograph and looked at it briefly without interest, then he handed it back. ‘You have no son,’ he said, and moved on, not wishing to get involved with a hostage for too long.

  Anna, her sketching hidden, had listened. The statement, “My wife and children,” caused a pang, that, to her surprise, she recognized as jealousy. She had seen that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and had assumed that he was single. Mike was holding the photograph carefully by one corner. He reached forward and took an airsickness bag from the seat pocket in front of him. He carefully put the photo into it. ‘There’s a pair of finger and thumb prints on this,’ Mike whispered, ‘we can add it to the dossier on him, good job I’m a godfather.’

  Anna looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’ve got his finger and thumb print for the dossi
er,’ Mike explained again.

  ‘No, I don’t mean that, you said something else,’ Anna persisted.

  Mike thought. ‘I said it’s a good job I’m a godfather.’

  Anna looked blankly at him.

  ‘My god-daughters,’ he said, tapping the bag with his finger, ‘my boss’s wife and two children.’

  ‘But, you said it was your wife.’

  ‘Yeah, but only to get his interest.’

  An unreasonable feeling of relief rose in Anna. She leaned across and squeezed his hand.

  Mike was surprised, was it simply the circumstances they found themselves in? Was it merely the need to feel close to someone, anyone who could help in this extremely stressful situation? ‘Don’t be a fool, this is no time for romance,’ he told himself.

  One of the terrorists was vain. He kept a comb in his back pocket and from time to time he would pull it out and run it through his hair. Mike had a similar comb in his jacket. He took it out and held it ready. The next time the vain young terrorist passed Mike plucked the man’s comb from his hip pocket and at the same time he dropped his own comb on the floor of the aisle. The terrorist, feeling the tug on his pocket, stopped and turned.

  Mike pointed at the comb on the floor. ‘You’ve dropped your comb,’ he said, and leaning forward he picked it up and handed it to him. The terrorist thanked him, and without looking closely at it, thrust it into his hip pocket and carried on towards the front of the aircraft. Mike grimaced at Anna who looked petrified. The stolen comb went into another airsickness bag. It was covered in fingerprints and had plenty of bits on it that would provide material for DNA analysis.

  Water was being distributed, and in the heat everyone was thirsty. Two of the terrorists worked as a team. One handed out plastic tumblers and the other filled them. ‘Mike nudged Anna and whispered to her, ‘Take the tumbler by the base and the rim as I do. Watch carefully. When his turn came Mike took the plastic tumbler as he had described, thumb on the rim and fingers on the base. He didn’t change his grip but drank the water straight away. Anna watched and copied his actions. After the two terrorists dispensing the drinks had passed Mike put his beaker into another airsickness bag. Anna did the same. ‘That’s four sets of prints,’ Mike whispered, ‘we need to tie all the information together, but we don’t have any names yet. You number the sketches and I’ll put the relevant numbers on the bags so that we know which prints belong to which faces. I have heard a couple of names used in conversations between the hijackers but I haven’t been able to put the faces to the names yet.’

  ‘You understand Arabic?’

  ‘Yeah, but keep it quiet, they might let something slip without realizing, especially if they get tired or excited.’

  Gradually Mike gathered in bits and pieces of information and evidence. Taken as single items each bit meant nothing, added together and appended to a good likeness, the information would become an incriminating document.

  The International Scene, September 24th.

  As the plane sat in the baking heat events concerning the aircraft were progressing rapidly. Under extreme pressure from the USA, the Israeli decision to release detainees set the pace. Also under great pressure from the US, Britain agreed to the release of the two terrorists detained for the airport massacre. The safe conduct of the hijack team was agreed.

  The terrorists had achieved some of their aims. The sticking points were the removal of the West Bank settlers, and the control of Jerusalem’s Holy Places, which included the wall of Solomon’s Temple, the “Wailing Wall”. This, the Israelis could not or would not countenance. Nothing would budge them. They threatened to parachute in a Commando assault team from the Sayeret Mat’kal, the unit which had carried out the famous raid at Entebbe, to storm the aircraft, and to hell with the risk. No amount of international pressure would change their minds.

  Abu Asifah considered his position. He had gained much, certainly enough to make him a hero in the eyes of his paymasters. On the other hand, if he stuck out for the last items and the Israelis did send in an assault team, he could lose all that he had gained so far. “He who fights, and runs away, lives to fight another day.” A western saying, but one with merit; Abu Asifah decided to run.

  Beirut Airport, September 24th.

  On instructions from Abu Asifah the hijack team bound the pilot, the co-pilot and all the cabin crew with the tough nylon cable ties. Then they tied the wrists of the passengers. When the job was complete they waited, watching the airport perimeter fence. After a short while a small convoy of battered vehicles drove up in a cloud of dust. All the men in the vehicles were armed with Kalashnikovs. Two of them walked over and cut a large hole in the chain link perimeter fence.

  Abu Asifah sent one of his men to meet them. As he got to the hole in the wire the men from the convoy embraced him. They confirmed that the Israelis had released many detainees. They all did a dance of triumph waving their rifles in the air. As they did so, a transport aircraft carrying the roundels of the British Royal Air Force landed on the main runway. In it were the two terrorists from the Heathrow massacre. Now sufficiently recovered from the gunshot wounds inflicted by Jim Savage, they were in the custody of two police officers and guarded by a detachment of Royal Marines Commandos. A tough looking bunch, the Commandos were armed to the teeth. A second airport bus met them and brought them close to the official’s bus. The Marines de-bussed and went to ground, weapons aimed and cocked, their camouflage rendering them almost invisible. Few military units, if any, could take them on and come off best. Certainly not armed rabbles like the one now facing them. The police escort stood confidently with their charges, securely guarded by the Marine Commandos.

  Abu Asifah’s man went back to the plane and reported to him.

  ‘Our friends in Hezbollah say many detainees have been released, and our two brothers in the Jihad are here.’

  ‘Allah Akhbar!’ Abu Asifah exclaimed, ‘God is great! Now, our brothers must be released and the soldiers of the West must withdraw; then we will leave.’

  The two British police officers moved forward towards the perimeter fence with their prisoners and stopped. They released the handcuffs and let them go. The men walked through the hole in the chain link fence to a hero’s welcome.

  The two policemen went back to the airport bus and, covered by the unwavering guns of the Marine Commandos, they went back to the airport buildings. When they were sure that the people in the airport bus were safe the Marines conducted a textbook tactical withdrawal.

  Abu Asifah watched from the aircraft cockpit. Such professionalism made him feel uneasy, he shrugged; he was not stupid enough to take on men like these. He preferred soft targets. Preying on the weak and helpless gave him the advantage.

  Picking up the pilot’s headset he made one last call to the control tower. ‘In order to protect our departure and to ensure our safe conduct we have placed booby traps on the aircraft, there are timing devices which will deactivate in one hour from our departure. Then, and only then, can the aircraft be approached in safety, remember the people on board.’

  The authorities in the Beirut control tower did not know if this was the truth or not. They decided that there was no harm in waiting a little longer just in case.

  It was time to go. Abu Asifah took the radio alarm which had been adapted as a timer and detonating device and placed it carefully on top of a drinks trolley. He pushed it up to the curtain screening off the aircraft cabin and left it well out of reach of any of the passengers, who were in any case securely lashed by their ankles to the seats. He carefully positioned the trolley so that the digital clock face pointed down the aisle of the cabin. He wanted the passengers to be able to see it clearly. His tongue traced the “v” shaped scar on his palate. The taste of cordite and gun oil was in his mouth again. Abu Asifah remembered his mother, his father and his sisters. He pressed a button on the top of the radio and pulled back the curtain. He looked down the cabin. The clock radio was exposed to full view. He reme
mbered the Maronite Christian militia and gave a cold smile. ‘Allah Akhbar,’ he shouted, and followed his men from the aircraft.

  ‘We will celebrate later,’ Abu Asifah told the celebrating terrorists curtly, ‘but first we must get clear.’ The small convoy of battered vehicles sped off in a cloud of dust, the heavily armed but poorly trained young men firing magazine-long bursts of gunfire into the air as they went.

  The Marine Commandos watched cynically from a distance as the young men destroyed the rifling and thus the accuracy of the weapons they were firing.

  ‘Trained by Hollywood,’ a tough looking grey-haired Marine Commando sergeant commented acidly, and spat in the sand emphasizing his disgust.

  Flight OA 269, September 24th.

  Conditions on the aircraft were appalling. Sickness and diarrhea were rampant and, tied as they were the passengers were unable to reach the toilets. No one had been permitted to wash for the duration of the hijack; everyone stank. The heat was stifling, the flies were a persistent torment, and over all of this lay the fear. The explosive charges placed by the terrorists were in full view.

  As Abu Asifah pulled back the curtain separating the galley from the cabin Mike’s eyes went immediately to the radio alarm. He looked up, saw Abu Asifah’s wolfish smile and heard him shout, ‘Allah Akhbar.’

  There was a false ring to it. Mike’s eyes dropped back to the radio alarm. As Abu Asifah left the plane Mike’s tired brain made the connections. The bastards had got what they wanted, they were leaving unscathed, and they were leaving the plane wired to blow.

  Fear sent adrenaline flooding into Mike’s blood stream. Suddenly his mind was crystal clear. He had to get to that radio alarm, and he had to get to it fast. Mike knew that cable ties could not be snapped, or even cut very easily with a knife. Electrician’s snips were the best and easiest way to remove them. His brain was racing. There must be something he could use? He turned to Anna. ‘Give me your nail clippers.’ he demanded urgently.

  ‘They’re in my purse,’ she replied, ‘but why...’

  ‘Get them out; for God’s sake be quick.’

  The urgency in Mike’s voice spurred her into action; she lifted her bag from the floor beside her feet and began to struggle with it. The cable tie handicapped her round her wrists but she managed to open her bag quickly and started to rummage in its depths.

  ‘Tip it out onto your lap.’

  ‘But my things will...’

  Mike cut her off abruptly. ‘The plane is wired to blow up, I must get to that clock radio, now tip your bag out!’

  Anna looked at him wide eyed for an instant then grabbed her bag and tipped it into her lap. The nail clippers were on the heap in a leather case. Mike grabbed them and took them out. They were a sturdy pair with strong jaws and a folding swiveled handle that doubled as a nail file. Mike nodded, with luck they would do. Leaning forward he began to work on the cable tie round his ankle. The ties round his wrists would have to wait.

  ‘Ask if anyone can see the clock,’ Mike instructed Anna, ‘find out what the figures are on the digital readout.’

  Anna shouted up the plane, ‘Can any of you read the time on that clock?’

  Heads turned.

  Anna shouted again. ‘Please, we need to know what the reading is on that clock.’

  A young man sitting at the front, one of the segregated Americans realized what was happening. ‘It’s not showing the time,’ he yelled back, ‘just figures.’

  ‘What figures?’ Mike yelled from between the seats.

  ‘One decimal, one two, but it’s going down all the time. It’s gone to sixty seconds, one minute,’ the young man’s voice rising high and thin with fear.

  ‘Christ,’ Mike swore, less than a minute. He redoubled his efforts with the nail clippers, his fingers sore and his wrists bruised with the effort.

  ‘The guy at the front,’ he rapped out; ‘get him to count down the timing.’ Anna yelled to the man at the front, passing on Mike’s order.

  The man began to count loudly in reverse, ‘Forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six...’

  The rest of the people on the plane had heard the shouted conversation. They began to realize what was happening. Some began to scream, others began to cry, a few began to pray, all tugged at their bonds without effect. The sweat was pouring off Mike, doubled forward as he was the sweat was making his hands slippery. He had seen paper towels in the pile of stuff from Anna’s bag.

  ‘Give me a Kleenex.’ The words cracked out. Anna handed one to him immediately. Mike took it and got a better grip.

  The countdown continued remorselessly. ‘Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one...’

  Mike was making progress now, using the very corners of the clippers he was gradually snipping his way through the tough nylon tie. He began to work on the other side. ‘Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen...’

  God, they were only seconds away from eternity! He dropped the clippers and grabbed the plastic tie wrap. He gave a mighty heave and it snapped at the partly cut point. Mike leapt to his feet, stumbled and nearly fell. His foot was numb; the circulation cut off for too long.

  ‘Eleven, ten, nine...’ the young American at the front told off the numbers, his voice getting ever higher and more shrill.

  Mike stumbled forward, his bound hands not much use to his unsteady legs, and eyes fixed on the digital radio alarm. ‘Six, five, four...’

  He was there. He grabbed one of the hanks of shot wire and pulled it free of the microphone jack. ‘Three, two, one!’ Mike yanked free the other ends of the circuits from the earphone jack for good measure.

  Silence...

  The silence went on and on.

  Tel Aviv, September 24th.

  From the information flowing across his desk John Henderson knew the hijack was about to end and that gave him a new problem. He wanted Mike Edge out of Beirut and on to Washington as originally planned. He knew that the Israelis were going to release five hundred detainees. He also knew that the British were going to release the two terrorists that they had in detention.

  It followed that the hand-over would take place on the ground in Beirut and that pre-supposed a British presence and a British aircraft. His coffee forgotten for once, John reached for the phone. In minutes he was speaking to his counterpart in the British intelligence set-up in Tel Aviv. He explained that he had a man on board the hijacked aircraft; that he needed to get him out of there and on his way as fast as possible. When the hand-over had taken place in Beirut could the British fly his man out, he asked? John spoke as if he knew all the details of the hand-over; and had his educated guess confirmed when his contact did not deny the premise.

  ‘Hmm, there might be a problem with the Lebanese authorities,’ the British Intelligence man objected, ‘they’re unlikely to allow contact between the hijacked passengers and our group carrying out the hand-over.’

  ‘A bunch of US dollars will sort that problem out,’ John retorted, ‘you can leave that part of it to me.’

  ‘Well, it’s highly irregular, you know, I don’t know what would happen if word got out,’ the man from British Intelligence objected, ‘no, I really don’t think we could take the risk of anything going wrong. Sensitive business you know.’

  John played his ace. ‘I don’t want something for nothing. The Iranians are planning a chemical and biological strike against Kuwait and Israel. They’re going to have a go at bolstering the Iranian economy by attacking and annexing all the oil-rich countries on the southern side of the Persian Gulf. And I have all the details.’

  There was a long silence, the British guy’s face was comical, and then he went pale. If something like that happened on his patch without him knowing about it his career would be finished. There was a stammer in his voice as he agreed to give John all the help he needed in exchange for a set of microfilms.

  Mary looked up at him as he came out. ‘You look pleased with yourself,’ she observed, and then added acidly, ‘who’s in the doo-doo?’
>
  John grinned at her, ‘You, if you keep up the sarcasm, get Ben Levy on a secure line, before I fire you!’

  Mary stuck her tongue out at him and got Ben Levy on the line before John got back to his desk. Behind all the banter they were a very efficient team.

  ‘I need a favor, Ben,’ John said bluntly.

  ‘If I can, John, if I can. What is it that you want?’

  ‘I need to get Mike out of Beirut in a hurry. Do you have anyone on the ground there who could act as a link between the hijack passengers and the British detachment making the hostage-terrorist exchange? The Brits have agreed to take him to Cyprus. From there I’ll try to get him on to an USAF flight to the States. The damn airlines ain’t safe anymore.’

  ‘No problem,’ Ben replied, ‘I’ve a good man on the ground in Beirut who can bridge the gap. He’ll need some bung money though.’

  ‘Whatever it takes; bill me later for the money, and then I owe you for two favors. Thanks, Ben.’ He put his phone down and moments later a fax came through. John read it rapidly and, grinning with relief went through to Mary. ‘The hijack is over,’ he said. ‘Mike is going to be okay. I’ve arranged for him to be given a seat on a RAF Transport Command plane to Cyprus. I need to go and debrief him before he goes on to Washington. Can you find out if we have any military aircraft in the region, which are going back home? I need a lift to Cyprus and I want Mike to go on to the States after I’ve debriefed him.’

  Mary, with her usual efficiency, was already dialing the Air Attaché’s number. Moments later she got through to repeat John’s needs. Taking a pen she made rapid notes; then read them back to John. ‘You’re in luck,’ she said, ‘the Air Force can’t help out, but the Navy can. There’s a carrier off the coast. The Naval Attaché is going to get a chopper to pick you up and take you out to it and, then a Navy jet will fly you over to Cyprus. It will wait and bring you back to the carrier and the chopper will drop you here. Door-to-door service and all courtesy of Uncle Sam!’

  ‘That’s great,’ John replied, ‘but what about getting Mike to Washington?’

  ‘There’s an Air Force C5-A Galaxy on the ground in Cyprus delivering aircraft spares. He’s booked on that. It will wait until he’s ready to go.’

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ John said, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘Easy, I’m going out with the Air Attaché,’ Mary replied, straight-faced.

  John looked at her askance. ‘Huh, and this is supposed to be an intelligence gathering organization,’ he grumbled, ‘so how come I’m always last to hear the juicy gossip? Well, make sure you don’t pay too much for my fare.’

  Mary grinned at him. ‘It’s already paid for, and the helicopter gets here in thirty minutes. Amazing the service you get when you pay in advance.’

  Beirut Airport, September 24th.

  Mike was the last to leave the aircraft, carefully putting the dossiers that he and Anna had compiled into his briefcase. The information they contained was of vital importance to him. That task completed, he joined Anna outside on the baking concrete of the airfield, and in spite of the heat, the fresh air and the warm breeze were bliss. So was the feeling of freedom. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yeah, thanks to you.’

  ‘You did well.’ Mike was embarrassed. Changing the subject he pointed over Anna’s shoulder. ‘Look, here come the buses to take us out of here.’

  Anna turned to see the articulated buses drive up. Formal immigration procedures were waived as many of the passengers had had their passports taken by the hijackers, but immigration personnel were in attendance in order to grant temporary entry into Lebanon so that they could go to a hotel nearby.

  One of them had a fax in his hand and was scrutinizing all the male passengers. Spotting Mike, he came over and spoke to him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, are you Mister Michael Kelly?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ Mike replied, remembering the name and papers he was using.

  ‘Would you come with me please, Mister Kelly,’ the man asked.

  ‘Why, what for?’

  ‘We have a message for you, I think you should see it,’ smiling apologetically at Anna he added, ‘I’m afraid it’s confidential.’

  Mike thought quickly, only John Henderson knew the identity he was using. John must have sent a message. Turning to Anna he said, ‘I have to go and check this out. It won’t take long; I’ll see you at the hotel later, okay?’

  Reluctantly, Anna agreed, and as Mike strode off with the immigration official she felt a sudden sense of loss. As she watched him walk away, she suddenly realized that all she was left with was a name... Michael Kelly.