CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
7.00am. Sishane, Istanbul, 10/29/02.
George Liani had a bad night. Unable to sleep he paced his apartment. All his instincts told him it would be better to move sooner rather than later. He took from a drawer a bundle of documents formerly belonging to Suleiman Yavas, his murdered assistant. He checked them quickly, passport, with visa, driving license, identity card, all expertly altered with photographs of himself in place of those of the late Suleiman, and an open first class return ticket to Tel Aviv. The name on the ticket matched the name on the documents. George Liani had planned ahead.
As he hastily dressed in different clothes he thought about his immediate actions and his natural caution re-emerged. Suleiman’s apartment was being watched. So it was possible that he had been followed home and this building was being watched too. He had to assume so, and that all entrances would be covered. Dodging out of the rear entrance with a suitcase would be a complete give-away. Behave normally until an opportunity to slip his followers could be created, that was the way to do it. Go out with no luggage, get into the anonymous white van and drive quietly away. He put the papers and ticket into his inside jacket pocket, together with his banking documents, picked up the van keys and headed for the door.
Mike and his team had had a worse night. Taking turns to keep watch in the cramped confines of the taxis none of them got much sleep. Anna had gone back to the all night transport café for more coffee and Mike was on watch as George Liani emerged. He spoke into the open conference call.
‘He’s coming out.’ It was George Liani, no doubt about it. He walked to the plain white van he was renting and climbed in. ‘Follow me Dawn, keep a good distance between us, we don’t want to be seen.’
‘Okay, we’re following.’ The driver nodded, started the engine, and eased out into the Istanbul traffic.
‘Anna, where are you?’
There was a short silence then to his relief Anna’s voice. ‘What’s up?’
‘We have movement.’
‘Where are you?’
Mike had the street map in his lap. ‘On Selamsiz Caddesi, heading west, I think he’s making for the Ataturk Bridge.’
‘Got that, driver says we’re not too far away.’
‘Okay, let me know when you have us in sight, out.’
Mike kept the white van in view, and Dawn followed Mike. They struggled through solid traffic and then Mike’s voice came over the ’phone link.
‘Dawn, I’m going to drop back a few cars, get your driver to overtake me and stick to his tail for a while. I’m pretty sure now that he’s heading for the Ataturk Bridge.’
‘Okay.’ Dawn told her driver and he nodded that he understood. Mike’s car and Dawn’s taxi changed places. Suddenly traffic lights ahead began to change. Mike put his foot hard on the accelerator and began to shoot the lights. There was a blare of horns as traffic hurtled across the intersection. Mike stamped on the brakes, swung the wheel, and skidded to a stop broadside on. Cars and trucks swerved and honked narrowly missing him. A police motorcycle, light flashing pulled across the street and stopped in front of the car. Mike’s heart sank.
‘Dawn, I’ve hit a problem, can you keep up the tail, over?’
Dawn looked at her driver and shrugged, ‘I guess we have to.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘We’ve crossed the Ataturk Bridge and we’re on Ataturk Bulvari, going West, I know he doesn’t have any luggage but the driver thinks he may be heading for the airport.’
‘Anna, can you catch up with Dawn? I’ll be with you as soon as I can, out.’
Mike got out of the car to deal with the Turkish Traffic Policeman. The Traffic Policeman moved at the pace of a straining snail. Mike fumed with frustration. Minutes went by then suddenly Anna came on the ’phone.
‘Mike, its Anna, I’m stuck in a traffic queue, its solid; road-works ahead I think.’
‘Oh hell, everything’s going to rat shit.’
‘Mike I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do!’
‘Okay, okay. Listen, ring Bat Yom Import–Export,’ Mike gave her the number. ‘Speak to Mister Benjamin, use my name; tell him I think our friend may be flying out. Tell him to keep his people there at the airport. Ask him to check the flights, see if anything stands out, he’ll know what to do. Anna, I have to go now, bye.’
The Policeman took his time, finished taking Mike’s details and handed back his papers together with a traffic ticket.
8.00am. Istanbul.
Partly from instinct, partly from training, partly from habit George Liani had a sense of being followed. There was a taxi that had been behind him for some time. Well, taxis went to the airport regularly; even so he felt uneasy. He waited until he reached the outskirts of Istanbul where the traffic was thinner, and then began a series of turns. This particular taxi followed him on every turn. There was no doubt the vehicle was following him, but why so obvious? Why not a series of different vehicles? The police were not short of manpower, what was going on? He drove on, repeatedly checking the rear view mirror for other tailing vehicles, but could not see any. He made a decision. He turned off the main road onto a secondary road that wound towards the coast of the Sea of Marmara, and put his foot down. The van began to pull away from the following taxi.
Dawn tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder. ‘Quick, he’s getting away from us. We don’t want to lose him.’ She leant forward anxiously and spoke into the ’phone. ‘Mike, he’s been dodging about, he may have spotted me, and he’s speeded up.’
‘Right, I’m clear of traffic now,’ Mike replied, ‘I should be with you in a few minutes.’
‘My driver says he’s taken the coast road. He’s still speeding up, hope it’s not because he’s seen us.’
‘Stay with him, I’ll take over the tail in a few minutes, out.’
Dawn turned to the driver. ‘Don’t let him get away.’
The taxi driver grinned and put his foot hard down on the accelerator.
George Liani took a bend at high speed and checked his rear mirror. The taxi was out of sight. He changed down to third. The road was clear. He wrenched the steering wheel hard over as he yanked the hand brake on. The van slid violently in a hand brake turn through one hundred and eighty degrees. As it slid he slammed it into second gear, released the hand brake, corrected the slide and accelerated back on the inside lane.
The taxi driver’s eyes went wide with shock. The white van was hurtling towards him on the wrong side of the road. Instinctively he swerved to avoid it, hit the verge, bounced and lost control. Dawn screamed at the same instant. The taxi left the road and dropped down the slope towards the sea. The front hit a rock, impaling the taxi driver on his steering column with the impact, and then it spun round and skidded backwards down the slope into an old but solid pine. The fuel tank split on the impact and petrol spilled onto the hot exhaust, vaporizing immediately. A high-tension plug lead, dislodged in the first impact, flashed a blue spark as it earthed onto the engine block. There was the crump of an explosion, and fire raged through the vehicle.
George Liani, a look of grim satisfaction on his face, executed another hand brake turn, and accelerated back round the bend and out of sight.
Mike could get no reply from Dawn on the ’phone. He was still trying when he saw the smoke and flames ahead. It was Dawn’s taxi. He screamed to a halt and leapt out. He threw himself down the slope towards the car with no regard for his own safety. Inside, he saw Dawn’s blonde hair flare and crumble to ash, then further in the taxi drivers dark hair did the same. As he tried to reach them he saw their skin blister and then appear to melt.
Dawn scrabbled frantically at the glass, her mouth open in screams of agony. Her hands shriveled to claws, and then she went limp.
Mike’s eyebrows singed off, as did the hair at the front of his head. His face and hands began to blister and the heat seared his lungs. He felt hands tugging him backwards. It was a passing truck driver from the road above. ‘Stop, too
late, you can do nothing,’ the driver yelled in his ear. He dragged mike away before the vehicle exploded. Mike began to shake with shock.
What the hell was he going to say to Jim?
8.30am. Tel Aviv.
The office was quiet. Ben was using the quiet to do some thinking when the ’phone rang shattering the silence. It was his direct line; few people had the number. At first he didn’t recognize the strained, almost hysterical, voice on the line. ‘Mike, is that you? What’s happened?’
There was a shocked silence as Ben absorbed the information Mike gave him.
‘We must let Jim know as soon as possible.’ The distress in Mike’s voice was increasing.
‘No! No, it will do no good to relay this to him now. It would affect him too much; it would put lives at risk.’ Ben, although shocked at Mike’s news, had not seen the horror of it as Mike had and was thinking more clearly. ‘Everything must continue as planned. I know; I know it’s horrific, but we have to continue.’ Ben cut out Mike’s protest before he could utter it. ‘Listen, Anna contacted me. This Liani must not give us the slip.’
The mention of the name filled Mike with bitter anger, ‘He’s gone; I’ve lost the bastard!’
‘No, we’re on to him again. You thought he was heading for the airport before the accident. I contacted our friend in Turkish security and asked him for the flight lists from Istanbul. On one list was the name Suleiman Yavas; he’s heading for Ben Gurion.’
‘The one who murdered the Kosovos family? But he’s dead; he was fished out of the Bosphorous.’
‘Exactly, dead men don’t board planes. I think Liani is using his deceased associate’s identity.’
‘Well... he was using his apartment to store stuff, so I suppose he could be using his ID.’
‘Yeah, we’d better be ready for him when he comes through immigration. I suppose you’ll be getting back here as soon as you can?’
‘Damn right we will, can you book Anna and I on a private jet and give us the VIP treatment to get us through the entry formalities ahead of him?’
‘Leave it to me; you will be met at the door to the plane.’ Ben rang off; he had a lot to do.
12.00am. Ben Gurion Airport, Israel.
George Liani was careful to appear normal, his arrival in Israel needed to be un-remarked, and so he conversed amicably with his fellow passengers. He had purchased luggage and clothes at the shops in Istanbul airport. He kept his gaze casual as he walked towards Israeli immigration. He experienced some moments of anxiety at the immigration desk as the official there looked closely at his passport, checked the photo, and scrutinized his face; but then the passport was handed back and he was through. As he walked through to baggage reclaim the immigration official looked up and nodded to his supervisor. The supervisor picked up the phone. George Liani waited patiently for his new luggage to come through on the carousel. He loaded it onto a trolley and wheeled it through the green nothing to declare channel. No one stopped him and he walked into the arrivals hall amidst a flow of passengers.
Standing well back in a darkened office above the arrivals hall, Ben took a call from the immigration desk.
‘The man you are interested in is coming through now.’
‘There, that’s him!’ Mike pointed.
‘So that’s our man,’ Ben Levy breathed, and then to the photographer, ‘Get his picture.’
The photographer nodded as he focused his telephoto lens. Moments later a whole roll of film had been taken by his motorized camera.
Ben spoke into his mobile ’phone, ‘He’s approaching the exit doors, start to pay off the cab.’
Anna climbed out of the taxi and dumped her bags on the pavement outside the airport concourse. She fished in her purse for her money.
Ben’s voice came through Anna’s mobile ’phone. ‘He’s going through the doors now.’ She relayed the information to the cab driver.
The cab driver winked and looked up, he saw George Liani wave, and gave him a thumbs up. He took Anna’s money, handed back the change and received the tip. He drove on a short way to pick up his new fare. Anna walked into the departures building.
‘Take me to the King David Hotel, Jerusalem.’ The taxi driver nodded and George Liani climbed in the back with his bags.
The taxi drove off. ‘79, Picked up a fare at the Airport, going to the King David Hotel, Jerusalem,’ the taxi driver said into his radio mike.
The radio crackled as the controller spoke back to him. ‘Okay 79, as soon as you’re free, give me a call; I might have a return fare for you by then.’
‘79 will do.’
George Liani permitted himself a look behind. No other vehicle was following. As far as he could see, there were no lights of any sort to be seen. George Liani, alias Suleiman Yavas, was inside Israel but not unobserved as he thought. The taxi driver who picked him up at the airport was Mike’s colleague from the American Embassy. And Ben Levy was busy deploying a small army of personnel from Shin Bet, the common abbreviation for “Serut Bitahon Kelali”, the “General Security Service”, the organization tasked with maintaining security inside the borders of Israel. Ben had agents of Shin Bet rushing into position on radioed instructions even as the “taxi” left the airport entrance. The manager of the King David hotel was compelled to accept several new additions to his staff: all Shin Bet operatives. The receptionist who dealt with George Liani on his arrival was one; the chambermaid who searched his room and his belongings whilst he ate a meal was one. The cleaner, who polished outside the lifts, keeping watch as his room was being searched, belonged to Shin Bet, as did the waitress who served him in the restaurant and kept an eye on him as he ate. Whilst he ate his meal the phone in his room was bugged. From now on every move he made would be watched, noted and acted upon.
The people at Ben’s disposal were hand-picked; the very best that Shin Bet had. Experienced through the years of trouble which their fledgling nation had endured, all of them were experts, and there were sufficient of them for the same face never to be seen twice by the man they were shadowing.
Initially none of their efforts found any clue to their quarry’s plans or intentions. His luggage and his belongings were new and yielded nothing to his watchers. He made no telephone calls from his room, nor did he receive any. That evening he did not go out, but spent the time resting and quietly studying a street map of Jerusalem, fixing the geography into his mind so that he knew the main routes and the principal landmarks. The detail, the visual recognition, he would add later.
12.00 midnight, Beirut.
All through the day and the following night Jim and Willy had taken it in turns to keep watch. Two hours on and two hours off, huddled together now beneath the rubbish covered cloaks, the man on watch ensuring that the man sleeping did not snore or talk. The ground staff had started work again at six, preparing the stadium for the Sunday game. They had gone about their work cheerfully, unaware that a pair of vigilant eyes watched their every move, and that they were covered by a gun each time they approached a certain set of stands. There had been no alarms through the morning hours, and the ground staff left for the long midday break at twelve, allowing Jim and Willy to relax a little and ease the tension. The staff returned in early afternoon to set out the flags and touch up the white lines. As dusk fell the floodlights were switched on, and the turnstiles manned. The crowds poured in to watch the game, the roars and stamping drowning the faint movements beneath the stand where Jim and Willy were making their preparations.
After the match when the crowd had departed, Jim and Willy waited an hour watching and listening for any sign of movement. None came. The place was deserted. Staying under cover they encoded the signal to start the next phase.
2.00pm. Jerusalem.
Dressed like any tourist and with camera and binoculars hung round his neck, George Liani set out on foot to familiarize himself with the city of Jerusalem. He walked through the streets with his tourist map until he was quite familiar with the main thoroughfar
es. He occasionally made a random check to see if he was being followed, but it was out of habit not out of alarm, and such was the skill and the sheer number of Ben Levy’s security people that they did not lose sight of him for a moment. Without doing anything remotely suspicious George Liani returned to his hotel, used the toilet, and freshened up.
From the King David Hotel it was a mile to the Knesset. After getting his bearings, George Liani started work on his reason for being in Israel. Taking his miniature binoculars and a small transistor radio with him, he left his hotel. He stopped at a coffee shop and, ordering a black coffee, asked where the pay ’phone was. He made one call. A woman’s voice answered speaking low and fast. He was given a time and a location. A relatively short walk along Ramban Street took him to the junction with Binyamin Mitudela. Turning to his right, he walked up the incline, climbing the hill on which the Knesset stood he reached the junction with Ben Zvi. Crossing that road he turned to his left and began the climb up Ruppin, skirting the Knesset in its grounds to his right. Soon he reached the junction where Kaplan and Shemuel Wise intersected with Ruppin. Turning left again he made his way past the Shrine of the Book and into the art garden alongside the Israel Museum. Still playing the tourist he strolled around the Israel Museum and grounds until he found a suitable bench where he rested. The bench had a panoramic view across to the Knesset and overlooked all the approach routes to that building set in its own grounds. He studied the Knesset and its approach roads. He needed a way in and was pleased to see that his advance intelligence was correct. He saw exactly what he was looking for. Surveyors were completing their setting out work for the costly and controversial new blast wall to protect the Knesset, and mechanical diggers had begun to excavate the footings.
On the way back from the museum he bought the Arab language newspapers. An article in the newspaper confirmed an event; the date of the event was two days time. The details of his plan were falling into place.
10.00pm. Lod, Israel.
It had been a silent group of men who boarded the coach to the airfield. All these men had been in action before and knew what it would be like. A feeling of grim purpose descended on the team. The coach took them to a small military airstrip. They were expected, and after a brief but thorough security check they were allowed to drive in.
A jeep full of MP’s escorted them out onto the airstrip and up to a tactical transport aircraft. In dark broken camouflage paint it was indistinct but loomed above them as they approached. The aircraft carried no markings but was part of the Heyl Havir, the Israeli air force.
Silently and without a word of command, the team de-bussed and climbed aboard the aircraft. Each man went to a pre-defined seat position and, strapping himself in, placed his kit at his feet in front of him. The doors were closed and the lights, already dim, went off. The pilot of the aircraft powered up his engines against the brakes; then with a sudden lurch they were off. The vibration from the runway lasted a few brief moments and, then the big aircraft was up and away, powering out on a steep curving climb, taking them to the west out over the dark Mediterranean.
The fasten seat belts signs went off and the men began to make their preparations for their arrival at the drop zone. Parachutes and reserve chutes were donned and carefully checked, weapons and equipment packs were strapped to each man’s leg with quick release webbing, altimeter settings were checked and watches synchronized for the last time. This would be a short flight and they had barely enough time to get themselves ready and into their exit positions. The plane turned and began its high altitude run over the sea three miles West of Beirut. It would make only one pass.
11.45pm. Beirut.
Flitting from shadow to shadow, Willy made his way to the top of the stands. The heat of the day had warmed the air over the land and it was rising, drawing cooler air in off the sea, a strong onshore breeze blowing from West to East. Willy streamed his keffiyeh to gauge the wind strength. About force three on the Beaufort scale, as near as he could guess. He made his way down to where Jim lurked in the shadows giving him cover.
Jim raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Willy put a hand up, three fingers raised, his other arm out giving the wind direction. He melted into the shadows as Jim moved cautiously out on to the pitch. Jim used his knife to make an incision in the turf under the centre spot, and then took a tiny but powerful Maglite torch from his hold-all waistcoat. He stuck the end into the soil and, covering the lens with his hand, he gave the top a couple of anti-clockwise turns. The powerful light came on. He gave it a half turn clockwise and the light went out. Pacing out ten yards from the centre spot in the direction the wind was coming from, he set another Maglite, then returning to the centre he paced out ten yards in the opposite direction and set a third.
In the same manner he laid out fourth, fifth and sixth torches along the axis of the wind direction. The number of torches in the crossbar indicated the wind strength, and the long leg of the cross gave the direction in which the wind was blowing.
Quickly and silently he rejoined Willy in the shadows of the stand. Jim tapped his wristwatch and raised both hands, all fingers raised; H-hour minus ten minutes.
Willy took his own Maglite from his hold-all waistcoat and held it ready. He switched on the small burst transmission radio and switched to receive, a low hiss of static in the single earplug, the only sound.
They settled down to wait.