CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
00.05am. Over Beirut, 10/30/02.
Andy Cunningham gave the order, ‘Positions!’ The two halves of the team moved down the fuselage to the doors. Moments passed. ‘Ready,’ as the red light came on. ‘Go!’ Andy shouted the command as the red light flashed to green. ‘Go!’ Dave Prendergast shouted the same command at the same instant on the other side of the aircraft. The two groups of men, hanging on either side of the aircraft and packed in the doorways, leapt into the rushing black darkness. Each had a firm grip on a fellow team mate and each wore a marker light on the back of his helmet to facilitate the link-up. Within thirty seconds the pairs were joined into a standard free fall formation. Shortly after that the two teams joined and the combined group of men rushed down through the darkness, their clothing flapping furiously in their slipstream as they accelerated to one hundred and forty miles per hour into the blackness. The helmet lights winked out thirty seconds after the two teams achieved link-up. They swooped in towards the coast, the lights of Beirut giving them their direction, the stiff onshore breeze assisting their free fall flight.
All eyes strained towards the ground and then, suddenly, there it was, a single light flashing at one-second intervals in a patch of blackness. As one entity the formation steered towards it. After thirty flashes the light stayed on and more lights joined it in a long cross formation. Three lights in the bar - wind speed three knots - and the long leg giving the wind direction.
As the formation passed through four thousand feet all the altimeters began to bleep, the sound setting quite low but still clearly audible to the wearers. The formation broke up, each man peeling off from the man next to him in a prearranged sequence into clear air space. Each man counted his seconds off, to give himself plenty of lateral separation from his colleagues, and then one by one rip cords were pulled and the rectangular black canopies deployed with a jerk. Now came the hard part, estimating the approach of the ground in the darkness. Equipment and ammunition loads were released so as to hang below each man on their attached lines as each of the men steered into a quadrant demarcated by the arms of the cross of lights. They did not aim to touch down anywhere near the centre, that would have risked collision, entanglement, and the collapse of their ’chutes. Instead, each man aimed for an imaginary point pre-allocated within a given quadrant of the cross of lights and corresponding with the hours on a clock face.
Andrew Cunningham steered for twelve o’clock, Dave Prendergast for six, Digger for three, Spud for nine, others for points between. They steered in, keeping a wary eye out for their mates and when each judged the height to be correct they put a leg against the equipment line. When the equipment touched the ground the line would slacken and impact would follow split seconds later. Like huge black snowflakes each chute and its flier glided silently into position and touched down without a sound. Each man’s equipment was packed so as not to give a single clink or rattle. They all landed on their feet, collapsed their ’chutes, and went to ground in a defensive circle, weapons pointing outwards.
One at a time the men around the perimeter of the pitch moved towards the stand; the furthest away moving first. As they crossed the pitch one of them pulled the Maglites out of the ground, switched them off, and stowed them in his kit.
Jim crouched in the stands and checked as all the torches went out. No torches left on, all the team safely down and in place. He raised his arm and gave the signal to advance. Two files of men led off, the point man of each file scanned ahead, the centre of the files looking and pointing their weapons to the flanks, the tail man of each walking backwards covering the rear. All weapons were loaded and cocked; each had a round in the chamber and the safety catch on.
Jim led the well-spaced formation off the pitch and down the tunnel, through the player’s dressing rooms and out to the player’s entrance. A pair of bolt cutters made short work of the padlock hasps. Men were left in the player’s entrance to deal with the stadium staff and secure the route for the withdrawal.
2.00am. Shatila.
Like indistinct shadows, each file moving alternately, the team of men melted away into the darkness, one section covering as the other moved. The terrorist HQ was less than a mile away.
They approached cautiously to within two hundred yards of it and went to ground in a defensive circle exactly as they had done on landing. Two shadowy figures slid away into the night, heading for the road barriers that were the outermost point of the terrorist defences. Jim Savage was one, Wee Willy Andersen the other. They knew the ground best. Slowly and with infinite patience, inches at a time, they worked their way towards their quarry, approaching from the only direction that was slightly obscured. Suddenly a match flared, the two men instinctively closed their eyes and turned their heads away to preserve precious and vital night vision. Such carelessness could only help them, the attackers.
They reached their chosen position and waited.
After ten minutes a voice spoke in Arabic. ‘I need to piss, won’t be long.’
He was answered by a grunt, and then, ‘Piss well away from here, the flies are bad enough already.’ A figure muffled against the night chill, head wrapped in a black and white keffiyeh, stepped out of the sangar on the approach road and walked over to the usual bush. He was short in stature. Willy nodded to Jim. The sound of a man urinating came clearly on the night air.
Jim moved swiftly and silently to a patch of shadow on the route the man had taken out to the bush. He crouched, waiting. Willy lay flat watching the sangar. If the man had been taller Willy would have gone.
The terrorist sentry shook off the drips, and doing up his flies walked to his death. As he passed Jim’s position, Jim’s shadowy figure uncoiled from his hiding place like a steel spring; a hard brown hand was clamped over the man’s mouth and nose from over his left shoulder. He was yanked backwards. As he fell back, too surprised even to grunt Jim’s razor sharp FS knife slammed up between his ribs below the right shoulder blade. Stabbed to the heart, the man died instantly.
Willy pulled his own keffiyeh around his head, and walked straight into the sangar, his Welrod pistol cocked and held ready down the side of his leg.
‘Enjoy your piss?’
Willy raised his ugly tube-like weapon. There was a faint sound, something between a light cough and a quiet snort. The second terrorist fell forwards onto the sandbags, his heart blown apart by the .32 caliber round.
‘Two down and no alarms.’ Willy breathed as Jim joined him. He took his Maglite torch from his pocket. Carefully shielding it from the view of anyone else, he gave two dim red flashes in the direction of the rest of the team.
As the rest of the team moved towards the sangar, Willy and Jim adjusted their keffiyehs. They looked remarkably like the two men they had just eliminated.
Four of the team quietly removed the two bodies to a nearby storm drain. The rest of the team settled down to wait.
An hour later two sleepy guards emerged from the terrorist headquarters and ambled towards the sandbagged sangar. One of the reliefs stretched and yawned as he emerged; the other was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Suddenly, silently, they both collapsed to the ground, and then appeared to rise up again in slightly different places. The two figures ambled on towards Willy and Jim’s position. Willy and Jim were waiting for the switch.
‘Salaam Alekhum.’
‘Alekhum Salaam.’
The two substitute reliefs were Andrew Cunningham and Digger Trench. Meanwhile the two dead reliefs were being surreptitiously removed, both shot through the heart with rounds from the silent and deadly Welrod pistols.
Jim spoke a few words of Arabic to the new relief’s; just to make it look like an authentic hand-over of a guard position should anyone be watching. Then he and Willy shouldered the former sentry’s Kalashnikovs and wandered over to their next place of duty to relieve the two real guards who were there. This would be the acid test. Could they carry off the impersonation?
Their heads swathed in their
keffiyehs against the chill of the night air they wandered into the next defensive position, which was inside the ground floor of the damaged apartment building. It was dark inside, no lighting at all, which suited their purpose admirably.
‘Salaam Abdul, cold out there, eh?’ one of the guards remarked, addressing Jim in colloquial Arabic.
Jim rubbed his hands together vigorously and answered back in the same dialect, his voice muffled in the black and white keffiyeh. ‘Go see for your-self,’ he growled.
Seeing only what they expected to see, and hearing what they expected to hear, the two terrorist guards laughed at his irritation and, slinging their weapons over their shoulders, they wandered off to their next point of sentry duty.
At all the subsequent changes of duty, Willy and Jim would relieve the same two men, and the strike team would gradually penetrate deeper and deeper into the terrorist base. Every two hours, on the hour, two new sentries came on watch, roused from their beds by the two going off at the end of their spell of duty. Every two hours two of them were silently removed as they emerged and were replaced by two of the strike team members. Now, four changes later, there were ten members of the team infiltrated into the terrorist headquarters, dressed and masquerading as Blood of Shatila guards. All the points of access to the terrorist headquarters were under the team’s control.
Jim used his Maglite torch again and the remaining six shadowy figures rose up from their cover and quickly moved through the darkness and into the entrance to the apartment block basement. All of them had their Welrod pistols cocked and ready for use. The two explosive experts were carrying bulky rucksacks. They found an unused storeroom, placed the rucksacks carefully in a dark corner, and covered them with Jim and Willy’s rubbish-covered cloaks.
The others split up. Some went with Jim and some with Digger Trench. Digger’s destination was the top floor barrack room for off-duty sentries. Slowly he eased open the door. He and his companions stepped quietly into the room. The last two to be relieved had not yet gone off to sleep; they sat on their bunks in the dim light.
‘What..?’ One of the men reaching for his AK47 began to shout a question. He and his companion were shot dead at point blank range. The rest began to wake. Some, waking more rapidly than others, reached instinctively for their weapons as they surfaced from sleep. They were shot and fell back. The sinister Welrod pistols re-cocked and ready swung back and forth covering the room. Digger could not afford a mistake. Even one burst from an AK47 would do enormous damage at such short range and, more importantly, would alert the whole of the terrorist headquarters.
Digger took no chances: as each terrorist made his move he was silently eliminated. Finally, the room was quiet. Cordite fumes swirled eerily in the dim light. Digger signaled to his companions, two kept watch as the bodies were removed down to the unused store room, laid in shadow and covered with more rubbish covered cloaks. Digger closed and locked the door. None of the Blood of Shatila terrorists in there would ever kill or maim unarmed civilians again.
Turning the mattresses in the barrack room for off duty sentries they settled down to sleep whilst two of their number remained on watch. The sleeping men were safe enough.
At the same time that Digger entered the barrack room for off duty sentries, Jim Savage stepped into the guard commander’s room. ‘As-salaam Alekhum...’
The guard commander glanced up from the rota he was working on for the following week. ‘Salaam. What is it?’ He looked back down trying to resolve a problem. From the corner of his eye he saw an unusual movement. He looked up again and stared into the ugly black end of Jim’s Welrod pistol. ‘Guards!’ He shouted the warning to men who were already dead, and grabbed for his pistol on the table to the right of his papers. His head snapped forward as the Welrod round smashed splinters of his breastbone through his heart.
‘Put him with the others.’ The ugly, silent and deadly tube went back under Jim’s old and faded jacket. He sat at the table and studied the guard rota.
As daylight came, the routine of guard duty went on exactly as before. Only the persons carrying it out had changed. The study Jim and Willy had made of the sentry routines during the recce made it easier. Vehicles were turned back at the first barrier and were made to park up. Visitors went on foot to the next barrier where they were searched at gunpoint and their papers checked. Only then were they allowed to proceed. ‘Halt.’ ‘Papers.’ ‘Stand still.’ These were the only words used by the guards, who were under orders not to engage in conversation. The guards changed every two hours as normal, each new pair coming on watch and two going off watch to eat and sleep after rotating through the various sentry locations. Andy gave each pair an emphatic warning as they went on and came off guard duty. He knew that the most insidious and dangerous enemy for the coming hours would be boredom.
8.30am. Jerusalem.
In bright morning sunshine George Liani set out to visit his bank manager. Turning down Keren Hayesod to King David Street, he threaded his way across the busy traffic, made his way through the narrow streets of the Yemin Moshe Quarter, and on up to the imposing towers of the Citadel of David. At a bank near to the moat entrance he called in to keep the appointment he had made by phone from his hotel room earlier that morning. The call had been recorded, and the Shin Bet operatives following him were expecting him to go there. Ostensibly, he was going to arrange funds for his day to day needs, but he had other business that he had been careful not to mention. Half an hour later he emerged from the bank, crossed Jaffa road and entered the Old City by the Jaffa gate. He made his way along the Street of David to the descending steps. Here he paused for a few moments to look at the teeming life of the bazaars.
The Shin Bet operatives shadowing him had no difficulty in concealing themselves in the throng. A youth wearing a crash helmet with a dark visor, and riding a cross-country motorcycle, drew up to the intersection and stopped.
Striding forward George Liani threw his leg over the rear of the bike and sat on the pillion seat. The bike roared off and turned down one of the narrow pedestrian bazaars. Dodging shoppers and the boys hurtling down to the tiny shops with their handcarts loaded with supplies, the motorcycle and its passengers were soon lost to view.
The Shin Bet operatives were wrong-footed. They had no suitable means with which to give chase. A series of frantic messages were sent out from several personal radios. Ben Levy was notified and gave immediate instructions for the Old City to be discreetly sealed.
Within a few minutes plain clothes Shin Bet operatives were stationed at all the gates, the Jaffa gate on the West, the Zion gate and the Dung gate to the South, the New gate, the Damascus gate and Herod’s gate to the North, and the Lion’s gate to the East. But they were too late; George Liani was gone before they could seal the old city off. The motorcycle and its rider whipped him out via the Dung gate, down Ha-Ofel to the Jericho road and South to Silwan, the Arab town in the lower part of the Kidron valley. The youth thrust a piece of paper into George Liani’s hand, pointed to a doorway and then drove off. The motor cycle, stolen that morning, would be hidden in a different part of Jerusalem for later use.
9.30am. Jerusalem.
Ben Levy was furious. ‘He can’t just have jumped onto a stranger’s motor bike,’ he said to Mike and John, ‘he must have planned it, and done it for a reason.’
John was looking thoughtful. ‘As far as we know he has no reason to suppose we’re on to him, but, almost as soon as we found him in Turkey we nearly lost him. He’s a professional, so maybe he’s just covering his tracks as a matter of routine. My guess is that neither he nor his friends are taking any chances.’
Ben looked at them grimly. ‘Well, how the hell do we find him again?’
‘And what the hell is he up to?’ John added.
‘I’d give a lot to know the answers to those two questions,’ Ben said fervently.
9.30am. Silwan District, Jerusalem.
The doorway led to a small shop selling spices and savor
y herbs. The people in the small back room were allied to “Hezbollah”, “the Party of God”. This was a safe house in a safe district, one that he could use for as long as he needed it. George Liani was taken to a larger room above the shop and introduced to a group of twenty young men dressed in white robes and white head cloths. They were members of “Islamic Jihad”, an organization opposed to Israel, whose members believed in immediate rebirth in Paradise for anyone who died in the service of Islam. All had volunteered to act as suicide bombers. One of them in particular wanted fervently to put his belief into practice, an introverted and intense young man who impressed George Liani. George Liani would make the bomb; the young fanatic would deliver it and make his way to Paradise, a martyr to the cause.
Using the shop telephone, George Liani contacted the first few names on the list given to him by the boy on the motorcycle. They were active members of the Intifada and were cautious but agreed to help. George Liani wanted a collection of fertilizer to be made. He specified granular Ammonium Nitrate, a fertilizer with high nitrogen content and identical to that used by terrorists in Northern Ireland.
The word went quietly out within the disaffected Arab groups and it spread to the small farms and vineyards where such stuff was to be found. Collection points were nominated at a few of the larger holdings where the owners could be relied upon, and where a few fifty-kilo bags of granulated fertilizer would cause no comment. Good money was paid, and the sacks came in by donkey, by bicycle, and by car. Very quickly and without any of the participants knowing or caring what the stuff was to be used for, a series of stockpiles began to grow.
During the course of the morning the total of all these scattered amounts became a very large quantity indeed.
George Liani’s next priority was a suitable base for operations. From a pay phone he called his bank manager. Najib Shawa had not yet sent all the additional funds to his account. But with the knowledge that some money was available he began a search for suitable premises by scouring the local press. The most suitable property on offer was a small agricultural engineering works on the southern edge of Silwan. It was vacant and had a covered workshop with plenty of storage space. He made appointments to view by phone, using the bank as a reference. All the equipment and tools he would need were still in place.
He gained immediate use of the premises by having his bank manager pay two months rent in advance, with the stated intention of purchasing the premises outright as soon as the legal documents could be produced. Again the instruction was given by phone from a public call box.
He made a second call. He didn’t want his operational funds to get too low.
9.30am. Shatila, Beirut.
At a meeting in the dimly lit underground room in the terrorist headquarters, Abu Asifah, impatient for progress, was haranguing Najib Shawa. ‘All the agreed funds must be provided for this man, you will give him what he needs,’ he announced imperiously.
‘Really, who is he that I should give him anything?’ Najib wanted to know.
‘You don’t need to know his name. He is on a mission for the cause; he needs money for materials, for accommodation and for food.’
Najib quickly put two and two together; someone on a mission for Abu Asifah?
‘Ah, the job in Israel, why didn’t you say so, of course money can be provided for that, we have already agreed it,’ he said shrewdly.
Abu Asifah glared at him; he could not admit it and if he denied it Najib would continue to quibble over the funds. He did not want anyone to see the defiant stance that Najib Shawa usually took up against him, and he did not want to lose face, so he compromised. ‘You don’t need to know where the job is,’ he snapped, ‘it is enough that I tell you what has to be provided.’
Najib Shawa bowed ingratiatingly, ‘Anything for the cause, I am its loyal servant, perhaps I can be of help with the provision of documents and tickets?’
‘No, the arrangements have been completed. Just supply the funds to this bank.’
Najib Shawa cursed mentally, this spawn of a dog and a hyena was giving away precious little information, but the bank location would be revealing. Perhaps he could also get a date.
‘When will the funds be needed? Our account is a little low at present; I need to arrange a transfer.’
‘You have until this evening, no later,’ Abu Asifah said harshly, his need to dominate Najib Shawa overriding his caution.
‘Yes, I can manage that, but I will have to go and do it personally, given the time-scale,’ Najib replied; he now had an approximate date to add to the information he had already gleaned. ‘And how much will he need?’ he asked, looking at Abu Asifah with an unblinking stare of enquiry.
Abu Asifah hesitated momentarily, ‘I’ll let you know after the meeting.’
Najib saw that Abu Asifah could no longer meet his gaze. Abu Asifah wanted to add his percentage.
‘Go and start the arrangements,’ Abu Asifah ordered with a gesture of dismissal.
Najib Shawa scowled as he left the room, his hatred seething inside. Obviously something significant was to happen soon. It was time to ask the Jew Levy for the help he needed.
12.00am. Silwan, Jerusalem.
George Liani’s next action was the purchase of two different vehicles. He found them at a surplus plant sale advertised in the Arab press. The first vehicle he wanted was a second hand, ready-mixed concrete truck. Six such machines were in the sale. The second vehicle was a battered four-wheel drive pick-up, for sale at the same place. His bank manager provided cash for both purchases, and the young fanatic was given the authority to pick it up. The bidding had been quite competitive for the first five of the trucks, but it was the sixth and last truck that George Liani was interested in. It was almost new and was exactly what he needed. The bidding started high and went up fast. At the very last moment George Liani came in as a new bidder. This ploy drew minimum attention to him and disheartened the other bidders. After a few desultory bids from the original bidders, it was his. To the surprise of the auctioneer’s clerk, he paid in cash. He drove the vehicle away personally, and took it directly to the agricultural workshop in Silwan.
George Liani was not in the slightest bit interested in producing ready mixed concrete. He bought paint and various bits and pieces of equipment and, under the cover of the workshop he set to work to adapt the vehicle.
The young fanatic bought the other vehicle and he also paid cash. Battered, unmarked and dusty, it was exactly the sort of vehicle anyone could expect to see coming and going from an agricultural workshop. Using this pick-up and driving around the various farms and small landholdings, the names of which had been supplied by his own organization, the young man began to collect his passport to the next life. A few bags here, a few there from the scattered stockpiles of granular ammonium nitrate fertilizer that had been gathered on George Liani’s instructions. It was unloaded from the pick-up inside the covered workshop, and stacked on wooden pallets clear of the floor to keep it dry. Forty bags, each of fifty kilos were stacked to a pallet. As each pallet was filled kilos grew into metric tons, stored under cover, away from prying eyes.
Quickly the excavations of blast wall foundations around the Knesset progressed. Soon the pouring of the concrete would begin.
1.00pm. Shatila.
Self-interest prompted Abu Asifah to issue his orders for the special meeting. To remain the leader of the movement he needed everyone to know that he was the controlling power behind the next mighty blow to be struck for the cause - even though someone else was doing the work. The word was passed out to the faithful and a special emphasis was given to the instructions, which grew rather than diminished as they went from mouth to mouth. The heroes of the previous actions against targets in the West, the hotheads, the fanatics, and especially those who could be of use to Abu Asifah, all were summoned to the extraordinary meeting; those not asked to attend began to solicit invitations.
1.00pm. Silwan.
George Liani, dressed in old and
dirty working overalls, his head swathed in a loose cloth turban, drove his concrete delivery truck into his rented workshop. He closed the big corrugated iron doors and spent thirty minutes checking the road outside through the ill-fitting gap. Satisfied that no untoward notice was being taken of his activities, he rigged up some welding gear and began welding fittings to the huge barrel of the ready mixed concrete truck. Eventually he put down his welding tongs, took off mask and gloves and, wiped the sweat from his face. It was hot in the workshop, and the heat from the welding arc made it worse but he would not work with the doors open. The welding done, he changed his trade. Picking up a spray gun, he turned on an air compressor and began the job of putting on the first coat of paint. Only when the first coat of paint was in place did he stop work and go back to his quarters for some sleep. He could do no more until the paint was dry; a few hours sleep would be welcome. Rising after two hours and stopping only for a quick snack he spent the rest of the daylight carefully painting the huge bulk cement delivery truck in colors identical to those of the company contracted to supply ready mixed concrete to the civil works at the Knesset. As dusk fell he took the truck out for a drive on dirt roads to give the new paintwork a coating of dust and grime. It would not do for it to look new when it made its delivery.
Next he began the job of carefully weighing and loading the ammonium nitrate granules into the rotating drum of the big truck. It took him several hours. He totaled the amounts of fertilizer he’d loaded into the drum and then added the required amount of fuel oil, together with a small quantity of each of two other ingredients. After an hour the ingredients were thoroughly mixed and, weary but well satisfied, he shut off the lorry’s engine and went off to catch up on lost sleep. He had done everything he could, but he was missing three vital components that had not yet arrived.
12.00pm. The Negev Desert.
The components that George Liani so desperately needed were being unloaded from three very weary and footsore camels. Amidst much snorting, roaring and attempts to bite, the tired and irritable animals were being encouraged to kneel and then rest. Their loads were removed, and with furtive haste three bales of Egyptian cotton were loaded into the back of the battered pickup driven by the Hezbollah fanatic.
The bales contained three ‘beehive’ demolition charges. These charges were part of the mass of munitions that had been left behind by the British forces in Suez, after their withdrawal in 1956. Packed, and preserved to Ministry of Defense standards, they would still be in excellent condition. Stolen from a military base near the Suez Canal, these charges had traveled by a winding route through the rugged and empty mountains and deserts of the Sinai Peninsula. They had crossed the two hundred and twenty-kilometer border with Israel during a black moonless night, and had arrived at the agreed rendezvous on the road between Mizpe Ramon and Sede Boqer, under the shadow of Har Nafha, in the heart of the Negev desert. They were late and, having waited there for hours, the Hezbollah fanatic was not pleased. It would take time to make the drive to the agricultural workshop to the South of Silwan. He drove through the remains of the night, using quiet back roads at first, and then as it began to become light, merging into busy traffic on the main roads when he came close to the major towns. By using this stratagem he successfully negotiated the checkpoints and, his papers being in order, his vehicle was not searched.
George Liani was relieved and pleased to see him when he drove into the big workshop. Quickly, the bales of cotton were pulled apart and the dun khaki boxes exposed. Together they made short work of opening the boxes and bolting the three demolition charges onto the fittings welded to the big cement drum on the truck. Then they painted them to match the surrounding paintwork. One of these devices would have been quite sufficient to set off the massive load of ammonium nitrate fuel oil mixture; George Liani liked to have plenty of back up. The charges were connected to contacts placed at the front of the truck and to a radio controlled detonator. The contact detonators would be armed by a radio signal at the last moment to avoid accidental detonation en route and would detonate the charges on impact. In addition if the young Hezbollah fanatic got cold feet, George Liani could set off the massive bomb with a second radio signal on a different frequency, thus ensuring his rise to paradise for him.