Retribution

  ~~*~~

  There was a thunderclap of sound.

  The blast and subsequent shock wave struck like a double hammer blow. Then a stunned silence, all senses shocked, all action paralyzed.

  Close to the explosion there was carnage. People began to scream. As hearing returned to those furthest from the explosion the sound of automatic gunfire assaulted their already ringing ears. One of the four men with sports bags had thrown a fragmentation grenade into the check-in queue for the American Airlines flight to New York. The metallic clunk and skitter on the hard floor caused heads in the queue to turn towards it as it went off. The four attackers, ducking behind pillars to avoid the blast, pulled out Kalashnikov assault rifles with folding stocks and, flicking the change levers to automatic, opened fire on the defenseless passengers. The copper-jacketed high velocity 7.62mm rounds were capable at short range of going through flesh and bone, through one body after another, and in the crowded conditions of the departure hall this is exactly what happened.

  Little Sophie Wilson died instantly, hit in the chest by a jagged fragment from the grenade that went off only feet away from where she was standing. The force of the explosion hurled her poor mangled body to the ground together with the dreadfully wounded bodies of her parents. Sophie’s father was mortally wounded and would die on the way to hospital. Her mother would live, blind and horribly disfigured for the rest of her life.

  Alan Evans, trapped in his wheelchair, his head at waist height, was hit in the first burst of automatic rifle fire. A round passed through his neck, severing the carotid artery and cutting off the blood supply to his brain. His brain starved of life-giving oxygen he slowly lost his grip on life as the bright red arterial blood pumped in spurts from his throat. It took him several minutes to die.

  The same bullet that killed her unborn son killed Chrisoula Kapopoulos. Hurled backwards by the blast from the grenade, she landed on her back over some luggage on the floor behind her. Already injured and pinned by the weight inside her, she was struggling to get up. The bullet entered her lower abdomen, went through her baby, up through her diaphragm and ruptured her heart. She fell back, both her and her baby dead.

  Her husband Nicholas lay nearby. He had been hit in the head by a grenade fragment. He would be in a coma for several months, unaware of the tragedy that had so cruelly deprived him of his wife and unborn child.

  David Mason had heard and felt high explosive detonations before, but not at such close range. Hammered to the ground by the initial blast, David was shocked and disoriented but his brain knew exactly what had happened. Shaking his head to try to clear it he struggled to his knees. His arms and legs were working. He could hear a rapid hammering noise as his hearing returned. He looked to his left and saw a few paces away a man in a black tracksuit firing an automatic rifle into the defenseless crowd. David was seized by an uncontrollable rage. Shaken though he was he leapt at the man with the weapon. Grabbing it by the barrel, he tried to wrench it from him. It was a very brave but very foolish thing to do. The man holding the gun moved in concert with David’s pull on the weapon, centering the muzzle on David’s chest and squeezing the trigger, to fire a burst into him at point blank range. David Mason died instantly, a blackened and smoldering hole in the front of his shirt, a horrific gaping hole in his back where the high velocity large-caliber rounds exited. The press would make him a posthumous hero, but his parents would be broken and inconsolable.

  Dawn Saint Pierre was only slightly injured in the initial blast. Slammed to the floor by an invisible force, she was winded but not wounded. By chance, no grenade fragments had hit her. Her nose was bleeding and she had hit her forehead on the hard polished surface of the floor, but she was otherwise unhurt. Dazed and confused, she struggled to her hands and knees. Looking up, she was in time to see a man grappling with a man with a gun. She saw him grab the gun and pull. She saw his back swing towards her and its centre blow apart as the burst of fire ripped through him. She did not see the bullet that hit her. Slowed and distorted from passing through David Mason, the bullet was deflected downwards and in her direction. As she was struggling to her feet to try to run, it hit her on the left hip at the corner of that triangular white area made by the bottom half of her bikini. Much of the force of the bullet was spent, but it still struck her like a kick from a horse. The bullet hit the inside edge of the pelvic girdle and was deflected inwards, severing a vein from the leg as it went, and spinning Dawn sideways and down to the floor. She was doubled up by the impact and hit the floor on the damaged hip. The pain was excruciating but short. She blacked out.

  Archie Day, her manager, was not so lucky. He was hurrying through the crowd to join Dawn. He was late, and he was an impatient man who did not suffer lateness in others. This time his impatience cost him dear. A delay of a few moments and he would have missed his appointment with death. He walked directly into a bullet. It penetrated the left eye socket, went through into his brain and killed him outright.

  06.11am Terminal 3 Check-in.

  Jim Savage, snapped out of his daydream by the initial explosion, was far enough away from it to be unaffected by the blast and the flying metal splinters, but for a brief moment his mind was paralyzed. Shocked at what he saw, and unable to believe what was happening he heard the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons fire. Quickly gathering his scattered wits he took cover behind a concrete pillar and adopted a kneeling fire position, making himself a small target but with a firm aim. His Heckler and Koch emitted a sinister glimmer of reflected light as he flicked the safety catch to single shots and chambered a round.

  Scanning the departure hall for the perpetrators, he caught a glimpse of two of the attackers firing automatic weapons into the crowd, but could not get a clear aim. People were running screaming across his line of fire; others were flat on the floor crying out in agony. His training prevented him from trying a shot whilst there was a risk of hitting any of them.

  The firing stopped. He saw the two attackers nearest to him turn away, nod to each other and begin to make their escape. They were heading his way. Jim took careful aim, body centre of the leading figure, and squeezed the trigger. A single shot rang out and the man fell. ‘One down,’ Jim thought, ‘how many to go?’ The second attacker stopped, unsure of where the shot had come from. Jim moved the safety catch of his weapon to auto and aimed the stubby black barrel off to the side of the second terrorist. Following his movements he took up the slack on the trigger. His field of fire was clear. The terrorist jumped sideways zigzagging towards the exit, and ran into Jim’s short sharp burst of fire. He collapsed and lay still. Jim’s eyes flicked back to the first man. He was moving painfully, trying to crawl towards the doors, his weapon abandoned. It would take him a long time to get away at that rate. Jim searched the departure hall for more attackers. He saw two more men carrying Kalashnikovs dash through the exit doors further down the departure hall. Jim sprinted for the exit, forcing his way past terrified passengers. He emerged outside just in time to see a large saloon car pulling away from the curb. An arriving vehicle unaware of the incident in the departure hall blocked his view of the number plate. ‘Shit,’ Jim swore angrily, he was powerless. His Heckler and Koch was a short-range weapon, deliberately loaded with specialist ammunition that would not penetrate beyond its target in a crowded place. The departing car was out of effective range. The whole incident had taken approximately 40 seconds from start to finish.

  Jim pressed the transmit button on his personal radio and spoke into the mike. ‘Three-five to control, red alert, repeat, red alert in departure hall, over.’

  A voice came back: ‘Control, alarm raised, all units activated, sitrep your location, over.’

  Jim spoke clearly and concisely into his mike. ‘Terrorist attacks in departure hall at check-in number fourteen. Four attackers seen; two down, two plus driver, attempting getaway in large dark Mercedes saloon car. Grenade thrown, automatic rifles used. Many injured, some badly, probable fatalities, over.’
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  There was a pause then, ‘Control, message understood, standby, out.’

  Jim waited.

  ‘Control, emergency services activated, ambulances on their way. ETA your location two minutes. Change to channel three and liaise with other officers on duty, over.’

  ‘Roger, three-five, out.’ Jim applied his safety catch, switched his radio to channel three, and went back in to the departure hall to check on the two men he had stopped. The place was chaotic but people were calmer. Some were doing what they could for the injured; others were weeping or standing around in a state of shock. Jim gingerly approached the second man he had shot, his weapon aimed and ready. The man was alive but badly wounded. How badly Jim didn’t know, but he was unconscious. Leaving him, Jim went warily over to check the first man to be downed. He was wounded, exhausted and no longer able to move. Lying clutching his stomach and obviously in considerable pain, he gave Jim a look filled with furious rage.

  Jim looked round, and saw two police colleagues approaching at a run. He began to shake - reaction was setting in. He made an effort, took several deep breaths and spoke to his fellow police officers. ‘Right, these two are terrorists,’ he pointed out the two men. ‘Put the ’cuffs on them. I’ll cover you, so do them one at a time. When the ’cuffs are on search them, then one of you stay with each of them until they’re under guard in a secure hospital ward.’

  As soon as the handcuffs were in place Jim set off to look for the arriving ambulances to direct them in. He felt shaken and sick; and he knew that he had hours of work in front of him - debriefings, report writing and so on. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered to himself, ‘maybe being bored wasn’t so bad after all,’ but then he realized that the excitement was quite like old times.

  As he made his way through the carnage of the check-in area he heard a voice, a girl’s voice, low and rough with pain. It came from a figure doubled up on the floor; a pool of blood was spreading out from underneath her.

  ‘Help me, please help me.’ The voice was barely a whisper.

  Checking his stride, Jim stopped and knelt by the brown leather-clad form. It was the blonde girl he had been leching over as the attack began.

  06.15am Terminal 3 Set-down area.

  The two fleeing terrorists leapt into the waiting Mercedes and slammed the doors. The driver floored the accelerator and the powerful car surged away from the curb. People stared in shocked surprise. The leader spoke harshly to the driver in guttural consonantal Arabic.

  ‘Two are martyred. Go! Go! Not so fast, merge with the traffic, blend in don’t make us stand out.’ He and his companion shoved their folded weapons into black plastic bags. They removed the training shoes from their feet, and stripped off the baggy track-suits they had been wearing. Everything went into the black plastic bags with the guns.

  Underneath the track-suits they were wearing dark suit trousers, white shirts and neat ties. They slipped their feet into polished leather slip-on shoes, did up their collars, tightened the knots in their ties, brushed down their trousers and sat back.

  The driver eased the car through the traffic, round the one way system, and into terminal two short-stay car-park. The men got out, opened the trunk and threw in the black plastic bags. They took out and donned jackets and topcoats, picked up briefcases and, still wearing their gloves, closed the trunk. Then they walked into terminal two. Merging with other passengers, the three terrorists, now indistinguishable from any of the other traveling businessmen, made their way to separate check-in desks. They presented their tickets, obtained boarding cards for flights to three different European destinations, and immediately passed through security and passport control. Each man went directly to a separate departure lounge. Unremarked, their faces composed, they sat quietly, confident that no security checks could link them to the outrage perpetrated in terminal three only a few hundred yards away. They began to read newspapers taken from their briefcases. Within thirty minutes all of them were onboard different flights. Within an hour all their flights were clear of British airspace. In three hours each man was in a different European country. It would take the police a week to find the car.

  06.20am Terminal 3 Check-in.

  As she forced her way out of the mists of unconsciousness Dawn saw a figure walking towards her. She tried to speak. ‘Help me, please help me.’ The words came out as a whisper. To her intense relief the figure stopped and knelt by her side.

  ‘Where are you hurt?’ Jim Savage asked.

  Dawn struggled again to speak through a dry mouth, `Mm m my h hip, hip and stomach.’

  ‘Okay, let me have a look.’

  Jim carefully pulled her hands away from her hip. They were bloody. He looked at the hip as best he could without moving her. He could see the spreading stain of blood from the wound. It was dark seeping venous blood, no arterial blood as far as he could tell, but there could be internal bleeding. He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the entry wound. Stripping away his body armor he took his shirt off and rolled it into a pad, which he gently pressed on top of the handkerchief.

  ‘Hold this in place,’ he told her, guiding her hands to the rolled up pad. ‘Press it as tight as you can.’ He placed the fur jacket lying next to her over her shoulders and upper body to keep her warm and to help ward off shock. ‘Now I’ll find an ambulance and a doctor. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Don’t leave me, please stay with me,’ Dawn’s frightened whisper came through dry lips. Gone was the sexy look. The face, pale beneath the careful make up, was the face of a badly scared young girl.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re going to be okay,’ Jim reassured her, squeezing her hand gently. ‘The ambulances are outside, I’ll only be gone a few seconds, I’ll come straight back.’

  06.30am London.

  Within ten minutes of the end of the attack phones rang in the news rooms of the main UK. T.V. channels. A tape recorder clicked and a voice spoke in heavily accented but accurate English.

  ‘The Blood of Shatila has struck its first blow.’

  ‘Your soldiers are on Holy Islamic soil; you kill our brothers the Taliban, our friends in al Qaeda. This is our response and these are our demands:

  ‘The world must open its ears to the voices of the People of Islam.’

  ‘The world must open its eyes to the plight of the people of Palestine.’

  ‘We are forced from our homes.’

  ‘We are dispossessed of our lands.’

  ‘We have no redress.’

  ‘All Israeli settlers must be removed from the West Bank.’

  ‘The Dome of the Rock and the other Holy places of Jerusalem must be returned to Islam.’

  ‘An independent Palestinian state must be created.’

  ‘The killing of our brothers in Southern Lebanon, in Gaza, in the West Bank must stop immediately.’

  ‘As the world has ignored our plight so we make war on the world.’

  At this point reports of the attack at the airport were already coming in. The timing was impeccable. The newsrooms started to collate the information as the major item for the next news program. Seventeen people were dead. Thirty-five were seriously injured. Sixty-two suffered minor wounds. All those present during the attack suffered shock and fear. The channel whose reporting team had been waiting for a celebrity scored a notable first. The other channels dispatched camera crews immediately and began to speculate. All gave priceless airtime to the phoned-in tape recorded message.

  06.30am Heathrow, Terminal 3 Departures.

  Jim Savage directed the emergency services to the scene then stayed with Dawn until the medics arrived. He held her hand as she was wheeled out to where the line of ambulances was waiting. She gripped his hand with the desperation of someone who has no one else. ‘Please don’t leave me.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Jim said gently, ‘there are things I have to do. I’ll come and visit later if you like, as soon as I’m finished here. Look, I’m sorry but I don’t know your name?’

>   ‘Dawn, Dawn Saint-Pierre.’

  Recognition dawned in Jim’s eyes and with it an uncertainty not usual to him. Dawn Saint Pierre was a famous model.

  ‘Well, I can come if you really want me to,’ he offered hesitantly.

  Dawn managed a ghost of a smile. ‘Yes, really I do.’

  September 17th. Mayfair.

  A man stepped through the back door of the American Embassy into Blackburn’s Mews and looked carefully around. There was a stillness about him that evoked an air of competence. Mike Edge, for that was his name, saw nothing to alarm him. It was a beautiful sunny day, the sky clear, one of those days that occasionally transform London. As he had plenty of time to get to the Home Office he decided to walk. He set off down South Audley Street past busy cafes and exclusive shops through the residential streets of Mayfair, heading towards Shepherds Market and Piccadilly. A pleasant stroll through Green Park in the bright sunshine, across the Mall into St James’s Park and across the lake by the footbridge, took him to the Home Office in Petty France by way of Queen Anne’s Gate. The walk gave him time to marshal his thoughts and form a framework of questions to ask.

  Major Caltrop of MI5 looked out across the Guards Chapel towards Saint James’s Park from the office of an Under Secretary of the Home Office.

  ‘Who is this Mike Edge, what do we know about him?’

  The man he was speaking to, a Captain on secondment from the Intelligence Corps opened a file on the desk before him. A series of photographs were set in clear plastic sleeves immediately inside the cover. The photographs were of a tall man with strong, regular, features, dark hair graying slightly at the temples, and wearing steel framed spectacles. The spectacles, a beige corduroy jacket and a blue denim shirt, created a scholarly look and gave him the appearance of a college professor. It was a carefully constructed appearance and a deceptive one.

  The Captain glanced through the photographs, and then began to read from the file contents. ‘He’s a former Commander in American Naval Intelligence, currently working for the Defense Intelligence Agency out of Fort Bolling, Washington DC. I presume he retains his naval rank but it doesn’t say that here.’

  Major Caltrop grunted. The rank of the man he was about to meet was the most important item of information as far as he was concerned. ‘Hmm, I suppose we must assume so,’ he said, grudgingly realizing that this American probably held rank senior to his own. ‘Give me a thumb nail sketch.’

  ‘Right. He was born in San Francisco. His father was an engineer and worked for Standard Oil of California, his mother was an economist. He graduated from the University of California with a first class honors degree in Politics Philosophy and Economics then went on to do a Masters degree. His thesis was on the economics of Middle Eastern Oil and he got a distinction. Did naval cadet training at university and volunteered for navy pilot training but his eyesight wasn’t quite up to it. Accepted entry to the US Navy, went through officer training, and was drafted to Naval Intelligence. Must have been a natural, his promotion was rapid, rapid enough to warrant staying in the Navy, he could’ve been expected to reach the top levels.’

  ‘Hmm, could be a political move, maybe he’s merely on loan to DIA?’

  The Captain nodded in agreement. ‘Quite possibly, and he’s extended his range, he’s highly regarded as an Arabist. He spent several years in the Persian Gulf States, speaks fluent Arabic, studied the history of the region and recently has been working in Tel Aviv as an analyst of Middle Eastern affairs.’

  ‘Who’s his boss?’

  ‘John Henderson.’

  ‘Ha, that’s why he’s on this job, must be genned up on Israeli–Palestinian issues.’

  The door to the office opened and the Captain stood up. The Under Secretary came into the room and took his place behind his desk. ‘Right gentlemen, our American visitor is on his way up,’ he announced.

  Major Caltrop picked up the file and returned to the window to study the photographs. He was not at all pleased at the prospect of the Americans getting involved. He turned as Mike Edge entered, looking up belligerently from a photo to the reality. ‘Ah, Mister Edge, or is it Commander?’

  Mike Edge read his man immediately; he had met the military mindset before. He stood his ground, perfectly still, just inside the door, his eyes measuring the three men there. ‘Commander Edge will do very well.’

  Annoyed at being ignored by Major Caltrop in his own office, and in order to defuse a developing atmosphere, the Under Secretary stood up and walked round his desk. ‘Good Morning Commander,’ I’m John Fallows, Under Secretary with responsibility for internal security matters, this is Major Caltrop of “Five”, and Captain Jennings from Intelligence.’ He gestured towards a meeting table to one side of his office. ‘Shall we sit down gentlemen?’

  The four men took a seat each.

  Aware of his breach of protocol Major Caltrop said nothing, just cleared his throat.

  Captain Jennings, being the junior rank present, remained silent.

  So did Mike Edge.

  ‘Well, Commander where would you like to start?’ John Fallows asked.

  ‘I’ve flown in from Tel Aviv; all I’ve seen so far are TV news reports. Suppose we start with the information you have,’ Mike Edge suggested.

  ‘We know nothing about them, except that they are calling themselves the “Blood of Shatila” movement. We’re expecting some information from your end,’ Major Caltrop stated bluntly.

  John Fallows looked at Mike hopefully.

  Mike shook his head; as yet this group was unknown to him. ‘Well, Shatila was one of the Palestinian camps in South Beirut where massacres took place, twenty years ago today,’ he offered.

  ‘That’s stating the obvious.’ Major Caltrop’s comment came out as a sneer. Mike Edge’s eyes hardened.

  ‘Well, you’d better listen to the tape.’ John Fallows took a tape cassette from his desk drawer and put it into a cassette player. The voice claiming responsibility for the attack at Heathrow airport filled the room.

  Mike listened carefully to the accent. ‘Hmmm, they’re Palestinians, Eastern Arabic usage, no doubt about that. They’re pushing the Palestinian cause and they want the shelling of Hezbollah stopped. Possibly Hezbollah are funding them. So, they’re a splinter group, but are they from Fatah, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, or some other group? It’s hard to know which faction; it would help to know who the leader is?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Major Caltrop grudgingly admitted, ‘but whoever they are they have no damned business attacking unarmed civilians, it’s a bloody disgrace.’

  Mike looked at him. ‘They wouldn’t agree with you.’

  Major Caltrop raised an eyebrow, about to reply, but Mike forestalled him. ‘Know your enemy Major. Seventy eight percent of their country has been taken from them by the Israelis, and not content with that, the Israelis are now busy colonizing the twenty two percent they have left,’ Mike said, his eyes locked with the major’s eyes.

  ‘But killing innocent civilians, there’s no...’

  ‘Obviously you know about Shatila and perhaps Sabra too?’

  The major’s gaze wavered and fell. ‘You sound as if you are on their side,’ he said, curling his lip.

  ‘No. I’m an American. I’m here because people of my country are being attacked. My job is to protect them; to do that I have to understand the issues; on both sides.’

  ‘So why are they attacking Americans.’

  ‘Because America has largely funded the growth and power of the Israeli state; and because the Jewish vote in America, can make or break Presidents. No American politician dares to alienate them.’

  Major Caltrop snorted. ‘Huh, American foreign policy, dictated by political ambition as usual.’

  ‘So what’s new? The same has been true in both our countries for centuries. I don’t have the time to argue over such issues and it’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to find out what I can and to give you any help I can.’

  Major Cal
trop’s eyes wavered.

  ‘So, what else can you give me?’

  ‘You can have a copy of this tape. You can view two of the weapons used. There are statements from witnesses; in particular the statement from PC Savage, the senior armed officer on duty. And you can interview the two we have in custody, not that you’ll get much out of them, oh, and the forensic and ballistics reports, if you need them.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mike agreed, ‘that’s a start. Can you arrange for me to interview the guy who was on duty during the attack? Savage was it? Tomorrow if that’s okay, the prisoners too? I’ll take the tapes and the copies of the reports with me now to work on back at my office.’

  Major Caltrop nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly, becoming more and more annoyed at his inability to prevent this American from getting involved.

  Mike stuffed the tape and reports into his briefcase and got up to leave. At the door he turned. ‘Caltrop? That’s a spiky iron ball that was used to hinder cavalry troops isn’t it?’

  The Major looked at him blankly, wrong footed. His mouth opened, but he found nothing to say.

  Mike Edge, smiling wickedly, left the room. He walked back through St James’s Park, the sun hot on his back. There was laughter; people were setting out food and wine on the grass, taking the opportunity for a picnic lunch. Pretty girls in summer dresses and in swimsuits were topping up holiday tans. Wishing he too had so few cares Mike began to go over the scant information he had received and to add bits and pieces to it from memory. Several political organizations capable of funding such a terrorist group came to mind. Palestinian Hamas, dissident Saudi-backed al Qaeda, Egyptian based Islamic Jihad, or Iranian funded Hezbollah, the “Party of God”, based in southern Lebanon. There were many possibilities and permutations. ‘Follow the money,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘follow the money.’

  September 18th. Paddington Green Police Station.

  There would be a trial. The two wounded terrorists had been given medical attention and would live to face a judge and jury. They had been taken to a secure ward in a nearby hospital under heavy police guard. As soon as they were conscious they had been charged under the provisions of the Terrorism Act on the evidence given by PC Savage and by other witnesses present during the attack. Then, as soon as they could be moved, they were taken to Paddington Green, the police station with the most secure cells in the country.

  The terrorists were very well trained. They knew the dangers of talking and maintained a determined silence. There was no doubt about their guilt, but they were not going to give away information which would help the security services of the West to discover their origins or to get onto the trail of their organization.

  Whilst awaiting trial they sat in their respective cells. They determined the direction of Mecca from the position of the sun. For the proscribed number of times every day they prayed devoutly to Allah, kneeling, bowing, kneeling and prostrating, lips moving silently they went through the proscribed rituals. What they had done had been done in the name of Allah. He was with them; he would look after them and deliver them from the hands of the Infidel, the Unbelievers. Their own people had strayed from the Path, had become lost, their expulsion from their homeland was the result, the punishment. The only way back was to re-embrace the old ways, the true ways, the teachings of the Koran. Back to the fundamentals of Islam - Islamic Fundamentalism - that holy export of the Mullahs of Iran.

  The only quicker, surer, path was Martyrdom.