To The Death Part 9

"Then I suppose I'd have to kill someone," said Abraham, shrugging his shoulders.

"I don't think so," said Ben. "The last thing we need is a murder hunt conducted by the police in a back street behind Rashood's house."

"Hadn't thought about that," replied the Mossad hitman, gloomily. But then he brightened and said, "Ben, that back gate is never used. I know that. Right here we got a one-door house."

"That's what I'm working on. Thanks, Abe. The next hour should tell us something."

And at that precise moment the front door of the big house on Bab Touma opened, and into the now-bright morning light stepped General Ravi Rashood, followed by his wife, Shakira, and a bodyguard holding an AK-47 Kalashnikov. Ben Joel stared at their photographic evidence, which was very little: two quite good pictures shot by the Americans of Ravi on a high cliff in the Canary Islands, and a better-quality print of Major Ray Kerman, supplied, reluctantly, by Great Britain's SAS.

The images matched, no doubt. The man leaving the house on Bab Touma was General Ravi Rashood, commander in chief of Hamas. The woman accompanying him was plainly his wife, and the field agent's description of her was accurate. She was indeed tall, dark-haired, and spectacularly beautiful.

It was 0900 and a cool fifty-eight degrees. The general was dressed in Western style, light blue jeans, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a brown suede jacket. Shakira also wore light blue jeans with high black boots, a blue s.h.i.+rt, and a leather jacket. Ben Joel grabbed the camera, pressed the long-range b.u.t.ton, and snapped four close-ups of the Hamas terrorist and his wife.

The men from the Mossad watched as the guard stepped back and took up his position on a white bench set against the wall on the right-hand side of the front door. General Rashood and his wife walked down the steps alone and turned left toward Via Recta. They were in fact making their way over toward the Madhat Pasha Souq and a little restaurant where they often had breakfast.

Ben Joel did not care one way or another where they were going. He cared only what time they left, what time they returned, and the movement of the guards at the big house. With Ravi and Shakira still within sight, there was another change. A second guard came outside and sat on the opposite side of the door. Ben photographed both men, talking and smoking, their Kalashnikovs resting against the wall.

These were the 0600 men, who had begun their watch in that front room, moved out into the inside pa.s.sage, and then taken up position outside at 0900. At noon, Ravi and his wife returned, walking slowly, reading newspapers.

They reentered the house, and almost immediately there was a guard change. Two young men arrived from the north end of the street. The men on the door handed over their AKs and left. The new arrivals sat outside. By Ben Joel's calculations, there were no other guards inside the house.

Aside from several occasions when the guards went inside, always one at a time, the situation remained unchanged until 1800. At this time, four new guards came along the street together, the other two left, and the night watch took up position.

Colonel Ben Joel spent the afternoon sleeping, but now he had it clear in his mind. The four new arrivals guarded the house through the night, taking it in turns to eat and sleep. The photographs on the computer matched. The two men he had seen leave at 0600 that morning were the same two who now slipped inside the front door. The others stayed outside in the last of the light and the warmish air.

Much depended on General Rashood's plan for the evening. If he went out for dinner, the two guards must be removed quietly before he returned, killed and hidden. The bomb must then be planted in that front room. If Ravi did not go out, they would have, somehow, to remove the guards, and then, in the immortal words of Colonel John Rabin, knock down the f.u.c.king house. No survivors.

As it happened, General Rashood dined out every evening, either alone with Shakira, or with friends.

At 1945, a taxi pulled up outside the house. There were no guards at the door, but almost instantly one of them came out and ran down the steps to speak to the driver. Five minutes later, Ravi and Shakira walked outside and climbed into the cab.

Colonel Joel, Colonel Rabin, and Abraham watched it pull away.

"John, any reason why we should not go in tonight?" asked Ben.

"Not at all. The weapon is absolutely ready. You just need to decide whether we design it to obliterate that one room, or demolish the building."

"Okay. Let's say we expect the general to return around 2300, or even later. According to our estimations, there will be a guard change at midnight. But we cannot wait until then. We need to take out and remove these two Hamas thugs guarding the door around 2230, and hope to Christ no one disturbs us."

"And if anyone does?"

"Eliminate."

"Guns?"

"Knives."

"Messy?"

"But quiet. And that's better."

"That way, we're counting on the general arriving back between 2300 and midnight?"

"Not necessarily."

"But what if the second s.h.i.+ft of night guards turns up and their colleagues are not there, deserted, gone missing?"

"What can they do but remain on station, wait for the boss, and then tell him two men have vanished? We don't care. The bomb will be in place."

"Okay, what if the general then decides to search through the house, and then goes straight to bed?-and with a wife like that, who could blame him?"

Colonel Joel laughed, knowingly. "I was coming to that," he said. "We take out the two guards at 2230, as planned, insert the big bomb. And blow the b.a.s.t.a.r.d up as soon as Ravi enters the house and shuts the door. That way we don't care which room he is in."

"No, I guess not. But it does mean we won't have much use for the timing device."

"Not at all, John. We wait for that door to close behind the general. We set the timer for ten minutes. And then we leave. We just bolt down the stairs, straight to the garage, and we're gone, out of here. We'll be about four miles away when the blast occurs. All we need to know is that Ravi's in there."

"Can't fault that, boss," said Colonel Rabin agreeably. "Shall we go out for an hour?"

"Good idea. We haven't eaten all day. Tell Abe and Itzaak we'll be gone for a while and we'll bring food back."

Two hours later, the Mossad's. .h.i.t team was in order. Everything was packed away in a couple of big mail bags, which Jerry would pick up later that night. At 2225, Itzaak and Abraham, still in Arab dress, went downstairs and walked the short distance into Bab Touma Street, which was very quiet, though not entirely deserted.

They crossed the street and walked up the steps to the front door of the Rashood stronghold. Major Itzaak Sherman rapped sharply on the door, which was instantly opened, and the Israeli found himself looking at the barrel of an AK-47.

The guard spoke in Arabic-What do you want?

Itzaak just said, "Please, sir, I need to speak to General Rashood." The guard hesitated and stepped forward, saying, "I thought there were two of you-" But he was too late. Abraham swooped out of the shadow and rammed his combat knife straight into the man's heart. It was a deadly blow, viciously hard and accurate. The guard gasped, tried to yell, but he was dead before he hit the floor.

From inside, there was a call of "Rami, who is it?" And the second guard stepped out onto the front porch and met with an identical fate when Abraham, using a second knife, plunged it into the man's heart.

By this time, Colonel Ben Joel had crossed the street, carrying the bomb in a leather duffel bag. He raced up the stairs and into the room on the left. Right behind him came John Rabin. They both hit the floor and began to screw the device to the underside of the big heavy table in the center of the room.

Meanwhile, the other two were dragging the two bodies down the steps and into a small open front yard, below the main street window. This area was unkempt and overgrown, and it had a gateway but no gate. The walls around it were two feet high. It took exactly one minute for Abraham and Itzaak to dump the dead men into the far corner of the tiny yard, where they would never be discovered until it was light, and maybe not even then.

At this point, Major Rabin was working alone on the electronics of the bomb, with Abraham standing guard on the door, in case either of the sleeping second-s.h.i.+ft guards heard something and came to investigate. But the house was deathly quiet.

Colonel Joel hurried back across the road and opened up a connection from his cell phone to that of Colonel Rabin, who was still under the table in Ravi's house. They spoke briefly, for no more than eight seconds, and then John Rabin screwed in the last wire, set the detonation mechanism to coincide with the electronic box up in the apartment, and left.

Carefully, he made certain that the front door did not lock automatically, since they did not want Ravi and Shakira to be locked out. They just hoped the couple would return before the midnight watch change.

Meanwhile, they regrouped in their observation post and watched. The small black box that would activate the bomb was resting innocently on the window ledge.

It was 2315 now, and there was no sign of the general. But Abraham saw it first, the lights of a taxi coming around the corner from Al-Bakry Street, swinging right into Bab Touma. It pulled up directly in front of the house they watched.

"Here we go, boys," breathed Abraham, who was apparently unaffected by the double murder he had committed less than an hour previously. "They're back."

And all four men saw the lovely Shakira emerge from the back left-hand pa.s.senger seat of the cab. From the other side, there emerged her escort, who took her arm and walked up the steps.

They reached the front door and knocked, but the door opened even at Shakira's light touch. She was doubtless mystified by the absence of the two guards, but she entered the house, followed by the man, presumably Ravi, who was somewhat lost in the shadows. But at least neither of them had noticed the two hidden bodies.

Colonel Joel saw the light flood into the front room. Toward the rear he could see a male figure. Shakira was nowhere to be seen.

"That's it, John," snapped Ben. "That'll do for us. Set the timer for ten minutes and let's go."

John Rabin turned the dial, pressed the activate b.u.t.ton. The residents of the house on Bab Touma were on borrowed time. The four Mossad men stampeded down the stairs and out into the dark. They ran through the back street behind the apartment and reached the garage. The key fitted easily, and they pushed the door open.

And there, inside, was the converted Mercedes Benz. Colonel Joel jumped in the front pa.s.senger seat. Abraham rummaged for the key and started the motor. Major Sherman jumped in the backseat, and John Rabin waited outside to shut and lock the garage door.

The car moved forward. The last member of the team climbed into the rear seat, and Ben Joel hit the b.u.t.ton to inform the field agent Jerry that they were on their way. Abraham drove swiftly to the Bab Touma Gate and swung right onto the road that would take them down to the airport perimeter road.

But before they reached that crossroad, John Rabin's bomb went off with a crash that ripped into the night sky. It was so powerful that it blew the roof thirty feet into the air. The entire building went up with a stupendous blast, exploding the ancient cement and brickwork into the street, outward and upward. Flames leapt into the air. Rubble, gla.s.s, and stonework rained down from the sky. The world's oldest continuously occupied city shuddered on its sandy foundations.

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" yelled Abraham. "We just did it. Tel Aviv, here we come."

Ten minutes later, as Abraham gunned his supercharged wreck down the airport highway, Ravi Rashood arrived back from dinner with the wife of his close friend Abdul Khan, one of Shakira's half-brothers.

The scene of pure devastation was beyond belief. The entire street was blocked with rubble. Two police cars were already there; a fire engine was trying to get in from the wrong end of the street. Sirens were blaring, blue lights flas.h.i.+ng, women screaming.

Ravi raced to what was left of the front of his house. But that was simply pointless. There was was no front to his house. Rudy Khan was hysterical, but Ravi had no thought for anyone except Shakira, and he ran with a helpless desperation around to the back of his former home. no front to his house. Rudy Khan was hysterical, but Ravi had no thought for anyone except Shakira, and he ran with a helpless desperation around to the back of his former home.

He reached the padlocked green gate, and, from behind it, he could hear a woman screaming, incoherently, plaintively. He spotted the white truck, and with one bound was on the hood, and then the roof, staring down into his own backyard. He could see that the inside door to the yard was open, and there, crouched on the ground, was Shakira, terrified, covered in blood, but alive.

Abdul, who had brought her home to make coffee, was not with her. Instinctively, Ravi knew he was dead. He also knew if he jumped over the wall, he and his injured wife would both be trapped. There was no way out through the collapsed house.

He jumped down to the street, and ran back around to the front of the house and yelled for help. The police and the ambulance crew were only too glad at least to save someone's life. Six of them arrived at the gate and the cops blew the lock away with a submachine gun, taking care not to allow bullets to penetrate the green gate.

Twenty minutes later, Shakira and Ravi were on their way to the President Ha.s.sad General Hospital, where fifteen st.i.tches were required to repair a cut on her head, sustained in the bas.e.m.e.nt-level kitchen when a part of the ceiling had caved in.

She was also in severe shock, and the surgeon decided she should stay overnight. Ravi remained with her, and most people in the drama were happy. The Hamas terrorists were merely thankful that Shakira lived.

And the Mossad men boarding the Learjet were in self-congratulatory mood. Mission accomplished. Nearly.

CHAPTER 4

The shuddering blast which knocked down the entire northeastern end of Bab Touma Street caused newspaper editors and television stations to work most of the night. Reporters swarmed around the site of the bombing and quickly realized that many neighboring houses and apartments were either crumbling or dangerously shaken on their foundations. Touma Street caused newspaper editors and television stations to work most of the night. Reporters swarmed around the site of the bombing and quickly realized that many neighboring houses and apartments were either crumbling or dangerously shaken on their foundations.

Miraculously, while there were several people injured in adjoining houses from falling debris and collapsed floors, there were no deaths, except for Abdul Khan, who was known to have been in the house where the bomb went off, but whose body had not yet been recovered.

Ironically, the bodies of the two murdered guards were currently buried under the rubble that had cascaded into the street when the blast detonated outward from the house.

The front-page headline in the English-language Syria Times Syria Times read: read:

MIDNIGHT BOMB BLAST ROCKS OLD CITY STREET Homes destroyed. One dead. Many injured. Police mystified. Homes destroyed. One dead. Many injured. Police mystified.

Beneath this was a photo taken at the scene, in the dark, showing the lights of the police cars and ambulances illuminating the pile of rubble. The caption read: CHAOS ON BAB TOUMA AS OFFICIALS SEARCH FOR BODIES.

On the eight o'clock morning news broadcast, on Syria 2, the reporter stated, "Among those saved and admitted to hospital was Mrs. Shakira Rashood, who was believed to have been in the house where the blast went off. She survived mostly because she was in her kitchen, downstairs on the bas.e.m.e.nt level, and that lower floor had held up while the rest of the house was blown sky-high. "Among those saved and admitted to hospital was Mrs. Shakira Rashood, who was believed to have been in the house where the blast went off. She survived mostly because she was in her kitchen, downstairs on the bas.e.m.e.nt level, and that lower floor had held up while the rest of the house was blown sky-high.

"Mrs. Rashood's half-brother, Mr. Abdul Khan, was also in the house and police say there is no possibility he could have survived. Early this morning, she was too upset to make a statement, but is expected to leave hospital with her husband, Mr. Ravi Rashood, sometime this morning."

Jerry, the Mossad field agent, watching the broadcast at his home in the Saahat ash-Shuhada area (Martyr's Square), was astounded. His apartment was in the far end of the Old City from Bab Touma, but he had heard the blast. When he moved in to clear out the hit team's apartment, he had stayed west of the devastated area, keeping to the dark side streets.

He could not believe that proven special operators like Ben Joel and John Rabin could possibly have made such a mistake. The entire plan, he knew, had been to wait and watch for the Rashoods' return.

He accepted that Shakira was alive. The journalists must have picked up her name from the hospital register. But General Ravi? How could that possibly have happened? The guys must have seen him enter the building. Otherwise they would not have detonated the bomb.

Jerry was mystified, like the police. But he walked out into the square and called the office in the Hada Dafna Building on King Saul Boulevard, reporting what the Damascus news services were saying. The Mossad chiefs had not yet seen the Syrian newspaper, nor had they heard the broadcast, but they knew Ben Joel and the team were safely home and had reported in during the small hours, mission accomplished. mission accomplished.

As screw-ups go, considered Jerry, considered Jerry, this one was well on its way. this one was well on its way.

At 11 o'clock that Wednesday morning, February 8, Ravi and Shakira walked out of the hospital toward a waiting taxi. They were greeted by a scrum of reporters and photographers, yelling questions . . . how did you escape? . . . do you have any idea who could have done this? . . . Shakira! Shakira! . . . this way. Mr. Rashood! Did you save your wife's life? how did you escape? . . . do you have any idea who could have done this? . . . Shakira! Shakira! . . . this way. Mr. Rashood! Did you save your wife's life?

This was a terrorist commander's nightmare. Personal publicity, photographs, questions. But he faced the media with equanimity. "Yes, I am the husband of Shakira Rashood . . . no, we did not leave the restaurant together . . . my wife came home with her stepbrother to prepare coffee and pastries . . . twenty minutes later I followed with Abdul's wife, Rudy. Yes, of course, both women are extremely upset."

In answer to the question Mr. Rashood, do you think someone was trying to kill you? Mr. Rashood, do you think someone was trying to kill you? he replied, "I doubt it. This was either a complete accident, or a badly mistaken ident.i.ty." he replied, "I doubt it. This was either a complete accident, or a badly mistaken ident.i.ty."

For several hours, this innocuous statement held good. Ravi and Shakira moved, temporarily, into the Barada Hotel, on Said al-Jabri Avenue. But as the afternoon wore on, the police were wrestling with one problem: this was one h.e.l.l of a bomb-who the h.e.l.l detonated it, and why? this was one h.e.l.l of a bomb-who the h.e.l.l detonated it, and why?

It was plainly not some Molotov c.o.c.ktail put together by a disparate group of jihadists. This was a major, professional weapon, a.s.sembled by an expert, and somehow smuggled into that house on Bab Touma and detonated within minutes of Shakira and Abdul's return.

This was no accident. This was a plan, which may have gone wrong, but was nevertheless a premeditated action. There was not the slightest sign that it was a suicide bomb. In the opinion of the Damascus Police Department, this bomb had been detonated by a remote-control device and it was meant to kill Mr. Rashood, and perhaps his wife. The trouble was, no one knew who the devil Mr. Rashood was.

And while the Syrian police pondered the mystery, the Hamas War Council moved with lightning speed. They sent a car and two jihadist warriors into Damascus from an outpost they maintained in the southern border city of Der'a and scooped up General Ravi and his wife with military efficiency.

They headed back south and crossed the border into Jordan, providing for their esteemed guests pa.s.sports upon which the ink was barely dry. They kept going south for another fifty miles until they reached the capital city, Amman, where the Rashoods checked into the Rhum Continental Hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Anwar Mehadi, in accordance with their pa.s.sports. The men from Hamas had, in fact, moved so fast that Mr. and Mrs. Rashood had vanished from the face of the earth.

Which left the Syrian police, and the media, in something of a quandary. Senior law-enforcement officials understood perfectly well that the bomb had been executed with great precision. They also believed someone wanted to kill, at least, Ravi Rashood very badly.

But like the journalists, they had no idea who he was and why he might have such determined, maybe fanatical, enemies. He had, apparently, lived in Damascus for a few years now, and there had never been one hint of trouble before.

By 1900 something had, however, become clear. The police not only had no idea who he was, they also had no idea where where he was. They posted men at the airport and at the train station and the bus station. They checked out the Barada Hotel, but he had very obviously left. he was. They posted men at the airport and at the train station and the bus station. They checked out the Barada Hotel, but he had very obviously left.

As for the Mossad, they were following events blow by blow through the guile of Jerry, who, not wanting to call attention to himself, could do no more than follow events through the television and radio news and the afternoon newspapers.