Coleman watched in disbelief as five Caucasians, two adults and three children, passed before him like a dream in the mist, their blond and red hair a stark contrast to the black hair of the armed men who walked with them. They were tied to each other, a sagging link of rope in between each frail, malnourished individual.
The mom in front, two kids in the middle and the dad slowly bringing up the rear carrying the youngest of the brood. They looked ragged and underfed, but alive. The column moved across the bridge and down the trail. A rear guard loitered for a few seconds, then wandered off lazily after the group. And just like that, they were gone.
Coleman, who had just moments before cursed their bad luck, was now rejoicing in their fortune. In the midst of a jungle, in the middle of the Philippines, they had just stumbled across a family of Americans for whom thousands of men and women had been searching. Getting into position to support Rapp's mission was his priority, but this was an opportunity that he might not be able to resist.
Wicker leaned over and whispered in his ear.
"I counted twenty-one plus the family."
Coleman nodded and then pointed for Wicker to move forward and check things out. With his hand cupped over his lip mike he said, "Kevin and Dan, get up here."
A minute later they were gathered near the bridge. The sky was getting lighter by the minute. While Coleman briefed Hackett and Stroble on what they'd seen' Wicker checked out the path to make sure no one was lagging behind or doubling back. When the point man returned Coleman quickly laid out their options. All four men looked to the top of the mountain where they were supposed to be by the time the sun was up, and then looked down the narrow muddy path where the family of kidnapped Americans and their captors had gone.
More than probably any other military outfit, SEALs were taught to think independently in the field, but none of them were prepared for this. They had a mission to fulfill and Coleman wasn't about to leave Rapp to carry on alone, but he sure as hell didn't like the idea of losing the Andersons. His loyalty and respect for Rapp and the SEALs who had been abandoned on the beach was unquestionable, but so was the innocence of the American family held against their will for months on end. Strict protocol dictated that he get his team to the top of the hill as quickly as possible and radio in the sighting of the Andersons.
Common sense told him that this accidental sighting of the missing family was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Satellites and reconnaissance flights were incapable of penetrating the dense cover of the jungle, making any hope of searching for the Andersons by air hopeless. If Coleman radioed in their position it would take a day or more to insert a team. By that time the trail was sure to go cold.
Looking again to the top of the hill and then down the trail, Coleman continued to struggle with what to do. The answer suddenly came to him in the form of a question. What would Rapp do? The answer was obvious. The solution was less than perfect, but under the current situation, the best choice. The former SEAL Team commander gestured for his men to take a knee and then very specifically he laid out a course of action.
They had traveled north to Ramallah and then to Nablus, changing vehicles in each city. This was standard procedure.
Both cities lay on the West Bank, and despite Israeli control, there were certain enclaves in each that the Jews would not venture into unless they were in an armored column spearheaded by tanks.
David hadn't a clue as to when or where the meeting would take place, only that it would definitely be after dark. Heading north could merely be a diversion before they reversed course, or they might simply meander through one city or the other until they were convinced they weren't being followed and then stop at the appointed place.
As darkness began to fall they pulled into a parking ramp. David was swiftly ushered from the yellow Palestinian taxi he'd been riding in to a white Israeli taxi parked next to it. David was asked to lie down on the backseat and a blanket was placed over him. The transfer complete, they sped from the ramp and began winding their way through the streets of Nablus.
Approximately twenty minutes later they stopped. The blanket was pulled from David and once again he was told to get out of the car.
For a second time he found himself standing in a dimly lit concrete parking garage. He hadn't the slightest idea where he was other than somewhere on the West Bank.
Across the aisle, three men were standing by the trunk of a car smoking cigarettes. Two of them had machine guns slung over their shoulders and the third one David recognized instantly. His name was Hassan Rashid. He worked for Palestinian General Intelligence, which was the official intelligence organization of the Palestinian Authority.
The agency was supposed to help combat terrorism, and work toward a lasting stable relationship with Israel, but as with everything connected to the PLO it was rotten to the core.
Hassan Rashid was a street thug who had been a disciple of Yasser Arafat's since childhood. He'd grown up in Nablus and became very active during the first Intifada of 1987, but not in the way one would expect. As the conflict grew more violent Arafat saw an opportunity to consolidate his power, and he broke with the Palestinian extremist groups by calling for a Palestinian state to coexist alongside Israel.
This was Arafat's first real gambit to gain respect from the international community. It presented a real risk, however, since it was outright blasphemy for an Arab to want anything other than the complete destruction of the Jewish state. Because of Arafat's bold move the various groups under the loosely allied Palestinian United National Command splintered. Islamic Jihad and Hamas turned on Arafat and the blood began to flow. Rashid, who had one real talent in life, helped protect the PLO's standing in Nablus by brutalizing any and all Islamic extremists who stood against Arafat.
It took great effort on David's part to conceal his hatred for the man. As he stood with his two attachИ cases, he watched Rashid flick his cigarette through the air. It hit the ground and cart wheeled toward him, the burning tip breaking apart and showering his feet with red sparks. David looked up slowly from his shoes. Rashid was looking back with a smug look on his scarred face. His longish hooked nose was pulled farther to the side by the lopsided smirk on his lips.
"Well, pretty one, what have you brought for us this evening?"
David decided not to reply. He had risen to untouchable heights, and if Rashid persisted in his schoolyard bullying, he would have to remind him of his place.
Rashid started toward him.
"Come now, you're still not mad at me after all these years?"
"No," David feigned sincerity, "I love you like a brother."
"Oh, come now, pretty one. We all know you liked it."
"Oh, I loved it. In fact, maybe we could get together sometime and I'll shove a cattle prod up your anus. Knowing your affinity for little boys, I'm amazed you haven't already tried it. "As David said this he saw the smile vanish from Rashid's face.
The man raised his right fist, and from two steps away began to let loose an emotional roundhouse punch. Taking David for an easy, defenseless target, he put little thought into his technique or balance.
Most of the punches that Rashid had thrown in recent years had been at men tied to a chair or strung up. His street-fighting skills were not what they once were, so when his target made a swift side step, his wild punch missed its mark with such force that it spun him around.
David was done taking crap from the man who had plucked him from the street as a young teenager and tortured him for having too many Jewish friends. It had been twenty years since somebody had told the PLO that Jabril Khatabi was a sympathizer and they had dispatched Rashid, the street thug, to teach him a lesson. Now David was ready to repay the man who had destroyed his youth.
With a quick side step, he had avoided the punch, watching it sail past his face. Setting himself into a quick 360-degree spin, he kept the case in his left hand low and brought up the case in his right hand. He completed the spin just as an angry Rashid squared himself for another charge. The bottom corner of the hard black attachИ case hit with a bone-splitting crack that smashed the man's nose and sent Rashid careening off his feet and into the trunk of a parked car.
The WALL WAS AGLOW with screens relaying images shot from all around the West Bank and even a few taken from outer space. Ben Freidman was filled with anticipation. He had forced himself to use great restraint in deploying his assets. A deft hand would be needed to strike the blow he intended. Tonight he would avenge the deaths of hundreds of innocent Israelis. The Palestinians that Khatabi was going to meet were the masterminds behind the wave of suicide bombings that had rocked his country and crippled the Israeli economy.
Under Freidman's orders Mossad technicians had placed a highly sophisticated device in each case. In essence they were homing beacons connected to a GPS device and a timed burst transmitter. Every five minutes the devices turned themselves on for six seconds. The GPS recorded the position of the cases to within two meters and then the burst transmitter sent an encrypted message to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit. The devices then powered off so they wouldn't be picked up by an electronic countermeasure.
Freidman understood better than anyone the draconian measures his enemy employed to keep their activities secret. He, in fact, was the reason for much of their paranoia. He had hunted and killed them in such a wild variety of ways that it had now been several years since he had gotten anyone close enough to take real action against them.
The director general of Mossad had significant experience in the arena of assassination. In 1972, when eleven Israeli athletes were taken hostage during the Munich Olympics by the Palestinian group Black September, Ben Freidman had been there. He had stood at the side of his mentor, legendary Mossad Director General Zvi Zamir, while the German police bungled a rescue operation that resulted in the deaths of all the Israeli hostages.
To add insult to injury, the two surviving terrorists were later released by the German authorities for fear of reprisals. Israel had nowhere to turn for justice, so they looked to Mossad. It was Zamir who had convinced then Prime Minister Golda Meir that they must seek vengeance. Meir agreed and directed Zamir to hunt down the masterminds behind Black September and eliminate them. Over the next nine months the blood flowed and Ben Freidman proved himself to be one of Mossad's most efficient assassins.
His first hit was barely a month after the massacre of the Olympic athletes. Mossad wanted to send a signal to everyone, and their first target was Wael Zwaiter, a PLO representative in Rome. On October 16 Freidman approached Zwaiter from behind while the man was on a walk and put two bullets into the back of his head.
Two months later Freidman was part of a team that killed Mahoud Hamshari by placing a bomb in the phone of his Paris apartment.
The device was detonated by remote control and the PLO representative was decapitated. Blood continued to flow and Freidman's Crowning achievement came on April 13, 1973.
He was part of a select force of Mossad agents and army commandos that launched a raid into the heart of Beirut. The targets that night were three of the PLO's most senior officials. Muhammad Naj-jar, Kamal Adwan and Kamal Nasser were all gunned down in their homes. The success of the operation had implications far beyond the deaths of the three leaders. Information seized during the raids led to the assassination of three more terrorists with ties to Black September.
The victory, however, was short-lived.
Just two months later Mossad was to suffer its most embarrassing public moment. The disaster occurred in the sleepy Norwegian ski village of Lillehammer. A team of Mossad agents were sent to investigate a possible sighting of the terrorist AH Hassan Salameh. The inexperienced group incorrectly identified the target and then proceeded to kill Ahmed Bouchiki, a Moroccan waiter. If that wasn't bad enough, six of the team members were subsequently captured while trying to escape. The men and women were put on trial and five of the six were jailed. The international outcry was deafening, and Mossad was officially ordered to get out of the assassination business.
Fortunately for Ben Freidman, he had not been involved in the Lillehammer incident, for if he had, it would have marked the end of his career. Instead, the disaster in Norway served to remind him, and many others, that they needed to hone their skills further and redouble their efforts in their covert war against the Arab aggressors.
Despite the official ban on assassination, Freidman and his group of kidons continued to hunt the terrorists that plagued his country. His Crowning achievement came when one of his kidons infiltrated Hamas. One of the group's leaders, and bomb engineers, had been a particularly nasty thorn in the side of Israel for some time. His name was Yehya Ayyash. The Israeli assassin took a phone call for Ayyash on a phone that had been modified by the technicians back at Mossad. He then handed the phone to the Hamas leader and walked away. Seconds later a tiny charge of C-4 exploded, blowing a hole in the side of the terrorist's head and killing him.
Tonight the stakes were much higher. Ayyash had been but one terrorist, whereas this evening there "would be many. Others would be sure to sprout up and take their place if he were successful, but it would take the enemy years to recover from such a blow. Hopefully by then, all Palestinians would be expelled from the occupied territories and a long tall wall would be built once and for all separating the two tribes.
And then they could turn on each other. This Jabril Khatabi was a good example of what they were capable of. Freidman had no doubt that if they ever got to the point when they no longer had Israel to blame they would simply self-destruct.
Freidman's thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of his people.
"It looks like he's changed cars again."
The director general looked up at the wall of screens. On the left were twelve TVs, six high by two wide. In the middle were four large screens that measured four by six feet each and on the right there were again twelve TVs. On one of the big screens a red laser dot marked the roof of a white sedan that was moving through traffic. One by one screens flickered as they were changed from one camera vantage to another.
The advanced surveillance room wasn't all that different than a news control room. Right now the surveillance team's director and his two assistants were busy changing camera angles. At their disposal was an amazing array of surveillance equipment. Two satellites, over a thousand traffic and security cameras from all over the country, a specially equipped surveillance airplane circling the area at fifteen thousand feet, and several helicopters were about to join the fray just as soon as the sun slid over the long expanse of the Mediterranean.
Freidman watched and listened as his people worked computer consoles and joysticks, carefully directing teams in the field to attempt a visual confirmation that their man was still in the car. Freidman leaned forward into the glow of the screens and cautioned his people not to push too hard. The attachИ cases were the key. He had to take Jabril at his word; that he wanted these men dead every bit as much as Freidman did. If he was right, Jabril would do everything in his power to prevent the money from being transferred to a bag or some other case.