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Sniping in the Special Forces is a life-and-death game played at the highest intellectual level. A sniper does not fear machine-gun fire, artillery shells or bombs from the air. A sniper fears the bullet of another sniper. Snipers will lay in wait for days, slowly, cautiously scanning every inch of the landscape, section by methodical section, to make sure they don’t become the target of someone staring back at them through a high-powered scope. Fear of snipers, more than any reason, was why they wanted to be in position by sunup. Unfortunately, that precaution was out of their reach. They would now have to hope that they were the only men around with long barrels.
Coleman pressed on, his thighs burning with each foot that was gained in his quest for the relatively short summit. The pain was ignored and the pace was quickened. His lungs took in and exhaled a steady efficient supply of oxygen. He reached a sheer eleven-foot wall of rock. He was about to scale it when he noticed the trampled undergrowth to his left indicating Wicker’s passage. Without hesitation he plunged through the foliage. When he got back to the gully he looked up and saw Wicker within striking distance of the summit. Coleman put his head down and redoubled his efforts. He figured it would take him no more than two minutes to reach the top.
25
It looked like the roulette wheel would stop on Hebron, a Palestinian city of over one hundred thousand, twenty miles south of Jerusalem. In the fifty-plus years of Israeli statehood, Hebron had been a city caught in the middle. Located in a mountainous region, it was home to the Tomb of Abraham; a prophet revered by Muslims, Jews and Christians alike. A small community of Orthodox Jews lived near the center of the town, but they numbered less than a thousand and had to be protected by a garrison of Israeli Defense Forces.
The Palestinians resented the fact that a single Jew lived in their city and had tried countless times over the last century to rectify the problem by means that were less than humanitarian. The terrain lent itself naturally to urban guerrilla warfare; narrow streets that wound up and down hillsides flanked by multistory stone buildings with flat roofs. Blind corners abounded and streets stopped and started without warning. Israeli soldiers steered clear of much of the city knowing if they went in, there was a good chance they might not make it out. In short, Hebron was Palestinian-controlled territory.
It surprised David not in the least that this was where the meeting would take place. His altercation with Rashid in the parking garage had been extremely satisfying. If Rashid and his men understood anything it was force. They had seen their boss bested, and bested easily, by a younger man who by virtue of the meeting he was about to attend was somebody important.
Still, David didn’t give them much time to react as they gawked at the bloody Rashid lying unconscious on the floor. He yelled at the men to get moving and climbed into the white Israeli taxi. The men hesitated, not sure what they should do. “Leave him!” he ordered. “When I tell Mohammed Atwa what he has done, he will be grateful that you left him here.”
This was a name that stirred genuine terror in the Palestinians. The three men did not hesitate to obey. Mohammed Atwa was the head of Palestinian General Intelligence; an organization that many Palestinians feared more than Mossad. The security service was known for torturing and killing suspected collaborators with impunity. Atwa had even resurrected the old practice of killing Palestinians who dared sell their land to a Jew. He also happened to be the same man who ordered the torture and interrogation of David when he was a young teenager.
David looked out the window of the sedan as they meandered through the canyonlike streets of Hebron. Darkness had fallen and they were no longer in the white Israeli taxi. Driving such a vehicle into Hebron would be akin to walking through Harlem in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. Instead, they’d switched to a yellow Palestinian taxi.
As they rounded a tight corner they came to a sudden stop. A group of masked young men immediately surrounded the car. They carried a variety of weapons from Russian-made AK-47s to American-made M16s. All four doors of the sedan were yanked open and everyone was told to get out. David was searched once again for a transmitter. When one of the men stepped up and tried to grab the attaché cases, David stopped him with a stern rebuke. He placed both cases on the trunk of the car and opened one and then the other. The packets of neatly bound one hundred dollar bills left the men momentarily awestruck. The nicely dressed young man they were dealing with was apparently someone very important.
David slammed the cases closed before the guards had time to gather their wits. Acting impatient, he grabbed each case and told the men he was not to be delayed further. With the vision of millions of American dollars still fresh in their heads, none of them argued. David was walked through the barricade and placed in the back of a minivan. The van raced up the street, turning several times. On each corner men stood watch with assault rifles at their sides.
Six blocks later they stopped in front of a three-story house. Both sides of the street were clogged with parked cars. David grew nervous for a second and then saw the vehicle he was looking for. The Mercedes sedan was parked just on the other side of a van. David breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the armored car belonged to Mohammed Atwa.
Clutching the attaché cases, he stepped from the van and walked toward the house. His arms suddenly felt very heavy, and everything began to slow down. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk and then slowly up at the two masked men standing guard in front of the blue wood door with chipped and peeling paint. The men were gesturing for David to hurry but he didn’t hear what they were saying. He just casually placed one foot in front of the other, and then the next thing he knew, he was in the house.
There were people everywhere. It was as if a party were going on. Smoke and loud conversation filled the air. To the room on his left there was a virtual banquet; mounds of grilled lamb, shashlik, mussakhan and chicken liver. A middle-aged man who ran the Popular Liberation Committee in Gaza was popping baklava into his mouth and nodding enthusiastically to the head of Force 17. Over in the corner he saw two men sipping Arab coffee and discussing something in earnest. One of the men he knew to be the head of security for Islamic Jihad but the other man he didn’t recognize. David felt his throat tighten a bit; this was the culmination of meticulous planning and great patience. It was almost exactly as he’d dreamt it would be.
He looked to the right and saw a big screen TV. It was tuned to Al Jazeera, but it seemed no one was paying attention. Three large couches were arranged around the TV. They were filled with men, some of whom David recognized. This was the closest thing David had ever seen to a terrorism summit.
There were representatives from the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, and at least one from Beirut. There were several new faces from the martyr brigades and many old faces from the PLO and its only true rival, Hamas.
Through the crowd David saw Mohammed Atwa approach. David forced a smile to his face and lifted the two attaché cases in the air. Atwa, the head of Palestinian General Intelligence, the torturer of thousands, grabbed David by the cheeks and standing on his toes, kissed the younger man’s forehead.
With a flourish Atwa turned and waved a theatrical arm in the air. “He is here! Our son has returned from visiting our rich Saudi friends!”
Everyone fell silent for a brief moment and then the room broke into applause, toothy grins and nods of enthusiasm. This was the apogee of two years of hard work. David had started small, working his way up the ladder of the Palestinian Authority. His first donation had been $10,000. From there it got bigger, and as his stature grew, he worked his way closer to Atwa; the power behind the power, the man whom he someday would kill.
David knew if he were to ever see a Palestinian state, Hamas would have to be dealt a vicious blow. The Islamic fanatics would never be happy until every last Jew was dead, and when that happened they would only be satisfied if a Palestinian state were run by clerics who enforced strict Islamic law. Even the radical PLO looked tame next to the crazed members of Hamas.
David had cautiously counseled Atwa to bring Hamas into the fold by providing them with capital. The agreement was that David would use his skills to raise money and Atwa would hand part of that money over to Hamas to finance their terrorist and martyr operations. As David’s fund-raising prowess grew, so did Hamas’s reliance on PLO support. David was so successful that Atwa was also able to entice some other groups to the trough. They included Islamic Jihad, the Popular Resistance Committee and Hezbollah.
Tonight had been billed as a watershed evening for the groups. The last month’s fund-raising had been so fruitful that they would all gather under the benevolence of Atwa and the PLO to divide the spoils.
Atwa relieved David of one of the attaché cases and grabbed him by the arm. Excitedly, he led David between two of the couches to a spot in front of the big screen TV. Atwa turned his case around and opened it for the group to see. He nodded for David to do the same.
“Two million dollars, my friends!”
The room broke into shouts and praise for Allah. Men jumped to their feet and began hugging each other. The irony of seeing these cold-blooded killers act in a such a lighthearted way made David smile to himself. What idiots! Not only was the money counterfeit, courtesy of the Iraqis, but there was an even better surprise in store.
Atwa set the attaché case down on the table and David did the same. Turning to one of his lieutenants, Atwa handed him a sheet of paper that explained how the money was to be distributed. Then, overcome with the emotion of the moment, he grabbed David and hugged him. Patting him on the cheek like a son, he told David how proud he was of him.
David kept up his act and shrugged off the compliment. “It was no big deal.”
“Yes it was, and don’t say it wasn’t.” Atwa stuck a finger in his face to warn him against any more modesty. Then, looking around the room, he began to frown and asked, “Where is Hassan?”
David hesitated just briefly and then seized his chance. “I need to talk to you about that.”
Atwa’s lined face became concerned. “What has happened?”
