talkie channels, but he heard no alerts from any of the guards--which
meant no more surprises in this remote corner. For reasons of safety,
SatCom deliberately had located the helicopter pad as far as possible
from the Cyclops and the launch installation. All staff were engaged
down at the other end. This guard had been a loner, and he had paid for
his stupidity.
"Phase two complete," Ramirez announced quietly as he looked back at
the Hind. "Now, remember. No heroics. Everybody on semiauto."
The only obvious security out here was at the entry gate to the chopper
pad. After Peretz quickly aborted its alarm by short-circuiting the
copper contacts, they moved through single-file. Ramirez stood at the
opening, studying each man one last time and hoping he could keep them
together as a team.
So far almost everything had gone according to plan. He had hand-
picked, assembled, and trained them four months in Libya, rehearsing
them for all the standard antiterrorist techniques that might be used
against them--from stun grenades to "Thunder Strips"--then afterward had
rendezvoused with them in Yemen to pick up the Hind, the other
helicopter, and the two packages. He had made cash arrangements with
enough officials in both countries to ensure that no questions would be
asked.
The most unreliable team member was Salim Khan, tonight's pilot.
Ramirez watched him pat a twenty-two-round clip into his Uzi and draw
back the gnarled walnut cocking knob on the top as he stepped through
the gate. He looked trustworthy, but he really wasn't. Ramirez
suspected Salim was too bitter, was too strongly of the opinion life
had given him a screwing--which meant he was now devoted to settling the
score. He liked to live on the edge, push the rules. On the other hand,
this mission was all about that, and thus far Ramirez had exploited the
Iranian to the hilt. It also meant, however, that he had to be watched:
he was a cynical realist who held nothing but contempt for the militant
cadres of young firebrands who marched through the streets of Tehran
with photos of some ayatollah attached defiantly to their chest,
chanting slogans against the Great Satan . . . while wearing jeans
whose back pockets read "Made in U.S.A." Because Salim didn't believe
in anything anymore, he was difficult to control. Always dicey.
Following close behind him, also carrying a black Uzi, was Jamal, his
younger brother. Jamal, with crazy eyes and a coal-black beard, was the
exact opposite--he only fought for a cause.
Jamal had come to Lebanon years ago to join Hizballah, a radical
organization headquartered in West Beirut and the Bekaa Valley. Since
he joined, as many as five hundred Hizballah had been directly involved
in terrorist acts in the Middle East and Europe. He believed God wanted
him to carry out a jihad, a holy crusade, against the Americans and
Zionists who had surrounded and were choking the Muslim peoples. To
prove his faith, he had been part of the team that commandeered a
Libyan Arab Airlines 727 in flight between Zurich and Tripoli, leading
to the longest hijacking in history. The plane had traveled six
thousand miles, bouncing from Beirut to Athens, then Rome, again
Beirut, and even Tehran before ending on its third stop in Lebanon
three days later.
Miraculously Jamal had walked free. He was a hothead, but he also was a
survivor. Jamal prayed five times a day, neither drank nor smoked, and
had been one of the explosives experts on the U.S. Embassy job in
Beirut that killed 218 Marines. He was truly a living contradiction.
That was fine with Ramirez. He could care less about Hizballah's
radical politics. On the other hand, he'd always made good use of them.
After Jamal's famous hijacking, Ramirez had gone to the Bekaa Valley
and found him, and through him Salim--who, by stealing the Hind, had
turned out to be much more valuable than his rabid younger brother. All
the same, he had problems with them. Iranians sometimes had difficulty
discerning the difference between fact and fantasy: as with most
Muslims, they thought that saying something was so made it happen.
The tall man striding through after Jamal, nursing a slight limp, was
Stelios Tritsis, their only Greek. In 1975, as a young firebrand, he
had been a founding member of the famous terrorist organization
Epanastaiki Organosi 17 Noemvri. In his heart he was still a radical,
dedicated to forcing Greece out of NATO and ending the U.S. military
domination of his country. The new American imperialism in the Persian
Gulf had only proved he was right all along.
Because of an incident long ago in his youth--a torture episode at the
hands of the infamous Colonels--Stelios's eyes never seemed entirely
focused. He had become addicted to the morphine given to relieve the
pain and never kicked it. Even so, he was their most lethal marksman,
and he considered this operation his final revenge against America and
her lackeys. The man didn't care, honestly didn't care, about his share
of the money. Even Ramirez had to admire that.
Following him was Jean-Paul Moreau, head of the famous Action Directe,
whose international wing was headquartered in Paris. Jean-Paul was
tall, had long flowing blond hair and determined eyes. He also had a
famous bullet scar across his cheek from an attempt in the early
eighties to assassinate former Justice Minister Alain Peyrefitte with a
bomb attached to his car. He merely killed the chauffeur and was
wounded by the security guards. But in November 1986 he got his
revenge, masterminding the murder of Georges Besse, the chairman of
Renault. He wanted nothing more than for Europe to rid herself of
Americans and Zionists--toward which end Action Directe had cooperated
with the Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Faction on several attacks
carried out in France, which was how Ramirez had first met him. In the
past Action Directe had financed its operations primarily through bank
robberies. After this, Moreau was told, their money problems would be
over.
The next man was Wolf Helling, the lanky, balding leader of Germany's
Revolutionare Zellen. Ramirez suspected his real goal in life was to
look as Aryan as possible. Politically he was an anarchist--who had, in
1984, bombed a NATO fuel pipeline near Lorch in Baden-Wurttemberg. RZ's
official aim was to pressure the U.S. out of Germany through terrorist
attacks and to destroy the West German "system" by conducting guerrilla
terrorism against Zionists and militarists. RZ had long-standing ties
to Palestinian terrorist organizations, which was again how Ramirez had
met him. How ironic for Helling, just when he had lived to see the
Zionist American military begin to depart Europe, it had become the de
facto ruler of the Middle East. He wanted to teach America one final
lesson: the propertied classes of the world could never be secure.
Following behind him were three beefy former members of East Germany's
Stasi--now being sought by authorities in the new unified Germany for
torture and other crimes of the past. With few friends left, they had
thrown in their lot with RZ. They had always reminded Ramirez of the
three monkeys of folklore: Rudolph Schindler, with his dark sunglasses,
could see no evil; Peter Maier remained such a rabid ideologue he still
could hear no evil (of Communism); and Henes Sommer spoke nothing but
evil, against everyone. They were sullen and bitter, but they were
perfect goons for auxiliary firepower, or should be. They were men
without a country, guns for hire who already had lost everything.
Dore Peretz, their renegade Israeli, walked through last, closing the
wire gate behind him. He had fixed his steady dark eyes on only one
outcome: he had come for the money, the money only. No politics or
mock-heroics for him. He already had selected a seaside villa in
Hadera. Despite his annoying tendency to shoot off his mouth, to make
jokes at the wrong time, his contribution would be crucial. Ramirez did
not wholly trust him, but he needed his computer and weapons expertise.
He asked himself what Peretz would do if the chips were really down.
With luck, however, that question would never have to be answered.
Ramirez almost liked him--he was not sure why--and would hate to have to
kill the smart-ass fucker. . . .
They were in. Command lay at one end of SatCom's setup, the two
vehicles at the other, and in between was the living quarters--known as
the "Bates Motel"--as well as rows of small warehouses that contained
supplies for personnel and equipment maintenance, used for storage but
now darkened and locked. As they moved along the walkway, carefully
staying out of the circles of light that illuminated the doorways of
the warehouses, their black slipovers blended into the Aegean night.
The minimal lighting in this area caused him no hesitation: he had
thoroughly memorized the site. He knew they would find the control
center with the computers just below their present location.
Now they were approaching the entry-point to Command, the high-security
"lobby." Just inside the glass-doored space a uniformed Greek guard
occupied a teakwood desk, attentively studying the sports section of an
Athens newspaper.
They paused in the last shadows before the open space fronting the
entryway, giving Stelios Tritsis time to shuck his black pullover.
Underneath he was wearing the brown uniform of a SatCom guard, complete
with epaulets and the regulation .38. He also had what, upon casual
inspection, looked like a SatCom photo ID.
While the others waited, holding their breath, he stepped through the
glass entry doors, feigning a jaunty pace and flipping the pass
impatiently against the leg of his uniform.
When the SatCom guard looked up, puzzled, and started to challenge him,
Tritsis was only five feet away. He sang out a hello in Greek, then
reached to scratch an itch in the small of his back. When his hand came
away, it was holding a small Glock-17 automatic. The shot was directly
in the forehead, a dull thunk, and the guard tumbled backward in his
chair, his eyes disbelieving, his .38 still holstered. It took only
seconds.
Without a word the rest of them moved in.
"What's next?" Ramirez said quietly to Peretz.
"The code for the doors has to be punched in there--" he pointed. Behind
the desk was a computer terminal that reported the security status of
all the sectors. Its green screen remained blank, flashing no alerts.
"Disable them," Ramirez ordered, the first test of the Israeli's
technical skills. In the hours to come, he would prove indispensable.
Or so he claimed. "Then deactivate the access code and we ought to be
able to just walk in."
While Jamal was rearranging the guard's body, leaving him slumped over
the desk as though asleep, Ramirez locked the entry doors behind them,
then stepped behind the desk and dimmed the lobby lights. Finally he
slipped off his flight suit and tossed it behind the desk.
Right on schedule.
They headed toward Command. He knew that if you control the brain, you
are master of the body, and now they had to seize that brain. So far
their smooth progress surpassed his hopes. But the next phase was
crucial, allowed for no foul-ups. He still feared his ad hoc troops
might get trigger-happy and destroy some of the critical equipment; he
had even considered making them use blanks, but that was taking too big
a risk.
"The gates of Paradise are about to be opened," Jamal declared through
his black beard, his crazed eyes reflecting back the lights on the
security door as they changed from red to green and a muted buzzer
sounded. "Allah has given this to us."
Ramirez said nothing, merely straightened the hand-tailored cuffs of
his charcoal Brioni. Then he stepped back to watch as the door to
Command Central slowly began sliding to the left.