15


It was dark when they left the Klotzikeller. Medieval Bern at night had an atmosphere all its own. Dimly lit alleys and side streets, shadowed arcades, the echoing of footsteps, pools of light and warmth from cafés, restaurants, and Stuben all conspired to create an illusion of timelessness and mystery, and sometimes, when it was late and the crowds were gone and the hostelries closed and shuttered, of menace.

They took the now-familiar route past the clock tower. Lorenzini's restaurant was off a small arcade that linked Marktgasse and Amthausgasse. The restaurant itself was on the first floor. Inside there was the clamor, vitality, and distinctive aroma of good Italian food and wine.

The Bear's eyes lit up. He was greeted like a long-lost son, a long-lost hungry son. Arms outstretched, a quick embrace, a flurry of salutations, quick bursts of colloquial Italian, and they were seated at a table, menus in hand, wine poured, in what seemed like seconds.

"Aagh!" said the Bear as he surveyed the menu and then swiveled his eyes toward the antipasti cart. "So many choices and so little time." He mused for a while, brows creased in an agony of alternatives. Finally the choice was made — a meal of restraint, one might almost say moderation: antipasto misto all’italiana, for starters, paillarde di vitello con broccoli al limone, to keep momentum up, and only half a liter of Chianti (each) before skipping dessert and going straight to coffee.

Fitzduane was mildly shocked. "Surely not a diet."

"Certainly not." A look of pain crossed the Bear's face. "It is just that too much food can dull the mind and we have some serious thinking to do. Now what was I talking about?"

"Terrorism and Switzerland," said Fitzduane, "and some ideas of your own on the subject."

"Ah, yes. My point is that here in Switzerland we don't have a terrorist problem as such, or at least not in the sense that we suffer to any significant extent from terrorist attacks. Oh, we have the odd incidents, to be sure, but they are few and far between."

"So if I understand you right," said Fitzduane, "you are suggesting that not only is there very little terrorist activity in Switzerland, but even such few incidents as have occurred were either accidental or directed at someone or something outside the country."

The Bear nodded. "I'm not suggesting for a moment that these few incidents are the limit of terrorist activity here. That would be naïve and ridiculous. No, what I am saying is that Switzerland has much the same role in terrorism as it has in business and world affairs, except that in this case it's involuntary and mainly initiated by foreigners. I'm referring to our role as banker, head office, communications point, middleman, and haven. As far as those roles are concerned, I personally believe that there is considerable terrorist activity here. Perhaps we should spend less time on shooting practice and more on detective work because if we don't, sooner or later some terrorist will find he doesn't like commuting and then the blood will start to flow here."

"And what about the youth movement?"

"Any disillusioned kid can be manipulated," said the Bear. "I've seen it often enough on the drug squad. But to suggest that the youth movement is an embryonic terrorist grouping is going too far. Most of the kids who demonstrate on the streets go back home to Mommy and Daddy afterward and have hot Ovalmaltine in the bosom of the family before they go to bed."

Fitzduane laughed, and the Bear's resolve weakened. He ordered the piattino di formaggio italiano; the Gorgonzola, Taleggio, Fontina, and Bel Paese surrendered gracefully.

"I'll tell you something else," said the Bear. "I think most people have the wrong idea about terrorists. They think of terrorists as being a bunch of fanatics motivated by idealism. In other words, however reprehensible their methods, their eventual goals are pure and noble, at least if seen from their point of view. That may be true for some, but for many I think the objective is simpler and more basic: money."

"So you are saying that many so-called terrorist incidents are actually crimes committed solely for personal gain?"

"‘Solely’ might be going too far," said the Bear. "Let me just say that I believe decidedly mixed emotions may be involved. I mean, do you have any idea of the sheer scale of money a terrorist can make? It's one of the fastest tax-free ways going to make a million dollars."

"And one of the most dangerous," said Fitzduane.

"I'm not so sure," said the Bear. "If you examine a list of incidents in which money was involved — money for the cause —" he added sardonically, "you'll be surprised by the scale. After the OPEC hijack of Yamani and the other oil ministers," said the Bear, "Carlos received a personal bonus of two million dollars from Qaddafi. And that was a bonus on top of his other takings. Another small Arab group supported by Qaddafi receives five million dollars a year, but that pales in comparison with the sums raised by terrorists from kidnapping."

"Few details are available because secrecy is often part of the agreement between kidnappers and victim, but consider the activities of just one group, the ERP, the People's Revolutionary Army of Argentina. They got a million dollars for kidnapping a Fiat executive; they got two million for Charles Lockwood, an Englishman who worked for Acrow Steel; they got three million for John R. Thompson, the American president of the local subsidiary of Firestone Tires; they were paid over fourteen million for Victor Samuelson, an Exxon executive. But get this: In 1975, the Montoneros, another Argentinian group, demanded and received sixty million dollars in cash and another million plus in food and clothing for the poor in exchange for the two sons of Jorge Born, chairman of the Bunge y Born group."

"Sixty million dollars!" exclaimed Fitzduane.

"Sixty," said the Bear. "Hard to credit, isn't it? And I'm quoting only from the cases we know about. God knows how many hundreds of millions are paid each year by companies and the rich in secret. Either as ransom or else to avoid being kidnapped — in other words, protection.

"Terrorism is a business. The publicized hijackings, bombings, and killings create the required climate of fear. They from the terrorist promotional budget, if you will, and then the serious business of extracting huge sums of money goes on steadily behind the scenes. The iceberg parallel comes to mind again — one-tenth exposed, nine-tenths hidden. Terrorism is a one-tenth composed of highly publicized outrages with an accompanying nine-tenths of secret extortion and terror, and a profit orientation in most cases that would put Wall Street to shame."

"You know," said Fitzduane, "the figures on terrorism in Northern Ireland make the point that Switzerland hasn't a terrorist problem worthy of the name — at least in terms of violence. Over the last decade here you seem to have had only a handful of incidents of any significance; during the same period in Northern Ireland well over two thousand people have been killed, tens of thousands have been injured, and damage to property has cost hundred of millions."

"That isn't terrorism in the Continental sense," said the Bear. "It's a war."


* * * * *


Bern was nearly asleep. Cafés and restaurants were closed and shuttered. Windows were dark. The streets were empty. Only an occasional car disturbed the quiet.

Fitzduane leaned against the railing of the KirchenfeldBridge and smoked the last of his Havana. He knew he should dictate a few notes on the evening's developments, but he felt mellow from several hours' drinking with the Bear, and the miniature tape recorder remained in his pocket.

The night air was pleasantly cool. Below him the black waters of the Aare flowed invisibly except for the reflection of a car's headlights as it drove along Aarstrasse and then vanished past the Marzili. Another late reveler returning home, or perhaps a journalist retiring after putting the newspaper to bed, Fitzduane speculated idly.

To his right he could see the impressive mass of the Bellevue Hotel, with its magnificent view of the mountains during the day from both its windows and its terraces. The Bear had told him that during the Second World War the Bellevue had been the headquarters of German intelligence activities in neutral Switzerland; the Allies had been in the less grandiose but friendlier Schweizerhof only a few blocks away.

The lights were still on in several of the Bellevue's bedrooms. As he watched, the rooms went dark one by one. Fitzduane was much take by the Kirchenfeldbrücke, though he didn't quite know why. It wasn't the highest bridge in Bern, and it certainly wasn't the oldest. It had none of the drama of the Golden Gate in San Francisco or the storybook appeal of TowerBridge in London. But it had a quality all its own, and it was a good place to think.

The Bear had offered him a ride back to the apartment, but Fitzduane had declined, preferring to walk. He enjoyed the feeling of the city asleep, of the sense of space when the streets were empty, of the freedom of the spirit when there were no other people around to distract. The Havana was coming to an end. He consigned the remains to a watery grave. He turned from the railings and began walking along the bridge toward home. He heard laughter and a faint, familiar hissing sound. He looked back. Two lovers, arm in arm on roller skates, were gliding in perfect time along the pavement toward hi. There were moving deceptively fast, scarves trailing behind, body movements blurred by loose-fitting garments. As they passed under a streetlamp, they looked at each other for a second and laughed again. Fitzduane stepped back to let them pass. For a moment he thought of Etan and felt alone.

The force of the blow to Fitzduane's chest was savage, reinforced by the momentum of the skater. The knife fell from the assailant's grasp and clattered to the ground several meters away. The assailant turned neatly on his skates, then glided forward to retrieve his weapon. He tossed it from hand to hand. Light glittered from the blade. The woman stood some distance behind the assailant, watching, but this was to be his kill; the fatal blow was already struck.

Fitzduane felt numbness and pain. The railings were at his back, the river below. The tripod case containing the shotgun had been torn off his shoulder; it lay to one side, tantalizingly close. He knew he would not have time to reach it before the man with the knife attacked again. His eyes watched the blade. With his right hand he felt his chest for blood. He found there wasn't any. He was surprised he could still stand.

The blade was still for a moment in the assailant's hand — and then it thrust forward in a blur of steel, the coup de grâce, a deft display of knife craft. Adrenaline pumped through Fitzduane's body. With a sudden effort he moved to one side, parrying the knife with his left arm. He felt a burning sensation and the warmth of blood. He thrust his right hand, fingers stiffened, into his attacker's throat. There was a choking sound, and the man fell back. He clutched at his throat with his left hand, making gasping sounds. His knife, held in the palm of his right hand, fended off a further attack.

Fitzduane saw the girl beginning to move and knew he would have to finish it quickly. He slumped against the railings as if that last effort had finished him. The man moved forward this time in a slashing attack and made a sudden rush. Fitzduane pivoted and, using he attacker's momentum, flung him over the railings. There was a short, terrified scream and a dull thud.

The girl now had a knife in her hand. Fitzduane moved fast. He threw himself in a combat roll toward the tripod case and came up with the shotgun. He pumped a round into the chamber. Blood was dripping from his arm, and he felt sick. The girl stared at him, her knife held out, weaving slightly. Slowly she backed away; then suddenly she turned and sped away into the darkness. He could hear the hissing of her skates, and she was gone.

He looked over the railings, but he could see nothing. His rib cage felt sore and bruised against the hard metal. He stood upright and examined where the knife had struck him initially. The blade had not penetrated. The blow had been absorbed by his miniature Olympus tape recorder. Small pieces of the machine fell from the rent in his jacket onto the pavement and were joined by drops of blood from his gashed arm.


* * * * *


In his dream the Bear was happy. He and Tilly had gone to the little castle at Spiez to pick up some wine. There were those who said that Spiez wine was far too dry and was made out of dissolved flints, but the Bear did not agree. Anyway, they always enjoyed the whole business of actually getting the wine, the drive out by the Thunersee, lunch at a lakeside restaurant, and then going down into the cellar and joining the line to watch one's own wine bottles being filled. He wondered why the telephone was ringing so loudly in the wine cellar. Nobody else seemed to notice. He looked at Tilly and she smiled at him, and then she was gone. He felt lost.

He lifted the telephone receiver. "Sergeant Raufman," said the voice. It sounded excited.

"Yes," said the Bear, "and it's two o'clock in the fucking morning in case you're interested."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Sergeant Raufman," said the voice, "but it is important. I am the night duty manager at the Hotel Bellevue."

"Good for you," said the Bear. "I like to sleep at night; some of us do."

"Let me explain," said the voice. "A man has come into the hotel. He is bleeding for one arm onto our carpets, and he has a gun. What should we do?"

"Haven't a clue. Try putting a bucket under the arm. Call the police. Who the fuck knows?"

"Sergeant Raufman, this man says he knows you—"

"What a second," said the Bear, "who is this man?"

"He says his name is Fitz something," said the voice. "I didn't want to ask him again. He looks" — there was a pause — "dangerous." Three was a wistfulness in the voice.

"What's your name?"

"Rolf," said the voice, "Rolfi Müller."

"Well, listen, Rolfi. I'll be over in ten minutes. Bandage his arm, get him what he wants, don't call anyone else, and don't make a pass at him, capisce?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Rolfi. "Isn't it exciting?"

There was no reply from the Bear. He was already pulling his trousers over his pajama bottoms. Somehow he wasn’t entirely surprised at the news.


* * * * *


An hour later the Bear was letting the doctor out of Fitzduane's apartment when the phone rang. He closed and locked the door and slipped two heavy security bolts in place; then he took the call in the study. Fitzduane lay back against the pillows of the king-size bed and let the lassitude of reaction take over.

The Bear came in. He stood with his hands in his pockets and looked down at Fitzduane. The collar of his pajama top protruded above his jacket. The stubble on his cheeks made him look shaggier than ever.

"The doctor thinks you'll live," said the Bear. "The cut on your arm was bloody but not deep. On your chest you'll just have a good-size bruise, and I guess you'll need a new tape recorder."

"I'm beginning to float," said Fitzduane. "Whatever that doctor have me, it works."

"They found him," said the Bear. "Or what we assume is him. He just missed the river. There's the body of a young male who answers your description. He's at the edge of the sports ground under the bridge."

"Dead?"

"Oh, yes, very much so. I'm afraid this is really going to complicate things."

"It was self-defense," protested Fitzduane. "He seemed keen on one of us leaving the bridge, and it was bloody close as it was."

The Bear gave a sigh. "That's not the point," he said. "You've killed someone. There are no witnesses. There will have to be an investigation. Paperwork, statements, an inquiry by an examining magistrate, the whole thing."

Fitzduane's voice was sleepy. "Better investigated than dead."

"You don't have to do the paperwork," was the grumpy rejoinder. "By the way, there is a Berp outside. Technically you are under arrest."

Fitzduane did not reply. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was regular and even. The top half of his body was uncovered, and his bandaged arm lay outstretched. There were signs of severe bruising on his torso just below the rib cage. The detective reached out and covered the sleeping figure with the duvet. He switched off the light and quietly closed the bedroom door.

The Berp was making coffee in the kitchen. He gave the Bear a cup, liberally laced with von Graffenlaub's brandy. The Bear knew he would have to get some sleep soon or he'd fall down.

The uniformed policeman rocked his kitchen chair back and forth on its rear legs. He was a veteran of more than twenty years on the force, and for a time before the Bear donned plain clothes, they had shared a patrol car together.

"What's it all about, Heini?"

He could see the pale light of false dawn through the kitchen window. The apartment was warm, but he shivered with the chill of fatigue. "I think our Irishman might have a tiger by the tail."

The Berp raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't tell me a lot."

"I don't know a lot."

"Why are detectives always so secretive?"

The Bear smiled. It was true. "We live off secrets," he said. "Otherwise, who'd need a detective?"

The phone rang again. There was a wall extension in the kitchen. The Berp answered it and handed it to the Bear. "Yours. The duty officer at the station."

The Bear listened. He asked a few questions, and a smile crossed his face; then he replaced the phone. "Lucky bugger."

"Do you want to expand on that?"

"There was a witness," said the Bear. "It seems one of the guests staying at the Bellevue — a visiting diplomat — saw the whole thing from his bedroom window. He says he saw the attack on Fitzduane and tried to report it, but no one on duty could understand him, so eventually he got an interpreter from his embassy and made a statement. He confirms the Irishman's story."

"I thought diplomats were good at languages."

The Bear laughed. "I think the delay here had more to do with his having to get rid of the woman in his room first," he said. "That's what the word is from the night staff at the hotel."

"Somebody's wife?" said the Berp.

"No," said the Bear. "That wasn't the problem. It was one of the local hookers."

"So?"

"Our visiting diplomat is from the Vatican," said the Bear. "He's a Polish priest."

The Berp grinned. His chair was tilted back as far as it would go. "Sometimes I enjoy this job."

"You'll fall," warned the Bear. He was too late.


* * * * *


Kilmara read the telex from Bern a second time. He looked out the window: gray skies, rain falling in sheets, damp, cold weather.

"I hate March in Ireland," he said, "and now I'm beginning to hate April. Where are the sunny days, blue skies, and daffodils of my youth? What have I done to April for it to behave like this?"

"It isn't personal," said Günther. "It's age. As you get older, the weather seems to get worse. Older bones cry out for sun and warmth."

"Cry out in vain in this bloody country."

There was a slight click from the video machine as it ceased rewinding. "Once more?" said Günther.

Kilmara nodded, then looked again at the high-resolution conference video screen. The video had been taken by a four-man Ranger team that had been instructed to treat the whole matter as a reconnaissance exercise.

They had parachuted onto the island at night using HALO — high altitude, low-opening — techniques. Equipped with oxygen face masks and miniature cylinders clipped to their jump harnesses, they had jumped from an army transport at 22,000 feet. They were using black steerable rectangular ramjet parachutes but had skydived for most of the distance, reaching forward speeds of up to 150 miles per hour and navigating with the aid of night-vision goggles by comparing the terrain with the map they had studied and the video made by a Ranger reconnaissance plane the night before. Electronic altimeters clipped to the tops of their reserve parachutes flashed the diminishing height on glowing red LED meters. At 800 feet the Rangers pulled their D rings and speed-opened their parachutes.

The fully flared parachutes had the properties of true airfoils and could be turned, braked, and stalled by warping the trailing edge with the control lines. Even so, this high degree of maneuverability was scarcely enough. Reports had forecast low wind for the time of year in the area, but there was heavy gusting, and it was only with great effort and not a little luck that the team landed near the drop zone on a deserted part of the island. Making use of their night-vision equipment, the men had then hiked across the island to DrakerCollege. They had constructed two blinds and by dawn were completely concealed, with the two entrances to the main building under observation.

For five days and nights they saw nothing unusual, but on the sixth night their strained patience was rewarded. The video had been shot using a zoom lens and a second-generation image intensifier. It had been raining heavily at the time, so detail was not good, though it was reasonable given the conditions. Nevertheless, what the observation team had photographed was startling enough.

Shortly after midnight, with one more night of long and monotonous observation to go, a single figure was seen slipping out of the side entrance of the college. The image was scarcely more than a blurred silhouette at first, since the camera lens was set at normal pending a specific target. The figure reached the cover of some gorse bushes and crouched down, blending into the surroundings. One disadvantage of the image intensifier was its inability to show colors; everything showed up in contrasting shades of greenish gray.

The camera operator began to zoon in to get a closer look with the powerful telephoto lens but then paused to pull back slightly to cover two more figures, who left the side entrance and ran, crouched down, to cover. There was a wait of perhaps half a minute before two more figures appeared. Several minutes passed. The camera zoomed in to try to get a close-up, but the bushes were in the way, and only small glimpses of human forms through the gaps in the foliage indicated that they were still there.

Kilmara imagined what it was like for the Rangers waiting in the blinds. Holes had been dug in the ground, making use of any natural features that could be turned to the diggers' advantage, such as an overhang to prevent observation from the air or a fold in the ground to hide the entrance. The top sods had been removed intact, and the undersoil dug out carefully and concealed. The holes were covered with a frame of reinforced chicken wire, which in turn was surfaced with the original sods to match the surrounding terrain. The result could be stood upon without detection and would be virtually invisible from even a few yards away.

Routine observation was kept through a miniature lens mounted at the end of a fiber-optic cable that would peer periscope style through the roof of the blind. The incoming pictures could be monitored on a pocket-size television. The technology had been adapted from that used in microsurgery.

The first figure emerged from behind the clump of bushes, followed at twenty yard intervals by the others. In single file they headed for the wood. The picture on the screen dissolved into an out-of-focus blur for a few seconds before sharpening again into close-up. Kilmara felt the same shock that had struck him at the first viewing. The face on the screen was not human. He was looking at the body of a man and the head of some monstrous, unrecognizable animal: fur and matted hair, short, curving horns, a protruding muzzle fixed in a snarl. It was an image from a nightmare.

The camera surveyed each figure in turn. Each wore a different and equally bizarre mask. They vanished into the wood.

"Two suicides by hanging and the accidental death of the headmaster," said Günther, "and now this?"

"Well, at least we now have a pretty fair idea of what happened to Fitzduane's goat," said Kilmara, "but dressing up isn't a crime."

"So you think all is in order?"

"Do pigs fly?"


* * * * *


The camp was more than two hundred kilometers south of Tripoli and had been built around a small oasis, its date palms and patch of dusty greenery now submerged in a forest of prefabricated single-story barracks, concrete blockhouses, weapons ranges, parade grounds, and assault courses.

Two four-meter-high barbed-wire fences secured the perimeter. The outer fence had been electrified, and watchtowers equipped with KPV 14.5 mm Vladimorov heavy machine guns were placed at two-hundred-meter intervals. Missile batteries augmented with mobile radar-guided four-barreled ZSU-4 antiaircraft guns guarded the approaches.

The cam could hold as many as a thousand trainee freedom fighters, and over the years since its construction many times that number of members of the PLO, the Polisario, and the myriad other violent groups supported by Colonel Muammar Qaddafi had passed through its gates.

Slightly depleted by a steady drain of fatal casualties experienced in live-ammunition training, they emerged after intensive indoctrination in guerrilla tactics and terrorist techniques, including refinements such as constructing car and letter bombs, concealing weapons and explosives aboard aircraft, getting the maximum media reaction from a terrorist incident, torture, and the handling and execution of hostages. The instructors were proficient, experienced, and impersonal. They lived apart from their trainees in luxury air-conditioned accommodations outside the camp. The languages heard around their Olympic-size swimming pool amid the clinking of glasses, the laughter, and the splashing were those of East Germany, Cuba, and Russia.

There were other such camps in Libya and indeed in South Yemen, Cuba, Syria, Lebanon, East Germany, and Russia. Camp Carlos Marighella, named after the Brazilian author of one of the most famous urban terrorism handbooks, had been chosen because it was isolated and secure, and the project had the personal support of Muammar Qaddafi.

Since he overthrew Libya's senile King Idris in 1969, Qaddafi had provided money, arms, sanctuary, and training facilities for just about every terrorist organization worthy of the name. He had provided active support for the team that carried out the Olympic Games massacre in Munich. He had provided the PLO with a yearly allowance of forty million dollars. He had offered a million dollars for the assassination of Anwar Sadat of Egypt. He had invaded Tunisia. He had fought with Egypt. He had repeatedly invaded Chad. He had fomented unrest in the Sudan. He had given financial assistance to the Nicaraguan Sandinistas, Argentina's Montoneros, Uruguay's Tupamaros, the IRA Provisionals, the Spanish Basque ETA, the French Breton and Corsican separatist movements, and Muslim insurgents in Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines. He had provided military assistance to Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Republic and Idi Main of Uganda. He had been behind the blowing up of a Pan American plane at Rome's FiumicinoAirport, in which thirty-one passengers burned to death. He had provided the SAM-7 heat-seeking missiles with which a Palestinian team planned to shoot down an El Al jet taking off from Fiumicino. He had been an active supporter of the OPEC raid in Vienna in Christmas 1975.

The man who had selected Libya as the training ground and marshaling area for his assault group felt quite satisfied that he had made the right decision. His every need was being met. Qaddafi had even offered a bonus of ten million dollars upon successful completion of the project. At the end of their private audience he had presented the man with a personally autographed copy of his Green Book on the Islamic Revolution — and a check for half a million dollars toward initial expenses.

In Libya the man was known as Felix Kadar. It was a name of no particular significance; in other countries he was known by other names. In the files of the CIA and the U.S. State Department's Office to Combat Terrorism he was known only by the code name Scimitar. The man had no particular political views or commitments to any specific ideology. He had been baptized a Catholic, but on occasion he wore the green turban that signified the pilgrimage to Mecca. He had indeed gone there. He had been one of the planners of the assault on the Great Mosque and had been agreeably surprised by the inability of Saudi Arabia's own forces to dislodge the intruders. In the end, the assistance of the French government was called for: the Gigene, the highly specialized National Gendarmerie Intervention Group, came on the scene — and the raiders died, leaving the Saudi royal family much shaken and the man in the green turban one million dollars richer.

The man had long since conceived the outline of the idea. It had struck him that unrest in the world presented an unparalleled opportunity for commercial exploitation. At Harvard, studying for an M.B.A., he had written, as he had been trained to, the business plan. It featured a specific financial objective; the acquisition of a personal fortune of one hundred million dollars within fifteen years.

More than twelve years had passed, and he was still only halfway to his objective: he had averaged something over four million dollars a year, taking the rough with the smooth, so a straight-line projection pout him something like forty million dollars short by the close of his allocated period, May 31, 1983. Clearly something would have to be done; a bold stroke was called for. Allowing a surplus for inflation and unforeseen expenses, he would aim to clear fifty million dollars from one major action, and then he would retire. He would be two years ahead of schedule.

Felix Kadar had another motive for wishing to achieve his financial objective ahead of time. He had made a specialty of carrying out his work through different organizations and under different identities, and he was expert in modifying his appearance and personality. Nonetheless, it seemed to him that it would only be a matter of time before one of the Western antiterrorist units started putting the pieces together. And, he admitted to himself, he had allowed his ego to get he better of him recently.

He had played games with the authorities. In the knowledge that he had never been caught or even arrested and was soon to retire, he had deliberately increased the risks of living on the edge. That must stop. Mistakes would be eliminated.


* * * * *


The seventy-one men and women in the attack force were all known to him either personally or by reputation. He had compiled a list of suitable candidates over the years and had made full use of the extensive files of terrorists maintained by the KGB. He kept up the friendliest of relations with Ahmed Jibril, the Palestinian ex-captain in the Syrian Army who was one of the KGB's most active agents inside the various Palestinian movements.

He used fingerprints and other personnel data accumulated in the KGB and his own files to vet each candidate rigorously. Kadar was particularly concerned about infiltration — a specialty of the Israelis, many of whom spoke Arabic and were in appearance indistinguishable from Yemenis and North Africans. The classic ploy of the Israelis was to substitute one of their own for one of the fedayeen killed or captured in action against them. It was not so difficult to do, and hard to detect when the Palestinians were scattered among a dozen countries. Today Kadar believed he had caught such a man. He was not absolutely sure, but then he didn't have to be. Within the camp Kadar's will was absolute law; he was judge, jury, and, if it so pleased him, executioner.

The assembled terrorists were drawn up in two ranks in a semicircle facing Kadar. It was night, and the dusty parade ground was brightly lit with powerful floodlights, though Kadar himself was in shadow. To one side a shapeless figure was spread-eagled against a metal frame embedded in the hard ground.

Kadar was further concealed by an Arab headdress made of camouflage material; his mouth and nose were covered, and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Though some of his people had worked with him before, none had ever seen his face or knew his real name. They knew him as a hooded figure, a voice, and a consummate planner. The implementation was almost always left to others.

"Brothers and sisters," he said, "followers of the Revolution. For years you have been fighting to destroy the Jews and to free your native land. You have fought in many glorious battles and have killed many of your enemies, but always final victory has eluded you. You have been cheated out of what is your due not just by the accursed Israelis but by the support they receive from godless America and the might of Western imperialism. You have been brought to this camp to train and prepare for an action directly targeted at the soft underbelly of the decadent West. Your deeds will echo around the world, and the pain and shock of the rulers of the West will be terrible."

There were shouts and applause from the guerrillas. Several fired automatic rifles in the air in a display of enthusiasm. Kadar thought he had spent enough time on the ritual condemnation of Israel and the West. It was time to deal with more practical matters. Terrorists — at least Kadar's pragmatic kind — didn't fight on idealism alone. They liked to be paid in hard currencies.

"Fellow freedom fighters," he continued, "this is not yet the time for me to tell you the precise details of our mission. For reasons of security you will all understand, that information must be withheld until shortly before the day of action. Meanwhile, though you are all experienced and battle-hardened veterans, you will be trained to a peak of even greater combat effectiveness. As you do this, you may care to reflect not only on the glory that will be attained from this mission but on the one hundred thousand American dollars you will each receive upon its successful completion."

This time the applause was considerably more enthusiastic. There were further bursts of Kalashnikov fire. Kadar reflected that experienced and trained by the liberation camps though his men might be, too many of them had become lax and overemotional in their reactions. The raw material was there, but it needed to be subjected to ruthless discipline if his plan was to succeed. His orders must be followed unhesitatingly; obedience must be absolute. The only way to achieve this within the limited time available was to instill a terrible fear of the alternatives. He had dangled the carrot in front of them; now was the time for the stick. He had stage-managed the demonstration for maximum impact.

He held up his hand for silence, and the cheering ceased. He spoke again. "Brothers and sisters, we are faced with implacable enemies. Our war is unceasing. Constantly they try to destroy us. They send their warplanes against us; they raid us from the sea; they fill the airwaves with their foul propaganda; they manipulate the media to distort the truth of our cause; they send spies and sowers of discord among us."

There was a ripple of reaction from the ranks of fighters: fists were shaken; weapons were raised in the air.

"Silence!" he shouted. A hush fell over the terrorists. The group was still. They were used to savage and sometimes arbitrary discipline but also to the informality and frequently free and easy life of guerrilla units that, whatever they boasted to their womenfolk, spent little of their time in actual combat. They sensed that this mission would be different.

Kadar raised his right hand. Instantly the floodlights illuminating the parade ground were extinguished. The group was gripped by fear and an awful curiosity. Something terrible was about to happen. It would concern the figure spread-eagled on the metal frame, but what it might be nobody knew. They waited.

Kadar's voice came out of the darkness, hard, ruthless, and resonant with authority. "You are about to witness the execution of a Zionist spy who foolishly attempted to infiltrate our ranks. Watch and remember!" His voice rose to a shout and echoed around the parade ground.

A single spotlight came on and illuminated the figure stretched out on the frame. He was naked and gagged; his eyes bulged with fear. A tall man in the white coat of a doctor came out of the darkness. He had a syringe in his hand. He held it up in front of him and pushed the plunger slightly to clear the needle of air; a thin spray of liquid could be clearly seen by the onlookers. Carefully he injected the contents of the syringe, then stood back and consulted his watch.

Several minutes passed. He stepped forward and examined the naked man with a stethoscope, followed by a close inspection of his eyes with the aid of an opthalmoscope. He left the stethoscope hanging around his neck and replaced the opthalmoscope in the pocket of his white coat. He nodded to Kadar.

Kadar's voice rang out in the darkness: "Proceed."

The man reached into the pocket of his white coat and held an object in front of him. There was a perceptible click, and the harsh light of the single spotlight glinted off the white steel of the blade. He held the knife in front of the prisoner's eyes and moved it to and for; the panic-stricken eyes followed it as if hypnotized. The assembled terrorists waited.

Kadar's calm voice could have been describing a surgical operation. "You may care to know the significance of the substance injected into the bloodstream of the prisoner. It is a highly specialized drug obtained from our friends in the KGB. It is called Vitazain. It has the effect of heightening the sensitivity of the body's nervous system. In one situation the gentlest caress results in intense pleasure. In a situation of pain the effect is at least as extreme. It magnifies pain to a depth of horror and suffering that is almost impossible to comprehend."

The atmosphere was electric. One figure in the rear rank began to sway but was instantly gripped by his comrades on either side. The most hardened terrorists there — used to the carnage of the battlefield — were chilled by the cold, deliberate voice.

The man in the white coat stepped forward. His knife approached the eyes of the panic-stricken man again, and its tip rested just under the eyeball for several seconds. It pulled back and flashed forward again; this time the blade severed the cloth gag that had prevented the prisoner from screaming. The man in the white coat removed the gag and dropped it on the ground. He took a flask from his pocket and held it to the man's parched lips; he drank greedily. Faint hope flickered in his eyes. The flask was removed, and the prisoner was left alone in the pool of light.

A second spotlight came on, spreading an empty circle of light about thirty meters in front of the prisoner. All eyes looked at the space. They heard a faint shuffling sound, like a man struggling with a heavy burden. A shape appeared in the pool of light and came to a halt. He turned to face the prisoner. He lifted the riflelike launcher and pointed it at the condemned man. The watchers looked from one lighted area to the other. Screams of terror, unending screams, filled the air, and the prisoner's body bent and twisted as he tried in vain to get loose.

The operator of the Russian LPO-50 manpack flamethrower readied his weapon; with the thickened fuel he was using, he could blast the flaming napalm up to seventy meters. He was carrying three cylinders of fuel — enough firepower for nine seconds of firing, far more than would be necessary. He waited for Kadar's signal.

"Kill him," said the voice.

The man with the flamethrower fired.


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