June 1, 2013
West Bank Territory
There it was again.
Panic grabbed him, squeezing so hard he couldn’t breathe. What was it? Who might be out there? Heart pounding, his mind raced over possible causes of the sound outside the house at this hour of the night.
Sitting closest to the window, he would be the first to notice if something did happen in the darkness outside. Cocking his head, he listened for the noise again. Nothing. No sound of any kind. He began feeling a bit paranoid.
The curtains had been closed on the window near where Kamran Khan sat, preventing him from seeing outside the house. More importantly, it kept anyone outside from looking in. And no one sat in front of the window to avoid casting a shadow which might become a sniper’s target.
Khan checked his watch. Three A.M. He knew in this section of the West Bank it was not wise for anyone to be roaming about during the early morning hours.
Ramallah is considered the most affluent and cultural, as well as the most liberal, of Palestinian cities. It features a lively nightlife with a good number of shops, restaurants and bars open late. A common habit of the citizens of the city is going out for a late night drink, dinner, or some Rukab Ice Cream, which is based on the resin of chewing gum and thus has a distinctive taste. Still, many older residents prefer an Argila, a flavored tobacco waterpipe sometimes called a hubble bubble.
Both locals and countless tourists flocked to the nicer coffee shops, bars and restaurants seeking an enjoyable evening near the old city, not far from where a few select people attended this secret meeting. Once the businesses closed around midnight, everyone would go straight home or return to their hotels.
That was the reason the meeting had been planned for this time of night.
But Khan had heard a sound. Sweat began soaking his faded yellow shirt.
He turned from the window back to the large room, to look at the guests gathered there. The conversation indicated no one else had heard the noise. Maybe it was just his imagination. Khan shook his head and tried to focus on the meeting.
Khalid Khan stood a few feet to the right, next to the empty fireplace, his blue sport jacket open to reveal the gray polo shirt underneath as he leaned his back against the wall. He raised his left hand under his chin and brushed his short beard. “So the arms deal is done?”
Although Kamran Khan dearly loved his brother, he did not reveal any visible display of such emotion. He could not. This was all business, serious business. But whenever Kamran looked at, or thought of, his older brother Khalid, he felt huge respect and deep love swell up inside him. There was no one like his big brother.
Kamran remembered growing up in Sukkur, in the Sindh province of Pakistan. A trying time for Kamran, he struggled as young boy in a small family, living in one of the poorest neighborhoods in a city of 400,000 people. His father would disappear after breakfast and not return until evening, sometimes very late. Kamran never knew what his father did; only that he was never around the home, never really with the family. As a boy growing up, he would have been alone had it not been for his older brother.
Kamran looked up to Khalid as the mature man and depended on him for guidance and advice. He also depended on him for love. Khalid took time to assure Kamran that he mattered, he was indeed someone, and someday he would grow up and become a man to be respected.
Often Kamran would wander off to spend time down by the Indus River. He enjoyed walking along the yellow stone and steel Sukkur Barrage, formally called Lloyd Barrage. Over 5,000 feet long, the barrage has 66 gates and controls one of the largest irrigation systems in the world. Kamran liked watching the water sweep into the seven various canals that would provide water for nearly 10 million acres. A few of the canals are actually larger than the Suez Canal.
Khalid would find his brother there and they would walk together, talking about their future, the meaning of life, and the many Islamic teachings they learned in the Government Al-falah High School.
Once schooling was complete, Kamran was recruited into the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence or ISI, somewhat similar to the United States’ CIA. Enthralled with his job, Kamran persuaded Khalid to join also. They met often, always sharing their separate experiences together over the past four years. Now on this one assignment, they were finally working together. Kamran loved it.
Thirteen people from three different countries met here in this secret meeting, discussing how to conduct major attacks against Israel. Thirteen—a lucky or unlucky number?
Malik Ahmad, the third member of Khan’s team representing the ISI, purposely sat across the room to observe members of the other two groups. His face reflected interest in the discussion, but revealed no emotion. He appeared relaxed and casual in his blue shirt, jeans and sandals.
To his left were two men from Lebanon, both high-ranking Hezbollah officials. The dark face and penetrating eyes of the first man revealed nothing of his thoughts, but gave everyone the feeling that he knew theirs.
The second and much heavier Lebanese was also in his mid 30s and appeared to be the spokesman. “Negotiations and payment arrangements have been completed.”
Still trying to identify what caused the sound outside the house, Kamran Khan’s thoughts drifted. He knew the Israeli military occasionally entered Ramallah in the dead of night to arrest someone they considered a Palestinian terrorist, and then disappeared before anyone realized they were there. But ever since the hanging, this rarely happened.
Enraged by incidents in Gaza, Palestinians in the West Bank had demonstrated against the Israeli army. Shortly after a large demonstration, two Israeli army reservists had taken a wrong turn and were set upon by a mob. The frenzied crowd killed the two IDF (Israeli Defense Force) reservists, mutilated their bodies, and dragged them through the streets before hanging what was left of them. Israel retaliated with an air strike on Ramallah.
Since that time, it had been quite a while since any member of the IDF had been seen in Ramallah, and most Palestinians wanted to keep it that way. But if Israel somehow learned of this meeting, the entire Israeli army would invade the city.
Across the room, a young Palestinian bobbing in his chair seized Khan’s attention. “Yes, we did. That’s why we ─”
The man seated next to him on his left reached over and slapped his hand down on the man’s leg. “Silence, my young friend. Be quiet and learn.”
Jabr Butrus looked slowly around the group of men sitting and standing in the large room. “You must forgive my friend for his outburst. He is young and still learning. But he is a dedicated soldier to the Palestinian cause and can be trusted completely.”
He paused.
“To show how much you can trust him, I tell you my story.” He took a deep breath. “I lived in Jerusalem, where I have a wife and two beautiful daughters. I was forced to flee my home and leave my family. As you are aware, Sayeret Matkal is the Special Forces unit of the Israeli Defense Forces and reports to the intelligence directorate Aman. They connected me to some street café bombings. I came here to the West Bank to take refuge and hide from them. Here, I am also dedicated to the Palestinian cause.” He nodded his head. “Now you all know.”
He motioned to a man on the other side the room. “Ali, would you like to continue?”
To the right of the Pakistani ISI observer sat an older Palestinian dressed in a white shirt, brown vest and darker brown baggy pants. His beard and eyebrows had turned gray a long time ago, although his shoulder-length hair remained almost black.
Leaning forward, Ali Abbas spoke in a soft, gentle voice. “We want to conduct several major attacks on Israel so they will finally agree to an independent Palestine—at least for the West Bank.” He paused, took a deep breath and looked at Khalid, still leaning against the wall. “We have agreed upon the weapons, and we have made a substantial payment up front ... to assure we can receive them.”
He continued in his soft voice. “Hezbollah will transport the weapons. But that is where we need your assistance.” He leaned back and elbowed the thin man seated next to him. “Right, Abdul?”
The man on his right nodded. Everyone knew Abdul Hakim was a trusted member of the organization to liberate Palestine, but only the other three Palestinians knew he had lived in the Gaza Strip for thirty years. He held a work permit for daily passage to his job in Tel Aviv. He learned that Israel planned to cancel all work permits from Gaza, so he finished work one day and made his way to the West Bank Territory, and had lived there ever since.
Kamran’s brother Khalid spoke up. “What kind of help can we provide to this process?”
Kamran looked down at the floor and closed his eyes, listening. Still nervous, he realized he had not heard another sound outside the house. It had been quiet this whole time. Relieved, he thought to himself, Relax. It must have been the wind, or perhaps a stray cat, and dismissed his fear.
The nervous young Palestinian watched him. Kamran could tell he was curious and wanted to ask if Kamran was all right, but he glanced at the man next to him and remained silent.
A third member of Hezbollah also stood, leaning against the wall next to Kamran’s brother. He too had been quiet, observing the others. He shifted his weight and looked over at Khalid. “We plan on going through Syria. Their civil war will provide excellent cover for transporting the weapons and explosives.”
Ali Abbas, the older Palestinian with the soft voice, spoke again. “Pakistan has trained many of the rebels fighting in Syria. Your country has helped arm several groups of the soldiers. You have even sent food to some of them.” He paused only a moment as he looked from one Pakistani to another. “We need you to negotiate safe passage with the rebels, so we can bring these weapons here to use against Israel.”
Daniel Shavit shivered. A light breeze from the south taunted him with its chilling breath. The temperature, below 0 degrees C and mixed with 63% humidity, made it more than uncomfortable.
Cold, Shavit remained motionless, waiting. They had to avoid making more noise. Glad it would be over in a few minutes, he turned to his left and stared into the darkness. Other members of his team, wearing black face paint and commando black tactical uniforms, could not be easily identified unless they moved. They, too, stood frozen in place. Gradually, his eyes began to penetrate the darkness, and people’s outlines became visible.
This was not the first time Colonel Shavit had trespassed into the Palestinian West Bank Territory seeking to destroy enemies of Israel. The first time, the Iraqis provided several bombs and tried to bribe a group of Palestinians with counterfeit money to use them against Israel’s Defense Force soldiers. The second incursion into this territory was to raid a meeting between Iranians, Syrians and some Palestinians. They wanted to plant bombs in elementary schools, blackmail the Israeli government, then explode the bombs anyway. Fortunately, Shavit’s team succeeded in stopping both plots before they could be implemented.
Combat experience gained in the South Lebanon Conflict tempered Shavit’s skills in assessing a bad environment and refined his abilities to lead a successful strike in enemy territory, escape and survive to fight another day. This made him the perfect leader for Mossad pinpoint strikes in Palestinian territory.
Shavit gestured for two men to join him. Slowly and quietly, the three men moved to within 30 feet of the house. Shavit then signaled the rest of the Mossad team to position themselves behind cover, but with a clear view of the large picture window on the side of the house. One man moved to cover the front door. They could not afford to let even one person escape.
Putting a hand on the two men’s shoulders, Shavit nodded. Dropping to their knees, the two men raised their weapons.
Once again, Kamran thought he heard a sound coming from outside the house. His mind, still seeking possible reasons, finally settled on one that could not be denied. He leaped forward out of his chair, landed on his stomach and clutched at the floor, trying to make himself part of it while shouting at the others the last word some of them would hear. “DOWN!”
By the time they heard the WHOOSH, the window glass had already shattered and the rocket had entered the room. A fireball of orange-yellow flame erupted, filling the room before the sound of the explosion could be heard.
The flash of flame evaporated as another WHOOSH sounded, followed immediately by another. But the men in the room did not hear it, nor the two subsequent explosions as those missiles smashed into the house.
Flames danced through what had been a pleasant, middle class home with a large kitchen-living room combination and three bedrooms. Piles of rubble converged with the few partial walls still standing to give evidence the home ever existed. A creaking, groaning noise called attention to one of those partial walls toward the back of the house as it lost hold of an adjoining wall and crumbled to the ground. The huge flame quickly muted into several small fires scattered around the structure.
Three of the team members started toward the house. “Wait!” Daniel Shavit held a pencil flashlight and waved his hand for the rest of the team to see. “No one could have survived that.” He glanced around to ensure everyone was present. “Let’s get the hell out of here before others come. We’re in enemy territory, and we don’t want to start another damn war here tonight.” He signaled with his hand, “Let’s go.”
Rapidly moving away from the scene, the Mossad team did not detect the small movement in the wreckage. Everyone in that house should have died. No one could have survived.
Kamran Khan struggled to move his arms away from his face. Wincing, he almost screamed from the searing pain in his left shoulder. Blinking several times, he tried to clear his mind and comprehend what had happened.
The pain helped him understand that he should not be alive. His first thought was that he had to move ─ to get out of there, away from that house. Death had looked him in the face. It lasted for only one fleeting second, but felt like a very long, incredibly terrifying moment. Then it was over and somehow, he was still alive. Blinding orange flames from the rocket explosions repeatedly lashed out at him, but couldn’t quite touch him. The intense heat had tried to scorch him, but the two dead bodies on top of him became a shield that saved his life.
Summoning what seemed like his last bit of strength, he forced himself up between the bodies. The awesome devastation caused by the Israeli rockets overwhelmed him. Tears filled his eyes and, in his pain, he praised Allah. It was a miracle. Through Allah’s grace, he remained alive.
Khan knew the attack had to be the Mossad. Somehow they had learned about the secret meeting. There could be no other explanation. With immense difficulty, he pushed and pulled until the charred bodies moved aside and he managed to stand. Stumbling, he managed only a few steps. Slowly turning his head, he checked everywhere for any sign of movement.
“Khalid.” He tried to shout, but his burning throat constricted. Gasping for air, the after-smoke from the explosions filled his lungs, making him cough. He bent over and rested his hands against sore legs just above the knees. He finally succeeded in getting a breath. Then another.
He managed to stand up straight and attempted once more to look around. Tears still present, he had difficulty discerning the wreckage. He took a deep breath and tried again.
“Khalid? Khalid, my brother,” he cried out. “Khalid, where are you?” There was no answer. "Khalid, are you alive?" He scanned the wreckage a second time, specifically searching for his brother.
Nothing moved except the smoke rising from the small fires scattered about.
“Allah!” he shouted. A different, deeper pain filled his heart. He dropped his head and sobbed. It became a full cry. “Allah, why?” He shook his head no. “Why Khalid?” He wiped tears from his face. “Why not me?”
A strange sensation came over him. A wild look appeared on his face. With enlarged eyes, he lifted his face to the sky. Shaking his head yes, he said aloud, “Okay. I understand. You let me live so I could take your revenge.”
Clenching his teeth, fighting the pain, he struggled to raise his right hand high into the air. “Allah is good. Allah is great.” The smoke cleared and he sucked the cold night air into his lungs. Stumbling, he regained his balance and again pushed his clenched right fist above his head. “Yes, I will do your will. Your revenge will sting Israel.”
He paused. His eyes glazed over as a smile crept across his lips. “With your help, I will wreak your vengeance upon Israel ─ and upon everyone who has helped her.”
He thought of America. They help Israel financially, politically, militarily, in every way. They are also responsible.
Again he gasped for breath and pushed his fist as high into the sky as he could reach. “Yes, Allah, yes! America, too. They have propped Israel up long enough. The day will come when they can no longer pay to support Israel. They will not be able to protect her.” With his throat aching from the smoke and his hoarse voice almost gone, he summoned enough strength to shout, “They shall pay ─ Little Satan and the Great Satan ─ Israel and her friend America shall pay!”