Thunderstrike in Syria (4 page)

I glared at Jacob Ben-Zvi. "Yet you still let me and Miss Weizmann risk our necks in the House of Medals! Thanks a lot!"

Ben-Zvi's face contorted into a puzzled half-smile. "There wasn't any valid reason to call off the strike against the House of Medals," he said, gesticulating with one bony hand. "The place was scheduled to be raided. Your plan was the best, N3."

Hawk reached into the inside pocket of his rumpled coat and took out another cigar. "Actually we didn't get the message from the Kamels until yesterday afternoon. There was a fatherly tone to his voice. "Their report was on a need-to-know basis. You understand that."

I grinned crookedly at Hawk. "And now t
hat I do
know, I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that I've got to skip over to Damascus and check out Ahmed and Miriam Kamel?"

"That's only half of your assignment," Hawk said matter-of-factly, removing the wrapper from the cigar. "The second half is more complicated. Ahmed Kamel will lead you to within sight of Karameh's headquarters. You'll get the exact coordinates of the base's location, then get the hell out of Syria and back to Tel Aviv.

"We Israelis will do the rest," Ben-Zvi said passionately. "We'll bomb the base off the face of the earth."

I looked at Hawk. "Sir, I was under the impression that the Kamels had given you and the Hamosad the location of the SLA base! Besides, they're both double agents. How do you know they're telling the truth; unless, of course, their love of money is greater than their revolutionary fervor."

"It is," Hawk said and shoved the cigar into his mouth. "It was they who tipped us off to the House of Medals. Yeah, there's a possibility that the whole thing's a setup, but I don't think so. We'll have to chance it."

"What about SLA headquarters?" I asked.

"Karameh's main base is on the As-Suwayda hills of southeastern Syria," Hawk explained. "You have to go in because the Kamels don't know a thing about cartography. They can't pinpoint the exact location."

Ben-Zvi added, "You won't slip into Syria until after we've questioned the terrorist that you and Leah captured. He might have some information that will have a bearing on your mission."

"Which means I'll leave sometime tomorrow morning," I said.

"Before dawn," Ben-Zvi said flatly.

My eyes jumped to Hawk, then to Ben-Zvi. I didn't like the deal. I never have trusted double agents. And suicide has never appealed to me.

Leah and I had planned to go out that night and celebrate along Tel Aviv's Dizengoff, a street of crowded sidewalk cafes and juice bars. Hawk and Ben-Zvi's visit changed all that. In the first place, neither Leah nor I were in the mood. In the second place, at midnight the Israelis were going to fly me to Tiberias, an ancient city on the western shores of the Sea of Galilee.

Ben-Zvi had given me a brief rundown on how I would slip into Syria. Two agents, one an Israeli, the other a Syrian, would take me across the Sea of Galilee and the Golan Heights. After that I'd be on my own.

We had dinner sent up to our suite and discussed the situation as we ate. Not one to minimize the danger, Leah quietly pointed out that if I were captured by the Syrian authorities, I would be given a quick trial and hanged as a spy.

I paused in cutting my T-bone and gave Leah a reproving look.

"Tell me something I don't know," I said. "Naturally the Syrians would stretch my neck. They love you Israelis like the Kremlin loves the Vatican. I'm not concerned as much about the Syrian police as I am about Ahmed and Miriam Kamel. I'm going into Syria like a doomed sinner and my only salvation is a couple of Arabs I trust like the plague."

Leah dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, then said, "So far the Kamels have proved trustworthy. After all, they did tip Hamosad to the SLA cell operating out of the House of Medals."

"Which doesn't prove a damn thing." I said. "The Syrian Liberation Army is ten times more kill-crazy than the PLO and Black September combined. Karameh and his top boys wouldn't think twice about sacrificing their own people to accomplish some particular end."

"You mean if the Kamels are lying to AXE and to Hamosad?" Leah gave me a puzzled look. "But what could the SLA hope to accomplish?"

I sighed, picked up a glass of wine and stared thoughtfully into the red depths. "Suppose the SLA wanted you Israelis to bomb a fake base? To do that, the Kamels would have to lead me to within sight of a phony camp. That's one possibility."

"But not very probable in my opinion."

Finishing the wine, I placed the glass on the table and pushed back my chair. "Another possibility is that Syria might want to start a war with Israel, using the Israeli bombing of the fake base as an excuse. But I don't think so. The Syrians aren't quite that stupid. Even if they were, the Russians wouldn't let them."

Leah smiled at me, got up from the table and we went over to the couch and sat down. It was only 7:30 and there was still plenty of time to say our intimate goodbyes.

She leaned back on the couch, her eyes flashing more provocatively than usual. "I thought you were going to make something up to me," she said softly. "Or have you forgotten?" Before I could answer, her arms instinctively reached around my neck, her heart pounding with such ferocity that I could see her skin quivering above it.

As we kissed, Leah felt my excitement grow and whispered, "The bedroom will be more comfortable."

Leah slipped out of her clothes as we walked across the room. She stretched across the bed languidly and watched me undress, her eyes half-closed. Before I could finish, her hands folded around the nape of my neck, and she pulled me down on top of herself.

The love-act with Leah was an ever-increasing sensation of endless pleasure. Her breasts, her slim waist, her well-formed thighs, the ecstatic expression her beautiful face all combined into a succession of thrills, making me want to caress them all at the same time. Successively, I managed to do them all justice, sending her into heights of rapture. She began shrieking and gasping, and then she began to moan. Her arms clasped me tight with iron determination; her powerful thighs closed around me, and I felt her tightening in that lubricous haven to which I constantly strove with all my might. I felt an irresistible impulse to propel myself forward, and covered her with a last, ultimate advance that left no particle of air between us.

Odd, I thought. Tonight I was in heaven.

Tomorrow I'd be in Syria — in hell…

Although Damascus is said to be the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, it does not look old. Modern apartment and office buildings rise on either side of broad landscaped boulevards while the residential area is laid out with small green squares and broad lawns. Flower gardens surround attractive villas.

This was not my first visit to Damascus, so I knew that the most beautiful view of the city was at sunset from the Salihiya Hill, a ten minute drive from the center of the city. Below the hill lies Damascus, the Barada River fanning out into seven branches, traced by poplar trees which line their banks and by the nearby green of the gardens. Damascus' shining white houses and its many domed mosques are encircled by green parks and fruit groves which end abruptly at the desert's edge. Tall, slim minarets push skyward and, as the sun drops below the horizon and the sky reddens, muezzins appear everywhere on the balconies of these minarets, summoning people to evening prayer with the unforgettable call,
"Allah el Akbar"
 — "God is great, God is great, there is no God but God."

But I wasn't the least bit interested in the sights of Damascus. I was too concerned with making my way to the shop of Ahmed Kamel. I glanced at my wristwatch: 3:35 in the afternoon. I had made good time and hadn't encountered any difficulty.

Walking in the old section of the city, I thought of how everything had gone as planned. The two Hamosad agents and I had crossed the Sea of Galilee; then they led me across the highly dangerous Golan Heights, that strip of land that is occupied by the Israelis. Once across the Heights, I had been met by another agent, a Syrian Jew who drove me in his vegetable truck to the little village of El Ruad, an uncomfortable trip, since I had been in the back surrounded on all sides by crates of tomatoes and grapes. Much later in the day, when the roads were thick with traffic, another Syrian Jew had driven me the rest of the distance to Damascus, some seventy miles. I had left the back of the truck while the vehicle was parked not far from the enormous Kaddha market.

Only once had I been stopped by one of the Fazets, a member of the regular police. Seeing that I was not Syrian, the man, speaking broken English, had asked to see my identification.

"Certainly," I had replied in Arabic, immediately producing my forged, English passport in the name
Joseph Allen Galloway.
Along with the passport I handed him the forged Syrian visa, all properly stamped, all so authentic looking I almost believed it myself. Just in case, I had forged ticket stubs to prove that I had entered Syria the morning of that very day, arriving on the Josi-Dan Express, a train that runs from Amman, Jordan, to Damascus, Syria.

Pleased that I could speak Arabic, the man smiled. "You are in Syria as a tourist, Mr. Galloway?" he had asked politely, handing me my passport and visa. "Or on business."

"On business." I had replied promptly. "I'm an importer in London. I've come to Syria to buy rugs and brass and copper items. 1 I had then added another big lie. "This is my tenth trip to your marvelous country."

My only real concern was that the policeman might search me, in which case he would find Wilhelmina in her shoulder holster and Hugo nestled against my right arm.

The policeman had smiled, had wished me a pleasant stay in Syria and had gone on his way. I had continued on mine, thinking that if worse came to worst, that if the Syrian secret police grabbed me by some fluke, I'd «confess» to being a member of the Irish Republican Army, and say that I had come to Syria to learn methods of terrorism from the SLA. It was no secret in the world intelligence community that the IRA had links to all the larger Arab terrorists groups, Al Fatah, Black September, the P.L.O. and the SLA. Whether or not the Syrians would have believed me was another matter. If they did, they would release me. Not that the Syrians loved the IRA. But Damascus hated Israel and the SLA was doing all in its power to bring down the Israelis. Conclusion: any friends of the SLA were looked upon with favor.

I was now approaching the Hamidiyyah Bazaar, the famous "Long Market" which extends for almost a mile. All around me were people from various nations — mostly tourists, although many were Arabs. Motor vehicles threaded their way through the dense crowds, their horns perpetually sounding but gaining little attention from the bargaining masses. Other than the main road, the entire bazaar was a veritable warren of crisscrossing lanes and winding streets. White-bearded, turbaned men with faces like patriarchs of the Bible sat cross-legged in front of their shops, selling calico and stripped
gallibiyea
cloth from bolts neatly stacked on shelves behind them. Other shops sold handmade artifacts such as inlaid chests, engraved copper wares, ceramics and embroideries.

I forced my way through the throng, now and then asking directions, until I finally saw the long sign: FINE RUGS. ENGRAVED BRASS, BRONZE & COPPER. AHMED KAMEL. PROPRIETOR.

Constantly on the lookout for the darting hand of a pickpocket, I pushed and shoved until I reached the entrance of the shop, which was larger than most, indicating that Ahmed Kamel and his sister did a thriving business.

Inside there were numerous customers milling around and four clerks, two men and two women. Ahmed Kamel was not among them. I was positive because, before I left Tel Aviv, the Hamosad had shown me photographs of Kamel and his sister. But one of the women clerks was Miriam Kamel, who, at the moment, was waiting on a tourist couple. In spite of the fact that I might be walking into a cleverly set trap. I couldn't help but have erotic thoughts about her, all generated by 'the tight, black dress which showed her figure to its best advantage.

Following Hawk's instructions, I walked up to the counter and handed her my forged
Joseph Allen Galloway. Importer
business card. She looked at it, for a moment then her dark eyes swept over me, appraising me calmly.

"I should like to see Mr. Kamel," I said in Arabic, trying not to stare at her breasts.

"One moment, Mr. Galloway." Giving me a quick smile, she went across the wide room and whispered something to one of the male clerks. Nodding, the hawk-faced man glanced at me, and I wondered if the woman had instructed him to call the police. If she had, she'd be the first to get one of Wilhelmina's 9 mm hollow points. But the clerk only turned to a customer while Miriam walked back to me.

"Follow me. Mr. Galloway," she said with a slight smile. She turned and moved toward a curtained archway at one end of the room. Undressing her with my eyes, I followed, well aware that if I had walked into a trap, I was doing it with all of the helplessness of a lamb being led to slaughter.

Beyond the archway was a short hall and three closed doors, one on either side and one at the end of the passage. Miriam chose the door to our right, and after we entered, I saw that we were in a sitting room. There were several fancy cushioned chairs, and an intricately carved teak table was centered between two blue sofas.

I sat down in the center of one sofa. Miriam positioned herself opposite me and crossed her long legs, her dark eyes measuring me intently. I played it cool, deliberately refraining from mentioning her brother. For a moment there was silence, except for the faint sound coming from the air-conditioning duct in one corner of the room.

"We can talk freely here; no one will hear us," she said at length. "I told the chief clerk that you were an importer from England and to see that no one disturbed us. Unfortunately, my brother is not available. He's in the hospital with a case of stomach ulcers."