A dagger aimed at the heart of Hollywood. Two Middle Eastern cousins. One determined to strike at the capital of American decadence. The other trying desperately to stop him. The untold story of a plot at the dawn of Americaâs war on terror by award-winning author and former CBS News Middle East correspondent Lawrence Pintak.
Ali Ghaddar had made a new life for himself far from the violence of his native Beirut. But even Chicago wasnât far enough to keep the demons at bay. Each new terrorist outrage back home left him feeling more angry and helpless.
So when his girlfriendâs father was kidnapped by a militia group controlled by the cousin he once considered a brother, it didnât take the CIA long to convince him to go back and try to save him. In the process, he stumbled on a chilling plot to strike at the icons of Hollywood in an audacious high-profile attack.
Working with OSIRIS, a secret anti-terrorist strike team, Ali plunged back into the nightmare he thought he had escaped, torn between family ties, the desperate need to save his girlfriendâs father, and the realization that the fate of countless Americans lay in his hands.
A dagger aimed at the heart of Hollywood. Two Middle Eastern cousins. One determined to strike at the capital of American decadence. The other trying desperately to stop him. The untold story of a plot at the dawn of Americaâs war on terror by award-winning author and former CBS News Middle East correspondent Lawrence Pintak.
Ali Ghaddar had made a new life for himself far from the violence of his native Beirut. But even Chicago wasnât far enough to keep the demons at bay. Each new terrorist outrage back home left him feeling more angry and helpless.
So when his girlfriendâs father was kidnapped by a militia group controlled by the cousin he once considered a brother, it didnât take the CIA long to convince him to go back and try to save him. In the process, he stumbled on a chilling plot to strike at the icons of Hollywood in an audacious high-profile attack.
Working with OSIRIS, a secret anti-terrorist strike team, Ali plunged back into the nightmare he thought he had escaped, torn between family ties, the desperate need to save his girlfriendâs father, and the realization that the fate of countless Americans lay in his hands.
CHAPTER 1
1988
NEWLEAD HIJACK
BEIRUT (AP) - THE HIJACKERS OF A PAN AM 747
THIS AFTERNOON REJECTED A DEMAND BY THE
LEBANESE ARMY THAT THEY RELEASE THEIR HOSTAGES
AND WARNED OF âDEVASTATING CONSEQUENCESâ IF
GOVERNMENT FORCES MOVED AGAINST THEM.
AN ESTIMATED 72 AMERICANS AND OTHER WESTERNERS
ARE STILL BEING HELD ABOARD THE PLANE, HIJACKED
IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THIS MORNING SHORTLY
AFTER TAKEOFF FROM THE LIBERIAN CAPITAL,
MONROVIA. ANOTHER 132 PASSENGERS, MOSTLY
AFRICANS AND ASIAN, WERE FREED WHEN THE JET
ARRIVED HERE JUST BEFORE DAWN.
IN A RADIO CONVERSATION WITH THE APPARENT
LEADER OF THE HIJACKERS, WHO IDENTIFIED
HIMSELF AS ABU BECHIR, A TOP LEBANESE ARMY
GENERAL PROMISED SAFE CONDUCT IN RETURN FOR AN
IMMEDIATE END TO THE SIEGE.
âYOU HAVE HARMED NO ONE. IF YOU LEAVE THE
PLANE, WE WILL NOT INTERFERE. HOWEVER, THE
PATIENCE OF THE ARMY IS LIMITED,â GEN. ZIHAIR
MASHNOUK SAID IN A BROADCAST FROM THE DEFENSE
MINISTRY IN EAST BEIRUT.
âWE SHALL NOT BE INTIMIDATED BY EMPTY THREATS,â
ABU BECHIR REPLIED IN ARABIC. âWE ACT IN
THE NAME OF THE ARAB NATION. WE CALL ON OUR
BROTHERS IN THE ARMY NOT TO INTERFERE. BUT BE
WARNED, THE CONSEQUENCES OF RAISING YOUR FIST
AGAINST US WILL BE DEVASTATING. THERE IS NO
ESCAPING THE WRATH OF GOD.â
(MORE/FN)
BEIRUT - HIJACK 2
THE HIJACKERS, BELIEVED TO BE SHIâITE MUSLIMS,
HAVE SO FAR MADE NO DEMANDS. THEY APPEAR TO
HAVE THE ASSISTANCE OF FIGHTERS FROM SEVERAL
OF THE MAIN SHIâITE MILITIAS WHO HAVE TAKEN
UP POSITIONS AROUND THE PLANE AND HAVE SEALED
OFF THE AIRPORT, BUT THERE IS NO INDICATION OF
WHICH FACTION THE MEN ON BOARD ARE MEMBERS.
PAN AM 189, THE AIRLINEâS SO-CALLED âMILK RUNâ
ACROSS AFRICA, WAS ON A FLIGHT FROM NAIROBI,
KENYA TO NEW YORK, WITH SCHEDULED STOPS IN
NIGERIA, LIBERIA AND SENEGAL, WHEN IT WAS TAKEN
OVER.
(PICKUP HIJACK 3 âSEVERAL MOTHERS WITH BABIES
WERE AMONG...â
(ENDS/FN)
The grey-haired Lebanese reporter adjusted his glasses and proofed the
copy once more as the paper ribbon crept through the gate on the clattering
telex, transmitting his update to New York. Not that he really needed to check
it. Long ago he had reached the point where he could write hijack stories in his
sleep.
But something bothered him about this one. He took off the horn-rim
glasses and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The fact that they hadnât made any
demands didnât make sense. And by now he should have had some idea of who
was behind it, yet his sources were all coming up dry.
The thing had a bad feel to it.
*
Edward Auburn surveyed the arid landscape as the plane banked. Dead brown
grass. Rocks. Sand. The place was desolate. The few buildings he could see were
the same anemic color. Only the sea was a rich spectrum of blues.
And this was supposed to be the island of Aphrodite! Hell, Auburn thought,
stamping out his cigar in an ashtray built into a shelf under the window, color
film would be a waste of time here.
He ran a stubby hand over pudgy cheeks rough with bristle. He needed a
shave, to say nothing of a shower. There hadnât been time for either since the
crisis began.
âTheyâve given us clearance, sir. Iâm beginning final approach.â The fuzzy
voice came from a speaker in the wall. Auburn glanced into the cockpit where
the co-pilot was twisted around facing him and acknowledged the manâs
announcement with a thumbs-up sign.
There was a slight vibration as the landing gear lowered into place. He
glanced at his watch. Nine and a half hours. Nine and a half hours too long. The
men on the ground could certainly move without him, but they couldnât do
that without an answer from the White House. And that still had not come. He
knew, because a copy would have been transmitted to the computer secured to
the desk at the rear of the cabin, and the glowing green cursor had not budged.
No orders. No advisories. Nothing. It was like the White House had taken the
week off.
He might as well have been flying to the Bahamas on vacation for all they
seemed to care.
After briefing the President, Auburn had gone straight to Andrews and the
waiting Gulfstream IV. The plane was on permanent standby. As Director of the
Office for Special International Reaction, Intelligence and Strategy (OSIRIS),
he often needed to move quickly.
But at that moment, he would have traded all the titles and perks for a little
more real influence in the Oval Office.
He put the papers he had been trying to study back in his briefcase and
buckled the seatbelt over his ample belly. He hadnât been able to concentrate on
them, or sleep, through the whole flight. His sense of outrage was simmering
at a low boil. They had the perfect opportunity, and the Presidentâs inability
to make a tough call meant they might blow itâperhaps already had blown
it. The whole OSIRIS conceptâconsolidating the entire counter-terrorism
effort, military and intelligence, under one roofâwas designed for speed and
optimum coordination. Now it was being jeopardized by one spineless man in
the Oval Office and the petty bureaucrats who surrounded him.
Outside the window, a cement pool of some sort rushed past his field of
vision. It was divided into a network of squares. Tiny figures were scraping up
something white left behind by the evaporated seawater. A salt pond. The rural
scene was quickly replaced by a sprawl of brick buildings and hangers.
The OSIRIS chief felt a lurch as the jet touched down on the runway. While
the reverse thrust kicked in, he reflected that his organizationâs namesake had
enjoyed a big advantage: the ancient Egyptian god of judgement had not had to
wait for someone else to give him permission to mete out punishment.
The plane pivoted and Auburn could see a massive C-5A Galaxy standing on
the runway apron. The jet was painted a sandy brown that helped it blend into
the rocky hills beyond the base. The entire front end of the plane was hinged
open, as was the back, making the aircraft look like a huge sewer pipe with
wings. A Black Hawk helicopter was being towed from the yawning mouth of
the cargo hold. The helicopterâs blades were swept back and tied down to the
fuselage, and its hinged tail section was folded back on itself to more easily fit
inside the cargo jet.
Nearby, ground crew were fueling up an MC-130H Combat Talon Hercules.
The boil-like radomes protruding from the fuselage and hanging under the
wings told Auburn the special forces aircraft was equipped with terrain
following radar, forward-looking infrared sensors and a battery of other
electronic devices that enabled it to make secret night landings.
Like the Hercules, the Black Hawk was painted a flat, non-reflective black.
The only markings on the two aircraft were a small serial number on the tail,
and the word MACâfor the Military Airlift Commandâunder the nose.
Auburn felt himself enveloped in humidity when the door folded down,
extending the steps. A young crewcut airman in a charcoal jumpsuit stepped
inside.
âGood afternoon, Mr. Auburn, sir. Iâll take care of your bags. The Colonel
is waiting outside.â A maroon patch with the letter âAâ was sewn on the young
manâs right shoulder. He wore no other insignia, not even a nametag.
âFine,â Auburn acknowledged, grabbing his briefcase and pushing past the
soldier, bending to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling.
The sea breeze outside the hatch was heavy with the sharp smell of salt.
Gulls screamed as they whirled in the warm air currents in search of food.
âAbout time you got your ass over here.â Col. Bill Macalister stood at parade
rest, the rubber treads of a pair of size 12AA canvas French Foreign Legion
boots planted firmly on the tarmac. He was about 45, but even the loose
jumpsuit didnât camouflage the perfect V of his physique. The only insignia
Macalister wore was a set of paratrooper wings over his left breast pocket.
His huge paws remained locked behind his back. They were too close to
need to formality of a handshake.
âWhatâs the word?â Auburn asked anxiously as he came down the gangway,
the rumpled jacket dangling from one finger over his shoulder. He didnât even
slow down as they set off across the tarmac.
âAinât none,â Macalister said dryly, falling easily into step beside his boss
as he scratched at a ridge of old scar tissue that wrapped itself like a leech
around the bull neck. âIâm sure your computer got exactly what ours did from
Washington, sweet f-all. Anâ the hijackersâve been as quiet as possums gone to
ground.â
âDammit. Maybe I shouldâve stayed back there. But I thought I had the
President convinced when I reminded him what happened with the TWA
hijacking. He didnât relish the idea of seeing American hostages spread all over
Beirut again.â Auburn was three inches shorter than the six-foot one-inch
Macalister, but a good forty pounds heavier.
âHe asked me to leave so he could talk in private with his yes-men, so I
didnât have a helluva lot of choice, but he promised weâd have a go/no go by
now. I was stupid enough to believe him.â Auburn reached into his top pocket
and pulled out a fat cigar. He bit off the end and spat the tip on the ground.
They were approaching a five-story corrugated metal building that was one
of numerous forward sub-bases OSIRIS had established on friendly territory
in crisis-ridden parts of the world. In the lengthening shadows, a group of men
dressed in charcoal jumpsuits were arming the 20mm Vulcan cannons on an
AC-130H Spectre gunship.
âHave you put people into Beirut yet?â He stuck the unlit cigar between a
pair of thick, purplish lips.
âAffirmative. Sent âem in right after we arrived from Germany.â The Colonelâs
eyes were the color of gunmetal.
The pair had entered the hanger, where crewmen were loading the rocket
pods on a Super Cobra attack helicopter. Other soldiers were leaning against
packs and bedrolls lined along one wall. Most of them were eating from foil
packages of MREâs or cleaning their weapons. A few were dozing. Auburn
could see a maroon âAâ on the shoulder of each.
âIâve got an electronic surveillance team with the Leb Army in a building on
the Christian side of town that has line-oâ-sight with the airport.â They veered
to avoid a mini submarine, known as a Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (SDV),
being prepared by members of the amphibious team.
âFar as they can tell, most of the passengers have been moved to about the
middle of the plane. From the voices, theyâve identified at least five hijackers,
one of them a woman. That syncs with what the released hostages report.â
Macalister spoke in the southern accented military cadences of so many career
officers.
âWeâve also got an agent in a cargo shed a couple hundred yards from the
plane. He says the hijackers ainât lettinâ nobody on board, so thereâs no chance
of slippinâ a man on as a cleaner or somethinâ.â
They had reached a small office petitioned off at the back of the hanger. Built
for maintenance crew chiefs, the top half of the walls facing into the hanger
were glass. Macalisterâs men, more interested in preventing prying eyes from
peering in than they were in looking out, had taped sheets of brown paper on
the windows.
Auburn took the unlit cigar from his mouth and was hit in the face with
a blast of cold air when Macalister opened the door. An air conditioner was
humming somewhere inside where three soldiers were at work. One of them,
leaning over a table piled with maps and photographs in the center of the
room, looked up. âAfternoon, Mr. Auburn.â
âHello, captain.â There was no insignia of rank on the jumpsuit, just the
ubiquitous âAâ. The OSIRIS chief knew Alpha Companyâs commander by sight,
just as he knewâby sight if not by nameâmost of the other 300 commandos,
air crews and ground staff in the three OSIRIS units deployed around the world.
âColonel,â the soldier, in his early thirties, turned to Macalister without
saluting. OSIRIS members dispensed with such formalities when they were
among their own. He picked up one of the photographs on the table. âThis
came in a few minutes ago. Itâs the last of them.â
The 747 was clearly visible on the high-resolution photograph transmitted
from a CIA KH-11 satellite in polar orbit. Macalister placed it on the table and
held a large magnifying glass over it. Auburn could see a few blurry black blobs
at the front and rear of the plane.
âGuards,â the Colonel explained. He pointed to what Auburn had thought
were bushes spotted along the length of the runway. âThere, too. And thereâs
some APCs and tanks. The big militias are giving âem backup.â
At the end of the room, another soldier wearing a pair of headphones
was seated before a bank of radios and tape recorders. He was one of Alpha
Companyâs Arabic language specialists.
âThomas is monitoring cockpit communications,â Macalister said, rubbing
his knuckles over the blonde stubble that covered his square head.
âDemands?â Auburn asked, playing with the cigar between his fingers,
rolling it as if testing the freshness of the tobacco for the first time.
âNone. Theyâve rambled on about Allah and the victory of Islam over the
corrupt west but havenât said what they want.â Macalister was perched with one
buttock on the edge of the table. His left leg swung free.
Auburn pulled up an armless desk chair on wheels, twisted the seat around
and straddled it.
âAnything on what group they belong to?â The OSIRIS chief folded his
arms across the backrest and rested his head on them while he listened. The
pose accentuated his double chin. The cigar was back in his mouth.
âOne phrase keeps croppinâ up. Thomas translates it as `wrath of Godâ. `The
wrath of Godâ will strike, `the wrath of Godâ knows no bounds, that sorta thing.
Sounds almost like it could be what theyâre calling themselves. You know, like
Islamic Jihad. We ran it through the computer, but we didnât come up with
anything.â
Auburn swung his body around to look at the small, black keyboard behind
him, no bigger than the average portable typewriter. A lead ran from the back
of the GRiD lap-size computer to a portable satellite ground station set up
outside. Most of the other equipment in the room was also wired into the
cable. Amber letters glowed on the computerâs flip-up screen.
The COMSEC Compass Model 1117 was a specialized version of the
commercially available GRiD portable. It was used by the super-secret National
Security Agency and other U.S. intelligence agencies to transmit classified
data. So powerful was the battery-powered computer that it was becoming
an integral part of the Armyâs command and control network. If ever World
War III broke out, the GRiD would be on the front line coordinating complex
battlefield maneuvers and air defenses. Built into its hardware was a highgrade
encryption memory chip which did away with the need to carry the
bulky equipment traditionally needed to prevent eavesdropping.
âThe character on the radio, who we assume is the leader, calls himself Abu
Bechir, you know, Arabic for `father of Bechirâ. I was about tâ run that when
you landed. Wanna take a shot at it?â
âIt might help to know who weâre dealing with.â Auburn chewed
absentmindedly on the cigar while his stubby fingers ran over the keys.
>SEARCH ABU BECHIR
He hit return. The cursor paused for a second as the computer at OSIRIS
headquarters in the Maryland countryside ran through billions of bits of
information. Then the words scrawled across the screen.
>SEARCH FINDS 043 LISTINGS FOR ABU BECHIR
âSeems to be a popular name,â Auburn mumbled over his shoulder. He put
the cigar on the counter next to the computer. The end was soggy with saliva.
âLetâs see if we canât get a little more specific.â The words came out more clearly
now that his mouth was empty. He started typing again.
>NARROW SEARCH. KEYWORDS: VIOLENCE AND/OR
TERROR
He hit the return key again. âCâmon,â he said to the computer. âTell us
which of our Abu Bechirs likes to do nasty things.â
The computer paused for a beat, and replied:
>SEARCH FINDS 0002 REFERENCES
Auburn jabbed another key.
>ABU BECHIR. FATHER OF BECHIR II, EMIR OF
LEBANON FROM
>1788 UNTIL 1840.
âThatâs sure not him,â Auburn said, punching N.
>ABU BECHIR. A.K.A. ZIAD NAZAL. EARLY
PALESTNIAN
>GUERRILLA LEADER. BORN CIRCA 1905. KILLED
1948.
âNor is that.â The OSIRIS chief spun on his seat and slapped his hands onto
his knees. âOK, so we donât know who our boy is. No matter. Letâs get down to
it, Mac. How do we go in?â
âSeveral possibilities,â Macalister unrolled an aerial photograph of
Beirut out on the table. It was better than any map. Each building was
clearly visible. Major streets and landmarks had already been labeled. âThe
captain anâ I lean toward a seaborne assault just before dawn. I take five
men in one of the SDVs. The choppers and Hercs hang offshore. Once
weâre on board and the bad guys have been neutralized, we radio for the
cavalry to...â
âColonel. Theyâve just killed someone, sir.â It was the soldier monitoring
the radio. He scribbled on his notepad while the others stared at the turning
spool on the tape recorder. The only sound in the room was the scratching of
his pencil. Finally, he turned and held up the paper.
âIt was Abu Bechir again. Apparently, they threw a body out of the plane.
He says, Iâm quoting now, `Let this be an example to those who plot against the
Muslim people, and a warning of what will happen to the others on the plane
if we are threatened again from any quarter.ââ
âItâs started,â Macalister observed grimly.
At that moment, the computer emitted a low warning tone. Amber
characters began flowing across the screen.
>STANDBY FOR A CODE ORION MESSAGE
>EYES ONLY FOR KINGFISHER
>PLSE ENTER PERSONAL CODE WHEN ACCESS CLEAR
Auburn had never liked his codename. It made him feel like he was in an
Amos ân Andy skit. He turned to the other men in the room. âSorry gentlemen,
eyes against the wall please.â
When they were all facing away from him, Auburn punched in a sequence
of letters and numbers, none of which appeared on the screen.
>PASSWORD
the computer challenged. Auburn added a soothing line from a Robert
Frost poem. Since he had developed his own identification codesâwhich gave
him sweeping access to the intelligence communityâs computer systemsâhe
thought the poem had been a nice touch. At the moment though, he didnât feel
much like being soothed.
>IDENTITY CONFIRMED
>STANDBY FOR MESSAGE
âMac,â Auburn said softly. âYou can come here how.â He had few secrets
from his number two, but even Macalister wasnât allowed to know his access
codes.
The Colonel came over and leaned over his bossâs shoulder while they waited
for the IBM PROFS system at the White House to begin its transmission.
Auburn picked up the cigar from where it had been forgotten on the counter.
He grimaced at the taste of the cold, wet tobacco.
âAinât you ever goinâ tâ light that thing?â Macalister asked.
âNah. Doctor says Iâve got to cut down to one a day.â He held the cigar
between his fingers and looked at it like it was a dying friend, then tossed it into
a metal wastebasket on the floor. âI go through six of them before I get to put
a match to one after dinner.â
The computer screen flickered.
>CODE ORION MESSAGE FOLLOWS:
>ATTN KINGFISHER
>THE CEDARS OF LEBANON ARE GREEN
>GOOD LUCK
>EZEKIEL
Ezekiel was the Presidentâs codename for the operation. Auburn knew it
was chosen chronologically from a long list, but he wondered if God hadnât
been playing a little Biblical joke.
âThatâs it, gentlemen,â he said to the men still facing the walls. âWashington
says go!â
*
Hassan Ghaddar completed the broadcast and let his head rest back on the
seat. He wiped a heavily muscled arm across the black ringlets of curls stuck to
his sweaty forehead. The hijack leader was tired. He hadnât slept for almost two
days. He knew one or two of the men were taking drugs to stay awake, but he
wouldnât allow himself the luxury. It had nothing to do with Islam. Hassan just
didnât want anything to interfere with his ability to think clearly.
He stretched out his long legs and slipped his feet out of the Italian leather
shoes. Hassan was dressed incongruously for his role as Islamic avenger. Light
brown pleated pants. French. Expensive. Silk shirt. Alligator belt. Gold watch.
It had helped him blend in at the airport. Just another one of the rich Lebanese
businessmen who dominated Liberiaâs merchant class, just as the Indians
controlled East Africaâs trade. The pants were crumpled now. The damp shirt
stuck to his bulging chest like a second skin. Beads of perspiration glistened on
the thick crop of black chest hair exposed at the open neck.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself for the next phase. Night was
closing fast. Up in the mountains, red pinpricks of light like fireflies raced
between the peaks. Occasionally, an explosion illuminated the gathering dusk.
The Druzes and the Christians were fighting again. In the foreground, at the
opposite end of the runway, was the broken fuselage of a Jordanian Alia jet. It
was the remains of another hijacking, of which this airport had seen so many.
Hassan unfolded the note passed to him by one of the men on the ground. It
was from the Sheikh. The spy in Cyprus reported that the American troops had
arrived. The note commanded him not to delay too long. The Sheikh wanted
him alive. Other tasks awaited.
The body they had just dumped out the door was supposed to warn against
a rescue attempt, but Hassan didnât think thatâor the men outsideâwould
hold off the Americans for long if they decided to act.
He tugged on the moustache bristling under the hawk-like nose and decided
he had better begin. He took a last look around and got to his feet.
At the foot of the spiral stairs from the upper deck, Hassan found one of his
men stretched out in a first-class slumber seat with the footrest fully extended,
drinking a Coke. His gun was leaning against the chair.
âYallah, it is time. Find Zeinab and send her to me,â he ordered, âthen return
to the cockpit and keep watch.â
âBut we need not rush,â the young man protested. He was about 18. He had
taken off his shirt in the wet heat of the cabin, and now stood in jeans and an
undershirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. The canvas strap
of his AK was stained with old sweat. âWe must stay longer. Let us make that
mangy dog in the White House crawl to our feet as the others did before. We
can wait many days.â
âNot this time. This time, the Americans will attack.â
âThen we will die. Are you afraid to meet Allah?â the gunman challenged.
âYou will meet Allah sooner than even you would like if you are not careful
of your words,â Hassan hissed. âDo not be stupid. We are not like the others
with TWA, we do not have demands this time. We are not trying to free anyone.
I agree, I too would like to make the Americans sweat more, but we have sent
our message. They now know our name. Is it not better to live another day to
strike again?â
âAiwa,â the gunman nodded regretfully. âYou are right. I will find Zeinab.â
Hassan sighed as he walked into the business class section and sat down
in the first row. Someday he would give an order that was not questioned. He
understood the youthâs desire for a fight. The endless lectures about the joys
of martyrdom had left him with a driving hunger for action. He must learn
discipline as well. This was the problem with these boys who had gathered
around the Sheikh. They burned with fervor but had never been properly
trained as anything more than rabble with guns.
A few moments later there was a rustling, and a slight, robed figure appeared.
âDo you want me to kill another?â She nodded toward the five Americans
sequestered in the business class section for `specialâ attention. The haunting
brown eyes framed beneath the folds of the black abaya betrayed no emotion.
âNo,â Hassan replied, wondering again at how one who appeared so
innocent could be so mechanical about killing. Even he had felt a certain pity
for the man he had executed earlier. The dead diplomat was a symbol. As a
symbol he had to die, just as others would die. But personally, Hassan knew, he
was probably innocent of any crime. âNo, there is more important work now.
It is time for the final preparations. See to them.â
âBut why can we not make the agents of oppression suffer longer, just as
we...â
âQuiet woman!â Hassan snapped coldly. âYou will not question me. I say it
is time. Now move!â
Zeinab gave an almost imperceptible nod and reached for a cheap, vinyl
shoulder bag on the floor near the galley. From it she took two cans of shaving
cream. While the bound Americans craned their necks to watch with a mixture
of apprehension and curiosity, Zeinab walked to a window seat at the back of
the section. Reaching as high as she could, she sprayed a thick line of foamy
white shaving cream down the wall, along the floor in front of the last row of
seats, and up the wall on the other side of the plane. When the line extended
just past the window, she walked back, parted the curtain to the economy
cabin, and shouted:
âRamses, ijiit hawn. Come here.â
A young man of about twenty-five in a dark blue suit came forward into the
compartment. His clothes, like Hassanâs, were worn for a purpose, but it was
obvious he enjoyed them. His one concession to the stifling heat in the cabin
had been to loosen the red tie that matched a silk handkerchief in his breast
pocket.
âShuu? What?â he asked.
âTake this.â she handed him the second can. âFinish across the top.â
While Ramses continued the line up the wall and across the roof of the
cabin to complete the circle, Zeinab reached into the pocket of her chador and
extracted a set of worry beads. Squatting down on the floor, she tugged on
the strand until it broke, spilling the black plastic beads on the cabin floor. All
except one, which seemed to be attached. That she pulled off to expose a small
strip of metal that had been hidden inside.
One of the Americans, a businessman who had been a Marine in Vietnam,
immediately recognized the fuse head. The blood drained from his face. Zeinab
looked up in time to see the reaction. A thin smile formed at the corners of her
delicate mouth before she turned back down to her work. The other Americans,
also watching intently, still didnât understand what was happening.
Unstrapping the cheap plastic Casio watch from her wrist, Zeinab pressed
a tiny button to set the alarm. She then pried open the back with a screwdriver
and unfolded two short wires that had been fixed in place before she left home.
From the vinyl bag, she took a roll of tape and a photoflash gun that would
normally be mounted on a camera.
With her thumb, she held the wires from the watch on the contacts at
the flashgunâs base and secured them with tape. She then stretched out the
electrical wire on which the worry beads had been strung and pushed the bare
ends into the socket where the flashbulb should fit.
Zeinab had just one step left. From her pocket she took a thick silver
fountain pen, unscrewed the top and extracted a tiny metal cylinder about an
inch long. It was the bottom half of a detonator which had been sawn in half to
disguise its shape after the fuse head had been removed. Since detonators only
contained the triggering charge in one end, the other half could be discarded.
She pressed the fuse head back into place and fixed it with electrical tape.
When the alarm on the watch went off, it would send a weak electrical impulse
to trigger the flash unit which would in turn send a more powerful charge to
set off the detonator.
Zeinab plunged the metal tube into the white foam on the floor by the
window seat, laid the watch next to it, and stood up.
The businessmanâs eyes darted from the detonator, to the can with its red
âRight Guardâ label, to the ring of white cream encircling the cabin. It was then
that he realized. He had heard about it from a friend in the mining business, but
never seen it. That wasnât shaving cream, it was a form of explosive! Something
called Foamex. Armies had begun to use it for things like spraying on fields
to set off old landmines. He realized now that it was also perfect for terrorists.
Even plastic explosives were detectable with some of the most sophisticated
new equipment. But Foamex was neither cordite-based nor plastic. Literally
unsniffable. Stick a phony label on the can and there wasnât an airport in the
world, except maybe Ben Gurion in Israel, where they would think it was
anything other than shaving cream. Hell, heâd been told you could even shave
with it in a pinch.
As the Americanâs eyes traced the thick band of white, Ramses and
another of the hijackers entered the cabin from the first-class section. Each
carried two metal jerry cans. Inexpensive insurance to help the explosives do
their work.
âSet them along there,â Zeinab ordered, pointing to the line of foam. âTwo
in each of the aisles.â
The businessman smelled the gasoline. A groan escaped his lips. âNo. My
God, no.â
âQuiet,â Ramses barked, cracking him on the side of the head with the pistol
barrel. The man slumped in the seat, mercifully unconscious.
The others cowered in their own seats, knowing something was terribly
wrong, but still not quite able to comprehend that the cream sprayed from that
Right Guard can meant they would soon die.
âIt is finished,â she said, more to herself than to Ramses who was still nearby.
Zeinab could have had the men outside provide her with any of a dozen other
explosives, but it had been decided to bring Foamex with them from the start.
That way, if anything went wrong and they couldnât reach Beirut, they would
have been able to destroy the plane in the air, killing themselves and everyone
on board. A thrill ran through her at the thought of martyrdom. She shook it
off and turned toward the curtain.
âHassan,â she called into the first-class section. âIt is ready, Inshallah. If God
wills.
âWe must go. We have four minutes,â she said more quietly when he had
emerged.
âil-Hamdu Lilah. Praise be to God,â he replied automatically. âRamses,
make sure the stairs are in place. Zeinab, get Ahmed from the cockpit and all
of you leave the plane when that is done.â
He strode down the aisle into the economy section. Drenched in humidity,
the air in the stifling cabin clung to the terrified passengers like Saran Wrap.
The sweaty stench of fear had combined with the fetid odor from the
overflowing toilets to turn the atmosphere into a repulsive soup that coated the lungs.
âListen to me,â Hassan shouted in English to the hostages. He was standing
on the spot where the diplomat had been shot. The explosives were six feet
away, behind the curtain. âWe are leaving. It is over.â A loud sigh rose from
the relieved passengers. A dozen people started talking and shouting at once.
âSilence!â Hassanâs powerful voice rolled over the tumult like a tidal
wave over an angry sea. âPut your heads on your laps.â He paused while the
hostages reluctantly complied. One woman tried to protest, but her husband
peremptorily shoved her down.
âGood. Now, if anyone tries to leave the plane before the army comes to free
you, you will die.â He motioned to the two hijackers at the back of the cabin
to go forward and join the others. âWe must be safely away before any of you
come out. Otherwise, our friends outside will be forced to shoot you.â There
was another buzzing of voices. âWhen you return home, tell your countrymen
that America will never escape the Wrath of God.â
âI will leave you now. Asalaam wa alaykum. May peace be upon you.â
*
The cool, clean air felt good on Hassanâs face. He breathed deeply, cleansing
his lungs.
Two jeeps were waiting at the foot of the stairs. The militiamen who had
been ringing the plane were jogging toward the dirt embankment at the end
of the runway.
As he swung into his seat, Hassan motioned to the driver and the vehicle
shot forward into the darkness.
âBut not all of them will die.â The female voice from the backseat was full
of disappointment and bitterness.
âNot all, but enough.â Hassan spoke into the wind without turning around.
âHow many die is not important. What matters is how far the sound of their
deaths is heard.â
Lawrence Pintak, in his first fiction book Target: Hollywood, demonstrates an excruciating, mentally and physically, attempt to stop terrorists from attacking the Golden State.Â
When Ali, a young, ambitious Lebanese, left Beirut for the USA to study economics, he didn't think he would ever return with the sole purpose of spying on his cousin. At the time of his mission, he didn't know what was at stake and how many lives across several countries depended on his ability to be secretive and courageous. Being a pawn in the giant chess party that included the national interests of Iran, Russia, and the USA (among others), Ali couldn't predict how his actions would alter the course of international politics.Â
Lawrence Pintak's expertise as a reporter and the author of five non-fiction books on the Middle East helped him create the highly believable scenario of the attack on Hollywood. On all levels, from the OSIRIS's command (counter-terrorist American agency) to the individuals like Ali and his brother Hassan, the story amuses with its attention to detail. Shifting between different characters' views, especially at the end of the story, when the attack is imminent (and I won't tell you was it stopped or not!) doesn't slow down the reading. Capable characters, well-researched setting, and complex plot make the story terrifyingly realistic.Â
I can recommend the book as a captivating, big-stake thriller. Maybe, today terrorism is not the main topic on the international news, but it's here, behind the closed doors, in the dark allies, and even within the cabinets of high-ranking officials. The book reminds us once more that we should be aware that evil can strike us in the very heart when we least expect it.Â
Target: Hollywood is one of those books that deserves to be turned into a blockbuster. The moviegoers will love the breakneck story as well as the romance between Ali and his girlfriend Lisa. Â
I received the advanced review copy through Reedsy Discovery, and I am leaving this review voluntarily.Â