Resurrection Day (43 page)

On the sixth floor of the FBI's J. Edgar Hoover building, Thomas J. Murphy put down his phone. The head of the FBI's Counter Terrorist Division was preoccupied with the discussion he had just had with a high-ranking Israeli intelligence officer over a secure line to Tel Aviv. The subject of their conversation was a young Palestinian woman named Karla Sharif.

In front of him, Murphy had the few sketchy details he had received in a confidential report from the FSB in Moscow half an hour ago, and which he had hoped the Israelis would be able to expand on.

Colonel Uri Rand in Tel Aviv, with typical Mossad efficiency, had done more than that: in a twenty-minute discussion he had given Murphy a highly detailed summary of Mossad's intelligence on the young woman. Not only that, but the contents of her file, along with her photograph, would be encrypted and sent to the Israeli embassy in Washington that very night, and, the colonel promised, would be translated and on Murphy's desk by 8 a.m. the next morning, hand-delivered by an embassy courier.

The Russians, too, had surprised Murphy with the speed and detail of their response. Scouring old KGB files, the FSB had discovered a Palestinian named Karla Dousad, linked to Nikolai Gorev, who had entered Moscow on 12 February 1983, then aged twenty, along with two dozen other Palestinians, for the purpose of collegial studies. Those studies, in reality, had involved a year at Patrice Lumumba University, where Karla Dousad had received KGB terrorist instruction. Her intensive course had included weapons training, bomb-making and operations planning, to name but a few subjects, and Murphy had absorbed the remaining details with mounting interest.

Karla Dousad's Palestinian father was an immigrant engineer in New York who had returned to Lebanon with his wife and daughter when she was twelve. A graduate of the American University in Beirut even before she travelled to Moscow, and fluent in French and English, Karla Dousad had proved herself one of the top Palestinian students the KGB had trained; their report mentioned a rumour that the infamous Carlos Sanchez — Carlos the Jackal — had been so impressed by her that he had wanted her for his own personal terror team.

The FSB also detailed a known relationship she had developed while in Moscow: with Nikolai Gorev, then a KGB instructor at the university. The two had often been seen in each other's company outside of classes; there were rumours among Gorev's KGB colleagues that the pair had developed an intense sexual relationship, and they had been observed spending weekends alone together at Gorev's apartment. Her training completed, Karla Dousad had immediately returned to Lebanon. Three months later, the report noted, Nikolai Gorev had resigned his KGB post and joined the army.

Just as interesting, from Murphy's point of view, were the gaps the Israeli colonel had filled in, where the Russian report had left off.

Karla Dousad's name had first cropped up in intelligence reports from Mossad's field agents as far back as 1982. Aged nineteen, she had joined the PLO in the aftermath of the Israeli backed Phalangist militia massacres at the Palestinian refugee camps in Sabra and Chatila, and the Israeli-led excursions into Lebanon, which had left thousands of innocent people dead, including her own parents, and sparked a militant PLO backlash. Karla Dousad was among the thousands of enraged young Palestinians who were moved to join the PLO to exact revenge. According to Colonel Rand, she was suspected of having taken part in at least a half-dozen terrorist attacks against Israel, before being sent to Moscow to hone her skills.

That episode the Israelis knew little if nothing about, apart from the fact that Dousad had achieved a reputation as an excellent student while in Moscow, but they certainly knew what had happened to her in the aftermath: immediately after her return to Lebanon, she had married Michael Sharif, a schoolteacher and Palestinian activist, and moved to the outskirts of Beirut. She had given birth to a son, Josef, in the spring of the following year. Five years later her husband was killed in a massive car-bomb explosion that rocked Beirut and left twenty-five people dead.

Surprisingly, the promise she'd shown as a student had barely materialised after her return to Lebanon: for a time, her skills had been put to use training fresh PLO recruits, but especially after her husband's death it seemed that her involvement in the PLO cause had waned and she had disappeared entirely from the terrorist scene.

It didn't really make sense to Murphy: here was a woman who had trained to be the ultimate terrorist but had given up on her skills, and he wondered about that. Rather than spur her on to revenge, had her husband's death turned her from the terrorist path, or what?

'You think she's still in the game, Uri?' Murphy had asked the Mossad officer over the secure line to Tel Aviv.

'I don't think so, Tom. The word we got from our informers was that she no longer took part in terrorist activities or fraternised with known extremists, and was therefore no longer a threat. Exactly the reasons we halted our surveillance on her many years ago, and allowed her prison visits to her son. The consensus was she'd given up on the cause. It's not unknown for even hardened terrorists to have a change of heart. Do you mind me asking why you're interested?'

'Weird as it sounds, her name and some details about her cropped up in an investigation we're running. A false passport operation run by a couple of Lebanese-American businessmen.'

'That does seem most odd,' Rand suggested. 'Tell me more.'

'I will, just as soon as we've got to the bottom of it,' Murphy lied blatantly, his answer already prepared. The last thing he needed was to alert the Israelis to the threat, and he knew he was already on dangerous ground just by making enquiries. 'But don't fret, Uri, it really doesn't seem like anything Mossad should be worrying about.'

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line as the Israeli digested Murphy's reply. 'You'll let me know if it is?'

Murphy could sense the Israeli's bristling interest over the phone. 'You bet,' he lied again. 'But do me a favour. Is it possible that you can confirm if she's at her address in Tyr? Discreetly, I mean.'

'How soon do you need the information?'

'Straight away would be good.' Then Murphy laughed, intent on hiding his urgency with yet another lie in order not to give the game away. 'I'd like to get this thing wrapped before I go on leave tomorrow evening. I've got a golfing holiday planned in Florida.'

'Lucky you. Very well, I'll do my best to have the information for you by tomorrow.'

'Good talking to you, Uri. I appreciate your help.'

Five minutes after the phone call to Tel Aviv, a sober-looking Murphy finished reading through a clutch of papers and notes on his desk. He pushed himself to his feet, crossed to his office window, and mused again about what made a woman like Karla Sharif suddenly return to the terrorist fold after so many years of inactivity.

The Israelis had considered her no real threat, yet one telling detail from Tel Aviv had set alarm bells ringing in Murphy's head: Karla Sharif's last recorded visit to her son had been almost four months previously, on 21 July. She had been due to visit him again a month ago, on 21 October, but had not shown up at the prison. According to Rand's information, it was the first visit she'd ever missed.

The Israeli colonel had also promised to send her son's file, and had given Murphy the gist of his details over the phone: aged sixteen, Josef Sharif had been wounded while trying to smuggle explosives across the Israeli border with a Hamas comrade. Despite the seriousness of his crime, Mossad reckoned from his interrogation that he was probably a borderline Hamas supporter; a relative innocent led on by hardline peers and driven by teenage bravado.

Standing at the window, watching the blazing lights of DC, Murphy could understand Karla Sharif's initial reasons for joining the PLO. The Israeli-backed Phalangist massacres at the Sabra and Chatila refugee camps had been a shameful episode in Israel's history. If he'd been a young Palestinian and had witnessed the massacre of his parents and hundreds of his friends and neighbours — most of them entirely innocent — he'd have been tempted to take up a gun against the Israelis himself. He knew hardened military men who thought that whoever was responsible for that callous episode — everyone, all along the chain of command — should have been brought to trial at the Court of Human Rights. They were war criminals, no question. But the Israelis had never really admitted guilt or punished the offenders.

Murphy tried to focus on the dilemma that troubled him. Karla Sharif's reasons for joining the PLO he could certainly understand, but not her fresh involvement after so many years of being out of the game. He wondered whether her son's imprisonment, the continued unrest in the Palestinian Territories, or both, could have retriggered her interest. Her radical background, her son's imprisonment, her non-appearance at the jail and Kursk's identification of her pointed to only one thing in Murphy's mind: there was a damned good chance the FBI had their woman.

In Murphy's mind, it made sense for al-Qaeda to use someone like Karla Sharif: she spoke fluent English, had lived in America, had received top-class terrorist training, but had no recent connections to any terror organisation. In the US, she could probably blend in easily and pass for an American citizen.

He was convinced that Karla Sharif would not be at home when Mossad sent its agents to check. What nailed it for him and set his pulse racing was when he scanned through the copy of Abu Hasim's lists of prisoners which lay on his desk: a Josef Sharif was among those whose release the terrorists were demanding. There was a knock on his door, and one of Murphy's senior agents, Larry Soames stepped in, his sleeves rolled up, tie askew. He closed the door.

'Well, Larry?'

'Just thought I'd let you know. Our undercover teams have still turned up zilch. All the serious Islamic supporters on our lists are pretty much behaving themselves, not putting a foot out of line.'

'What about the cargo manifests?'

'Ditto. Zilch.'

Murphy grimaced. 'OK, go back another month. What about the stuff Collins asked for?'

'We're working on it, Tom.' Soames looked weary. 'Any more lists and they'll be coming out our asses. What's the news from Maryland?'

'Nothing yet. Collins said he'd get back to me if there's a lead.'

Soames nodded, moved to leave.

'Hang on. I'm not finished, Larry.'

Murphy crossed to the US wall map and stood there, hands on his hips. Palestinians were already on his roll-call of illegals. But he knew Karla Sharif could have entered the country in hundreds of different ways and using as many guises. The Wentworth's janitor had recalled first seeing her six weeks earlier. If she left Lebanon after 22 July and didn't turn up at the jail on 21 October, there was a likelihood she had entered the US some time between those dates. It was possible, but just as unlikely, that she had entered using her own name. Even if she had, it made sense that she would cover her tracks to avoid being found. At a guess, Murphy figured she would have used false documents and offered a misleading or fictitious address on her immigration forms, at whichever point she had entered the US. All of which would make it almost impossible to track her down, but Murphy had to follow the lead, see where it led.

'I want the immigration records for between 23 July and 17 October gone over again, and thoroughly. We'll need a breakdown of Middle East-born women who entered the country any time between those two dates. Confine it to the ages of between thirty to forty-five. Stick to the East Coast first and break them down into their respective nationalities. In particular I'm interested in the Lebanese-born, and especially if they're from a place called Tyr. That's spelled T-YR.'

Murphy grabbed a pen and notepad from his desk. 'Keep an eye out for this one.' He wrote the available details on a slip of paper: the name Karla Sharif, her date and place of birth, and her maiden name, Karla Dousad. 'It's a long shot, but she could have used either of those names. Then find out all you can using the name Karla Dousad — her parents were Palestinian immigrants, lived somewhere in New York where she was born. I'm going back over twenty-five years, but get everything you can — what schools she attended, addresses where she lived, and try to find out if she has any relatives in the US. And I want it done quickly, Larry.'

Soames raised an eye. 'She's hot?'

'Hot as hell. Get on it right away.'

7.59 p.m.

'We're ready to go live, Mr President.'

A hush descended on the conference room as the voice of the officer in the communications chamber next door filtered through the speakerphone. 'We're going to patch through the satellite radio link to Afghanistan in ten seconds.'

Around the table, tension showed on the faces of the President and his advisers, each acutely aware that they were about to hear the voice of the man threatening a half-million of their countrymen. 'Five seconds, Mr President. Four. Three. Two. One — '

A second later the hiss of soft radio static filled the room.

Bob Rapp looked anxiously over at Janet Stern, as if to seek confirmation that he could speak, and received an urgent nod.

'Mr Hasim ... are you there?' Rapp's voice had a nervous tremor. One of the two State Department translators at once relayed his question, and the reply came seconds later.

'Yes, I am here. This is Abu Hasim.'

There was an unreal, metallic quality to the voice that filtered into the conference room over the secure, scrambled line: it sounded as if it came from a distant planet.

'Mr Hasim, this is Bob Rapp, one of the President's senior advisers. I'd like to make you aware that for the purposes of our conversation I have a translator from the State Department here beside me. He will translate your words into English, and mine into Arabic'

'That is agreeable,' Hasim said, when the translator had finished. 'I am now ready to address your president.'

'Mr Hasim, sir,' Rapp answered courteously, 'the President first wishes me to assure you that your list of demands is being dealt with in the most serious and urgent manner. At this very moment, the President is conferring with his senior advisers as to how best he can assist you in meeting those demands and resolving this problem. For this reason, he has asked me to act as his personal liaison with you as we try to find solutions to the issues you've raised, and also to clarify with you some important issues of mutual concern. One issue, in particular, is the withdrawal of our forces from the Gulf within the remaining five days. This mass withdrawal within such a short timeframe will undoubtedly attract serious media and public interest. Yet you have warned that your demands be kept from the public. We need urgent clarification on that point, Mr Hasim. I would be grateful for your help in enlightening me as to how we can best go about a withdrawal.'

As the translator got to work, Rapp sat back from the microphone and anxiously licked his lips. He looked at Janet Stern and Franklyn Young, seated either side of the President. Both exchanged satisfied looks; Franklyn Young even offered him a smile. Rapp had slipped easily into his role of mediator. The President gave him a thumbs-up, and Rapp nodded his thanks.

A long silence ensued after the translator had done his work, and then Abu Hasim's voice came back. There was no mistaking the sharp tone, even before the translator had finished. 'Mr Rapp, I said I was ready to speak with your president. I ask you now, is he ready to speak with me?'

'Mr Hasim, as I explained, the President has asked me to liaise with you in this matter, so that we can first clarify several important issues. Meanwhile, he's working hard to find ways to meet your demands, sir.'

Rapp nodded to the translator.

'Your explanations are unnecessary,' Hasim replied seconds later. 'You have tried to make a fool of me. Tried to deceive me with your tactics. But I will not be deceived by the stupid tactics of you Americans. Tell your president that there will be no contact with me again on this frequency if he will not talk to me personally.'

The translator finished. Rapp said, 'Mr Hasim ... ? Are you there, Mr Hasim?'

Janet Stern whispered, 'Keep him talking, Bob. Tell him anything you have to but keep the sonofabitch talking!'

'Mr Hasim ... if you could just listen, please ... '

There was another long silence, and then the voice that came back from the speakerphone was from the officer in the communications room. 'You're wasting your time, sir. He's cut the damned line.'