Sword of Allah (20 page)

Duat stood at the edge of the beach and listened to the hum of activity in the camp behind him, the warm waters of the Java Sea gently breaking on the sand of crushed shells. He dug his toes into it and wiggled them, something he used to do as a child. Of course Kadar Al-Jahani had to go to the West Bank and capitalise on the demonstration in Jakarta, he told himself, the bombing would have been a largely pointless exercise otherwise – but it would be a dangerous trip. As agreed, they had not claimed responsibility for the attack. The time for Babu Islam to announce its existence and its intentions to the world would come.
But that time was some way off yet. There was still too much to do to risk a response from the west. And yet, despite the silence and as a direct result of Kadar’s demonstration, into the new camp had wandered a steady stream of willing recruits. These people knew little or nothing about Babu Islam but still they came, for the bombing had been a beacon for the faithful to take up the fight.

The first of the arrivals caused a great deal of concern. Any one of the new recruits could be a spy. The solution had been a costly and time-consuming one, but necessary. A panel of trusted men was created to handle the influx. The arrivals were questioned and background checks performed. The newcomers were thoroughly searched, of course, and quarantined for a time until the background checks were completed. So far, no spies had been identified but the core of a bureaucracy had been created, perhaps the beginnings of a workable security infrastructure that could be imposed once Babu Islam assumed power.

More than likely there were other groups like Babu Islam also enjoying an influx of new blood; Jamaah Islamiah and the Islamic Youth Movement – the GPI – and others benefiting from the blow they’d dealt the Great Evil, the United States of America. The resources required to process the arrival of so many new enthusiastic hands had been considerable, but the influx had been welcome.

Working parties had been hard at their labours for a good hour before dawn. The runway was already partially hacked out of the jungle and mangroves, and all the major buildings were up. Indeed, the bombing had profoundly affected the atmosphere at the camp. There was a sense of
elation underpinned by a renewed purpose. Duat had noticed small shrines dedicated to Dedy and his heroism, incense burning before blurred snapshots of the man. It was not strictly the Muslim way, but the movement had attracted followers from the four corners of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago, and with them had come a melange of local superstitions and idiosyncrasies. In time, a deeper understanding of the Qur’an would purge Babu Islam of these impurities but at the moment, Duat had decided to tolerate them – there were other priorities.

Dedy Abimanu’s sacrifice had, overnight, become the benchmark of a man’s dedication to the cause and a demonstration of his love for Allah. Already, Duat had received several requests from others begging for martyrdom in the name of Allah and for the eternal benefits that would flow to them for this sacrifice. This was something Kadar Al-Jahani had predicted, something that could be put to good use when the time came for coordinated attacks throughout Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines, for an army of committed believers would be required to give up their lives.

A small crab scuttled across Duat’s instep and brought him out of his reverie. He raised the binoculars to his eyes again and ran a forefinger across the wheel, bringing the mist on the horizon into focus.

‘If the navigation package works, we would not expect to receive its transmission signal for another sixty-five seconds,’ said Hitu Hendra by his side, a former communications lieutenant in the Tentara Nasional Indonesia – Angkatan Udara, the Indonesian air force.

Duat nodded. The two men stood together, each lost in
his own solitary world. Duat had no real understanding of the problems and challenges faced by Hendra, and the former air force man was equally blind to Duat’s concerns.

Hendra pondered this latest flight test. The electronics that came with the drone were smashed and beyond repair, as were its sophisticated infrared and optical cameras – no doubt the result of its fall to earth in Israel. So Hendra had had to create a guidance system from scratch – something the Americans spent millions of dollars and years to develop, and he’d had to do it with off-the-shelf technology. But rather than being daunted by the task, Hendra had at first relished it. Ingenuity was what kept the TNI-AU flying, and it would also get Babu Islam’s unmanned aerial vehicle – its very own UAV – off the ground and to its target.

Hendra had experimented with a number of different possible technology paths, all of which had failed for one reason or another, and he was beginning to think that perhaps his promise of success to Duat and Kadar Al-Jahani had been the product of pride rather than of ability. Even though wide experience with aircraft and computers enabled Hendra to test systems that appeared to be workable in theory, they turned out to be flawed in practice.

Hendra watched a couple of seagulls turn and bank on the air currents and then skim across the water, all in complete control. They mocked him. He bit his nails down to the quick as he walked back and forth, willing the test to be a success.

Duat scanned the horizon with binoculars, forcing his tongue into the hole in his front teeth. This was the fourth test flight he’d witnessed, all failures. And there had been
others he hadn’t attended. This particular test aircraft was small, no more than a child’s toy, really, with a wingspan of two metres. It was supposed to be heading inbound to the encampment by now, following the completion of a twenty-kilometre loop over the open water. Duat looked at his watch.

‘Any moment now, sir,’ said Hendra, feeling the tension. ‘When the plane climbs above the horizon, we should receive a signal from its transmitter.’

Duat grunted a reply without lowering his binoculars.

Hendra glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds and counting. The seconds ticked by. Duat and Hendra searched the distance. A minute passed. Silence.

‘I’m sorry, Duat. I don’t know why –’

‘I need to know if this will work,’ said Duat, cutting him off. He was angry, his face red and the vein in his forehead was pulsing.

‘Yes, sir – Emir,’ said Hendra, still unable to shake the habit of calling Duat ‘sir’ after twenty years in the military. ‘I don’t know what went wrong. Something unforeseen must have happened. Dirty fuel, perhaps.’

Duat looked at Hendra. ‘If you truly love Allah, Hitu, you will not fail, for loving Allah leads to perfection in all things. Should you fail in your task here then I will question that love, Hitu. I will question it very strongly.’

The blood drained from Hendra’s face, and he swallowed involuntarily as Duat turned his back on him and walked slowly up the beach.

Hendra stayed by the water’s edge until his calculations told him the test airframe would have well and truly run out of fuel. Where was the problem? Industrial tilt sensors
in the aircraft’s wingtips and nose were employed to keep the test drone flying level. As for the guidance system, that problem was far more difficult. He’d ended up mating a personal digital assistant with built-in GPS to off-the-shelf radio control equipment. The PDA was loaded with aircraft navigation software. The system worked fine in tests, but perhaps it was all too complicated. He needed something simpler to guide the UAV to the target, but what?

Two young boys were sitting off the end of the airstrip, laughing over something they had hidden between them. One looked up as Hendra approached, and dug his friend sharply in the ribs. The other boy hid the source of their entertainment behind his back. ‘Show me,’ Hendra said, holding out his hand.

They refused and one of the boys ran off, frightened.

‘Show me. Now,’ Hendra demanded, his tone angry but his curiosity aroused. He held out his hand and gestured with his fingers insistently for the contraband, whatever it was, to be turned over. What were they hiding, huddled here away from the encampment? Pornography? American filth? An electronic beeping sound came from behind the boy. ‘Now,’ Hendra demanded again. The boy held it up. It was a computer game, a toy. Hendra knew about these, they were popular amongst the younger men in the air force, used to help pass the hours of inactivity, time that could have been more profitably utilised reading the Qur’an. He examined it, turned it over.

The plastic body of the toy was clear, and from the circuitry visible within, it was reasonably sophisticated. The thing had defaulted to its introduction screen. Hendra watched fascinated as a chicken chased a fox out of its
coop, pecking at its bushy tail. As it ran, the fox gobbled up chicken eggs. Every few seconds, the device chimed a series of notes and lightning shot from the chicken’s beak, momentarily frying the fox. ‘Do you have any other games?’ Hendra asked, something about the toy intriguing him. The boy shook his head. ‘It’s okay. I’ll give them back. May Allah judge me harshly if I don’t.’

The boy thought about that for a few seconds before reaching into his pocket and holding up two small squares of bright plastic, one yellow, one lime green – a racing game with a fat hippopotamus stuffed into a go-cart, and an alien invasion game. He removed the chicken and fox card and inserted the lime green alien invasion program into the device. It loaded up the game and Hendra watched transfixed, his eyes wide with astonishment. The alien spacecraft flew through a complex maze created by a meteor shower
without being hit once.

‘Buckle up, Spanky, we are
GO
,’ said Monroe, slapping shut his mobile phone and tossing it on the table.

‘Go where?’ said Wilkes calmly glancing up from the computer. Over the past week, he’d begun to find Monroe’s gung-ho attitude amusing at times, grating at others, his attitude uniform whether ordering a pizza or, apparently, crashing through a door with the enemy on the other side – at least if you believed his patter.

‘This is it, dude. Time to earn our pay. Informants gave
up a bunch of terrorists to the Shin Bet. They’ve called in the Sayeret.’

‘Shit,’ said Wilkes. He was taken a little by surprise but he knew he shouldn’t have been. The call could’ve come through at any moment and the moment was now. Out of habit, he had a quick look around the two-room apartment before stepping out, but there was nothing to take, except for maybe a waterbottle. He grabbed it and waited at the door for Monroe. The Shin Bet was responsible for counter-terrorism and internal security within Israel. They often worked with the Sayeret, the tough, nononsense Israeli special forces. Experience had taught these people how best to deal with an enemy occupying a building. And that was to snipe as many as possible from a distance before bulldozing the structure down on top of any possible survivors. That they hadn’t done so already in this instance was no doubt in reluctant deference to the CIA’s clout, and its own desire to catch Kadar Al-Jahani alive.

Monroe walked out of his room strapping on Kevlar body armour.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going, Atticus?’ asked Wilkes.

‘Listen, we’re not each other’s babysitter, okay?’ said Monroe, throwing a nickel-plated nine millimetre Ruger into his kitbag.

‘You’re mad, mate. You don’t know their tactics. They don’t even speak the same language, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I guess all that stuff about the SAS having big cojones is bullshit after all.’

‘It’s not that you’ll get yourself killed, Atticus, it’s that
you might get others killed.’

‘That’s the idea.’ The American stuffed his M4 into his bag along with a stack of magazines. ‘You coming,’ he said, ‘or are there some TV programs on you don’t wanna miss?’

‘Okay…’ Wilkes said, capitulating. Atticus was right in one sense, he wasn’t the man’s babysitter.

Monroe stopped his frantic packing for a moment. ‘Look, Tom, sorry, but you weren’t at the embassy. You didn’t see what I saw,’ he said…
It’s not your fault…not your fault…
‘Besides, you know what they say, if you want it done right, do it yourself,’ he said, zipping up the heavy Cordura duffel bag and swinging it over his shoulder.

There was no more time for argument. The distant hammering in the sky had grown persistently louder until it was almost deafening. And overhead. ‘Say goodbye to this as a safe house,’ Monroe shouted. Helicopters did not land on the rooftops of apartment blocks, even in middleclass Tel Aviv.

‘Where are they holed up?’ Wilkes yelled at Monroe’s back as they bolted up the fire stairs to the rooftop.

‘Beautiful downtown Ramallah,’ said Monroe as he pushed through the fire door into the dry, hot glare. A Bell 212 orbited the rooftop, its pilot no doubt assessing the safest approach in the fluctuating breeze. The 212 thumped its way into the wind, blades pounding the air. The pilot brought the helo to a hover a metre above the roof, just off one corner. Wilkes stepped across onto the skid and was helped aboard by the helo’s loadmaster. Monroe followed after passing up his kit. The two men sat on the hard checkerplate deck, their backs against a bulkhead. The loadmaster gave them the universal thumbs-up signal,
which Monroe and Wilkes returned, and then handed them each a pair of headphones.

The Bell climbed until it was well clear of the surrounding apartment blocks and then dropped away, rotating one hundred and eighty degrees and picking up air speed. Wilkes looked out the open side door at a second helo that had taken up station barely fifty metres away, framed by the orange ball of the late afternoon sun. ‘That’s a Lahatut,’ said a heavily accented voice in his ’phones. Wilkes glanced at the LM. By law, the soldier had to be at least eighteen, but he appeared far younger. Wilkes wondered whether that was because at twenty-eight, he was getting older. Both men looked out at the Hughes helo. Wilkes was reasonably familiar with the Little Bird, as the US Army called the type. They used them extensively for reconnaissance, target acquisition and real-time battlefield management. The Birds were highly manoeuvrable and fast, and usually came with a six-barrel 7.62mm minigun, but not the aircraft in formation off their starboard side. A couple of TOW missiles hung from launchers mounted off its body. ‘Lahatut means “sleight of hand”,’ said the loadmaster. ‘A tank buster. One of those missiles can penetrate armour seven hundred and fifty millimetres thick,’ he said proudly, opening his arms wide to illustrate the point.

‘Do you get to bust many tanks around here?’ asked Monroe.

‘No, the Palestinians don’t have any.’ The Israeli added after a moment’s thought: ‘But they’re just as effective on bunkers, buildings, and you should see what they can do to a car.’

Wilkes was palpably aware of being in a country at war, which, of course, Israel was. He recalled the DIO briefing notes supplied by Graeme Griffin. Technically, it was still in conflict with its neighbour Syria who, up until the cease-fire that put the Six-Day War on hold in 1967, had owned the Israeli-occupied territory known as the Golan Heights. The two countries weren’t currently exchanging shots, but the neighbourhood wasn’t exactly welcoming. Then, of course, there were the Palestinians. They believed the Israelis had snatched away their land with the world’s blessing after World War II, leaving them stateless and homeless. As far as the Israelis were concerned, there were enemies inside and outside the gates. No wonder there was a siege mentality to the place, thought Wilkes. Any minute the Israelis expected to be either invaded by foreign armies or assaulted by desperados dressed in waistcoats stuffed with C-4.

‘You gonna…for us?’ The LM finished the question by holding an invisible carbine to his shoulder and firing a few rounds.

‘Bet your ass, kid,’ said Monroe, before Wilkes could answer that, no, they were just observers.

Wilkes shouted, ‘You’re one crazy son of a bitch, Atticus.’

‘You worry too much, Tom,’ Monroe answered, resting against the bulkhead.

‘You guys CIA?’ asked the Israeli.

That threw Monroe – the fact that the kid knew the score – but he recovered with his usual aplomb, mixing fact with fiction. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The name’s Bond…James Bond.’

The young soldier grinned.

‘007 is British,’ said Wilkes.

‘Whatever…’ Monroe replied, shrugging.

The helo began to descend rapidly towards a dusty light brown city the same colour as the dry countryside around it. Wilkes’s ears popped with the rapid change in pressure. ‘Jesus, that was quick. Not that I’m complaining,’ he added. They’d been in the air less than ten minutes; not enough time to get uncomfortable. Ramallah was barely forty kilometres to the south-west of Tel Aviv, but it was like stepping across a fifty-year time zone. Tel Aviv was a worldly city, and wealthy. The town they were approaching was a dense collection of low-rise flat-topped buildings with very little greenery, nothing to break the monotony. There were no modern buildings that Wilkes could see. It was a small provincial town, and a poor one at that.

‘We’re from Sirkin AFB,’ said the LM through the ’phones. ‘The unit you’re working with, they’re from Sirkin, too. These are tough times but they’re good soldiers

– Sayeret. Special forces. Don’t worry, Mr Bond. They look

after your ass,’ he said playfully. Monroe smiled in return, acknowledging the jibe.

The 212 approached a section of town that had been flattened in a previous action. Three Humvees with mounted machine guns were parked off to one side. Several army types stood squinting into the sky. The helo flared half a dozen metres above the dirt loading zone, kicking up a wall of grit that forced the onlookers to turn away and hunch their shoulders.

Wilkes and Monroe handed the LM their ’phones and the thunderous noise of the 212’s twin turbines assaulted their ears. Sand and dirt swirled briefly through the open door, stinging their eyes. They grabbed their gear and exited. The two men walked quickly to the vehicles as the pitch of the swooping blades deepened and the sandstorm erupted once again under the climbing aircraft.

‘Lieutenant Colonel David Baruch, Sayeret,’ yelled one of the officers over the departing helo.

‘Major Richard Samuels, Shin Bet,’ said the other.

The newcomers quickly introduced themselves, shaking hands with the Israelis. Wilkes wasn’t usually welcomed in the field by high-ranking officers and felt like he should be saluting them, but he resisted the impulse.

The two Israelis were utterly different. Baruch, around fifty, had dark, almost Arabic features, whereas Samuels was in his early thirties with watery hazel eyes and fair, freckled skin.

‘We should go,’ said Major Samuels. He politely opened the rear passenger door of the centre Humvee, inviting the others to climb in. Monroe went first and opened the window. ‘I’d keep that closed if I were you, Mr Monroe,’ said the major. Monroe shrugged and wound it up.

The Humvee roared forward and Samuels began the sit-rep. ‘Technically, this is Shin Bet’s op,
our
op, but this one’s a little out of the ordinary,’ he said with a slight accent Wilkes picked as Russian. ‘The colonel’s people are familiar with this place so we’ve called them in. We don’t believe the terrorists know they’re cornered. When they do, all hell will break lose.’

‘We’re going to go with a helo insertion and extraction
on the rooftop,’ Baruch said. ‘In and out hard and fast.’

‘How many terrorists are in the building?’ asked Monroe.

Baruch deferred the question to the major with a polite nod of his head. ‘We don’t know exactly, is the short answer,’ said Samuels. ‘We think maybe ten to fifteen, but it could be more.’

‘Or less,’ said Baruch.

‘Yes,’ agreed the major, ‘or less. Once the UAVs are airborne, we’ll have more definitive intel.’

Wilkes picked up on the tension between the two officers. ‘And Kadar Al-Jahani?’

‘Yes, he’s there. Positively identified by an informant,’ said Samuels. ‘There’s some kind of annual general meeting of terror going on inside. This is a real coup for us. And we don’t want to fuck it up,’ he said, glancing at the colonel, who was looking out the window. ‘We’ve got several high-ranking members of Hamas and Hezbollah all under the one roof.’ He frowned. ‘You know that taking prisoners is not going to be easy.’

‘Nevertheless, we have to take Kadar Al-Jahani alive. There’s a bigger picture here,’ said Monroe.

‘These people are fanatics,’ Baruch said. ‘With respect, I don’t think you realise exactly what that means until you’ve been confronted by it.’

‘I hear you, but that’s our mission.’

‘They will not come quietly,’ said Samuels, turning to look at Monroe, Wilkes felt, to see what kind of man he was dealing with. ‘They are not afraid of killing, nor of being killed. Death to them is an honour, especially if they are taking Jewish people with them. These are the men
who strap explosives to their brothers and sisters, and send them into crowded movie theatres and bus stops. They are not soldiers, they are murderers. They rejoice in killing our grandmothers, our children.’

Wilkes saw the stress in the major’s face. Yes, indeed, they were a very long way from Townsville.

‘Shin Bet knows Kadar Al-Jahani, the man you want, well. He’s responsible for many deaths and much unhappiness in our country.’ Major Samuels cleared his throat again, something he appeared to do unconsciously when cutting to the chase. ‘I guess what I’m saying, gentlemen, is that I hope keeping him alive is worth the sacrifice. Good soldiers will die here today. For the sake of their families, I hope their deaths will be worth it.’

The major’s speech was sobering. It was patently obvious that he was against the operation to take Kadar alive. Wilkes wondered if that was the source of the tension between the two Israelis. There was nothing he or Atticus could say to reassure him.

‘Sir, I want to go in with your people,’ said Monroe.

‘That is not possible, Mr Monroe,’ said Baruch.

‘Sir, I think the CIA would want to know that this op has been done right. If things go wrong – not saying they will, but shit happens – it would be good to have an observer on the ground.’

An observer? An arse protector more like, thought Wilkes. Monroe certainly knew how to play the game.

Baruch considered the American’s request. The logic of it was flawed – his presence could be the
cause
of fuckups. But there was a certain appeal for political reasons. Baruch looked at Samuels. The major gave the slightest
shrug. If the American wanted to die at the hands of terrorists, who was he to stop him?

‘I advise against it, Mr Monroe,’ said Baruch, ‘but I’ll leave the decision up to the unit commander.’

The Humvees zigged and zagged through the town, along streets that were alternately brightly lit by the sun and then darkly shaded. Wilkes saw small children shrink behind their mothers and men avert their eyes as the vehicles passed. A group of youngsters spat at them. Stones occasionally pinged off the vehicle’s bodywork, one striking the window by Monroe’s face with a bang that made the American jump. ‘See?’ said Samuels, vaguely amused. ‘Fresh air here can be dangerous.’

There was fear in this town, and defiance. This was a new experience for Wilkes. He’d only been involved in conflicts where an international force was seen as either stabilising or liberating – a ‘just’ force. From the looks on the faces of the people they passed, there was nothing liberating or just about their presence here.

The convoy slowed through a section of the town that had recently been flattened. Shell holes and blackened concrete rubble provided the executive summary of a recent action there. People picked over the piles of broken brickwork, hunting for valuables. They ignored the Humvees roaring past.