Ultimatum Read Free

Soukour-al-Sahra’, he had shown himself to be brave and steadfast.
    There was a long silence, Ka’ed contemplating the serious intent faces. What were they thinking? What did they feel? They didn’t look alarmed or afraid. Least of all Jasmine, the girl. She had an immensely calm face but he knew she was hard, notwithstanding her good looks.
    He spoke to Kamel again. ‘Let me see the photos, Assaf.’
    Kamel handed them over. Ka’ed went through them slowly. He selected one, compared it carefully with the face of a young man on the far side of the table. ‘Ammar Tarik certainly has the Colonel’s features,’ he said.
    The girl looked doubtful. ‘Ammar is younger and less handsome.’
    The men laughed. Tarik shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ask Assaf. He has seen us both.’
    Ka’ed leant forward, looking down the table. ‘So, Assaf. What do you say?’
    ‘Yes. Ammar is much younger, but the resemblance is strong. They are of the same build, though the Colonel is heavier. He has a big stomach.’
    Ka’ed looked at the girl. ‘Make-up is your job, Jasmine. What do you think?’
    ‘He’ll look like the Colonel when I’ve finished with him. Don’t worry.’ She examined the photograph of the Colonel. ‘I see what Assaf means about the stomach. But we can fix that. It’s no problem.’
    ‘Good.’ Ka’ed rubbed the underside of his moustache with a knuckle. ‘Assaf, tell us what you know of the Colonel. His house in Damascus. Where it is. What it looks like. His wife and children and other relatives. Tell us about the servants, too.’
    In a deep throaty voice Kamel told them what he knew and it was a good deal for he’d spent a week in Damascus learning what he could about the Dahan family, photographing them with his Minolta spy camera, listening to their conversation at night through an Epines 258 XVe directional mike and amplifier while he sat in a car close to the open windows of the house.
    When he’d finished Ka’ed said, ‘You’ve done well, Kamel. You always do.’
    There was some discussion then about the movements of a ship called Leros ,after which Ka’ed gave them a thorough briefing. At the end of it each knew exactly what had to be done and when. Timing was an important part of the operation .
    It was after midnight when they broke up and left in twos and threes to go their separate ways. When all had gone but Ka’ed’s bodyguard, Abdu Hussein, he turned off the lights and they climbed the stairs to the street. It was warm,the sky bright with moon and stars, and there was little traffic. They walked towards Rue Shahla, keeping a careful lookout, conscious of the Walther 7.65 mm automatics in their shoulder-holsters, the combat knives in their belts. There were many who would have liked Ka’ed dead – and they were not only the Falangists and the Israeli secret agents who abounded in Beirut. In earlier days his face had been heavily bearded. Now, clean shaven, with moustache and dark glasses, few would have recognized him as Marwan Haddad, the name by which he had been known in the PLO. It was, as it happened, his real name.
    At the University College of Beirut he had read philosophy and political science and there made the contacts and friendships which led him into the ranks of the Palestine Liberation Organization. At first a devoted disciple of Yasir Arafat, he’d later become disillusioned with the leader’s diplomatic strategy, his caution and what Ka’ed regarded as fatal lack of militancy. After quarrelling with Arafat, Ka’ed drifted from the centre to the extremist flank. There he became an embarrassment to the PLO leadership and attempts were made to discipline him.
    Predictably, he broke away with a handful of followers and established a splinter group, Soukour-al-Sahra’ – the Desert Hawks. The choice of name was not without significance . He made no secret of his policy: intransigent militance, unremitting violence, escalating terrorism. He believed implicitly in