Underneath that was a block of twenty one-inch square photographs, five by four, each one captioned with a name. In a transparent strap line, set diagonally across the pictures, was the word gone!
For the Jerusalem Post this was a sensational treatment of any story. It more than matched the conservative coverage in the Syrian Times, an English-language publication that offers wildly pro-Arab slants on all items of news.
Their headline read:
HEROIC HAMAS FREEDOM FIGHTERS LIBERATE OUR MARTYRS
The stories were remarkably similar in content, each pointing out that every worthwhile political prisoner in the entire country had essentially vamoosed, set free by a brilliantly led hit squad from across the border.
The details tended to blend together, but within a half hour of publication in two special Sunday afternoon editions in Jerusalem and Damascus, the news was well and truly out — on all the local Middle East radio networks, plus the BBC World Service and the Voice of America.
Newspapers in the United States, operating at least seven hours behind Israel, received the newsflash at around midday, which gave them a long time to prepare and research thunderous front pages that revealed that the forty-seven most dangerous terrorists in the entire history of the Arab-Israeli conflict were on the run, free and clear, and may attack again.
Inside pages were packed with 'Why, Oh Why' stories, individual cries from the heart, from 'experts' on jails, security, jail inmates, bank robberies, and Middle East politics and Jewish mothers, sons, and daughters, all culminating in the inevitable… WHY THIS MUST NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.
In London, one of the tabloid dailies rounded up a couple of survivors from the Great Train Robbery of 1963, and ran the headline THIS MUST HAVE BEEN DONE BY A PROFESSIONAL. It was written with all the irate self- confidence of Fleet Street in full cry, as if they had just delved into the psychological depths of Plato.
Lt. Jimmy Ramshawe read the initial briefs from the CIA early on that Sunday afternoon.
Incredulous like most of his colleagues that a terrorist group had been responsible for the entire outrage, he sat in his office, consumed with thought. The sheer military precision of the operation was contrary to normal terrorist strikes. Fanatics from the desert were often brave, usually cunning, and quite frequently breathtakingly dumb. This was entirely different. This was meticulous, planned to the last detail, and executed with satanic ruthlessness, its timing perfect. Young Ramshawe thought, no bloody errors.
Shortly before six o'clock, he stood up and muttered to no one in particular, 'Nice one, Major Kerman, old mate. You really are a dangerous bastard.'
By half past seven, he was in a quickly convened meeting with Admiral Morris and Captain Wade. All three men had reached the same conclusion at more or less the same time. This could have been conducted only by the SAS or the U.S. Navy SEALs, or at least by someone trained in either Hereford, England, or Coronado, California.
At this stage there was of course no evidence, but Lieutenant Ramshawe, along with his maps of the north Galilee area and pictures of the jail, had brought in a small file of forensic evidence appertaining to the two robberies at the New York and Beirut Savings banks.
Buried in both reports was an incontrovertible fact, the locks on both gates, the ones situated in front of both vaults, had been blown by the intensely high explosive PETN. Traces had been found on the gate. Both locking bars had been split in the same place, and the remaining pieces of steel had shown clearly that a drill had been used to bore two holes right through the bar.
Both these smashed locking bars had a high degree of PETN embedded in the broken area. The report did not take the matter further, and Jimmy Ramshawe had called Captain Wade to ask what he made of that.
Scotty said instantly, 'Hell, yes. They used detcord. That's a PETN explosive. But it's used almost exclusively by the military, usually by Special Forces. Christ knows where they got it.'
'Raymond Kerman would know how to get it.'
'He would. And he'd know how to use it.
'James, old buddy, we need to know whether the cell doors in Nimrod were blown by the same method. And the Israelis are not going to be anxious to reveal anything until the fuss has died down.'
They had briefed Admiral Morris, and in all three minds, there was no doubt. The jailbreak was masterminded by an ex-Special Forces officer. Everywhere you looked there was evidence.
They had plainly driven into the jail in the truck and then jammed it in the main gateway, having first disposed of the Israeli driver and his colleague.
'Just imagine how carefully this was planned,' said the Admiral slowly. 'First of all, they had to get into the country, across a very hot border on the Golan Heights. They must have walked in at night, and then hidden on this mountain. Looks like they carried in the right kit, machine guns, probably drills, detcord, probably hand grenades. And then they got away in two big helicopters. What are the Syrians saying?'
'Not much, sir. Except they applaud the bravery of the freedom fighters, and give thanks to Allah for the safe delivery of the Palestinian martyrs. Of the operation itself, they of course know nothing.'
'Meanwhile,' said the Admiral, 'we got forty-seven homicidal maniacs on the loose, some of whom might try to come here, even though their crimes have all been committed against Israelis, in Israel.'
'That's correct,' replied Captain Wade. 'And there's not a whole lot we can do about it. Except to stay watchful and step up all surveillance in Damascus, where the prisoners almost certainly are.'
'Okay, guys, keep me posted. I'll debrief the Big Man, and see you both in the morning.'
The phone in Kathy O'Brien's house, in Chevy Chase, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., did not often ring on Sunday evening. She and Arnold Morgan always had dinner at home, and it was well known that this was the one time in the week the National Security Adviser tried to leave the cares of his great Office behind him.
Right now he was about to taste a bottle of 1995 Chateau d'Issan, of which he had bought three cases, rather extravagantly on the advice of Harcourt Travis, Secretary of State and the White House's resident sophisticate.
Arnold Morgan had no intention of revealing to Kathy the source of his advice, unless of course the wine was awful, in which case the former Harvard professor currently charged with the entire foreign policy of the United States would most certainly get the blame. Probably loudly.
Arnold rotated his glass, swishing around the red-purple wine from Bordeaux, way up on the left bank of the Gironde River, and smelled its bouquet. Had he known where it was made, in the most beautiful moated, seventeenth-century chateau, from grapes grown in walled vineyards, he would have loved the little ritual even more. To Arnold, bottles of French chateau-bottled wine were like paintings, to be kept and treasured. But on Sunday night, he and Kathy always drank one with dinner.
Arnold sipped and savored the d'Issan. Harcourt was spot on as usual. 'Perfect,' he muttered, standing the bottle just to the side of a log fire in the study. 'Little more warmth, another fifteen minutes.'
Just then, then phone rang. 'Fuck,' said the Admiral.
'It's for you, darling,' called Kathy. 'George Washington, National Security Agency, just north of the Beltway, degrees north thirty… '
'All right, all right, goddamnit… '
The Admiral, chuckling, stumped down the corridor to the phone.
Kathy caught only snatches of his conversation. 'HOW MANY!! FORTY-SEVEN… JESUS CHRIST!… HOW MANY THEY CAUGHT…? NONE!… JESUS CHRIST!… ALL DEAD…? JESUS CHRIST!'
Kathy shook her head as she basted the roast lamb. When he replaced the phone and came into the kitchen, she asked sweetly, 'Who was that? George Morris or John the Baptist?' Arnold smirked but could not smile. 'I guess we'll see it later on the news, but some terrorist group just released every major political prisoner in Israel, blew up the jail, killed the guards, and got 'em all out in a couple of helicopters.'
'Good lord!' said Kathy.
'That's what I just told John the Baptist,' said Arnold. 'I know it sounds kinda crazy, but there's forty-seven of these fanatics on the loose. And we don't want 'em here.'
'No, we sure don't.'
'And there's another twist to this. These guys were led and trained by some clever son of a bitch. George and his boys think it was that missing SAS Major we talked about last year. Kerman, from London. They never found
