“There is,” replied Gamoudi. “I’ve been in it dozens of times. Go now, feet first, and hang on tight to both lines.”
Rashood slithered over the edge, leaned back, and began, effectively, to walk backward down the sheer cliff face.
“You’re secure up here…this’ll hold you, even if you fall.”
“I’m not going to fall,” Rashood called back. “I’m going straight into that bloody cave when I find it.”
Colonel Gamoudi chuckled and watched for the little black sticky tape he had attached to the line to reach the edge. When it did so, he called, “Right there, Ravi! Right in front of you.”
“Got it!” yelled the General. “I’m in!”
“Great work!” called Gamoudi. “Now unclip and send the line back. Okay, Shakira, you’re next…and I want you to understand: I have the spare line attached to your belt, and it’s playing out through this fitting. You
Shakira was terrified. She watched Gamoudi clip on the harness, then the lines. She pulled on the gloves and slithered backward to the edge. However, the thought of leaning back was too much and she just kept scrabbling at the rock face with her feet, until she felt her husband’s hands grab her and haul her into the cave. She was trembling like a songbird’s heart.
Gamoudi checked that the lines were set for the climb back, and then he went over the edge, hot-roping it down in five long strides, landing dexterously on the front ridge of the cave.
“Have you done that a few times before?” asked Rashood.
“Just a couple,” grinned the French Colonel. “I could do that when I was nine years old.”
Ten minutes later, the first of the Cougars came rattling around the mountain, about 400 yards from where the three fugitives sat at the back of the cave, thirty feet from the entrance. It was impossible for anyone to see into the cold gloom of the place, and the dark brown of their lines outside made their climbing equipment invisible. Even the crampons were black.
But Rashood feared the heat-seeking radars, and he told the others to flatten themselves against the floor of the cave as far back as possible. The lead helicopter came past twice more, and intermittently, throughout the afternoon, they could hear the search continuing.
Just before dusk both Cougars flew once more, slowly across the west face of the mountain. Rashood was relieved they did not fire a couple of rockets straight into the cave, as he himself would most certainly have done if he’d had even an inkling that his quarry was inside. But perhaps they didn’t.
As night fell, Jacques Gamoudi hammered one of the crampons into the hard rock of the wall and made the climbing rope fast. He clipped on, and with a bag of crampons attached to his belt, he moved out onto the rock face, left of the entrance. Secured now by two ropes, he began the climb up, hammering in a stairway of steel crampons for Rashood and Shakira to use to follow him.
At the top he dropped the rope down for Shakira and called for her to clip it to her harness. He half pulled her, and Shakira half climbed her way to the top, following the zigzagging line of crampons expertly smacked into the mountain by Jacques Gamoudi.
Rashood brought up the rear, faster than Shakira but not like a true mountaineer. In fact, the Hamas C-in-C looked mightily relieved to be standing on firm ground rather than in an eagle’s nest, 2,000 feet above terra firma.
The next leg of the journey was a long four-day haul through the wildest lands, over the Ouimeksane Mountain range and down to the deep blue waters of the d’Ifni Lake. But they were no longer being pursued, and the days passed easily. They hit the tiny village of Taliouine on the morning of April 23, purchased a hot meal of spiced lamb and rice in the town’s only restaurant, and bought the proprietor’s car for 30,000 dirhams.
Three hours later, after a fast run down the P-32 highway, they reached the outskirts of Agadir. It was 3 P.M. Gamoudi touched base with the
The comms room informed him that the cell phone would now be connected to that of the SEAL team leader, Lt. Cdr. Brad Taylor, who was bringing in an eight-man squad for the getaway. “Just keep hitting the GPS beam so we know exactly where you are — every few minutes after 1930.”
Colonel Gamoudi thanked the American communications officer and spoke briefly to Lt. Commander Taylor.
“Try to get down there and get your bearings before we arrive,” he said. “But don’t risk anything.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what the place looks like, and I have no chart or even a map,” replied the Colonel. “How about I touch base in three hours? I’ll know more then.”
“Perfect,” replied the SEAL boss. “And remember, they’ve got a couple of Moroccan Navy warships at one end of the harbor. We’ll be staying well away from them. Check out the other end, to the north. We’ll talk in three.”
Out there on the edge of the town, Gamoudi could see no sign of his French pursuers, but of course that did not mean they weren’t there. He gassed up the car and parked it in a deserted, unobtrusive square above the town. Then they all changed out of their mountain gear and into the light pants, sneakers, and shirts.
It was much warmer down here. They strolled down to the port, where they were shocked to see maybe twenty or even thirty French commandos standing around in small groups all along the docks.
They instantly turned back up the narrow, busy street, secure in the knowledge that no one knew them, no one would recognize them, and no one had any idea they were traveling as a group of three. Nonetheless, it might not be easy to make a break tonight, and board a boat in the harbor, not even with the help of the fabled U.S. Navy SEALs.
And so they waited, out on the edge of town. At 7:3 °Colonel Gamoudi beamed up his GPS position, and told Lt. Commander Taylor he was about to walk down to the dock, and would meet the SEALs, as agreed, on the south side of the north harbor, the one filled with little blue fishing boats and surrounded by a rocky sea wall.
Gamoudi had seen a tall yellow crane on the shore side. They would use that as a beacon.
“We’re less than a half mile offshore,” said the Lt. Commander.
“We’re gonna cut the engine and row in.”
“Copy,” said the Colonel.
In company with Rashood and Shakira, he walked on down toward the water. Out in the offshore waters, Brad Taylor, in company with four other SEALs, went over the side, complete with wet suits, Draeger breathing apparatus, flippers, and sealed waterproof automatic rifles.
There were 400 yards left to swim. They headed straight for the crane, all five of them, maintaining a depth of twelve feet below the surface. Brad Taylor wanted an armed guard on that dock, and he was not going to get one by driving the big inflatable up to the jetty and tying up beneath the lights, in full view of anyone who might be watching.
They landed on the pitch dark beach, around the corner from the seawall, and took off their flippers, clipping them to their belts. Each man kept his black rubber hood on, which was damned uncomfortable but rendered them almost invisible.
They hovered in the darkness, taking up positions in the construction areas that seemed to surround the entire place. Taylor checked the GPS. So far as he could see, Colonel Gamoudi was walking within 200 yards, straight toward him.
Taylor hit the button of his phone and Gamoudi answered. “How many of you?” asked Brad.
“Still three. My two friends,” replied Gamoudi.
Suddenly, the SEAL boss could see them walking through a shadowy narrow gap between two buildings. As he watched, an armed patrol of three uniformed men stepped from the shadows and challenged them.
“Shit,” muttered Taylor, and signaled for two of his team to follow him along the other side of the alleyway. He watched from the darkness. Gamoudi and his companions appeared to be answering the uniformed men’s questions.
Taylor knew these soldiers were French, and his orders were to take no chances. He hissed to his team to open fire. No mistakes. The chatter of the submachine guns was instant. The three French commandos went down like three sacks of laundry.
Lt. Commander Taylor burst out of his cover and crossed the rough ground. “GAMOUDI!” he snapped. “Which one?”
