The bitterness of his failure hit Mustaf with a hammer blow. Papa had sent him out to guard the family. He had let the Israelis attack. It was all his fault. If he had been quicker, stronger, braver; Papa and Momma would still be here.
He slumped to the ground, tears welling from his eyes. Then he saw the doll’s torn, bloodstained arm. He knew he had lost everything.
He pulled himself erect, using the olive tree to steady himself. The world swayed and whirled for a few seconds. The dizziness passed. He felt a strange burning pain from his cheek and felt the hot and sticky flow of blood running down the side of his face.
Uncle Yassir lifted the boy by the shoulder. “Come, my son. We will fix your first war wound. Then we will teach you how to use that hate. Your battles have only just begun.”
1
15 Mar 1998, 0130LT (0130Z)
Mustaf al Shatar pulled the black hood over his head, carefully adjusting the cloth. It mustn’t block his vision. His smoothly shaved face felt strange. His thick black beard normally hid the old scar, but the angry red welt was plainly visible as it zigzagged across his cheek. Mustaf ran his fingers lightly over the tortured tissue, reflecting that this was only a reminder of a much deeper scar in his heart. Rachel would be avenged.
A fleeting smile crossed his face. A good, devout Moslem should not shave the proof of his manliness, but the exigencies of battle with the infidel necessitated a clean shave. Mustaf was a practical man and knew that Allah would smile on any action that brought grief to the enemies of the true faith. Tonight was a time for revenge.
It felt good to be on an operational mission again, back amongst men of action instead of the political animals that inhabited the PLO headquarters. Uncle Yassir had taught him well, both in the arts of battle and in the political infighting needed to build an army. Mustaf had excelled at both, but only the rumbling growl of an AK-47 or the sight of the enemy’s blood brought any joy.
Mustaf glanced around at his small team. These five had been with him in the training camps in Syria and Libya. They had fought with him in the Golan Heights and the occupied territories. They were men he trusted with his life.
Six men in black coveralls crowded in the back of the speeding van. Their pockets bulged with extra clips of ammo and grenades. Each had a wickedly sharp assault knife strapped to the inside of their left calf, just above cloth and rubber combat boots.
Moussiari sat at Mustaf’s right, just as he had for the last twenty years, ever since Uncle Yassir had brought the young orphan boy to the training camp hidden high on the Eastern side of the Bekaa Valley. Moussiari was a young freedom fighter then, but already blooded from the fighting in Beirut and a couple of airliner hijackings. Uncle Yassir charged Moussiari with guarding and training the boy. Mustaf learned the techniques of battle at Moussiari’s hand and the value of loyalty from the man’s devotion. The big man saved Mustaf’s life twice on earlier missions.
Moussiari pulled open the aluminum trunk sitting in the center of the van, between their out-stretched legs. Six gleaming new AK-47 assault rifles rested inside, carefully secured in black foam.
He grabbed a weapon, flung the action back and tossed it down the line. The man sitting next to the rear door caught the rifle, slammed a magazine home and slid a round into the chamber. Moussiari picked up the next AK-47 and passed it down. He repeated this until there were only two left. He held one up for Mustaf before taking the last one for himself.
Mustaf snatched the Kalashnikov from Moussiari’s hand and worked the action, ramming a round into the chamber. The rough, powerful shape of the Russian automatic rifle felt good. It had been too long since he had last felt the weapon’s heavy recoil or heard its deep bark.
Mustaf leaned back against the van’s metal side and tried to ease the tension in his taunt muscles. He smiled as he remembered how it was always like this just before a mission, as if his body was coiling to strike.
Where had all the time gone? Had it really been five years since he last led a team of fedayeen on a mission of jihad? What would his Wahabi say if he knew that his star pupil had wasted his time playing political games?
Mustaf shrugged. Such was life. Politics bred power. Power was the name of the game. Righteous causes counted for nothing. Alliances for even less. He would grab as much power as possible, and then the world would feel his pain. He would avenge the murder of his family.
Moussiari asked quietly, his voice heavy with worry, “Are you sure you want to do this, my leader? The team can finish this mission. There is no reason to endanger you.”
Mustaf glanced across the van. The big, dark featured Iraqi could always be counted on to be at his side or covering Mustaf’s back.
“My friend,” Mustaf whispered. “I need to do this. Do you want our men to think I am some weak political animal like Uncle Yassir, ready to bend whichever way the wind blows? The rifle is my right hand, the bomb my tool. Allah must be avenged! Our cause is righteous.”
Moussiari glanced around the
