Moussiari grunted, “These men have served you for years. They know your bravery. Master, I beg you to stay behind. This mission is too dangerous. There is too much to lose.”
The van screeched to a halt. The rear doors swung open. Harsh blue-white light shattered the darkness. The lead pair of fighters leaped into the brightness.
Mustaf pushed Moussiari toward the door. “It’s too late to back out now. We can only pray to Allah that the Americans know nothing of our mission and that we serve Allah’s will.”
The pair ran across the narrow alley and followed the group into a darkened doorway. It was peaceful and quiet, beautiful as only an Iberian summer night could be. No shout of alarm, no spray of bullets to greet the fighters, only a warm breeze gently scented with olives and almonds. If they could just make it upstairs and to the front of the building.
Mustaf once again rehearsed the plan in his mind. It all seemed so easy, and so perfect. Israel’s Chief of Mossad meeting the American Director of Central Intelligence at the American Embassy in Lisbon. The broad boulevard separated this apartment flat from the Embassy’s front entrance. It was an easy shot. A pair of rocket-propelled grenades would smash the cars, then a spray of automatic rifle fire would kill the dazed survivors. Mustaf smiled. A classic ambush in the middle of a safe European capitol.
Mustaf’s team quickly dispersed to the three top floor apartments, setting up their killing field. Uncle Yassir’s agents rented the apartments years ago, just as they had in most of Europe’s capitols, in case they would ever be needed. Two men to an apartment, one ready with an RPG, the other lugging extra rockets and ammunition clips for their AK-47s.
The pink-gold dawn was just lighting the Tagus River when Mustaf slid into position behind the center window. He glanced across the tree-lined boulevard at the white colonnaded façade of the American Embassy. A Marine guard in dress uniform stood just outside the heavy wooden double doors, ready, even at this early hour, to let America’s friends in and to stop America’s enemies.
Mustaf leaned back and relaxed. There were still several hours to wait. The meetings weren’t scheduled to start until ten o’clock. These infidels believed in the comfort of sleep. There was time for him to rest for a few minutes.
The incessant, annoying buzz awoke Mustaf. Why would someone be calling him on the cell phone? Only a very select, very trusted few fedayeen knew this number. Mustaf snatched the miscreant device from his pocket, jammed down on the talk button, and growled, “What?”
The excited voice was familiar, a brother from the camps, his source in Arafat’s inner council. “Run, Mustaf! You have been betrayed. Arafat sold you out to the Mossad. It’s a trap!”
The line went dead.
Mustaf dropped the phone and stared sightlessly at the flyspecked white wall. It couldn’t possibly be true. Uncle Yassir was his mentor, his father figure. How could the man who had replaced Papa betray him like this? But somehow Mustaf knew it was true. He had risen to the point where Yassir saw him as a threat to his power. With Uncle Yassir, one thing was certain. If you threatened his power base, you would be destroyed.
The first explosion shattered the apartment to the right and blasted a huge hole in the adjoining wall. Mustaf could barely see through the choking dust and smoke. The shattered shapes of his fighters, blown apart by the missile, were barely visible. Automatic weapons fire poured into the apartment from somewhere across the street. Bullets rhythmically pocked the walls, tearing huge gouges out of the plaster.
A streak of light passed across his vision milliseconds before the second missile smashed into the apartment to the left. The explosion was deafening.
Moussiari stood at the window and opened fire. Mustaf could see the AK-47 jump and buck but, strangely, he couldn’t hear the roar he knew so well. The missile blast had deafened him. A burst of machine gun fire found their apartment, stitching a neat pattern across the wall. Another burst tore through Moussiari, spraying the air with a pink mist as the fedayeen fighter was slammed back and fell heavily at Mustaf’s feet.
“Mustaf, my brother,” the older fighter moaned. “Help me. I can’t move.”
Mustaf knew that they were in a hopeless trap. Nothing left but to escape and fight another day. No sense being a martyr for the cause. That was for the stupid foot soldiers. A leader had to stay alive to lead. He dove out the door and dashed for the stairs just as an explosion erupted in the apartment. Another missile must have found their hiding place. The damned Americans had worked out the angles of attack like a fine science. Bullets zipped through the air like a thousand angry hornets.
Mustaf crawled down the hallway as bullets rent the air above his head. It was only thirty feet, but it felt like a marathon as he struggled to make it to safety. Finally he reached the stairwell and tumbled down the stairs, only to slam into the landing below. In the relative safety of the landing, he tore off the black hood and coveralls, revealing the blue-gray caribinari uniform that he wore underneath. He left the coveralls lying on the landing beside the AK-47 and dashed on down the stairwell. By the time anyone found them, he would be
