Читать книгу The Fifth Season - Kerry B Collison - Страница 9

New York – April 1996

Mary Jo Hunter

‘Where ya goin, Lady?’ the cabby asked, stretching to catch a better glimpse of Mary Jo’s long, fine legs as she climbed into the back of the vehicle, her nostrils immediately offended by the stale, lingering odors of those who had gone before. Her baggage had been flung carelessly into the trunk, the sloppily dressed driver’s smirk already annoying Mary Jo from the moment he had arrived to take her to the airport.

‘Hong Kong,’ she answered, checking her carry-on case again for reassurance. Her hand settled on the document folder containing her passport and she relaxed slightly.

‘First time?’ he tried, his eyes glancing into the rear vision mirror admiringly.

‘Yes,’ Mary Jo responded, hoping the conversation would stop there.

‘Traveling alone?’ he inquired, impertinently, but she took no offense, half-expecting the driver to make small talk. Having lived and worked in New York’s aggressive environment for several years, Mary Jo had soon fallen into step with other residents, her smooth, well-mannered, small-town response a thing of the past.

‘Maybe,’ she said, the driver’s eyes darting to the mirror again, wisely accepting the hint. Mary Jo leaned back as the taxi jerked its way through the Midtown traffic, contemplating what lay ahead. She was on her way to JFK and her posting to the S.E. Asia bureau. She thought about the long haul, eager to get under way, in no way daunted by the twenty-four hour flight on United to Hong Kong.

Mary Jo’s thoughts were distracted by the occupant of a car traveling alongside and she smiled, observing a young woman sitting confidently 23

Kerry B. Collison

alone in the rear, her appearance reminding Mary Jo of when she had first left home in pursuit of her dreams. Then, she frowned as the image of her mother waving goodbye intruded and she recalled with some sadness that there had been no tears, only excitement and relief that she had finally managed to escape her suffocating surrounds.

This brief recollection triggered other memories sending Mary Jo back to early childhood and, as the cabby fell into silence, her mind wandered back in time.

* * * *

Mary Jo had been an only child. The exhilaration of the Sixties and her mother’s determination to maintain her liberated status, had resulted in her parents separating before her sixth birthday. She had remained with her mother in Ohio, the memory of her father’s departure deeply affecting her mind.

Mary Jo had been thoroughly confused by the absence of her father, her mother refusing to acknowledge any questions as to where he had gone.

She missed him greatly, the void in her life immeasurable after he had left.

The memory of him sitting on her bed at night, holding her hand, reading stories of faraway places and filling her mind with wonders as she drifted off to sleep, filled her eyes with tears. Mary Jo yearned for the warmth of his strong, comforting arms she remembered so well and his deep, but soft, reassuring voice.

For months after his departure, Mary Jo had cried herself to sleep at night, brokenhearted that he could have abandoned her so. Alone with her strong-willed mother, she had done little else but cry. Then, after what seemed to have been an eternity, he returned.

On that day, Mary Jo had arrived home early from school to find her father sitting in their kitchen. Her heart had skipped a beat, and she had run across the small room banging her knee painfully against the door of an open cupboard. She remembered throwing herself up into his strong open arms and burying her head deep into his chest, his reassuring words comforting the pain of her bruised limb.

But he had not returned to stay. When Mary Jo overheard her parents argue, she had feared the worst. Suddenly he was gone again, the overwhelming, fearful emptiness which followed even greater than before.

Another year passed, and Mary Jo had come to believe that her father had deserted them forever when, unannounced, he amazingly reappeared.

Against her mother’s vitriolic protestations, he had carried Mary Jo off to the movies, his unforgivable absences immediately forgotten as she hugged him close, in a moment filled with joy.

That night, her father had tucked her into bed and read as he had done so many times before. With his hand gently stroking her head, his voice carried Mary Jo away on a familiar journey, the story of the Great Wall amongst her favorites. She remembered how she had visualized herself as part of the scene, walking hand in hand with her father along the forever-winding, man-made miracle through the mountains, the familiar resonance of his voice a delight, the images of Genghis and Kublai Khan no longer of frightening concern. She recalled begging him to promise to stay, his response, another hollow commitment to return. When she awoke the following morning, he was gone.

Two more years passed before Mary Jo saw his face again; this time, as he was passing through. She found the painful infrequency of her father’s visits bewildering, recollections of how he looked slowly fading in her mind, until his face eventually resembled nothing more than a blur in an occasional dream. Finally, her father disappeared from their lives forever.

Her mother refused all mention of his name, and with time, Mary Jo learned not to care, and accepted that he would never return.

* * * *

At first, Mary Jo had not really excelled at school, lacking motivation and the necessary concentration. Often, as the teacher’s lulling, monotonous tones would cast their spell, her mind would wander, day-dreams carrying her away to distant lands and peoples, whose faces she had seen captured in still-life photographs. Her favorites were those found amongst their neighbor’s National Geographic magazines, the reason she spent more time there than in her own home. Mary Jo would often sit for hours examining their collection, her hands moving across the amazing photographs, touching mountains and valleys as she imagined herself part of the wondrous scenes.

At fourteen, when their neighbors moved to California, Mary Jo joined the local library to satisfy her inquisitive mind. There she discovered an even greater world, the science of photography, her interest in still-art forms leading her to an inevitable conclusion. Having pestered her mother for months, Mary Jo received her first camera on her fifteenth birthday, and her life changed forever. After that, there was no doubt in her mind what she wished to do with her life, already consumed by the dream to become a photojournalist, and travel the world.

As fate would have it, her mother’s timely remarriage provided Mary Jo with the means to attend college. With her step-father’s encouragement and financial support, she applied to attend the Rochester Institute of Technology, and was accepted into the School of Photographic Arts and Sciences, one of the four schools within the College of Imaging Arts and Sciences at R.I.T. For Mary Jo, it was a dream come true. Although her mother was not overly keen about the prospect of sending her off alone, she acquiesced, and Mary Jo bade farewell, moving to Rochester to commence her studies.

Her first impressions of the bleak, red-brick architecture to be her home for the next four years were less than favorable, immediately understanding why students irreverently referred to the sprawling edifices as Brick City. But it was not until Mary Jo first experienced the infamous quarter mile walkway between the dorms and the academic buildings during her first Winter, that she appreciated the derogatory comments regarding the campus architectural layout.

As a freshman, Mary Jo was obliged to share accommodations with fellow students. She elected to dorm with others in what was known as Photo House, as there were special interest floors which provided dark-rooms and studios for the students, where Mary Jo came to spend endless hours, engrossed in the practical applications of her studies.

Mary Jo had selected this college after considerable examination of her own expectations. She had learned that R.I.T. had earned national prominence in her field of choice, and was greatly impressed when she read that so many of the college’s graduates in photojournalism had won prestigious Pulitzer Prizes for their work. This, in association with the fact that Rochester had achieved recognition as the Image Capital of the world, with such established names as Kodak, Xerox, and Bausch & Lomb head-quartered there, left little doubt in Mary Jo’s mind that she had made the right choice.

At R.I.T., Mary Jo threw herself into her studies. The demanding four year degree course program in contemporary journalism provided her not only with practical experience in documenting real-life events, but a depth of knowledge in the mechanics and history of photography as an art.

For Mary Jo, life outside class had also been fulfilling. R.I.T. offered fraternities, sororities and organizations which catered to the multi-cul-tured student body’s interests, and Mary Jo found herself at home within this new, and exciting environment, expanding her interests and circle of friends both on, and off campus.

Her extra-curricula activities in no way affected her studies. If anything, these enhanced her view of the world, providing Mary Jo with a sound perspective of the social and political environment in which she lived. She enjoyed participating in most sports, but her preference for the swimming pool consumed the greater part of her leisure hours.

When her mother visited Rochester, Mary Jo had taken her to the world-famous George Eastman House, the mansion having been turned into an international museum of photography and film. Mary Jo wanted to explain something of her love for this science. Unfortunately, her mother did not share Mary Jo’s enthusiasm, or interest, strolling away out of earshot before her daughter had the opportunity to explain something of what she had learned of the wonders and technological leaps her field had seen in her lifetime. Mary Jo had been deeply disappointed. She had wanted to share, but her mother’s obvious disdain turned the visit into disaster, and they had fought, the exchange raising eyebrows with those within range. Subsequent to this visit, outside semester breaks and an occasional birthday call, Mary Jo rarely communicated with her mother, both gradually growing indifferent to the other’s needs, each content with the waning relationship which had crept, unobserved, into their lives.

Mary Jo’s leisure time was mainly spent alone, wandering around the historical centers of the Woodside Museum and the Gothic cottages district with her camera in hand. It was during one such outing that she met a young research science graduate and experienced her first affair. It had been a brief and disappointing relationship, leaving her feeling empty and used. During their second date, they had driven to Niagara Falls where, consumed by the magnificent spectacle and overpowering force of nature’s work, she had willingly surrendered herself to his eager hands, their coupling completed and her date half-dressed, before Mary Jo had even recognized what had transpired. For a time, she retreated to her studies, satisfied to bury herself in activities associated with the demanding, practical applications of photojournalism studies.

Mary Jo had chosen to remain in the dorms right through to graduation.

If anything, she felt a little guilty that her step-father had never once questioned her seemingly endless requests for funds, and decided to apply for a position as a resident adviser in her third year. The quid pro quo required that in consideration for her board, she helped take care of students on her floor. Mary Jo found offering advice, even counseling students not much younger than herself, thoroughly rewarding. The small stipend she received provided her with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that this lessened her dependency on others, and in her final year she took on tutoring.

It soon became apparent to R.I.T. staff that Mary Jo had a most promising talent and they encouraged her in every way. Her practical achievements attracted considerable praise and upon graduation, the Dean arranged a position for her with a mid-western daily. But it was her childhood dreams of travel that continued to drive Mary Jo forward, her restlessness resulting in a reluctant chief-of-staff agreeing to introduce her to an associate in New York, who placed her on probation for three months at the respected news agency. To Mary Jo’s great satisfaction, she excelled and flourished in the Big Apple’s exciting and challenging environment. Mary Jo’s dedication and skill firmly ensconced her within the media corps, and soon became recognized as one of the finest journalists in her profession.

At twenty-three, Mary Jo’s reputation was already well established. Her circle of acquaintances and friends revolved around the competitive media industry and, although she enjoyed a number of brief, sexual skirmishes, she had no real desire to settle down. It therefore came as some surprise to Mary Jo when she fell passionately in love, the whirlwind romance leaving her giddier than even she thought possible. When Eric Fieldmann entered her life, the high-profile, foreign correspondent had swept her away, and Mary Jo gave herself completely, convinced that he was the one.

Her world took on an entirely new meaning. Mary Jo’s friends smiled knowingly whenever she spoke of her lover and their moments together, observing the young, love-stricken woman’s metamorphosis most had experienced whilst still in their teens. Mary Jo’s demeanor softened, her perspectives acquired new dimensions and her attitude towards her career took an unexpected turn. She was earnestly in love and did not care who knew it. To her, Eric Fieldmann was everything she could possibly want in a lover and companion. He was handsome, witty and highly respected by his peers. His voice, smell and their lovemaking constantly invaded her thoughts, every minute of the day. Mary Jo moved her things into his Soho apartment and canceled the lease on her own. She was deliriously happy, and ecstatic when her lover announced that he had decided to settle down.

The affair lasted six months, ending only when distance finally took its toll during a prolonged separation. Fieldmann accepted a position as bureau chief in Rio, and although he had asked Mary Jo to accompany him, the invitation did not come with a ring. Had he proposed, she would have willingly sacrificed her career and followed Eric to South America.

Instead, she declined, deeply distressed that their relationship would end, bitter when he left, without a promise that he might return.

She became introspective and moody. Depressed, Mary Jo often stressed herself beyond acceptable limits and her work suffered, the symptoms easily recognized by friends and workplace associates. Sometimes she would phone Eric at home in Rio just to hear his voice, wishing that their conversations might occasionally lead to something more meaningful than the light-hearted banter which invariably dominated their exchanges. Once, when she identified a woman’s voice answering, Mary Jo had hung up, startled and embarrassed. The realization that she had become an intruder into her former lover’s life prevented Mary Jo from calling again.

When Eric sent cards on her birthdays and at Christmas, she reciprocated, but after a time, even these communications slowed, trickling to an occasional, hurriedly-scribbled note, until finally ceasing altogether as both moved on with their lives. Then, without understanding why, Mary Jo had taken up smoking.

Her chief-of-staff watched Mary Jo with increasing concern, as her performance at work failed to achieve the same high standards she had produced in the past. He took Mary Jo aside and warned her to pull herself together or risk losing her position and the respect of others in the industry. The ultimatum was sufficient to galvanize Mary Jo back into action, heeding the chief ’s sound advice. The quality of her work improved, and she threw herself back into her profession with renewed vigor. The change was significant, even startling. Her confidence returned once she managed to put her personal problems into perspective, and behind her. Soon, Mary Jo was back in the air, covering North American events with even greater energy and dedication than before.

Alone, while resting in her apartment at the end of a long tiring day, Mary Jo often questioned her independent nature and the sacrifices she had made. Fortunately, these rare journeys into the murky world of self-pity quickly passed. She came to terms with what had happened, accepting that the final choice not to proceed to Rio, had really been hers. Jaundiced, but not hardened by the experience, Mary Jo promised to be more careful in her future relationships.

Throughout the following two years, she spent most of her life on flights jetting to destinations even her chief-of-staff had difficulty spelling. Bosnia, Chechnya, and many of the former Soviet satellites whose names were a linguistic nightmare, were all reported in depth, her skillful coverage recognized as amongst the finest journalistic efforts in that year.

Her knowledge of peoples and cultures grew, but only partially satisfying her insatiable appetite for more. Mary Jo’s coverage of the brutal Central African slaughters earned her a Pulitzer nomination, although she was greatly disappointed not to be awarded the prize.

Occasionally there were moments of doubt when she wondered how life might have been, had she followed Eric to South America, but these moments of lapse and self-indulgence were easily dismissed when Mary Jo reminded herself of the fulfilling experiences she continued to enjoy, due to the choices she had made. The satisfaction of knowing that she still had control over her own life, brittle as it sometimes seemed, spurred her forward. Her confidence returned, and she ceased smoking, determined not to fall into that trap again.

The following Spring, her life suddenly took a new and promising turn.

She was offered a senior photojournalist’s position in Hong Kong. Mary Jo had not hesitated, thrilled with the chance to be based in the Far East on permanent assignment, the opening providing her with the opportunity to fulfill a lifelong dream. Her self-esteem completely restored, Mary Jo became impatient to get under way.

* * * *

‘We’re here, lady,’ the cabby announced, bringing Mary Jo back from her reverie, immediately amused that she had been daydreaming. She waited until the driver unloaded her baggage, then followed the lines of other passengers into the main terminal, and onto the shuttle. An hour later, Mary Jo took a final glimpse of the World Trade Center towers and boarded her flight for Hong Kong, her mind filled with anticipation and excitement, the memories of her relationship with Eric Fieldmann now comfortably washed from her mind.

* * * *

Israel - Tel Aviv

Mossad

Major General Shabtai Saguy sat contemplating the recommendations before him, confident that the Prime Minister would now support the initiatives proposed. The General Staff had approved the covert action, convinced that they had no choice but to proceed. Israel’s ultimate survival depended on neutralizing the growing threat of an Islamic bomb.

The responsibility for ensuring secrecy over Israel’s complicity in this deadly game weighed heavily, and the Mossad Director sighed, accepting that any disclosure would not only be harmful to the Middle East Accord, but could also wreck Israeli-American relations. He considered the ramifications of discovery, believing that the imminent nuclear threat to his people greatly outweighed these risks. The possibility that Israel could be destroyed in a Moslem nuclear holocaust only strengthened his resolve; the general had mobilized Mossad’s powerful resources in anticipation of a favorable response from the Prime Minister’s office.

He was reminded of earlier operations conducted under his predecessor’s leadership, and the secrecy which surrounded Mossad and its clandestine activities. The Director frowned, unhappy with recent revelations which he believed undermined the organization’s operational capabilities.

Traditionally a state secret, the identity of the Mossad director was not widely known until the government had announced his appointment. He was gravely concerned by the gradual deterioration in the level of secrecy surrounding the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks, more commonly known as Mossad.

When Director Saguy was appointed, he had inherited a sophisticated intelligence machine second to none, with a staff in excess of fifteen hundred specifically trained and highly skilled men and women. Upon reading Ben Gurion’s words at the time he had first established the organization back in 1951, Shabtai Saguy wondered if Israel’s elder statesman had ever envisaged a Mossad, such as his creation had now become.

The director reflected on how the original concept had evolved over the years into a highly sophisticated tactical arm, dedicated to Israel’s defence.

Details of earlier successes attracted unnecessary attention, although the agency’s funding benefited from such celebrated operations as the kidnapping of Nazi war criminal Adolph Eichmann from Argentina in 1960.

Saguy was reminded of Israel’s current dilemma as Mordechai Vanunu’s name crossed his thoughts, and how his organization had kidnapped this man and brought him back for trial, charged with revealing details of Israel’s nuclear weapons’ program to the London tabloids.

And then there were the successful assassination operations which removed a number of Arabs connected to the Black September group, and executed Arafat’s deputy, Abu Jihad, who at that time was considered to be the section chief responsible for all PLO military and terrorist operations against Israel. But it was the Brussels murder of Gerald Bull, the Canadian scientist who had developed the infamous ‘Super Gun’ for Iraq, that had focused media attention on the existence of the Mossad assassination teams, resulting in more accountability. Although there had been substantial changes to the organization’s structure, Saguy knew that Mossad would always be surrounded by controversy.

The new and more streamlined Mossad with its eight departments would continue to provide his country with intelligence resources of the highest caliber, although Saguy admitted that the institute had not always been successful in its endeavors. He recalled his government’s embarrassment when Mossad mistakenly assassinated a Swedish national. Then, there was the failed attempt to eliminate Khalid Meshaal by injecting the Palestinian Hamas leader with poison. But it was Mossad’s failure to provide adequate protection to Prime Minister Yitzak Rabin against Yigal Amir’s deadly attack that had resulted in leadership changes which, in turn, had paved the way for Saguy’s ascent to his current position and the unenviable task with which he was now faced.

Israel’s enemies had continued to arm, the threat of a nuclear war becoming more real by the day. Mossad became increasingly preoccupied with the necessity to maintain intelligence access by penetrating its neighbors’ defenses, and it was the success of these missions which had provided the information revealing the growing nuclear arms build-up amongst the Moslem nations. The director did not need to refer to his database to refresh his mind. The Iranians, he knew, now boasted their new Zelzal-3 missiles could destroy any target within fifteen hundred kilometers with a one thousand kilogram warhead and would soon test the first of their North Korean Nodong-2’s, capable of delivering their deadly payload as far as Germany and Western China.

Of even greater concern was confirmation that Iran now had at least fifteen nuclear material sites. The list went despairingly on; Saddam Hussein’s arsenal contained not only deadly nerve gases and chemicals, but also eleven confirmed nuclear facilities left undestroyed by the Gulf War.

Now, it would seem, Indonesia, the world’s largest Moslem nation, wished to enter the Arms Race. Mossad had become alarmed when the Indonesians acquired all thirty-nine warships from the former Soviet-backed, East German Fleet. Alarmed by this shift in policy, and unable to penetrate the Jakarta-based government with his intelligence teams, Director Saguy had depended on other Israeli resources to gather information regarding the Indonesian’s long-term strategies and military ambitions.

This had not been so difficult. Indonesia remained heavily in debt to both the World Bank and International Monetary Fund. Conditions precedent in all financial loan agreements required transparency in the debtor nation’s fiscal policies and, through Mossad-related resources, Saguy had managed to obtain the information he required. Senior officers within both the World Bank and the IMF reported directly to Mossad, and this provided Saguy with a clear overview of Indonesia’s future military intentions through the monetary monitoring processes.

He had become further alarmed with the growth of militancy amongst the powerful, and previously apolitical, Indonesian Moslem movements, the Director’s concerns growing even further with the discovery of a developing relationship between Islamic terrorist groups, headed by the Saudi, Osama bin Ladam and the powerful Indonesian Mufti Muharam movement. Saguy had flown to Washington with evidence of bin Ladam’s plans to expand his terrorist movement’s activities to include Indonesia and Malaysia, where training camps could be conveniently disguised by Moslem elements within those nations’ military hierarchy.

Saguy had been convincing in his arguments. Mossad teams had infiltrated a number of bin Ladam’s terrorist training camps in Afghanistan, close to the Pakistani border where the Saudi tycoon frequently recruited guerrillas from amongst those fighting against the Indian army in Kash-mir. Saguy revealed to the Americans that his agents had observed Osama bin Ladam hosting meetings in his mountain stronghold with Chinese and Pakistani officials. The Mossad Director had extrapolated his theory that the wealthy bin Ladam was already well advanced in his strategy to develop an international terrorist organization with training camps already established in most Moslem nations.

Armed with an adequate flow of funds, Saguy had argued that bin Ladam would soon be capable of threatening both Israel and the West with Chinese manufactured copies of Soviet missiles. He firmly believed, although the CIA had scoffed at the time, that it was the terrorist’s intentions to test such weaponry in Pakistan, for any such trial detonation in Iran, Iraq, or other Middle Eastern Moslem states, would result in an immediate United States response. The Israeli had, unfortunately, been unable to convince all those present during the Washington visit, how his intelligence justified these conclusions.

When he suggested that the successful testing of a nuclear device by a Moslem nation would act as a catalyst for unification amongst the Islamic world, the American Defense Secretary, Steven Cohen, had disagreed, citing Indonesia’s Moslem community as being non-aggressive and committed to their government’s policy of non-alignment. It was when Saguy suggested that elements within the Indonesian Government actively supported the terrorist organization, that the Americans became indifferent to his theories.

Saguy had insisted that China’s willingness to provide technology to Moslem states would eventually lead to confrontation. Members of the Israeli Cabinet who were also present, urged the American Administration to act quickly before even the less powerful Moslem countries acquired nuclear technology and missile weaponry from the Chinese. It seemed that the Mossad-proposed hypothesis was to be rejected. The Americans were not convinced, unable to accept that countries such as Indonesia would ever desert their lucrative pro-Western alliances in the interests of international terrorism.

Saguy and his fellow countrymen had returned to Tel Aviv, without any commitment from the United States. The Director had gone directly to the Prime Minister to seek his support for Israel to act alone. He firmly believed that for Israel to vacillate, would ultimately place their country at extreme risk as Israel had insufficient retaliatory capability to survive an Islamic-led nuclear attack.

The director felt the despair of impotency this knowledge carried, his concern that Israel’s own facilities could not provide the defense his country required. Names such as Dimona, Eilabun, Nevatim and Be’er Yaakov came to mind as he considered the nation’s nuclear and missile facilities, wondering just how much more of the country’s budget would be consumed by these demanding capital intensive projects.

The thought of the many billions raised in the United States via their Swiss-based banking operations warmed his heart. He prayed that Israel could always depend on her powerful American lobby without which his country might not survive. It had been imperative that Israel manage its off-shore funds through Geneva for, ironically, many of the country’s investments had been conducted in Moslem nations such as Malaysia and Indonesia, where oil and other precious resources were found in abundance. Major General Saguy’s eyes dropped back to the folder lying almost innocently on his desk.

As he further considered the file’s contents, the director’s fingers tapped a silent beat on the plate-glass-topped desk, his mind preoccupied with the one report which had first alerted Mossad to China’s provocative intentions. He remembered reading that it had been as early as 1985 when Lekem, Israel’s Bureau of Scientific Relations had identified the increased flow of technical information from the Chinese to a number of Moslem nations . Lekem agents located in Israeli embassies throughout Asia and the Sub-Continent had stumbled across Beijing’s first transfer of nuclear technology to Pakistan. Alerted, Mossad worked together with its sister agency in the covert collation of all material which fell into their hands.

Now, with more than ten years of data to substantiate their intelligence, it was clear that China’s efforts were soon to bear fruit.

Shabtai Saguy closed the highly classified file stamped ‘ Most Secret -ha-Mossad le-Modiin ule-Tafkidim Meyuhadim’, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired, gritty eyes, while wondering how other intelligence chiefs always managed to find time to play golf. He then stared down at the document cover before him and a thought crossed his mind, causing a thin, mirthless smile to crease his lips, as he visualized Saddam’s mocking face collapsing into shock once the game unfolded, revealing his weakened flank. Buoyed by this image, Major General Sabtai Saguy left for the Prime Minister’s office where he expected to receive confirmation that Israel would send its scientists and engineers to New Delhi.

If Pakistan was to have its Islamic bomb, then India’s one billion Hindus would receive Israel’s assistance to discourage the further spread of Chinese nuclear technology. Israel’s contribution would prevent, hopefully, the world’s largest Moslem nation, Indonesia, from acquiring such weapons of mass destruction through their new companion, Osama bin Ladam, the man now recognized by the Jewish community worldwide, as their most serious threat since Adolf Hitler.

* * * *

Indonesia - Surabaya – August, 1997

The white Mercedes 300 carrying General Praboyo’s mother was last to arrive at the compound, and even before her driver could assist the aging woman from the vehicle, heavy-duty reinforced steel gates slid into place with an ominous grating noise, momentarily startling the seventy- year-old.The woman’s frail figure belied her true strength as she shuffled slowly past tall, white-washed walls towards the colonial villa’s entrance. Her well-armed driver followed closely, ready to spring to her aid should the need arise. As they moved slowly along the crushed stone path she hesitated, then reached out and picked a small bunch of white and yellow frangipani which hung low on the tree. The aroma obviously pleased her as she turned and smiled, before passing the flowers to the driver. They continued towards the entrance where a number of men waited, their hands clasped in traditional welcome gesture. Satisfied that she was in safe hands, the driver returned to stand by the limousine.

‘Selamat datang, Ibu,’ the men greeted, edging aside as she stepped through the doorway, nodding courteously. They moved, with solemn gait, into the main guest lounge area where a number of white-clad, male servants fussed over the guests, before discreetly retiring to their own accommodations. It was not until the customary pleasantries had been observed and tea taken that the host, one of Indonesia’s most prominent Moslems and senior adviser to the Ulama Akbar leadership, addressed those gathered, in sotto voce.

‘We welcome you back, Ibu, ’ he commenced, smiling at the elderly lady who sat comfortably, in the well-cushioned rattan chair. ‘It is regrettable that this meeting has required you to travel alone, and so far from your home. It would seem however that your efforts are to bear fruit, subject of course to your son’s agreement concerning our requests, as discussed during our last meeting.’

The General’s mother returned Haji Muhammad Malik’s smile, but there was little warmth in her heart as she did so, for this was the meeting about which she had agonized for so many months, before finally agreeing to her son’s request. His image came to mind, and she paused, sipping from the thimble-sized teacup before responding.

‘Pak Malik,’ she commenced, looking at each of the four men in turn, ‘we have given a great deal of thought to what you have proposed. I am pleased to inform you that the General accepts your kind offer.’ She hesitated, as if reluctant to continue. ‘But to be honest with you, as a mother, I am not entirely at ease that this alliance will be without risk to my son.’

She could see from their expressions that her candor was unexpected.

‘Then, of course, the issue of my personal religious differences, must still be resolved.’ She had prayed that they might reconsider earlier demands and would not still insist that surrendering her own faith remain a prerequisite to their agreement. But, she knew in her heart, that these hard-line religious leaders would not consummate the relationship unless she converted. Had it not been for her son, she would never have considered such an unreasonable request. Habit directed her fingers gently upwards where they touched her neck in search of reassurance; the platinum cross she had worn since childhood had been removed, whilst dressing in preparation for this meeting, and placed in the safety of her purse.

‘Madame, we ask your understanding in this matter. Your current position has presented us with some resistance amongst our colleagues,’ Haji Abdul Muis advised, his soft voice almost inaudible to her ears. ‘The question must then be, would you accept embracing Islam? ’ The General’s mother turned her head slightly, and looked directly at the aloof and unsmiling figure. She knew that the support of Abdul Muis’s following of thirty million was essential to her son’s success. She would need to show subservience to this man.

‘Yes,’ she said, with rehearsed conviction, ‘if that is the price to be paid, then yes, I would convert to Islam.’ The Ibu observed from the immediate change in their demeanor that they were all pleased, albeit surprised, at her commitment to abandon her Christian beliefs. Previously, she had been adamant, and stubbornly refused to even consider such a notion.

‘Then you may inform your son that when the time arrives, he may count on both the Ulama Akbar and the Mufti Muharam,’ Malik declared, his statement accompanied by confirmatory nods from the others. The Haji rose slowly and held her hand warmly, signaling that he understood the sacrifice she had agreed to make, a sacrifice which would guarantee their support for her ambitious son.

Satisfied, General Praboyo’s mother departed their company, saddened by the knowledge that she must fulfill her pledge to abandon her own faith, and embrace the teachings of Islam in order to secure the support of the country’s powerful Moslem parties.

As her Mercedes drove slowly away, she stoically accepted that her actions that day could easily precipitate the beginning of the end of the current Indonesian leadership.

She sighed, dabbing at the dry corners of her eyes, wondering why it was so difficult for an old woman to cry. She dismissed the cloud of depression which threatened, closing her weary eyes to again consider the consequences of the new alliance.

With frail, shaking hands, she opened her well-worn purse and retrieved the delicate cross hidden there. General Praboyo’s mother then lowered her head, and prayed for forgiveness; and for what she knew in her heart, would most surely now transpire.

* * * *

East Java - Situbondo – December, 1997

Second-corporal Suparman waited impatiently for the signal to move. His hands moved nervously in the darkness and found the haversack containing the deadly cocktails. Reassured, he continued to listen for the others’ voices as he lay hidden at the edge of the field. Rain filled clouds moved silently across the evening sky blanketing the moonlight and Suparman sensed that the attack was imminent, as darkness enveloped their surrounds. Habit forced his hands to check the lower leg pockets of his battle-dress, but then he remembered that they had changed out of their uniforms as the mission directives required.

This would be a civilian raid.

‘Let’s go!’ his Sergeant hissed, sending eight half-crouched men running along the soggy rain-water drain towards a number of barely visible buildings, the structures’ silhouettes confused to the marauders’ eyes, in the absence of light. They had covered more than a hundred meters when their leader’s voice snapped again.

‘Get down!’ Suparman heard the NCO’s command and the team threw themselves against the embankment, waiting for whatever it was that moved towards them along the narrow, bitumen road. Moments passed before they continued cautiously towards their target in file, listening for sounds which might be out of place here in the dark. Frogs croaked, a worrying sign that rain might interfere with their mission, but Suparman was more concerned with the filthy, slimy, colorfully ringed, deadly poisonous snakes which slid around in the night, preying on the noisy creatures.

The soldiers hurried across the road and came to rest less than fifty meters from the buildings, where they spent several more minutes determining where the civilian security guards slept.

‘To the left of the smaller building,’ a corporal indicated, pointing to where a soft, fifteen watt globe burned inside what they knew to be the sleeping quarters. Sergeant Subandi squinted, concentrating on the buildings, then cursed silently, swatting whatever insect had attached itself to his face.

‘Suparman,’ the NCO whispered for all to hear, ‘take Dedi and two others, and hit the church from there.’ He pointed to the walls farthest from where the tenants slept. ‘You,’ he ordered, placing his hand on the corporal’s shoulder, ‘take the others and approach from behind.’ The corporal raised his eyebrows questioningly, but this went unseen in the dark.

‘What about them?’ he asked, moving his free hand closer to the sergeant’s face while pointing at the dim light. Over the past month, they had razed almost a dozen other churches and not once targeted those inside.

During those operations, the inhabitants had fled in terror, encouraged by their attackers to do so. He sensed that the sergeant had moved outside the operation’s parameters, and wanted confirmation that this time, they were to kill. He could not see the cruel grin which marked the team leader’s face.

‘Burn them,’ he ordered, and rose to his feet clasping one of the Molotov cocktails in his right hand, simultaneously extracting a lighter from his jacket pocket with the other. The men followed suit, opening their own sacks containing the highly inflammable contents, and taking their positions as instructed.

Within minutes the church was ablaze. Tall dancing flames licked at the sky, casting light for hundreds of meters. Then the soldiers turned their attention to the adjoining buildings, hurling their deadly gifts into the air to smash against the buildings’ roofs, releasing burning fuel which spread through the ceiling and into the meager quarters where the minister and his wife remained, clutching each other in terror.

They cried out for assistance, and were dismayed when none came to their rescue. The ceiling above burst into flames, the heat and smoke unbearable. Finally, overcome by asphyxiation, the couple died, only minutes before the arsonists’ deadly fires could engulf their bodies.

The soldiers regrouped, then disappeared silently back through the fields to where their vehicle waited. By the time any of the local population had found the courage to investigate the carnage, the entire American-trained squad had driven more than fifty kilometers back to their station, where they changed back into uniforms bearing the insignia of the 21st Battalion, before returning to their provincial Kopassus headquarters in Surakata, Central Java.