SANCTION: A Thriller (3 page)

“Everyone listen up,” Rhinefeld said.

“Put everything you learned in the movies as far away from your thinking as possible. We have no weapons and no training. We need to have a submissive posture. We need to show that we will not resist. Spread out your arms like this and lay flat on the ground.” Rhinefeld said as he demonstrated for them. He fanned his fingers out and placed his palms against the marble floor.

Matt laid down on his stomach next to him, close enough to whisper in Rhinefeld’s ear.

“How do we know that they won’t kill us anyway?” Matt asked quietly.

“We don’t Matt. We have no reason to believe that they will spare us. But we have no way of defending ourselves either. The way I see it, the only thing we can do is put ourselves at the mercy of whoever is coming down that shaft and pray. If it was just you and I down here, we’d fight. But, these kids are not prepared for that, we’d just end up leading them to a slaughter.”

Matt nodded and agreed, though part of him resisted the idea of surrendering without the slightest protest.

Katherine Boyd forced her cries to stay inside her throat as tears streamed down her smooth cheeks. The camera-man nervously fumbled with a cigarette that he was trying to light.

Just as he pressed his body against the cool marble, Rhinefeld heard the ladder as it smacked against one of the walls of the shaft; they were coming.

A black Mercedes Benz S-Class coasted along Olaya Road at ninety miles per hour. It traveled more like a fat boat than a sleek German sports sedan, thanks to the added weight of an up-armor package that was comparable to that of a military vehicle. The doors were reinforced with one inch thick carbon steel plates. A thin layer of polycarbonate material was sandwiched between two pieces of glass on all of the windows and an anti-blast system had been added to the undercarriage to guard against explosions.

The car slowed and turned into valet parking in front of Kingdom Tower. Hassan Bishara exited the vehicle and stepped into the warm Saudi night air. Everything about Hassan’s appearance was average. He bore no distinguishing features. His hair was neither short nor long. He stood dead center of his nation’s average for height. His face was dark with a soft jawline but otherwise unremarkable. To a stranger, Hassan was forgettable and that was exactly what he wanted.

Hassan paused to look at the impressive glass building.

At just over 1000 feet, Kingdom Tower was the tallest building in Riyadh. Owned by a Saudi Prince, it was a stark contrast amid the surrounding structures that it dwarfed.

Six minutes later, Bishara exited a polished brass elevator on the seventy-seventh floor of the tower and entered the world’s highest Mosque. Inside, clusters of men were gathered and talking in low whispers, their obligatory prayers complete for the day.

Bishara greeted the man at the door and made his way to a private office off to the side of the room. Inside, Hassan accepted an offer for strong Arabic coffee and sat down in front of a great oak desk. The windows behind the desk spanned the floor and ceiling. Bishara could see the ambient glow from the city below them as he eyed his host carefully.

“So, brother Hassan, what can I do for you?” Shaikh Samara asked, a wide smile creasing his thick brown face. The Shaikh didn’t run the Mosque or lead any spiritual studies. The place of worship was more of a hideout for him than anything else. Samara was the de-facto commander of Hezbollah (a terrorist group operating within the borders of Lebanon). It irritated Hassan that such a brave group of his brothers in arms would be led by a coward who hid from the scrutiny of the World in the palatial peace and solitude of Kingdom Tower.

“Imam Nazari is requesting that five hundred of your most committed soldiers, as well as your ranking members attend the meeting.” Bishara said returning a phony smile and offering no additional explanation.

Samara had already been formerly beckoned to Nazari’s summit, now Bishara was there to offer the man a chance to change his original declining of the invitation.

“Requesting?” The Shaikh repeated loudly. Samara interlaced his fingers in a tight knot below his chin and placed his elbows on the edge of his desk. Anger was rising in his chest. His mind began to scramble for the proper response for Hassan to take back to his master. He had no intention of meeting Nazari’s demand, which was really what it was.

“Yes.” Hassan replied.

“That is ridiculous.” Samara said shooting up from his chair. He paced the distance between the ends of his desk for a few minutes, muttering something indiscernible to himself. Eventually, he stopped and plopped his large body back in the chair. He looked at Hassan for a long time rubbing the black scraggily curls that protruded from his chin.

“I will make this simple Hassan. My answer is no.” The Shaikh said.

Bishara seemed to contemplate this. “That would not be good.” He said. “This is merely a courtesy and formality.” The smile never vanished from Hassan’s face. “You are expected to comply.”

Samara spat as he slammed his fleshy fists into the top of his desk.

“I am not some kid off the streets of Palestine Hassan, you will do good to remember that.”

“I am the leader of Hezbollah, I have earned that respect. I cannot spare any of my men for Nazari’s cause. That is it”. He said angrily.

“For now, you are the leader of Hezbollah.” Bishara said almost in a whisper, as if the statement was part of some grand conspiracy; which it almost was.

Samara interjected with ferocious bite.

“I am Hezbollah, Hassan. No one is taking that away from me. I don’t care how much the media loves Nazari, my people are loyal to me and my cause, nothing else.” The Shaikh leaned back in his chair and placed his hands over the ends of the arm rests.

A dour look crossed over his face and he began inspecting the tips of his finger nails, intending to disrespect his guest as he ended his tirade with a quieter more controlled tone.

“Look Hassan, I am sure that you are just doing what you think is right in coming here and barking Nazari’s orders. But I am in control of Hezbollah. I am a powerful man. Maybe, even more powerful than…”

Hassan stood and set his small, empty porcelain cup on the edge of Samara’s desk. It was obvious to the younger Arab that the meeting was useless. The Shaikh would be nothing but an obstacle to their cause.

Samara stopped speaking as his guest turned and headed for the door.

Hassan placed his left hand on the knob and reached into his jacket pocket. In one deft move he extracted a long black semi-automatic pistol, spun on his heels and fired a quick battery of shots over the desk. A silencer had already been threaded to the weapons barrel and all that could be heard was the faint whisking sound of the subsonic 9mm rounds as they left the weapon and the metallic racking of the well lubricated slide.

Samara fell backwards in his chair, his shirt revealing twin pools of crimson blood that spread across his chest until they touched each other.

“You should have listened to me.” Bishara said coldly as he returned to the desk where the Hezbollah commander gurgled out the rest of his life.

“It’s too bad you could not see what is coming.” Hassan said as he stared into his victims fading eyes.

“Hezbollah deserves a leader who will not hide from its enemies.”

Saleem pointed the tip of his barrel down the opening of the shaft and squeezed the trigger. A shot burst forth from the rifle that terminated with a hard crackling thud as the round slammed into the marble floor of the chamber below.

“You three, over here,” he shouted at a few of the men who stood by idle. He motioned to the shaft with his rifle. One by one, the men began to sling their Kalashnikovs’ over their shoulder and descend the ladder. The combination of the adrenaline and fear of the unknown made for an awkward climb. The nylon ladder bounced wildly under the weight of the three kidnapper’s erratic steps. Saleem watched as the amateurs scrambled down the deep shaft.

As the first man reached the bottom, shouts and obscenities carried through the shaft and up to Saleem’s pleased ears. As trained to do the men had begun with intimidation tactics, instilling fear and trembling in the Americans. They screamed orders in broken English and rich accented Arabic. Two minutes later Saleem stood at the bottom of the shaft with them and paused in front of the threshold to the great chamber.

The underground site was a breathtaking spectacle. Everywhere his eyes landed they were met with expensive stonework and bejeweled edifices. It was magnificent.

Rather than be impressed however Saleem pictured the refugee camps in his native Palestine. He thought of hungry babies and struggling families. All the while, even Israel’s ancient houses were filled with splendor and wealth. The face of the enemy had never been clearer to him in all his life.

“I assure you, there is no means of escape that will not result in the violent end of your life,” he said pausing to look around the room at his catch. He had more hostages than he had anticipated. He took it as a blessing from Allah.

“You have become part of a plan that is much bigger than yourselves,” he said with a cool and even tone.

Saleem paced the room as he talked, taking in the grandeur of the library. He wondered what some of the artifacts would be worth on the black market.

“In twelve days’ time you will be set free. You will be fed and you will be housed. Between now and then whether or not you live is determined by your level of cooperation.”

After his speech, Saleem directed his men to wrangle the remaining hostages as they poured out of the underground site. Fifteen minutes later the University’s Land Rovers were loaded and ready to leave.

Saleem stood over the shaft once more and stared down its length. He pulled a fragmentation grenade out of a pocket and removed the safety pin. The spoon disengaged from the grenade body and armed the charge inside. He simply dropped it into the shaft and walked away. The explosion was loud. A dense cloud of dark brown dust mushroomed out from the shaft and climbed ten feet above the ground before it lost momentum and began to dissipate.

The sound echoed through the canyon. Saleem stopped and pulled a tiny handheld video camera from his pocket and opened the side view monitor. He recorded the cloud as it continued to settle over the shaft and then panned around to the vehicles and the frightened students. He rotated the camera around until the lens was filled with his face.

“We have your children.” He said without emotion. He turned the camera off and placed it on the ground at his feet. The convoy of terror pulled away from the site with nineteen hostages.

H
assan Bishara stood at the very end of the ‘Sea Wind’s’ stern. The extravagant yacht stretched on for one hundred and twenty feet behind him. The pleasure ship was complete with a movie theater, bowling alley and Helipad.

The Syrian found himself fantasizing that it belonged to him. He looked out over the edge of the railing and down to the crisp blue waters. It was warm, even though they were on the water and it was close to nine o’clock in the evening. Heat had poured off of the Iranian coast all day and the ship’s wooden and chrome deck had absorbed it, causing it to permeate well into the night. Stars cluttered the sky and glimmered off of the smooth rollers that gently rocked the craft. He was deep in thought when his host announced his presence with the soft thudding of padded slippers against the teak deck.

Bishara turned and rushed over to embrace the Iranian Minister of Defense, Anwar Al-Ajlani. The two men smiled while a servant pulled out a chair next to a small glass topped table for the Minister.

“That will be all,” the Minister said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The elderly steward slipped past and headed back below deck where he would ensure that his master’s midnight snack of caviar and mint julep tea was satisfactory.

“Our friend’s speech has angered many,” Al-Ajlani said softly. His gentle tone obscuring his true nature.

Al-Ajlani had a long and violent past that was fraught with toxic legends about him and his family. His fearsome reputation was ultimately what had landed him the appointment to the Ministry of Defense, along with an inexhaustible list of political contacts from across the Middle East. The Iranian was not weak, like Shaikh Samara, and Bishara had the utmost respect for him. He would tread lightly.

“This is true Minister Al-Ajlani,” Hassan said as he tipped the end of a thin cigar into his mouth. “But some believe that we will get the West’s attention best by winning their trust first.”

Al-Ajlani had the moon to his back and as a result his face was hard to see. Bishara was certain the man was smiling. Al-Ajlani already knew most of what Nazari’s plan entailed and he approved.

The climate of Middle Eastern politics had essentially remained unchanged for decades. Al-Ajlani had scratched and clawed his way to the seat of the Minister of Defense of Iran. With the scores of enemies he had made along the way however, there was little chance of him seeing the appointment to the Presidency that he so coveted. He hoped that his support of Nazari would one day change that.

“How will he keep Hamas from breaking the ceasefire when he keeps talking about peace?” He asked simply. “No one wants peace Hassan. Not even the Americans.”

Bishara gave the Iranian the twenty minute version of how things were expected to go and what they still needed from him.

“I see,” Al-Ajlani said after some time.

“When does Nazari think such a move is feasible?” He asked Hassan.

“It has already begun,” Bishara said as he stared into the face of a man who was now definitely smiling.

“We don’t know Mr. President.”

The President leaned against his massive desk and cupped his chin in his hand. Usually he was a chatterbox, but the kidnapping had left him speechless; for the moment.

President Graham Vanderbilt was a ‘Yale man’, class of 1969. He was a Democrat, and just about as far left leaning as possible. Hated by the likes of Rush Limbaugh and other mouthpieces of the Republican Party, President Vanderbilt had built a reputation as a polarizing liberal who pushed an agenda that was more at place at the corners of Haight and Ashbury than the halls of power in D.C. As with all politics however, some of it was true, much of it, media persona.