The Fatherland Files PDF
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The Fatherland Files The Fatherland Files Alan N. Clifford Boca Raton London New York CRC Press is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business First published 1994 by A K Peters, Ltd. Published 2018 by CRC Press Taylor & Francis Group 6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300 Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742 © 1994 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, an In forma business No claim to original U.S. Government works ISBN 13:978-1-56881-034-8 (hbk) This book contains information obtained from authentic and highly regarded sources. Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author and publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the consequences of their use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright holders of all material reproduced in this publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission to publish in this form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been acknowledged please write and let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be reprinted, reproduced, transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publishers. For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, please access www. copyright.com (http://www.copyright.com/) or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. CCC is a not-for-profit organization that provides licenses and registration for a variety of users. For organizations that have been granted a photocopy license by the CCC, a separate system of payment has been arranged. Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Visit the Taylor & Francis Web site at http://www. taylorandfrancis.com and the CRC Press Web site at http://www.crcpress.com library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Clifford, Alan N. The fatherland files I by Alan N. Clifford. p. em. ISBN 1-56881-034-2 I. Title. PS3553.L436F37 1994 813' ,54-dc20 93-45741 CIP ForJ with thanks to Mf A, and T Prologue Kokkina, Cyprus, December 20 Cool, brisk night winds swept across the northern coast of Cyprus. They were not unpleasant breezes, El-Kahrami decided, not after the harsh British bone- chillers. The British weather had been miserable and because of it there was no question in his mind that he had earned his pay in London, putting in long hours and suffering through days in which unending rains froze him to the core. But it had been worth it, he reflected in the comfortable setting of the Topaz res taurant, sipping his third gin and tonic of the evening. The mission had been successful and in retrospect easy, unbelievably easy—though his superiors in the Libyan Army didn’t have to know that. As far as they were concerned, it was hard work, and it was only fair that he vii take a few days off to enjoy himself before flying back to Tripoli. Not that he was going to tell them he was taking time off, but just incase they found out, he was ready to defend his actions. He had been to this resort town on the north west coast of Cyprus on three other occasions during return trips from Europe and he found it offered sev eral advantages over the more popular resorts on the southern coast. Most importandy, it was off the beaten track. He could drink and carouse as he wanted; no one was likely to notice. And, if anyone did notice, he was just another pleasure-seeking “Egyptian business man,” according to his identification papers. In that guise, the chances were slim that he would be of inter est to either Israeli or NATO intelligence agencies, his two main sources of concern. The whole island—or at least the Greek speaking part—was getting ready for Christmas, and even though Ei-Kahrami was not a Christian (nor much of a devout Muslim, for that matter) he enjoyed the colorful lights and friendly smiles that the holiday sea son brought. This day had been spent leisurely wan dering through the fishing areas in a heavy sweater, planning his night’s adventure. The Topaz was by now a favorite of his. The few tourists in Kokkina at this time of year rarely ventured through its doors and, best of all, the proprietor could be relied upon to supply a different woman for every night of his stay. Tonight’s was a tall blond from Stockholm. She nesded easily in his arms, sipping wine while a strolling guitar player made his rounds. “Not long. The liquor relaxes me. This way, I’ll fall asleep after an hour or so in bed with you. Then you can leave and make some more money with someone else. It’s a better deal for you.” He laughed and she laughed. It was true; he was a very generous man. After viii all, what did he care if she only stayed for a short time? Tomorrow there would be another new face and new body to play with. “Right now, you must excuse me. I’m off to the w.c. Too much to drink, time to answer the call of nature.” El-Kahrami was 50 and already his pros tate was bothering him. He was afraid that soon he’d be like his father and have to lug around a j ar with him for emergencies. The men’s room was on the far side of the restaurant and he moved quickly toward it through a maze of half-filled tables. The urinals were a welcome sight. With a sigh of relief he emptied his bladder, re-zippered his fly, and stopped at the sink to wash his hands. The restroom seemed empty, but before he had a chance to reach for a towel, he felt something hard jam him in the small of his back. He knew immediately that it was the nozzle of a pistol and that someone unfriendly had found him, despite his precautions. He looked into the mirror above the sink. There were two men reflected in it, one on each side. He couldn’t see their faces clearly, but one had blond hair. Probably Americans. “What do you want?” he asked warily in En glish. “A few minutes of your time, Major El- Kahrami,” the blond voice answered in Arabic. “A few minutes, that’s all. None of your colleagues know you’re here, you’re all alone, so don’t be a hero.” The Libyan’s face sagged. Americans didn’t bother to learn Arabic. They must be Israelis. Just what he didn’t need. Beads of sweat appeared on his fore head. “Follow my friend out of the restaurant,” the voice said. “I’ll be behind you with a pistol halfway up your ass. Don’t do anything foolish. Remember, we’re all professionals and no one need get hurt.” ix
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