Ulm looked at Jacobson as Shabanov continued.
‘By early summer, when our scientists were able to match the explosive used in the airliner to the bomb in the general’s car, they knew, without doubt, that they were looking for one organization. In their minds, all other pockets of unrest became of secondary importance, for they realized they were dealing with a terror outfit of unprecedented power and ambition; one with the ability to operate both inside and outside the Soviet Union, but whose focus was turned on the destruction — or at the very least, destabilization — of the Soviet apparatus. But who were they? The KGB was without any leads. And so it was that they handed over the entire investigation to the GRU.’
‘Jesus,’ Jacobson said. ‘I bet you were surprised.’
‘I was not personally involved at this point, but certainly, General Aushev was taken aback. There is little affection between the GRU and the KGB.’
Jacobson removed his glasses and began cleaning them with his tie. ‘I’ll say,’ he muttered.
‘As soon as he assumed responsibility for the investigation, the general sent word out through our embassies that this matter had become a priority. All GRU operatives were made aware of its criticality, its vital importance. Old contacts with guerrilla organizations, such as those in the Lebanon, Libya, and Syria, were renewed. We made it clear that we were looking for any information leading to this organization that was acting against Soviet interests; and that we were prepared to pay. For weeks there was only silence. Then one day last month, we achieved breakthrough.’
Ulm noticed the way Shabanov had glossed neatly over the matter of the Soviet Union’s ‘contacts’ with its old friends in the Middle East. Before the New World Order, the Kremlin had financed organizations like the PLO in the fight against the West. He cracked his knuckles under the table, the sharp pain reminding him that this was real.
‘Someone in the Lebanon had information and was prepared to part with it — at a price,’ Shabanov continued. ‘A meeting was arranged in London. It was at this point that the Comrade General put us on alert and I was briefed. Wherever this organization was based, we were to be sent in to destroy it. There was a buzz of anticipation throughout the 2nd Chief Directorate: we were almost there. And then Al-Hasakah blew up in our faces.’
‘That was them?’ Jacobson gasped. ‘We thought Al-Hasakah was an accident.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Ulm said. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell you’re talking about.’
Jacobson turned to him. He seemed elated. No matter that their Middle East intelligence network had let them down again. The sands of the Middle East had shifted to reveal a tantalizing new truth.
‘Last month, a Soviet-built gas pumping station at Al-Hasakah in the Syrian desert blew up during an inauguration ceremony. The explosion killed the Syrian Minister of the Interior, dozens of other attendees, and, crucially, wiped out a Soviet delegation led by Mikhail Koltsov.’ He turned back to Shabanov. ‘Your minister for the petro-chemical industry, I believe.’
‘Correct in all but one detail, Mr Jacobson. Koltsov and his associates did not die. That information was released to spare our ally, Syria, any further embarrassment over its appalling lapse in security. Our delegation was captured in its entirety. And by the same organization that perpetrated this latest outrage at Beirut. We have firm proof that both Koltsov and your ambassador, Franklin, are being held at the same location. Our friends have decided to declare war on the United States as well, it appears.’
‘So who are these people?’ Ulm asked.
‘They call themselves the Angels of Judgement,’ Shabanov said. ‘They’re a staunch, ultra-fundamentalist Islamic organization led by a man who operates under the nom de guerre Al Saif. Or in English, the Sword. Their base is located in a secluded valley in southern Lebanon. And that is where he is holding our hostages.’
‘I’ve never heard of them,’ Jacobson said.
‘Believe me, Mr Jacobson, the GRU’s conclusions surprised your counterparts in Moscow also. But the information supplied by our informant puts the matter beyond doubt.’
‘In southern Lebanon?’ Ulm said. ‘But everyone saw that boat head out into the Mediterranean.’
‘Yet your Navy never found it.’ Shabanov glanced from Ulm to Jacobson and back again, waiting for a denial, but he got none. ‘That is because the terrorists transferred the hostages into small rubber craft and scuttled the fishing boat. While the US Navy was looking for a vessel with a distinctive radar signature — remember they had seen it on TV — our friends had put ashore further down the coast. As we speak, they are established within the boundaries of the Sword’s camp.’
‘How come you’re so certain about all this?’ Ulm asked.
‘Once you know where to look, the rest is relatively easy,’ Shabanov said. ‘Comrade General Aushev has the important facts at his disposal. I was able to receive a full run-down on the situation while I was inside our embassy.’
‘Then you must know who is behind these… Angels of Judgement,’ Jacobson said. ‘From their modus operandi, from the advanced state of their technical know-how, it seems obvious to me that the sponsor nation must be- ’
Shabanov cut him off. ‘Nobody, Mr Jacobson. The Angels of Judgement would appear to be a new dimension in terror. They are entirely self-sufficient. Of course, it is no secret that we used to finance such organizations — just as you, Mr Jacobson, supplied the Mujahideen with the Stingers — but that is all behind us now. Without super-power support, many of these terrorist organizations have simply ceased to exist. But not the Angels of Judgement. They have established themselves in a secluded location that is difficult to spot from the air, that is heavily fortified against attack, and which caters for all their needs… housing, agriculture, schooling, training. The Sword has thought of everything. What worries the GRU — and will doubtless be of concern to you, Mr Jacobson, being an Arabist yourself — is that there is a fascinating precedent for the Sword and his Angels of Judgement.’
Jacobson nodded slowly as his mind chewed over the clues. ‘But to find it you would have to go back many centuries, Colonel.’
‘To the end of the eleventh century, to be exact,’
Shabanov said. ‘When Hassan Sabbah established himself in an impregnable fortress called the Eagle’s Nest in the mountains of Persia. Having built his self-sufficient community, Hassan trained his fedayeen in the art of political assassination, indulging them with excess as incentive and reward. Wine, women, and especially drugs — hashish — were given to his warriors.’
‘The hashisheen,’ Jacobson said. ‘The Assassins. Scourge of the ruling Seljuks and later the Crusaders who invaded from Europe. Hassan was the world’s first Islamic terrorist. And he, too, declared war on the East and the West. The parallels are, as you say, fascinating.’
But Ulm’s thoughts had drifted beyond the history lesson to an aspect of Shabanov’s briefing that he found almost as disturbing.
‘Roman, I notice you have not mentioned the precise location of this camp,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘When would we obtain that information?’
‘In good time,’ Shabanov said.
‘The price of membership?’
‘I don’t follow, Elliot.’
‘We don’t get to know the location until… the day of the mission itself, maybe?’
Shabanov’s blue eyes blinked innocently. ‘Let me put it this way, Elliot. General Aushev thought that your premature possession of such knowledge might endanger the spirit of co-operation between us.’