“We haven’t seen Hasan for days,” one of the young terrorists replied with a baffled shrug.
“Not since you chastised him,” Katifa responded, feigning she was equally perplexed.
Following the confrontation at her apartment, she and Moncrieff had bound and gagged Hasan’s corpse and left it in the trunk of an abandoned car in the Ammal sector, making it appear he had been killed by enemy militia.
Katifa, Nidal, and his bodyguard walked up the gangway and through the casino onto the grounds. They were approaching her car when Nidal stumbled.
“Are you all right?” Katifa asked, alarmed. The words rang true, despite her relief that he was, at last, on the verge of acute ketoacidosis, a condition that occurs when blood cells are forced to burn fat and protein instead of glucose which requires insulin. As a result, the blood becomes saturated with glucose and potentially lethal waste products called ketones.
“I feel lightheaded,” Nidal explained, as they steadied him. “It’s been like this for several days.”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Of course,” the terrorist leader snapped, impatient with his poor health. “It doesn’t seem to help.”
“Perhaps I should drive you to the clinic?”
“When I return from Damascus. Should Assad and the others learn of my illness, your prophecy might come true.”
“If Hasan were here, he could go in your place,” she suggested, planting the idea of a substitute.
“Hasan isn’t ready yet. He may never be,” Nidal replied, his eyes considering the obvious alternative.
“I’d prefer to remain with you,” Katifa said, not wanting to appear eager.
“You shall,” Nidal said decisively. “Someone has to drive me.” Then, iron will supplanting the lack of insulin, he began walking toward her car.
Damascus was 50 miles southeast of Beirut beyond the Bekaa Valley on a flat expanse of Syrian desert. It was well over two hours by car from the casino.
Nidal was sitting alone in the backseat, fighting a rising nausea as the Mercedes crossed the Beirut River and headed south on the Gemayel Motorway, skirting the city.
Katifa glanced often and anxiously to the rearview mirror as she drove. If Abu Nidal prevailed, if he somehow made it to the meeting, he would voice his opposition to the plan, forever destroying it. Her mind raced to find a way to make sure he didn’t.
“How is he now?” she prompted the bodyguard sitting next to her, purposely distracting him. The instant the burly fellow turned to check on Nidal, she reached to the dash and turned on the car’s heater.
Soon, the warm air coming from the floor vent had Nidal sweating profusely. His tongue thickened, as did his saliva, which was now the consistency of honey.
They had just turned into Rue de Damas, the boulevard that leads to the Damascus Motorway, when the bodyguard felt the air rising. “You have the heater on?”
“No, the control is broken,” Katifa lied boldly, jiggling the levers. “It doesn’t work when it should and does when it shouldn’t.”
The bodyguard grunted and rolled down the window.
Abu Nidal leaned forward, letting the breeze blow against his face. But a tingling sensation was already creeping up his legs into his torso; shortly, everything went black and he slumped against the seat.
Katifa saw him in the mirror. “He’s lost consciousness,” she said with alarm.
The guard glanced back at Nidal. “To the hospital, immediately,” he blurted, clearly shaken.
Katifa made a U-turn and drove straight to the Turk Hospital on de Mazarra. By the time they arrived, Abu Nidal was in a severe diabetic coma.
As always, he was admitted under a pseudonym.
After handling the paperwork, Katifa left Nidal with the body-guard and drove to Damascus.
It was late afternoon when Katifa arrived at Hafiz al-Assad’s villa; its limestone walls radiated the pale peach tones of fading sunlight. She was shown to an opulent meeting room, where Assad, Muammar el-Qaddafi, Yasser Arafat, and their aides were gathered in front of several large maps of Libya that stood on easels along one wall. On each, various sites for the proposed Palestinian sanctuary had been delineated. After the introductions had been made, they dispensed with the maps and took seats around a conference table.
Katifa began by explaining Abu Nidal’s absence.
Arafat lightly drummed his manicured nails on the arm of his chair as he listened. “I’m sorry he’s not well,” he said when she finished.
“As am I,” Assad declared, clearly annoyed. Syria’s president had a retiring demeanor that belied his ruthlessness. An inordinately large cranium capped his narrow face. “We certainly can’t proceed without him.”
“We must,” Qaddafi retorted, flicking a veiled glance to Katifa. “I must have a decision today.”
“You can have it now,” she offered. “Abu Nidal’s instructed me to approve the plan on his behalf.”
“Then it’s settled,” Qaddafi said, relieved.
“One moment,” Assad countered. He crossed to the wall of limestone arches that framed the windows and looked out over the rugged countryside, deep in thought.
For decades, his confrontational policies had neatly meshed with the Soviet Union’s Middle East strategy. Moscow supplied the weapons, Assad the turmoil that kept the United States mired in the struggle between Israel and the Palestinians. Forced to take sides, the Americans appeared anti-Arab, giving the Soviets the Middle East entrée they sought. But Moscow’s priorities had changed rapidly. Fueling regional conflicts wasn’t high on Mikhail Gorbachev’s agenda. Assad knew that without Soviet backing, the Palestinians would soon become a thorn in his side — the hostages more so. And he saw the deal as a graceful way to dump both on Qaddafi. But the scope of the decision made him cautious. He knew of Katifa’s lineage; knew she had authored the Intifada. He had no reason to doubt she was Abu Nidal’s bona fide emissary; indeed, no reason whatsoever to suspect she was conspiring against him; but this was no time for expedience. “No offense,” he said to Katifa as he turned from the window. “But I can’t approve this without speaking to Abu Nidal.”
“The man is incapacitated,” Qaddafi protested, his cape whirling about him. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I agree,” Arafat chimed in, getting to his feet. “We’ve missed too many opportunities.” For years he’d been criticized for backing proposals that went nowhere. This one had promise; and now that it had come this far, he was determined it succeed. “You have Abu Nidal’s decision,” he said to Assad sharply. “Act on it.”
“Not without confirmation,” the Syrian replied, with the even temper of the fighter pilot he once was.
“This is a delicate linkage,” Qaddafi complained, confronting him. “And your foot-dragging is going to—”
“Gentlemen? Gentlemen, please?” Katifa implored in a soothing tone, unshaken by Assad’s demand. She and Moncrieff had foreseen the possibility. They also knew that Damascus and Beirut had outdated telephone equipment. The fidelity of transmissions was predictably poor, exacerbated by the fact that the system in war-torn Beirut wasn’t well maintained. “Abu Nidal said we were to call him if there were any problems,” Katifa went on, jotting the number on a slip of paper that she handed to Assad. “He’s in room seven thirty-six. Under an assumed name, of course. Ask for Mr. Bargouthi. Farouk Bargouthi.”
Assad went to the phone. Qaddafi picked up an extension.
“Turk Hospital private clinic,” the switchboard operator answered after the connection was made.