Their assignment in Oman had been ordered by the highest councils of Israel's Defence Ministry. Their chances of success were minimal, the possibility of failure and death far greater, but the attempt had to be made. For among the two hundred and thirty-six remaining hostages held inside the American Embassy in Masqat was a deep-cover field director of the Mossad, Israel's unparalleled intelligence service. If he was discovered, he would be flown to any one of a dozen 'medical clinics' of both friendly and unfriendly governments where intravenous chemicals would be far more effective than torture. A thousand secrets could be learned, secrets that could imperil the state of Israel and emasculate the Mossad in the Middle East. The objective: Get him out if you can. Kill him if you cannot.
The leader of this team from the Masada Brigade was named Yaakov. The Mossad agent held hostage in Masqat was his father.
'Adonim,' said the voice in Hebrew over the aircraft's loudspeaker—a calm and respectful voice addressing the passengers as Gentlemen. 'We are starting our descent,' he continued in Hebrew. 'The target will be reached in six minutes thirty-four seconds unless we encounter unexpected head winds over the mountains which will extend our time to six minutes forty-eight seconds or perhaps fifty-five seconds, but then who's counting?' Four men laughed; Yaakov blinked, his eyes still on the opposite bulkhead. The pilot went on. 'We will circle once over the target at eight thousand feet, so if you have to make any adjustments, mental or physical, with respect to those crazy bedsheets you've got on your dorsal fins, do so now. Personally, I do not care to go out and take a walk at eight thousand feet, but then I can read and write.' Yaakov smiled; the others laughed louder than before. The voice again interrupted. 'The hatch will be opened at eight thousand five hundred by our brother, Jonathan Levy, who, like all experienced doormen in Tel Aviv, will expect a generous tip from each of you for his service. lOUs are not acceptable. The flashing red light will mean you must depart this luxurious hotel in the sky; however, the boys in the parking lot below refuse to retrieve your automobiles under the circumstances. They, too, can read and write and have been judged mentally competent, as opposed to certain unnamed tourists on this airborne cruise.' The laughter now echoed off the walls of the plane; Yaakov chuckled. The pilot once more broke in, his voice softer, the tone altered. 'Our beloved Israel, may she exist through eternity through the courage of her sons and daughters. And may Almighty God go with you, my dear, dear friends. Out.'
One by one the parachutes cracked open in the night sky above the desert, and one by one the five commandos from the Masada Brigade landed within a hundred and fifty yards of the amber light shining up from the sands. Each man held a miniaturized radio that kept him in contact with the others in case of emergencies. Where each touched ground, each dug a hole and buried his chute, inserting the wide-bladed shovel down beside the fabric and the canvas. Then all converged on the light; it was extinguished, replaced by the single torch held by a man who had come from Masqat, a senior intelligence officer of the Mossad.
'Let me look at you,' he said, turning his beam on each soldier. 'Not bad. You look like ruffians from the docks.'
'Your instructions, I believe,' said Yaakov.
'They're not always followed,' replied the agent. 'You must be—'
'We have no names,' interrupted Yaakov sharply.
'I stand rebuked,' said the man from the Mossad. 'Truthfully, I know only yours, which I think is understandable.'
'Put it out of your mind.'
'What shall I call all of you?'
'We are colours, only colours. From right to left they are Orange, Grey, Black and Red.'
'A privilege to meet you,' said the agent, shining his light on each man—from right to left. 'And you?' he asked, the beam on Yaakov.
'I am Blue.'
'Naturally. The flag.'
'No,' said the son of the hostage in Masqat. 'Blue is the hottest fire, and that is all you have to understand.'
'It is also in refraction the coldest ice, young man, but no matter. My vehicle is several hundred metres north. I'm afraid I must ask you to walk after your exhilarating glide in the sky.'
'Try me,' said Grey, stepping forward. 'I hate those terrible jumps. A man could get hurt, you know what I mean?'
The vehicle was a Japanese version of a Land-Rover without the amenities and sufficiently bashed and scraped to be unobtrusive in an Arab country where speed was a relative abstraction and collisions frequent. The hour-plus drive into Masqat, however, was suddenly interrupted. A small amber light flashed repeatedly on the road several miles from the city.
'It's an emergency,' said the Mossad agent to Yaakov who was beside him in the front seat. 'I don't like it. There were to be no stops whatsoever when we approached Masqat. The sultan has patrols everywhere. Draw your weapon, young man. One never knows who may have been broken.'
'Who's to break! asked Yaakov angrily, his gun instantly out of his jacket holster. 'We're in total security. Nobody knows about us—my own wife thinks I'm in the Negev on manoeuvres!'
'Underground lines of communication have to be kept open, Blue. Sometimes our enemies dig too deeply into the earth… Instruct your comrades. Prepare to fire.'
Yaakov did so; weapons were drawn, each man at a window. The aggressive preparation, however, was unnecessary.
'It is Ben-Ami!' cried the man from the Mossad, stopping the van, the tyres screeching and hurtling over the crevices in the badly paved road. 'Open the door!'
A small, slender man in blue jeans, a loose white cotton shirt and a ghotra over his head leaped inside, squeezing Yaakov into the seat. 'Keep driving,' he ordered. 'Slowly. There are no patrols out here and we have at least ten minutes before we might be stopped. Do you have a torch?' The Mossad driver reached down and brought up his flashlight. The intruder snapped it on, inspecting the human cargo behind and the one beside him. 'Good!' he exclaimed. 'You look like scum from the waterfront. If we're stopped, slur your Arabic and shout about your fornications, do you understand?'
'Amen,' said three voices. The fourth, Orange, was contrary. 'The Talmud insists on the truth,' he intoned. 'Find me a big-breasted houri and I may go along.'
'Shut up!' cried Yaakov, not amused.
'What has happened to bring you here?' asked the Mossad officer.
'Insanity,' answered the newcomer. 'One of our people in Washington got through an hour after you left Hebron. His information concerned an American. A congressman, no less. He's here and interfering—going under cover, can you believe it?'
'If it's true,' replied the driver, gripping the steering wheel, 'then every thought of incompetence I've ever entertained about the American intelligence community has blossomed to full flower. If he's caught, they'll be the pariahs of the civilized world. It is not a risk to be taken.'
'They've taken it. He's here.'
'Where?'
'We don't know.'
'What has it to do with MS?' objected Yaakov. 'One American. One fool. What are his credentials?'
'Considerable, I'm sorry to say,' answered Ben-Ami. 'And we are to give him what leverage we can.'
'What?' said the young leader from the Masada Brigade. 'Why?'
'Because, my colleague notwithstanding, Washington is fully aware of the risks, of the potentially tragic consequences, and therefore has cut him off. He's on his own. If he's captured there's no appeal to his government, for it won't acknowledge him, can't acknowledge him. He's acting as a private individual.'