To the Death

For here, in the 3,500-year-old city, lay the roots of his new calling, the foundations of the terrifying fundamentalist organization, Hamas. It all began right here in Gaza, in 1987, when this often-savage branch of the Islamic Resistance Movement was born, created by the fanatical Sheik Ahmed Yassin.

The word Hamas means enthusiasm and exaltation of the Prophet Mohammed, whose grandfather Hamesh is entombed somewhere here in the city. The organization has always claimed much more modern roots, however, with connections to the fabled Muslim Brothers formed in Egypt in 1929.

It is best known for sensational acts of violence, bombs, shooting, and general mayhem against Israel. Hated by the rest of the country, Hamas operated for years in some kind of chaotic murder rampage. It was not until the former SAS major Ray Kerman appeared, first as an experienced officer and then as their fully fledged C-in-C, that Hamas truly did replace the Palestine Liberation Organization as the undisputed front-line muscle of the movement.

In a sense, as they drove through the dusty streets of Gaza, Ravi and Shakira were both coming home. They had spent little time here since Major Kerman first fled the authorities with his young bride-to-be. But now they both sensed a warm welcome awaited them behind these rubble-strewn living areas.

And as they drove on toward the relatively less damaged area of Omar el-Mokhtar Street, they found themselves in a kind of suburb, with white-walled courtyards, palm trees, and green shrubs.

Shakira, who had been born here in the city, just smiled and said, “I always liked it here, Ravi. I think we’ll be very happy.” Ravi, ever the pragmatist, still shaken by the mini-atom bomb which had nearly sent him over the bridge into the arms of Allah, looked nothing like so sure, and not even remotely cheerful.

The car turned into a side street, and then into a labyrinth of small apartment blocks. At the end of the second street, they pulled alongside a high wall, this one red brick rather than whitewashed cement. In the center, it contained a glossy black-painted wooden gate with a six-inch-square door placed in the center around head height.

The chauffeur climbed out and tapped on the big gate. The smaller door opened inward and a voice spoke in Arabic.

“Please, sir, madam, you come now,” said the chauffeur, and they both stepped out of the vehicle into the bright sunlight. The big gate opened and a sentry, holding an AK-47, saluted as Ravi and Shakira walked through into a shaded stone courtyard with a large fountain splashing in the center.

“Perhaps you would like some water,” said the sentry. “Please wait, sir, while I fetch the colonel.”

Ravi filled two small stoneware cups from the fountain, handed one to his wife, and glugged the other one himself. Almost immediately, the door to the house, which was situated at the north end of the courtyard, opened and Colonel Hassad Abdullah emerged, an old comrade of Ravi’s from the attack on the Nimrod Jail.

The two men stared at each other in the unmistakable way of the Bedouin, and then they clasped hands and hugged with the reserved joy of fighting men who somehow had lived to tell the tale.

“General Rashood!” exclaimed the colonel. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am you came today. We will dine together tonight. But then I must go. I think you understand that our High Command is very concerned about the bomb that almost killed you. Well, they’ve appointed me to investigate. I leave for Damascus early tomorrow.”

“Now, that is very sad,” replied Ravi. “I was hoping we might have a few days together. Talk over the past, and, of course, the future.”

“Alas, we have only this evening,” replied the colonel. “That bomb in Bab Touma has sent shockwaves through our entire community.”

“I suppose they still have no idea who was responsible?” asked Ravi.

“No one’s told me. But I have been posted immediately to Damascus.”

“Who does that leave in this house?”

“Just the servants, and two guards at all times. Only you and Shakira.”

“You think it’s safe here?”

“Oh, most definitely. Particularly since no one has even the slightest clue who you are.”

0900 Sunday 12 February Bab Touma Street, Damascus

Colonel Hassad Abdullah had been patrolling the street since first light, trying to ascertain where the men who had tried to blow up General Rashood had been stationed. The police report, stressing that the bomb had gone off within minutes of the arrival home of Shakira and Abdul, made it absolutely certain in the minds of the Hamas High Command that someone had been watching.

Only by discovering from where they had watched could the Hamas colonel work out who might have done it. There must be clues. There were always clues. The issue was, where to find them.