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wholesaling smuggled
     goods in Shtaura, in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley and much closer to Damascus than Beirut. Before he turned twenty-one, he was making
     more money than he knew what to do with and keeping his family in such comfort that their neighbors stared at them in open
     envy.
    The Syrian government spoiled everything. Soldiers mounted serious campaigns to stop smugglers and were harder to bribe. Police
     examined goods in the Hammadiya souk. It was only a matter of time before Ali Khalef fell into the socialist government’s
     net.
    Ali had one brother unlike himself and the others in the family. He was a dedicated freedom fighter?what the rest of the world called a terrorist. When he heard of Ali’s arrest and the beatings he was getting in jail, he went
     to Abu Jeddah. Abu Jeddah had turned against Arafat and was pro-Syrian. When Ali volunteered to join his fighting group, charges
     which might have resulted in a twenty-five-year sentence for the smuggler were dropped and he was released from jail into
     a paramilitary training camp.
    Abu Jeddah was pleased with Ali, who was much more worldly and effective than his fiery dedicated brother. He sent Ali alone
     to Europe, supplied him generously with money and told him to tour around. Ali hoped that this might last forever—but he knew
     he was being fattened for the kill.
    His brother was killed by the Israelis in an air raid outside Sidon. Ali wished they had got Abu Jeddah instead of him. But
     since Ali wished to go on living with his testicles still attached to him, he naturally did not express this opinion.
    After six months Ali was told to report to Naim Shabaan in Munich. Ali was twenty-three and was surprised to find himself
     obeying someone only a year older than him. He got over that quickly, because he was afraid of Naim and never questioned his
     leadership. Ali feared him instinctively. He had seen many crazy, violent men. Abu Jeddah was one kind. Naim Shabaan was another.
    “Good morning, General!,” the junior officer said to Gerrit van Gilder when he arrived at his office inThe Hague. “Those photographs were beautiful, sir.”
    Van Gilder would hardly describe aerial photos of a freshly bombed building and some half-cooked corpses as beautiful, but
     he knew what the young officer meant. The Israelis knew their stuff. Colonel Yitzhak Bikel had delivered. The general’s mission
     had been a success. At the same time, of course, it was a failure. The terrorists had retaliated with a massacre on the sight-seeing
     boat in Amsterdam. There was no doubt about who had the last word.
    Would they go to England now that the television and newspapers claimed Maggie Thatcher was about to announce her willingness
     to sign the Ostend Concordance? He very sincerely hoped so. He didn’t wish any harm on the English—he only wanted these mad
     dogs out of Holland.
    He said to the junior officer, “Get me Group-Captain Bradshaw on a secure line.”
    While he waited, he pondered Bradshaw’s rank. He was not too familiar with the R.A.F.’s system, but he supposed that a Dutch
     army general would be about equivalent to a British air force air marshal or air commodore. A group-captain was definitely
     below that, although he was superior to a wing-commander. Van Gilder decided to treat Bradshaw as he would a colonel. Bradshaw
     had been designated as his British contact in the new antiterrorist cooperation, as Bikel had been his Israeli counterpart.
     The Dutch general was more than a bit disturbed to find himself equated with men holding alesser rank than his. Really, his own government should be more sensitive about such tnatters.
    Hasan Shawa was pleased to be rid of Naim and Ali for a day. They had left it for him to clean up the apartment after them,
     which of course meant only removing all traces of alcohol and drug consumption so as not to provide ammunition to critics
     who might find their dedication to Islam weak. Hasan had no complaints about