shadows. They had no set base of operations, being
constantly on the move, totally mobile, and generally the participants of any action—like the Rome or Vienna airport massacres,
converged on a city from different points of origin—generally traveling on Syrian or Iraqui passports, sometimes days, sometimes
only hours, before the action was to commence. You did not know what they were up to until the guns opened fire and the innocent
went screaming and dying with blood splashing everything in sight.
Rallis noted the van up ahead picking up speed, unable to travel very fast but weaving more between the hubbub of vehicles,
bicycles and pedestrians.
“Don’t lose them,” he rasped at the driver.
Detective Giorgios steered through an opening in the traffic where a tourist bus was loading near Omonia Square.
“I won’t, Inspector. Do you really think Christus will lead us to al Hussan?”
“He’d better,” growled Rallis. “This is the only lead we’ve got.”
As far as he could tell from the skimpy dossier on the PLGF, Farouk Hassan
was
the Palestinian Liberation Guerrilla Force; a wily, ruthless mass-murderer whose rage was fueled by memories of the humiliations
his own people had suffered over the years.
As the unmarked police car threaded through the traffic, Giorgios staying back far enough so as not to crowd the van up ahead
and yet always keeping the van in sight, Rallis reflected on the kind of man he hoped to apprehend this day.
Hassan had been born about the time of Israel’s war of independence, and the boy’s family had been forced from their home
in Galilee to settle in the yarmouk refugee camp near Damascus. Hassan’s dossier had informed Rallis that even as a boy, little
Farouk had loved to play hide and seek, staying hidden long after everyone had ceased searching for him.
Farouk had gone on to attend Damascus University, where he received a degree in Arabic literature, though much of his time
had also been spent consuming and absorbing the works of Marx, Lenin, and Mao, which had resulted in a prominent role in student
politics.
He took a job for a short time as a schoolteacher, but it had not been long before Hassan had signed up as a foot soldier
in the Palestinian struggle, at first assigned to hunting recruits in the Palestinian camps in Jordan, and receiving his first
taste of combat during King Hussein’s Black September war on the PLO in 1970. Up to this point, Rallis knew Hassan’s b.g.
had been not very different from thousands of other young men of Palestinian descent in the Mideast, but his interest had
perked when he’d read about Hassan being sent to the Soviet Union for training as a battalion commander, after which Farouk
had commanded a topflight combat unit along Beirut’s Green Line until the early 1980s when a group of disenchanted guerrillas
broke away from the PLO to form the PLGF, and Farouk had gone along to sign on as their operations chief and secretary-general.
Since then, Farouk Hassan had left his mark on the pages of Mideast history with a list of terror atrocities that had an effectiveness
unrivaled in their design to attract world media attention instantly and completely.
It was rumored, but not substantiated, that Farouk’s younger brother, Ali, had lately joined the ranks of the PLGF’s strategists.
To Rallis, these were enemies worth the effort it would take to catch them.
The van with Christus and Apodaka, one block ahead, turned onto Pireos after leaving the Square, traveling southwest.
Rallis wondered if this would prove to be what the Americans called a wild goose chase, but for some reason he did not think
so. Athens is a compact city nestled on the sea, its central area small, and he knew it would not be long before the van’s
destination became apparent if their destination was somewhere in Athens, as he was sure it would be.
“Radio the other units,” he instructed Giorgios. “Tell them to
constantly on the move, totally mobile, and generally the participants of any action—like the Rome or Vienna airport massacres,
converged on a city from different points of origin—generally traveling on Syrian or Iraqui passports, sometimes days, sometimes
only hours, before the action was to commence. You did not know what they were up to until the guns opened fire and the innocent
went screaming and dying with blood splashing everything in sight.
Rallis noted the van up ahead picking up speed, unable to travel very fast but weaving more between the hubbub of vehicles,
bicycles and pedestrians.
“Don’t lose them,” he rasped at the driver.
Detective Giorgios steered through an opening in the traffic where a tourist bus was loading near Omonia Square.
“I won’t, Inspector. Do you really think Christus will lead us to al Hussan?”
“He’d better,” growled Rallis. “This is the only lead we’ve got.”
As far as he could tell from the skimpy dossier on the PLGF, Farouk Hassan
was
the Palestinian Liberation Guerrilla Force; a wily, ruthless mass-murderer whose rage was fueled by memories of the humiliations
his own people had suffered over the years.
As the unmarked police car threaded through the traffic, Giorgios staying back far enough so as not to crowd the van up ahead
and yet always keeping the van in sight, Rallis reflected on the kind of man he hoped to apprehend this day.
Hassan had been born about the time of Israel’s war of independence, and the boy’s family had been forced from their home
in Galilee to settle in the yarmouk refugee camp near Damascus. Hassan’s dossier had informed Rallis that even as a boy, little
Farouk had loved to play hide and seek, staying hidden long after everyone had ceased searching for him.
Farouk had gone on to attend Damascus University, where he received a degree in Arabic literature, though much of his time
had also been spent consuming and absorbing the works of Marx, Lenin, and Mao, which had resulted in a prominent role in student
politics.
He took a job for a short time as a schoolteacher, but it had not been long before Hassan had signed up as a foot soldier
in the Palestinian struggle, at first assigned to hunting recruits in the Palestinian camps in Jordan, and receiving his first
taste of combat during King Hussein’s Black September war on the PLO in 1970. Up to this point, Rallis knew Hassan’s b.g.
had been not very different from thousands of other young men of Palestinian descent in the Mideast, but his interest had
perked when he’d read about Hassan being sent to the Soviet Union for training as a battalion commander, after which Farouk
had commanded a topflight combat unit along Beirut’s Green Line until the early 1980s when a group of disenchanted guerrillas
broke away from the PLO to form the PLGF, and Farouk had gone along to sign on as their operations chief and secretary-general.
Since then, Farouk Hassan had left his mark on the pages of Mideast history with a list of terror atrocities that had an effectiveness
unrivaled in their design to attract world media attention instantly and completely.
It was rumored, but not substantiated, that Farouk’s younger brother, Ali, had lately joined the ranks of the PLGF’s strategists.
To Rallis, these were enemies worth the effort it would take to catch them.
The van with Christus and Apodaka, one block ahead, turned onto Pireos after leaving the Square, traveling southwest.
Rallis wondered if this would prove to be what the Americans called a wild goose chase, but for some reason he did not think
so. Athens is a compact city nestled on the sea, its central area small, and he knew it would not be long before the van’s
destination became apparent if their destination was somewhere in Athens, as he was sure it would be.
“Radio the other units,” he instructed Giorgios. “Tell them to
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