Assassins in the spotlight

How does the recent murder of a Hamas militant compare with other high-profile assassinations?

The Dubai killing of the Palestinian militant Mahmoud al-Mabhouh could be straight out of a spy thriller. The hit squad -- which, it emerged today, was travelling under the identities of real British citizens, and with false passports -- underwent physical transformations with wigs, beards and hats.

The assassins employed counter-espionage tactics such as travelling in separate taxis, using only cash and changing mobile phone frequently. And they trailed their target so closely that he actually had to steer his luggage trolley past one of his assailants within moments of arriving in Dubai.

It has been alleged that Israel played a part in the killing. State-sponsored assassinations are couched in secrecy, unless they explode into the press in this way. What was the diplomatic fallout from some of the other meticulously executed murders that have made it into the public domain?

1. Alexander Litvinenko

The former KGB officer and Russian Federal Security Bureau agent was living in the UK after gaining political asylum. But on 1 November 2006, he suddenly became ill and was admitted to hospital. He died three weeks later of acute radiation syndrome, after drinking a cup of tea poisoned with polonium-210. It was the first recorded case of anyone having this lethal nuclear isotope in their body.

Litvinenko had previously written two books critical of Vladimir Putin, and also wrote an article in the Daily Mail from his deathbed, accusing the then president of being responsible for the poisoning. Investigations into the affair damaged diplomatic relations between Britain and Russia. In July 2008, a British secret service source told BBC2's Newsnight: "We very strongly believe the Litvinenko case to have had some state involvement."

2. Rafiq Hariri

The former Lebanese prime minister was killed on 14 February 2005 when the equivalent of about 1,000kg of TNT exploded as his motorcade drove past the St George Hotel in Beirut. The investigation into his death is still ongoing, but its initial reports suggested that the Syrian government could be linked to the assassination. Syria was occupying Lebanon at the time, and had extensive intelligence networks in the country. Hariri had adopted an anti-Syrian stance after resigning from office in 2004.

A UN report found evidence that both Damascus and Lebanese officials were involved. In 2005 Abdul Halim Khaddam, a former Syrian vice-president, suggested on television that President Bashar al-Assad was involved, prompting Syrian MPs to demand treason charges. The mandate for the investigation has been repeatedly extended.

3. Zoran Đinđić

The Serbian prime minister was assassinated in March 2003 after efforts to rid his country of organised crime. The targeted crime groups had close ties to parts of the Serbian secret police, many of which were still loyal to the deposed leader Slobodan Milosevic.

At the command of Milorad Ulemek, a former commander for the Yugoslavian secret police and leading player in a top organised crime gang, a soldier, Zvezdan Jovanović, shot Đinđić from a building opposite the main government headquarters in Belgrade. The single bullet went straight to the heart, and he died nearly instantly.

Ulemek -- who had spent four years prior to the assassination travelling on a false passport stolen from the Croatian embassy -- was later convicted. Of the 12 men convicted of the crime, five are still on the run.

4. Operation Wrath of God

And finally, one that has been the topic of several films. Over a period of up to 20 years, units under the control of Mossad assassinated individuals alleged to have been involved in the 1972 Munich massacre of Israeli athletes.

With the authorisation of Prime Minister Golda Meir, secretive squads killed dozens of people suspected of involvement, in countries across Europe. This led to the mistaken murder of an innocent man in Lillehammer, Norway, in 1973.

Information about the way the crimes were organised is limited: given the covert nature of the operation, we must rely on just a few sources. Those assassinated include Mahmoud Hamshari, killed by an exploding telephone in 1972, and Hussen al-Bashir, killed in 1973 when a bomb hidden under his bed in a hotel in Cyprus was remotely detonated.

Mossad agents involved in the 1979 killing in Beirut of the Black September leader, Ali Hassan Salameh, had travelled on British and Canadian passports.

Follow the New Statesman team on Twitter.

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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France is changing: an army stalks the streets and Boris Johnson wanders the Tuileries

Will Self on the militarisation of France, and Boris Johnson at the Foreign Office.

At the corner of the rue D’Hauteville and the rue de Paradis in the tenth arrondissement of Paris is a retro-video-games-themed bar, Le Fantôme, which is frequented by some not-so-jeunes gens – the kind of thirtysomethings nostalgic for an era when you had to go to an actual place if you wanted to enter virtual space. They sit placidly behind the plate-glass windows zapping Pac-Men and Space Invaders, while outside another – and rather more lethal – sort of phantom stalks the sunlit streets.

I often go to Paris for work, and so have been able to register the incremental militarisation of its streets since President Hollande first declared a state of emergency after last November’s terrorist attacks. In general the French seem more comfortable about this prêt-à-porter khaki than we’d probably be; the army-nation concept is, after all, encrypted deep in their collective psyche. The army was constituted as a revolutionary instrument. France was the first modern nation to introduce universal male conscription – and it continued in one form or another right up until the mid-1990s.

Even so, it was surprising to witness the sang-froid with which Parisians regarded the camouflaged phantoms wandering among them: a patrol numbering eight ­infantrymen and women moved up the roadway, scoping out doorways, nosing into passages – but when one peered into Le Fantôme, his assault rifle levelled, none of the boozing gamers paid the least attention. I witnessed this scene the Saturday after Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel ran amok on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice – it was a little preview of the new state of emergency.

On Monday 18 July the French premier, Manuel Valls, was booed at a memorial service for the victims of the Nice attacks – while Marine Le Pen has been making all the populist running, whipping up anxieties about the enemy within. For many French, the events of the past week – including the failed Turkish coup – are steps along the way limned by Michel Houellebecq in his bestselling novel Submission; a via dolorosa that ends with La Marianne wearing the hijab and France itself annexed by a new caliphate.

Into this febrile drama comes a new player: Boris Johnson, the British Foreign Secretary. What can we expect from this freshly minted statesman when it comes to our relations with our closest neighbour? There is no doubt that Johnson is a Francophile – I’ve run into him and his family at the Tuileries, and he made much of his own francophone status during the referendum campaign. In Paris last winter to launch the French edition of his Churchill biography, Johnson wowed a publication dinner by speaking French for the entire evening. He was sufficiently fluent to bumble, waffle and generally avoid saying anything serious at all.

Last Sunday I attended the Lambeth Country Show, an oxymoronic event for which the diverse inhabitants of my home borough gather in Brockwell Park, south London, for jerked and halal chicken, funfair rides, Quidditch-watching, and “country-style” activities, such as looking at farm animals and buying their products. Wandering among ancient Rastafarians with huge shocks of dreadlocks, British Muslims wearing immaculate white kurtas blazoned with “ASK ME ABOUT ISLAM” and crusty old Brixton punks, I found it quite impossible to rid my mind of the Nice carnage – or stop wondering how they would react if armed soldiers were patrolling, instead of tit-helmeted, emphatically unarmed police.

I stepped into the Royal Horticultural Society marquee, and there they were: the entire cast of our end-of-the-pier-show politics, in vegetable-sculpture form and arrayed for judging. There was Jeremy Corbyn (or “Cornbin”) made out of corncobs – and Boris Johnson in the form of a beetroot, being stabbed in the back by a beetroot Michael Gove. And over there was Johnson again, this time rendered in cabbage. The veggie politicians were the big draw, Brixtonians standing six-deep around them, iPhones aloft.

The animal (as opposed to the vegetable) Johnson has begun his diplomatic rounds this week, his first démarches as tasteless and anodyne as cucumber. No British abandonment of friends after Brexit . . . Coordinated response to terror threat . . . Call for Erdogan to be restrained in response to failed coup . . . Blah-blah, whiff-whaff-waffle . . . Even someone as gaffe-prone as he can manage these simple lines, but I very much doubt he will be able to produce rhetorical flourishes as powerful as his hero’s. In The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History, Johnson writes of Winnie overcoming “his stammer and his depression and his ­appalling father to become the greatest living Englishman”. Well, I’ve no idea if Bojo suffers from depression now but he soon will if he cleaves to this role model. His Churchill-worship (like so many others’) hinges on his belief that, without Churchill as war leader, Britain would have been ground beneath the Nazi jackboot. It may well be that, with his contribution to the Brexit campaign, Johnson now feels he, too, has wrested our national destiny from the slavering jaws of contingency.

Of course the differences between the two politicians are far more significant: Johnson’s genius – such as it is – lies in his intuitive understanding that politics, in our intensely mediatised and entirely commoditised era, is best conceived of as a series of spectacles or stunts: nowadays you can fool most of the people, most of the time. This is not a view you can imagine associating with Churchill, who, when his Gallipoli stratagem went disastrously wrong, exiled himself, rifle in hand, to the trenches. No, the French people Johnson both resembles and has an affinity for are the ones caught up in the virtual reality of Le Fantôme – rather than those patrolling the real and increasingly mean streets without. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt