The Levanter (11 page)

However, on that occasion - perhaps because I was opening and shutting the gates instead of the houseman - I
think that she must have neglected to take her routine precaution. I don’t know which saint she counts upon for this security arrangement, but I am quite sure that he, or she, was not alerted. We made the journey not only safely but also in record time.

A divine agency with any concern at all for our welfare that night would have guided us gently but firmly to a soft landing in the nearest ditch.

The battery works was on the Der’a road ten kilometres south of the city. During the French Mandate it had been a district gendarmerie. When I took the place over it had been empty for several years and stripped of everything removable, including the roof and the plumbing fixtures. All that remained had been the reinforced concrete structures - a latrine, the shell of the old HQ building, and the high wall which enclosed the compound.

In a country where pilfering is a way of life, walls which cannot easily be scaled are extremely useful. I chose the site partly because the government would lease it to me cheaply, but partly because of the walls. Inside the compound I had built three work sheds. When refurbished, the old HQ building housed the offices and the laboratory. Two rooms in it had been set aside for safe storage, under lock and key, of the more marketable of our raw materials, such as the zinc sheet.

At the entrance to the compound there was an iron-bar main gate with a chain-link postern on one side. Both were secured by padlock. Just inside the postern was a hut which, during working hours, was occupied by the timekeeper, and at night by the watchman. Beyond the hut was the loading platform of number-three work shed, where the finished batteries emerged.

There was some moon that night and I could see the shapes of all this from outside. What I could not see was any sign of the watchman, and there was no light in the hut. I assumed that he was on his rounds. As he was supposed to carry a heavy club and I had no wish to be mistaken for an intruder, I kept my flashlight switched on after I had unlocked the postern.

“What about the car?” Teresa asked.

“Leave it. We won’t be long.”

Further evidence of divine indifference! The sound of the car would have made our presence inside the compound known sooner and given those already inside time to avoid a decisive confrontation. It was my fault. The main gate was very heavy and hinged so as to stay closed. I
would have had to drag it open and hold it there while Teresa drove in. That meant getting my hands dirty and probably scuffing my shoes as well. I couldn’t be bothered.

We went in. I re-locked the postern and we walked toward the loading platform and the path leading to the office building.

The battery works was not the tidiest of places, and in that particular area empty containers and loops of discarded baling wire were hazards to be watched for. So I had the flashlight pointing down and my eyes on the ground in front of me. It was Teresa who first saw that there was something wrong.

“Michael”

I glanced back. She had stopped and was looking toward the office building. I looked that way, too.

There was light on in the laboratory.

For a moment I thought that it might be the watchman’s lantern, though he wasn’t supposed to enter the office building except in a case of an emergency such as fire. Then, as I moved along the path and my view became unobstructed, I saw that all the lights in the laboratory were on. And I
could hear voices.

I had stopped, staring; as I started to go on, Teresa put a hand on my arm.

“Michael,” she said softly, “I think it might be better to leave now and come back in the morning, don’t you?”

“And lose a chance of catching him at it red-handed?”

I was too incensed to realize that, as I had not told her what I now suspected, she could not know what I was talking about. Her mind was still on bootleggers, eighty-proof whiskey, and black-marketeering. She thought that what we had stumbled on was either a drinking party or an illicit bottling session, neither of which it would be useful or wise to interrupt.

“Michael, there is
no point...” she began, but I was already going on and she followed without completing her protest.

The place had been built on high concrete footings with an open space between the ground floor and the bare earth. Concrete steps led up to a roofed terrace which ran the length of the building. The offices were to the right of the entrance, the laboratory to the left.

The window openings were barred with no shutters or glass in them, only wire mesh screens of the old meat-safe type to keep out the larger insects. You could see through them fairly well and hear through them easily. Issa’s voice was distinctly audible as we went quietly up the steps.

“For the process of nitrosis,” he was saying, “the nitric acid must be pure and have a specific gravity of one-point-four-two. I have shown you how we use the hydrometer. Always use it conscientiously. There must be no slovenly work. Everything must be exactly right. For the reactive process, which you see going on, the alcohol must be not less than ninety-five percent pure. Again we use the hydrometer. What is the specific gravity of ninety-five percent ethyl alcohol?”

A young man’s voice answered him. By then I had moved along the terrace and could see into the room.

Issa was standing behind one of the lab tables wearing his denim lab coat and looking every inch the young professor. His “class,” squatting or sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, consisted of five youths, Arabs, with dog-eared notebooks and ballpoint pens. Lounging in Issa’s desk chair, looking very neat and clean in a khaki bush shirt and well-pressed trousers, was the watchman. He had an open book in his lap, but his eyes were on the class.

“Very good,” said Issa. He was speaking mostly Jordanian Arabic but using English technical terms. “Now observe.” He pointed to an earthenware jar on the table in front of him from which fumes were rising. “The reaction is almost complete and precipitation has begun.”

From where I stood I could smell the fumes. It was not hard to guess what was about to be precipitated.

“What will be the next procedure?” asked Issa.

One of the young men said, “Filtration, sir?”

“Filiation, exactly.” Issa was obviously a natural pedagogue who enjoyed the teaching role. As he droned on I found myself remembering his application to the Ministry people for a post as an instructor, and wishing that they had been less punctilious about checking up on his qualifications. Why did it have to be me who had to deal with this little menace?

I was wondering how to handle the immediate situation, whether to clear my throat before entering or just fling the door open and make them jump, when the two men moved in.

I smelled them before I heard them, and so did Teresa. We both turned at once and she clutched at my arm. Then we saw the carbines in their hands and froze.

The carbines were very clean; but, in their filthy work clothes and faded blue
kaffiyehs,
the men who held them looked like labourers from a road gang. They were middle-aged, leathery, and tough; they were also tense and, quite clearly, trigger-happy.

They stopped well clear of us, the carbines pointing at our stomachs. The older man motioned with his carbine to the flashlight in my hand.

“Drop it. Quick!” He had a loud, harsh voice and broken teeth.

I obeyed. The glass of the flashlight shattered as it hit the concrete.

“Back! Back!”

We backed against the wall.

By this time Issa, followed by his class, was coming out to see what was going on.

Issa’s face when he saw me was a study in confusion, but before he could say anything the man with the broken teeth started to make his report.

“We saw them come stealthily. We have been watching them for minutes. They were listening, spying. The man had a light. Look, there it is.”

He made the flashlight sound highly incriminating.

I said: “Good evening, Issa.”

He tried to smile. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, Miss Malandra.”

“They were listening, spying,” said Broken Teeth doggedly.

“That’s right, we were,” I said. “And now we'll go inside.”

I had started to move toward the entrance when the man hit me hard in the kidneys with the butt of his carbine. It was agonizing for a moment and I fell to my knees.

When I got up, Teresa was protesting angrily and Issa was muttering under his breath to the two men. I leaned against the wall waiting for the pain to subside. Finally, Issa told the class to wait there on the terrace and the rest of us went into the laboratory. Issa led the way, Teresa and I followed, the armed men brought up the rear.

The watchman had not moved from Issa’s desk chair. As we came in he gave me a vague nod, as if he had been expecting me but could not quite think why. It struck me that he was behaving very oddly; I wondered if he were drank. Then I decided to ignore the watchman; I would deal with him later.

“All right, Issa,” I said briskly, “let’s have your explanation. I take it you have one?”

But he had had time to recover and was ready now to try to bluff his way out “An explanation for what, sir?” He was all injured innocence. “If, as you say, you have been listening, you will know that I was instructing a class of students in the techniques of chemistry. Having had the advantages of higher education, I consider that I also have a duty to pass some of those advantages on, when I can do so, to those less fortunate. I would only do so in my own time, of course. If you think that I should have asked your permission before using the laboratory out of working hours as a classroom, I apologize. It did not occur to me that a man of your character could conceivably refuse.”

He was really quite convincing. If I had not been through those invoices and if my back had not been hurting as it was, I might almost have believed him.

“And these two men behind me?” I asked. “Have you been instructing them also in the techniques of chemistry?”

He tried a deprecating smile. “They are uneducated men, sir, older men from the village where my students live. They come to see that the young men behave themselves.”

“They need guns to do that? No, Issa, don’t bother to answer. You have given your explanation. It is not acceptable.”

There was a flash of anger. “Simply because I wish to teach . . .”

I cut him off sharply. “No. Simply because you are lying. You aren’t instructing anyone in the techniques of chemistry, as you so elegantly put it. What you are giving is a do-it-yourself kitchen course in the manufacture of explosives. What is more, you are giving it at my expense.”

“I assure you, sir . . .” He tried hard.

“You can’t assure me of anything, Issa. I know what I’m talking about.” I pointed to the jar on the table. “That precipitate you were so lovingly anticipating is fulminate of mercury. How many detonators would that have filled? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? You’re not passing on any advantages, Issa, you’re passing on recipes for amateur bomb-making.”

“My work is not amateur,” he protested hotly.

I had a sudden feeling that I wasn’t handling the situation very well. Now that the truth was out he should have been on the defensive and trying to make excuses, not arguing. I concluded that it was the armed men who were giving him confidence.

“I’m not interested in the quality of your work,” I snapped. “The point is that you’re not doing any more of it here - any work of any kind. As of this moment you are dismissed. You can consider yourself lucky, and so can your bomb-making friends, if I don’t inform the police as well.”

For the first time the watchman spoke. “But why will you not inform the police, Mr. Howell? If this man has stolen from you and is also making explosives illegally, is it not your duty to inform them?”

He had a high, rather thin voice, but it was the voice of an educated man. I suddenly realized that I knew very little about the watchman, and that, except when I had given him his original instructions, I had never spoken with him. There had been no occasion to do so. I looked at him coldly.

I said
if
I don’t inform the police. If I do decide to inform them, your name will certainly be in the complaint as an accomplice, so don’t tempt me by telling me my duty.”

He rose very slowly to his feet. He was a tall man of about my own age with a long nose, a moustache, and deeply lined cheeks. “Perhaps then,” he said, “I should introduce myself.”

His self-assurance irritated me. “Your name is Salah Yassin,” I told him, “and I engaged you six months ago as a night watchman. I was told that you were an ex-army man with a wound disability and of good character. Obviously, I was misinformed. You, too, are now dismissed. I want the lot of you off these premises within five minutes. After that you will be trespassing on government property and I shall certainly call the police. Now, leave your keys on the table there and get out.”

The watchman looked pained. “It is ill-mannered, Mr. Howell, to refuse to hear a man when he offers politely to introduce himself. Ill-mannered and foolish.” His eyes hardened as he stared into mine. “My name is Salah, yes. But it is Ghaled, not Yassin. Salah Ghaled. I am sure you have heard of it.”

Teresa drew in her breath sharply.

With me shock and disbelief fought a brief battle. Shock won. I daresay I gaped at him stupidly. Anyway our consternation was obvious enough to please him.

He gave us a satisfied nod.

Lewis Prescott

May 14

Michael Howell has left us in no doubt about his attitude toward reporters. I cannot altogether blame him. Some of my European colleagues have given him a rough time. However, as he has seen fit to exempt Frank Edwards and me from his blanket indictment, I hope he won’t mind too much if I now suggest that much of the hostile press and TV criticism of his part in the Ghaled affair he brought on himself.

In his anxiety to protect his company’s reputation - to say nothing of the reputations of his father, his mother, his grandfather, his sisters, Miss Malandra, and his brothers-in-law - he damaged his own. Under questioning he did himself less than justice. He said either too little or, more often, far too much; and invariably he sounded evasive. When a reporter asked a direct question - ”Mr. Howell, did you know what these arms were going to be used for?” - and received in reply, say, a lecture on the difficulties of dry-battery manufacture, the reasons why the Agence Howell had hired a Palestinian-refugee chemist, and the problems of the Agence Howell’s blocked Syrian assets, he was apt to conclude that Mr. Howell was dissembling. Mr. Howell’s too frequent protestations that what he was trying to do was to give the whole picture, background as well as foreground, didn’t help either. Reporters are inclined to believe that, given the essential facts of a story, plain and unadorned, they are quite capable of drawing the picture for themselves. “Garrulous smokescreen” may be a mixed metaphor, but I can understand the feelings of the man who mixed it.