Ultimatum (7 page)

But mostly he watched the steps which led down from the Square’s eastern end, where the Parliament building loomed solid and rectangular. He was doing this when he heard Kemal Tarshe’s, ‘Hullo, Zeid.’

Kemal Tarshe, a slight man with large eyes, ran Dimitri Ionides and Co., the shipping and forwarding business his wife Cleo had inherited from her father. It was a small firm. The staff consisted of Kemal and his wife and two Greek typists, one of them a woman who had spent most of her working life with the firm. Tarshe, a Palestinian, had settled in Athens soon after his marriage in 1974. His wife knew he’d been a member of El Fatah, the militant arm of the PLO, but she did not know he had been, and still was, a member of SAS – Soukour-al-Sahra’, the Desert Hawks.

He pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down, Kemal. It’s good to see you again. You gave me quite a fright. I thought you would come down the steps.’ He and Kemal were old friends. They’d been at school and university together in Beirut.

The new arrival rubbed his hands and grinned. ‘I was seeing how alert you were, Zeid.’

‘I’m off duty. You wouldn’t have caught me like that at any other time.’ He beckoned to a waitress. ‘Two black coffees, please.’

When she’d gone they talked eagerly of mutual friends, catching up on each other’s news in a sort of verbal
shorthand
. The waitress brought the coffee and Zeid paid her. When they’d finished it he said, ‘Let’s walk. Safest way to chat.’ They left the table and started up the southern side of the Square.

Zeid said, ‘Delivered yet?’

‘This morning at nine-thirty.’

‘Any problems?’

‘No. The truck had a wheeled pallet with it. Just as well. It’s a hell of a weight. Took the driver and his mate, plus four of us, to get it in.’

‘Carpets are heavy, Kemal. What’s the programme?’

Tarshe lowered his voice. ‘I’ve received the letter from London requesting re-consignment to English clients since the Athens buyer has defaulted.’

‘What address did they give?’

Tarshe took a slip of paper from his wallet and passed it to the bearded man. It read:

‘You ask for a Miss Morley,’ said Kemal.

Zeid folded the slip of paper, placed it in an inner pocket of his jacket. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘And now?’

‘We’ll sew on address and marking labels tomorrow. I’ll burn the old ones when the staff have left the office.’

‘Don’t on any account touch the label on the right-hand side. The one which describes the contents.’

‘Okay. I’ll make sure of that. The truck will come for the bale on the eighteenth and take it down to the harbour. It’ll be loaded on the
Student
Prince
that day or the next. She sails on the nineteenth.’

They reached the bottom of the Square and began a second circuit. ‘That’s great,’ said Zeid. ‘When does she arrive?’

‘She’s calling at Genoa, Marseille and Gibraltar. Due to berth at Millwall Docks on October 29th.’

‘Arrangements there still the same?’

‘Yes. The freight forwarding agents, Morrison, Dean and Fletcher, are to clear the consignment. You’ll arrange that. And collection from the bonded warehouse. Right?’

‘Yes. Rudi has the van.’ Zeid looked at his watch. ‘Nearly one o’clock,’ he said. ‘Wish we could lunch together, but we can’t. Better say goodbye now.’

‘What passport are you travelling on?’

‘Algerian – Simon Dufour.’

‘When do you leave?’

‘Tomorrow morning, Air France to Paris. The
nine-fifteen
flight.’

‘I wish I was coming. May Allah be with you, Zeid.’

‘I’m a Christian, Kemal. But I hope he will overlook that.’

They laughed, shook hands and parted.

In a small office on the first floor of 56 Spender Street, not far from Covent Garden, two men sat at a table, a
tape-recorder
between them.

‘Play it back, Zol.’

‘Okay.’ Zol Levi ran the tape back, restarted it. A
conversation
in Arabic followed. Shalom Ascher hunched forward, pulling at his beard, a gesture which his companion knew indicated intense concentration. The tape ran on for about five minutes before Ascher held up his hand. ‘Stop. Let’s have that last section again. Where the voices fade. Can’t get that.’

Levi ran the tape back and re-started it. They listened intently.

‘It’s no good.’ Ascher stood up, stretched, yawned loudly. ‘We’ll never get it.’ He went to the small table where there was another recorder, watched the reels turning, thinking what it was all about. There were already twenty reels. The recorder’s mike was fed by the receiver/amplifier on the shelf beneath the table. It in turn was fed by transmissions from the bugs on the ground floor premises of the
MIDDLE
ORIENT CONSOLIDATED AGENCIES LTD
On the Opposite side of the street. The bugs – the miniaturised microphone/transmitters – were a good deal smaller than a new penny piece.

‘So,’ said Levi. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘Two things. One, the man called Zeid is mentioned again. This is the third time we’ve heard his name. They expect him soon. Right?’

Levi nodded agreement, watching the big shaggy man with affection. He had much respect for Shalom Ascher.

‘Who is this Zeid?’ continued Ascher. ‘We don’t know. But it sounds as though he’s got something to do with the consignment.’

Levi said, ‘And the consignment?’

Ascher shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows. They don’t say. The Middle Orient Consolidated Agencies Limited …’ He rolled out the words deliberately. ‘And they’re expecting it from Athens.’

‘That fits, doesn’t it? I mean they
are
import and export agents. The name of the firm doesn’t necessarily restrict them to doing business with the Middle East.’

‘If they really were, you’re right. But they’re phoneys, Zol. We’ve heard them talk for two weeks – jaw, jaw, jaw – haven’t we? That’s the first time they chat about any goods coming in or going out. So what sort of import/export agents are they? Anyway, here they are in business at last. But with Athens – not Beirut or Damascus?’ He spread his hands with an air of finality. ‘Don’t ask me why?’

‘So we’re no wiser.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, Zol, Notice something queer in the chat about the consignment?’

‘Not really. Bits of it weren’t all that distinct.’

‘That’s it.’ Ascher stared at the younger man.

‘How d’you mean, that’s it?’

‘Each time they talk about the consignment it’s like they’re talking of God or Allah, or whatever. They get serious. Full of respect. They drop their voices instinctively. There was that bit that sounded like whispering and we couldn’t make it out. Right?’

Levi said, ‘Yes. Now you mention it. It is like that.’

‘Another thing. Here are these import and export agents doing business for the first time in the two weeks we’ve been listening. They’re expecting a consignment. But they never say who it is for, or when it is coming, or how it’s coming. Know why? Either they don’t know or they’re security conscious or both. And that goes for the dropped voices, etcetera.’

‘What’s it then, Shalom?’

Ascher picked up a paper-weight, threw it into the air and caught it with an outstretched hand. ‘I think the attack on the Embassy will take place not long after Zeid and the consignment arrive. And that won’t be long now because Kissinger and Sadat are making progress. The Palestinians can’t afford to be left out of any Israeli-Egyptian settlement that Kissinger’s cooking up.’

Levi pursed his lips. ‘So we do what?’

‘We go on watching and listening. Every second, every minute. Night and day. We have problems. We don’t know what the consignment is. We don’t know how it’s coming or when, except they expect it soon.’ Ascher sat down, a bearded, brooding figure. ‘So we watch and we listen and maybe we find out.’

‘Yes,’ said Levi. ‘That’s about it.’

‘In the meantime I see the Ambassador tonight.’

‘What shall you tell him, Shalom?’

‘What we’ve seen and heard. What we think. He’ll pass it to Intel HQ. They’ll have ideas, you can be sure.’

Levi made a face. ‘More of Jakob’s possibles and
probables
.’

‘Right,’ said Shalom Ascher. ‘And sometimes they’re good.’

The Air France flight from Athens arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 11.57 am. It was twenty-three minutes late having been delayed in Rome with engine trouble.

At the immigration barrier the bearded man showed his Algerian passport. The immigration officer noted the name on the immigration form, ‘Simon Dufour’, and other answers, opened the passport with professional ease, checked the details, compared the bearded long-haired young man in the photo with the bearded long-haired original standing in front of him, closed it and passed it back. ‘Bon,’ he said, turning to the next passenger in the queue. The bearded man moved on through the complex of travellators which gave the new airport its science-fiction ambience, arrived at the
baggage pick-up point and after some delay collected the brown travel-bag from a distributor.

He travelled into Paris in an Air France bus. At the terminal at Port Maillot he took a taxi. ‘Rue des Beaux Arts,’ he said to the driver. ‘Hotel de Nice.’ It was a small
unpretentious
hotel in St Germain-des-Prés on the left bank, not far from the gates of the Académie des Beaux Arts. But he would not be staying in the Hotel de Nice.

On arrival outside it he paid off the taxi, put his
travel-bag
on the pavement, and made much of searching through his pockets. When the taxi had gone he picked up the bag, walked round into the Rue Berligny. It was a narrow street with small art galleries, picture framers, and shops given over to artists’ materials for the students of the Académie.

Outside a small picture shop, the Galerie Duquesne, he paused to look at the paintings in the window. Beyond them, through the glass, he saw a young woman. She was alone. He went in. ‘Hullo, Magda.’ He spoke quietly.

She looked at him, frowning, her head on one side. ‘Do I know you?’

‘You should. Don’t you remember me? Zeid. At BUC?’ They had overlapped for a year at Beirut University College.

She laughed with relief. ‘Zeid! All that beard and hair. D’you blame me? There’s not much left to recognize.’

‘Still the same person, Magda. Where’s Tewfik?’

‘He’s gone to the bank. At the Place Vendôme. He’ll be back before long.’

‘That’s fine. I must see him.’

She took his hand in hers, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, it’s good to see you.’

He grinned to hide his embarrassment. ‘But you knew I was coming?’

‘Yes, of course. But I didn’t recognize you.’

‘Kemal sends his love.’

‘Oh. That’s nice. Does he still grin?’

‘All the time. How are you, Magda? You look
marvellous
.’

‘I’m fine.’ She held his hand affectionately. ‘It’s quite a long time, isn’t it? Not since you worked in France?’

‘Yes. But I was also in Paris three months ago. You were away.’

‘Tewfik told me. I’d gone to my mother. She was ill.’

‘It’s really good to see you, Magda. How is he?’

‘He’s fine.’

He looked towards the street, became suddenly serious. ‘I’d better not stand here.’

‘Sorry. This way.’ She led him through the curtains at the back of the shop, up a small staircase to a room on the first floor.

‘It’s our room. There’s a bathroom and loo next door. Knock on the floor when you’re ready.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

When she’d gone he found the scissors and shaving gear in the travel-bag, took off his grey jacket and trousers, laid them on the bed, and went through to the bathroom in his underclothes. He got busy with the scissors and razor. When he’d finished the beard, the moustache and the long
sideburns
had gone. He put a towel round his waist, knocked lightly on the floor with a shoe.

The girl came up. ‘That’s more like the Zeid I remember,’ she said. ‘What a transformation. And I can see the scar.’ She put her hand on his neck and touched it gently. ‘Poor Zeid.’

She was very desirable, they had once been lovers, and for a moment he wanted to take her in his arms. He fought down the emotion, handed her the scissors and a comb. ‘Now my hair, Magda. To here.’ He turned his back and with his hand indicated the length.

‘Sit on that bath stool,’ she said. ‘You’re too tall.’

He sat down and she began combing and cutting. At last she said, ‘Look now.’ He stood up and went to the mirror.

‘That’s great,’ he said.

‘See the mess on the floor.’

‘Sorry, Magda.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of it.’

They went through to the bedroom. She sat on the bed
while he changed into the blue suit he’d taken from the travel-bag.

‘What are the flight details, Magda?’

‘Eight-ten tonight. British Airways from Orly. Heathrow about half an hour later. Want the passport and ticket now?’

‘Please.’

A bell rang in the shop below. ‘Customer,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’

She came back later with a French passport and the airline ticket. ‘The passport’s been in the safe since you left it there with Tewfik. He bought the ticket yesterday.’

‘Good.’ He handed her the Algerian passport. ‘Keep this for me, Magda. Tell Tewfik I’ll pick it up again. In a couple of weeks, I hope.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘Is it dangerous? Your mission?’

‘There is always danger, Magda. Every time one crosses the street.’

‘This is different, Zeid.’

‘Danger isn’t. The objective is.’

She shook her head. ‘How nice if you could stay in Paris for a while.’

‘Just as well I can’t. It might start all over again. Tewfik wouldn’t like that.’

She smiled sadly, knowing he was right.

The immigration officer in Heathrow’s Terminal 1 looked at the passport – Simon Dufour Charrier, born September 7th, 1948, Philippeville, Algeria – and his well-trained eyes checked the man’s age, height and colouring, then the face on the photograph – high forehead, eyes set well apart, high cheekbones, prominent nose, mole on right cheek – against the face in front of him. Satisfied, he pushed the passport back, nodded curtly. ‘Right,’ he said, looking at the next passenger.

Zeid Barakat turned up the collar of his raincoat,
tightened
the silk scarf which so well concealed the scar, and put
on dark glasses before boarding the British Airways bus which took him to the West London Terminal in the Cromwell Road. There he changed to a taxi. ‘South
Kensington
tube station,’ he told the driver.

After two weeks of exhaustive enquiry the Deuxième Bureau in Beirut, assisted by their colleagues from Damascus, had made no progress in solving the mystery of the whereabouts of the two packing cases removed from Shed 27 during the Israeli commando raid on the night of October 5th/6th.

Nor had they succeeded in tracing the truck which had passed through the Port gates early in the morning of the 6th October, evidently carrying the missing warhead and detonator. It had been established that the truck did not belong to D.B. Mahroutti Bros. although the name of that firm had appeared on it. The Deuxième Bureau assumed that it had been re-sprayed and given new plates
immediately
after the incident.

Checks at Djebel Naqura, the border post between Lebanon and Israel – reserved for UN traffic – revealed that the truck had not crossed at that point. At the end of the two-week search the head of the Lebanese security police informed his minister that there were two workable hypotheses:

One, the warhead and detonator had been taken into Israel by sea immediately after the attack, the use of the Mahroutti truck being a calculated diversion; or, two, the missing weapons had been taken out of the Port by the truck and were either still in the Lebanon or had been smuggled into Israel in a manner not yet known.

Digesting these facts, and with the outcry of the world’s media and chancelleries still ringing in their ears, the Lebanese Cabinet decided that the Israeli attack on Shed 27 had been both politically and technologically motivated:

The Israelis’ political objective had been to reveal in dramatic fashion that France was supplying nuclear weapons
to the Middle East, and by so doing justify in advance any subsequent Israeli decision to equip its forces in the field with nuclear weapons.

The technological objective had been to assist Israeli physicists working on the MD-660 project by making available a recent example of French nuclear technology in a tactical weapons system.

Reluctantly, the Lebanese Cabinet had to agree with their Syrian colleagues that the Israelis appeared to have achieved both objectives.