The Dogs of War

by Frederick Forsyth

  Baker was hard put to it to translate as the exuberant Kemal related his forays behind Dubrovnik in Montenegro, in the mountains behind where they sat, on the coast of Herzegovina, and among the cooler, richer, wooded countryside north of Split in Bosnia. He relished the thought that he would once have been shot out of hand for venturing into any of the towns where he now drove on behalf of his brother-in-law, who was in the government. Shannon asked if he was a committed Communist, having been a partisan, and Ziljak listened while Baker translated, using the word “good” for “committed.”

  Ziljak thumped his chest with his fist. “Guter Kommunist,” he exclaimed, eyes wide, pointing at himself. Then he ruined the effect by giving a broad wink, throwing back his head, and roaring with laughter as he tossed another glass of slivovitz down the hatch. The folded notes of his first £500 bonus made a bulge under his waistband, and Shannon laughed too and wished the giant was coming along to Zangaro with them. He was that kind of man.

  They had no supper but at midnight wandered unsteadily back to the quay to watch the Toscana come in. She was rounding the harbor wall and an hour later was tied up alongside the single quay of hewn local stone. From the forepeak Semmler looked down in the half-light cast by the dock lamps. Each nodded slowly at the other, and Waldenberg stood at the top of the gangplank, consulting with his first mate. He had already been instructed, following Shannon’s letter, that he should leave the talking to Semmler.

  After Baker had headed back to the hotel with Ziljak, Shannon slipped up the gangplank and into the captain’s tiny cabin. No one on the quay took any notice. Semmler brought Waldenberg in, and they locked the door.

  Slowly and carefully Shannon told Waldenberg what he had really brought the Toscana to Plocˇe to take on board. The German captain took it well. He kept his face expressionless until Shannon had finished.

  “I never carried arms before,” he said. “You say this cargo is legal. How legal?”

  “Perfectly legal,” said Shannon. “It has been bought in Belgrade, trucked up here, and the authorities are of course aware what the crates contain. Otherwise there would be no export license. The license has not been forged, nor has anyone been bribed. It’s a perfectly legal shipment under the laws of Yugoslavia.”

  “And the laws of the country it’s going to?” asked Waldenberg.

  “The Toscana never enters the waters of the country where these arms are due to be used,” said Shannon. “After Plocˇe, there are two more ports of call, in each case only to take on board cargoes. You know ships are never searched for what they are carrying when they arrive in a port to take on more cargo only, unless the authorities have been tipped off.”

  “It has happened, all the same,” said Waldenberg. “If I have these things on board and the manifest doesn’t mention them, and there is a search and they are discovered, the ship gets impounded and I get imprisoned. I didn’t bargain on arms. With the Black September and the IRA about these days, everyone’s looking for arms shipments.”

  “Not at the port of embarkation of fresh cargo,” said Shannon.

  “I didn’t bargain for arms,” repeated Waldenberg.

  “You bargained for illegal immigrants to Britain,” Shannon pointed out.

  “They’re not illegal until their feet touch British soil,” the captain said. “And the Toscana would be outside territorial waters. They could go inshore in fast boats. Arms are different. They are illegal on this ship if the manifest says there aren’t any. Why not put it on the manifest? Just say these arms are being legally transported from Plocˇe to Togo. No one can prove we later deviate from course.”

  “Because if there are arms already on board, the Spanish authorities will not allow the ship to stay in Valencia or any other Spanish port. Even in transit. Certainly not to take on more arms. So they have to remain unmentioned on the manifest.”

  “So where did we come from to reach Spain?” asked Waldenberg.

  “From Brindisi,” replied Shannon. “We went there to take on cargo, but it was not ready in time. Then the owners ordered you to Valencia to pick up a new cargo for Latakia. Of course you obeyed.”

  “Supposing the Spanish police search the boat?”

  “There’s not the slightest reason why they should,” said Shannon. “But if they do, the crates have to be belowdecks in the bilges.”

  “If they find them there, there’s not a hope for us,” Waldenberg pointed out. “They’d think we were bringing the stuff to the Basque territories. We’d be inside forever.”

  The talk went on till three in the morning. It cost Shannon a flat bonus of £5000, half before loading and half after sailing from Valencia. There was no extra charge for the stopover in the African port. That would present no problem.

  “You’ll take care of the crew?” Shannon asked.

  “I’ll take care of the crew,” said Waldenberg with finality. Shannon knew he would, too.

  Back in his hotel, Shannon paid Baker the third quarter of his bill for the arms, $3600, and tried to get some sleep. It was not easy. The sweat rolled off him in the heat of the night, and he had an image of the Toscana lying down there in the port, the arms in the customs shed, and prayed there would be no problems. He felt he was so close now, just three short ceremonies away from the point where no one could stop him, whatever was tried.

  The loading started at seven, and the sun was already well up. With a customs man, armed with a rifle, walking beside the crates, they were wheeled on trolleys down to the dockside, and the Toscana hoisted them aboard with her own jumbo derrick. None of the crates was very large, and down in the hold Vlaminck and Cipriani swung them easily into position before they were roped down across the floor of the hold. By nine in the morning it was over, and the hatches went on.

  Waldenberg had ordered the engineer to stand by for casting off, and the latter needed no second bidding. Shannon learned later he had suddenly become very voluble when he learned three hours out from Brindisi that they were heading for his native country. Apparently he was wanted there for something or other. He stayed well hidden in his engine room, and no one went looking for him.

  As he watched the Toscana chugging out of the port, Shannon slipped Baker the remaining $3600 and the second £500 for Ziljak. Unbeknownst to either, he had had Vlaminck quietly prize up the lids on five of the crates, taken at random, as they came aboard. Vlaminck had verified the contents, waved up to Semmler on the deck above him, and Semmler had blown his nose, the signal Shannon wanted. Just in case the crates contained scrap iron. It has been known to happen, quite frequently, in the arms world.

  Baker, having received his money, gave the £500 to Ziljak as if it came from himself, and the Yugoslav saw the customs chief did not go without supper. Then Alan Baker and his British “assistant” quietly left town.

  On Shannon’s calendar of a hundred days, given him by Sir James Manson to bring off his coup, it was Day Sixty-seven.

  No sooner was the Toscana out to sea than Captain Waldenberg began to organize his ship. One by one, the three other crewmen were brought into his cabin for a quiet interview. Although none of them knew it, had they refused to continue to serve aboard the Toscana, there would have been some unfortunate accidents on board. Few places are quite as well suited for a complete disappearing act as a ship on a dark night at sea, and Vlaminck and Dupree between them could have pitched anyone else on board a long way from the ship’s side before he touched the water. Perhaps their presence did the trick. In any case, no one objected.

  Waldenberg dispensed £1000 of the £2500 he had received in travelers’ checks from Shannon. The Yugoslav engineer, delighted to be back out of his own country, took his £250, stuffed it into his pocket, and went back to his engines. He made no comment one way or the other. The first mate, Norbiatto, became quite excited at the thought of a Spanish jail, but pocketed his £600 in dollars and thought of the difference that could make to his chances of owning his own ship one day. The crewman, Cipriani, seemed almost
happy at the prospect of being on a vessel full of contraband, took his £150, said an ecstatic thank-you, and left, muttering, “This is the life.” He had little imagination and knew nothing about Spanish jails.

  With this done, the crates were broken open, and all afternoon the contents were examined, wrapped in polyethylene, and stowed deep in the bilges, below the floor of the hold and inside the curvature of the ship’s hull. The planks which had been removed to make this possible were replaced and covered with the innocent cargo of clothing, dinghies, and outboard engines.

  Finally Semmler told Waldenberg he had better put the Castrol oil drums at the back of the stores locker, and when he told his fellow countryman why, Waldenberg finally did lose his composure. He lost his temper as well and used some expressions that could best be described as regrettable.

  Semmler calmed him down, and they sat having beer as the Toscana plowed her way south for the Otranto Channel and the Ionian Sea.

  Finally Waldenberg began to laugh. “Schmeissers,” he said. “Bloody Schmeissers. Mensch, it’s a long time since they’ve been heard in the world.”

  “Well, they’re going to be heard again,” said Semmler.

  Waldenberg looked wistful. “You know,” he said at length, “I wish I was going ashore with you.”

  twenty

  When Shannon arrived, Simon Endean was reading a copy of The Times bought that morning in London before he left for Rome. The lounge of the Excelsior Hotel was almost empty, for most of those taking late-morning coffee were on the outside terrace watching the chaotic traffic of Rome inch past and trying to make themselves heard above the noise.

  Shannon had picked the place only because it was in easy reach of Dubrovnik to the east and in line with Madrid to the west. It was the first time he had ever been to Rome, and he wondered what the ecstatic guidebooks were talking about. There were at least seven separate strikes in progress, one of them being among the garbage workers, and the city stank in the sun from the uncleared fruit and other rubbish on the pavements and down every back alley.

  He eased himself into a seat beside the man from London and savored the cool of the inner room after the heat and frustration of the taxi in which he had been stuck for the past hour.

  Endean eyed him. “You’ve been out of touch a long time,” he said coldly. “My associates were beginning to think you had run out. That was unwise.”

  “There was no point in my making contact until I had something to say. That ship doesn’t exactly fly across the water. It takes time to get her from Toulon to Yugoslavia, and during that time there was nothing to report,” said Shannon. “By the way, did you bring the charts?”

  “Of course.” Endean pointed to the bulging attaché case beside his chair. On receiving Shannon’s letter from Hamburg, he had spent several days visiting three of the top maritime-chart companies on Leadenhall Street, London, and in separate lots had acquired inshore charts for the entire African coast from Casablanca to Cape Town. “Why the hell do you need so many?” he asked in annoyance. “One or two would suffice.”

  “Security,” said Shannon briefly. “If you or I were searched at customs, or if the ship were boarded and searched in port, one single chart showing the area of the ship’s destination would be a giveaway. As it is, no one, including the captain and crew, can discover which section of the coast really interests me. Until the last moment, when I have to tell them. Then it’s too late. Do you have the slides as well?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Another of Endean’s jobs had been to make up slides of all the photographs Shannon had brought back from Zangaro, along with others of the maps and sketches of Clarence and the rest of Zangaro’s coastline.

  Shannon himself had already sent a slide projector, bought duty-free at London airport, onto the Toscana in Toulon.

  He gave Endean a complete progress report from the moment he had left London, mentioning the stay in Brussels, the loading of the Schmeissers and other equipment onto the Toscana in Toulon, the talks with Schlinker and Baker in Hamburg, and the Yugoslav shipment a few days earlier in Plocˇe.

  Endean listened in silence, making a few notes for the report he would later have to give to Sir James Manson. “Where’s the Toscana now?” he asked at length.

  “She should be south and slightly west of Sardinia, en route for Valencia.”

  Shannon went on to tell him what was planned in three days’ time: the loading of the 400,000 rounds of 9mm. ammunition for the machine pistols in Valencia, and then departure for the target. He made no mention of the fact that one of his men was already in Africa.

  “Now there’s something I need to know from you,” he told Endean. “What happens after the attack? What happens at dawn? We can’t hold on for very long before some kind of new regime takes over, establishes itself in the palace, and broadcasts news of the coup and the new government.”

  “That’s all been thought of,” said Endean smoothly. “In fact, the new government is the whole point of the exercise.”

  From his briefcase he withdrew three sheets of paper covered with close typing. “These are your instructions, starting the moment you have possession of the palace and the army and guards have been destroyed or scattered. Read, memorize, and destroy these sheets before we part company, here in Rome. You have to carry it all in your head.”

  Shannon ran his eyes quickly over the first page. There were few surprises for him. He had already suspected the man Manson was boosting into the presidency had to be Colonel Bobi, and although the new president was referred to simply as X, he did not doubt Bobi was the man in question. The rest of the plan was simple from his point of view.

  He glanced up at Endean. “Where will you be?” he asked.

  “A hundred miles north of you,” said Endean.

  Shannon knew Endean meant he would be waiting in the capital of the republic next door to Zangaro on its northern side, the one with a road route straight along the coast to the border and thence to Clarence.

  “Are you sure you’ll pick up my message?” he asked.

  “I shall have a portable radio set of considerable range and power. The Braun, the best they make. It will pick up anything within that range, provided it’s broadcast on the right channel and frequency. A ship’s radio should be powerful enough to send in clear over at least twice that distance.”

  Shannon nodded and read on. When he had finished, he put the sheets on the table. “Sounds all right,” he said. “But let’s get one thing clear. I’ll broadcast on that frequency at those hours from the Toscana, and she’ll be hove to somewhere off the coast, probably at five or six miles. But if you don’t hear me, if there’s too much static, I can’t be responsible for that. It’s up to you to hear me.”

  “It’s up to you to broadcast,” said Endean. “The frequency is one that has been tested before by practical use. From the Toscana’s radio it must be picked up by my radio set at a hundred miles. Not the first time, perhaps, but if you repeat for thirty minutes, I have to hear it.”

  “All right,” said Shannon. “One last thing. The news of what has happened in Clarence should not have reached the Zangaran border post. That means it’ll be manned by Vindu. It’s your business to get past them. After the border, and particularly nearer Clarence, there may be scattered Vindu on the roads, running for the bush but still dangerous. Supposing you don’t get through?”

  “We’ll get through,” said Endean. “We’ll have help.”

  Shannon supposed, rightly, that this would be provided by the small operation in mining that he knew Manson had going for him in that republic. For a senior company executive it could provide a truck or jeep and maybe a couple of repeater hunting rifles. For the first time he supposed Endean might have some guts to back up his nastiness.

  Shannon memorized the code words and the radio frequency he needed and burned the sheets with Endean in the men’s room. They parted an hour later. There was nothing else to say.

  Five floors above th
e streets of Madrid, Colonel Antonio Almela, head of the exporting office of the Spanish Army Ministry (Foreign Arms Sales), sat at his desk and perused the file of papers in front of him. He was a gray-haired, grizzled man, a simple man whose loyalties were uncomplicated and uncompromising. His fidelity was to Spain, his beloved Spain, and for him all that was right and proper, all that was truly Spanish, was embodied in one man, the short and aged generalissimo who sat in El Pardo. Antonio Almela was a Falangist to his bootheels.

  Two years from retirement at the age of fifty-eight, he had been one of those who stepped ashore on the sand of Fuengirola with Francisco Franco many years ago when El Caudillo of modern Spain had been a rebel and outcast, returning against orders to launch war against the Republican government in Madrid. They had been few then, and condemned to death by Madrid, and they had nearly died.

  Sergeant Almela was a good soldier. He carried out his orders, whatever they were, went to mass between the battles and the executions, and believed, deeply, in God, the Virgin, Spain, and Franco.

  In another army at another time, he would have retired as a sergeant major. He emerged from the civil war a full captain, one of the ultras, the inner circle. His background was solid peasant, his education next to nil. But he had made full colonel, and he was grateful. He was also trusted with one of the jobs that in Spain is unmentionable and top secret. No Spaniard ever, under any circumstances, learns that Spain exports arms in large quantities to almost all comers. Publicly, Spain regrets the international arms trade as unethical and conducive to further warfare in a world already torn by war. Privately, she makes a lot of money out of it. Antonio Almela could be trusted to check the paperwork, decide whether to grant or refuse permission for export licenses, and keep his mouth shut.

  The dossier in front of him had been in his hands for four weeks. Individual papers from the dossier had been checked out by the Defense Ministry, which had confirmed, without knowing why the question was being asked, that 9mm. bullets were not on the secret list; by the Foreign Ministry, which had confirmed, without knowing why, that the possession by the Republic of Iraq of 9mm. ammunition was not contrary to established foreign policy; and by the Finance Ministry, which had confirmed simply that a sum of money in dollars, paid into a certain account in the Banco Popular, had been received and cleared.