The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  He walked over to her. ‘How did your morning go?’ he asked.

  ‘Doing business with the French is easy. They’re not concerned about the British and the UN, provided we pay. And you? How were your arrangements?’

  ‘I’ve got it in hand, but will have to go to Lebanon and see Hiram. I’m not looking forward to that. Devereux was very accommodating. They’ll ship the items two or more at a time as elevator and escalator parts. It looks like the French have this wrapped-up tight and their security is just about impenetrable. I don’t think the British would ever get an inkling … What I mean, they’ve probably guessed but haven’t a clue how we propose to get them to Rhodesia. However, where it could go wrong is in the Middle East. British Intelligence is pretty jacked up there and they can rely on the assistance of the CIA, or so I hear.’

  They stepped off at the next stop where they returned along the same line, getting off at the Palais Royal Métro station.

  ‘I’m sure we’re not being followed. Let me take you to lunch. It’s the least I can do seeing that I’m not going to get any nearer to you for the next few days,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, can’t do. I’ve an appointment with some electronics people. I’ve got to go, but let’s arrange for tomorrow. Better still, why don’t you come round to the hotel tonight? I’m sure that the Brits have no any idea where I’m staying.’

  He glanced at his watch, ‘We’ve still got a few minutes. Let’s have a cup of coffee or something.’

  They found a sidewalk bistro where they sat down. He ordered a beer and she a café noir.

  ‘When we leave here, I’m going back to my mother’s apartment and try to phone Lebanon and South Africa. I’ve got to arrange for the first payment to Hiram for the first few Alouettes. According to Devereux, these will be ready to leave in the next few days. Hiram’s got to pay the French. We owe him twenty per cent of the value for his troubles. That’s bloody steep, but that’s the deal, so what can we do?’

  ‘How are you going to do this?’ she asked

  ‘We’ve an undercover office in Beirut. I’ll have the funds transferred to their banking account with the Byblos Bank in Beirut. I’ll effect a US dollar transfer from South Africa.’

  ‘God, won’t such a large amount make someone suspicious?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘I doubt it, they so used to getting large transfers. Beirut’s one of the money capitals of the world. I don’t think there will be any reaction at all.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, finding the concept implausible.

  She finished the last of her coffee and rose from her chair.

  ‘I’ve got to go, I’ll see you later. You know where I am. I’ll be waiting,’ she said with a mischievous smile as she walked off towards the Métro stairs, her beautiful legs drawing the attention of a few customers.

  David returned to his mother’s apartment. It was situated on the Rue de Montpensier, a one-way street that bordered the side of the Palais Royal building. Those apartments were considered to be the best in Paris, especially those situated on the second floor. Some ambassadors resided on the Rue de Montpensier and chauffeured cars were not uncommon. However, parking was impossible, the street continuously patrolled by gendarmes.

  He approached the apartment from the Comédie-Française end, walking on the pavement facing the oncoming traffic and able to peer into the windscreens of the cars parked on the nearside of the road. He immediately became aware of two men in suits seated in the front of a dark Citroën parked a few yards away from No. 32. They seemed not to have noticed him yet. He turned away and gazed into the window of a small shop, the place of business of a renowned philatelist, staring intently at the exhibition of, to him, ridiculously priced rare stamps on display. He turned his back to the car, looking at the shop’s glass window, hoping to see some reflection of what was happening around the car.

  He did not doubt the identity of the occupants. They had to be British agents. Christ! How had the British cottoned on to his movements? Surely, the Rhodesian Intelligence Service had not been compromised in any way. Although most were originally of British descent, they had all been carefully screened and only a few knew of the impending helicopter deal. It astounded him that the British knew him to be in Paris and that they even knew of his mother. Her surname was now Charlton-Johnston and he had not seen her for years. Did they know that Gisela was in Paris? The one Godsend he could rely on was that the French Sûreté was not about to assist the British. They would take strong exception to British agents on French soil involved in an operation indirectly targeting the French arms industry. The French were fiercely independent, even maintaining the own nuclear force, the Force de dissuasion. They shunned NATO membership and were totally independent of the British and Americans.

  He spent a few minutes in front of the shop and then entered. An assistant approached to help, David saying that his younger brother was an ardent stamp collector and that he was looking for something. The assistant realised that he was not about to spend a large amount and guided him to a table which contained stamps in profusion, all in envelopes with a cellophane window and sorted by country and denominations. From where he stood perusing the envelopes, he could just see the car and its occupants. He doubted whether the occupants of the car could see into the darker interior of the shop.

  The minutes ticked by. He began to feel that he was overstaying his welcome and felt compelled to make a purchase. He scanned the contents of the display cabinet again and was about to make a choice of purchase – a collection of brightly-coloured stamps of some obscure country – when he saw a third man in a suit emerge from the building with his mother. Christ! What the hell was going on? She seemed in deep conversation with the man, gesticulating and then pointing in the direction of the Comédie-Française and the Louvre with an outstretched arm. This was also the direction of the one-way street. The third man then got into the rear of the car, which drove off. His mother watched it leave and then walked in the same direction. As she got to the entrance of the philatelist’s shop, she stuck her head into the entrance door.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, looking directly at him and then continued walking. He emerged, following a good ten yards behind.

  She walked a good ten minutes to beyond the Louvre and into a bistro, taking a seat just within the enclosed area, avoiding the tables directly on the pavement. He followed and sat down at the same table, both facing outward.

  Her countenance was one of distress and concern.

  ‘I may be old, but I’m not stupid. I know when something is going on. Those men were looking for you. They were English and I’m damned sure they’re government employees. They just seemed too official, you know, like police. What is going on? They just about third degree-ed me, saying that you were in serious trouble and that it was imperative that I told them where you were. You’re fortunate. I spotted you as I was about the pass the stamp collector. I always say hello to him,’ she said.

  Clearly, she was upset. She took a pack of mild French cigarettes from her bag and lit one, which she fitted to a cigarette holder.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked, his voice just above a whisper, furtively looking around the bistro at the other customers.

  She blew blue smoke to the side. With every movement, the synthetic black Mackintosh of hers crackled, irritating him. ‘That you were in trouble, well … I instinctively knew that.’ She paused. ‘I lied. I said you had visited but had left, giving no indication when you would return. I said you had gone to meet someone and I gave him the name of a restaurant on the Champs Élysée. I don’t think they believed me. I’m a bad liar. I told the man that I was on my way out. That’s why I came down with him.’

  ‘Thanks mother, I’m glad you lied,’ he replied with relief.

  ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Mother, it’s complicated. I can’t and I’m not allowed to say, but rest assured, if you knew you would approve.’

  ‘Have you got huge debts?’ s
he asked. All her life she had been horrified at the thought of huge debt.

  He laughed. His mother read too many thrillers.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. I still work for the bank.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t ask, but what to do now?’ she asked resignedly.

  The waiter approached, they ordered coffee.

  ‘Never give anybody any indication as to where I am. I’m certainly not going to return to your apartment. Please, the few things that are there, can you bring these to the Hotel Tivoli? Leave them with the concierge. Just make sure you’re not followed.’

  His mother just stared at him. She knew the hotel well. It was nearby and we had once slept the night there when, years ago, she had accidentally locked us out of the apartment.

  ‘Can you not at least give me some indication what this is all about?’ she insisted.

  ‘Look, all I can say that it is of national importance. I’ve had to sign all sorts of documents related to secrecy, so whatever I’ve said is not to be repeated.’

  This seemed to satisfy her. They parted, he promising to be in touch but not indicating how he would do this. She returned to the apartment while he made his way to the hotel.

  He spent the night with Gisela, their passion possessed of urgency, the threat of the British operatives never quite leaving his mind.

  CHAPTER 14

  They arrived at Beirut Airport on a direct Air France flight to be greeted by a cloudless sky. A slight breeze blew off the Mediterranean, sufficient to take the edge off the intense heat. Beirut International Airport was a mass of people. They were just a couple of the many tourists arriving in the Lebanese capital, allowing them to lose themselves in the crowd. After all, this was the height of the tourist season. Of course, the same could be said for any others who were following them or any who anticipated their arrival. They had given the British the slip. David found it difficult to believe that the British could have tailed them from Paris. Of course, if MI6 had anybody on the inside in Rhodesia, all this subterfuge would be in vain.

  After clearing customs, which was a rapid affair, a taxi whisked them off to Le Royal Hotel, a large, upmarket tourist hotel directly on the beach road overlooking the Mediterranean on the way to Dbayeh, an adjoining holiday town just up the coast. The sun was still high so they decided to spend the remaining hours on the beach soaking it up. Hiram could wait. David would contact him during the evening.

  Wheels had already been put in motion and Hiram was expecting his call. Of course, he only knew him by name and was not aware of David’s real identity. Arrangements had been made through the banks to ensure that an initial amount of seven million dollars was available which, if necessary, could be withdrawn from the Byblos Bank SAL. For this purpose, David and Gisela had been provided with specific codes which would enable them to have these funds released in US dollars. However, it was hoped that would be unnecessary and Hiram would accept transfer of the funds, although there was a danger that this could leave a trail. Two other agents based in the Far East – an Indian, Faizal Bhayat, and an Iranian, Abdul Joussof, who had assisted the Rhodesian government in the past – were available if needed. David was to contact them if he thought their services necessary – he definitely needed them! He was not about to part with seven million without some backup. You would have thought the Rhodesian government would dedicate a few more men to an undercover operation of this financial magnitude. What if the operation was hijacked? Certainly they could not look to Gisela and him alone.

  Before going down to dinner, they strolled to another hotel a few hundred yards further along the beach road. David found a row of telephone booths next to the reception and chose one at random.

  The phone only rang a few times before it was answered in Arabic. In French, David asked to speak to Hussein Hiram. He was asked his name and to phone back in ten minutes. This he did and again was asked to wait. From the background noise on the phone, he realised that this had to be some sort of public place – a bistro or restaurant – the noise, a cacophony of voices and music. He waited quite a while.

  ‘Hussein Hiram,’ he heard on the phone.

  ‘Monsieur Hiram, this is Michael Delport from Monoprix Investments. Bonjour,’ David said. My God, real cloak and dagger stuff, David thought, Sometimes these games are ludicrous with all those damn passwords and names.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

  Hiram knew what the call was about, the reference to Monoprix Investments the opening code word.

  ‘I’m in Beirut with my partner. Could we meet?’

  ‘But of course. It’s still early. Why don’t you and your lady join me for dinner here?’

  ‘Sounds good. Where is that?’

  Hiram gave him the name and address of a restaurant in Beirut, which David scribbled on a piece of paper. He phoned Faizal Bhayat asking whether he knew of the place.

  ‘But of course, Monsieur. This is a famous restaurant in Beirut frequented only by the rich. A dark suit at least, this is essential. Others still consider it a black tie affair. Yes, I’ll ensure that Abdul and I are there in the background. When do you want us there?’

  David had no idea who this Faizal and Abdul were but knew they had been briefed and would surreptitiously make themselves known. David gave him a time and a brief description of himself and Gisela.

  Gisela was dazzling in a low-cut burgundy cocktail dress, which contrasted well with her black hair piled high. Small earrings glittered on her ears and matched a silver chain necklace. David wondered where she had conjured the dress. Surely she had not brought this with her. He made a point of asking her about it later. He wore his best dark suit. Black tie was just not going to be possible.

  For an additional fee and the promise of an extravagant tip, the hotel concierge arranged a taxi. The driver, to his amusement, was persuaded to wait the evening out and return them to the hotel. David found his mirth odd.

  The doorman of the Al Murjan Palace Restaurant opened the taxi door and assisted Gisela.

  The place was huge, with oriental decor and opulent gold drapes and chair coverings. A number of big brass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Every available space contained a table with four to six chairs and the occasional larger table between but not all were occupied as Beirut only started to hum from ten on.

  Most attention was drawn to a pair of belly dancers who had just taken up position on a now-cleared dance floor. One cued the band to start their number and the musicians in Lebanese cultural dress taking up a corner played soft music with a distinct Arabian flavour.

  David gave his alias to the maître d’hôtel, who guided them to a table. It was already occupied by a man dressed in a white dinner jacket seated with two women. David could not but notice that they both were beautiful. The man rose upon seeing David and Gisela approach.

  ‘Mr Ostendorf, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, may I introduce my wife, Nadia, and my daughter, Layla,’ the man said, flashing a friendly smile. He was in his late forties, his black hair slicked back, with flecks of grey visible at the temples. Though fair-skinned, his eyes were black and his black eyebrows were quite pronounced. He had a Roman nose and thin lips. Hussein Hiram was tall and slim and struck an imposing figure in his dinner suit. They shook hands. David introduced Gisela. The Hirams spoke impeccable French, as did Gisela; only David stumbled along in his badly practised French. He sat next to Hiram at the round table, permitting them to converse quietly. Gisela joined the women on the opposite side.

  They discussed generalities: the threatening civil war between Moslem and Christian; the tourists; and the attempts on President de Gaulle’s life in France. It was only after the main course had been removed did Hiram broach the subject of business.

  They all refused dessert, instead opting for coffee. Hiram produced a box of cheroots and, having offered them, lit his own, blowing a cloud of blue smoke towards the ceiling. It was obvious that the two belly dancers were close to the finale of their number and most of the patrons w
ere giving them their undivided attention.

  ‘Are you ready to make payment?’ His tone was casual whilst not looking at David but rather across the room at the dancers.

  ‘We are, but need to know how you wish be to be paid; this such a large sum.’

  Hiram never hesitated. ‘In cash. In US dollars. No note to exceed one hundred dollars.’

  This was not what David wanted. It was too dangerous.

  ‘That’s a large amount of cash which would have to be carried around in a large suitcase. A briefcase would be too small,’ David protested weakly.

  ‘I know, but like you, I’m under close scrutiny. Any other way will leave a trail and clues. You probably already know that you are being watched.’ He paused, pursing his lips, making a triangle with his fingers in front of his face. ‘Don’t look around but there are two British agents in the restaurant. There could be more. They’ve been here since early evening, arriving very soon after you. They look jovial enough and appear to have drunk too much. Don’t believe it. They’re watching.’

  David could not contain the shock he felt. British agents in the restaurant? That could not be possible, they had been so careful. Nobody could have followed them.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Oh yes, I am. They’ve watched you since your flight landed. They’ve obviously been tipped off. Your organisation must have a leak,’ he said, leaning back laughing, creating the impression that their discussion was no more than light-hearted banter and some ribald remark about the belly dancers had passed between them.

  David laughed. What else to do but not let on.