The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  Gisela had agreed without any hesitation. He realised that she considered this her patriotic duty, a sentiment he did not share. The wedge that the attack on the farm had driven between them still lingered, but their mutual physical attraction was still strong, he could feel it. They made love whenever the occasion presented itself. However, they never forgot that they did not share the same approach to the situation in Rhodesia and how this unfolded. Her stance was clear-cut. The dissidents were traitors and should be treated accordingly, while his perception was that that they were after what was rightfully theirs, which the white man withheld. At least they agreed that violence was not the answer. Certainly not violence supported by the Communists whose only objective was the spread of the communist ideology, an ideology he vigorously opposed. Certainly, he was opposed to torture and wanton killing.

  Doyle had gone to great lengths to ensure that their arrival in Beirut would be as inconspicuous as possible. From Johannesburg, they had flown separately to Rome as South Africans. There they assumed their new identities as a married German couple staying in an obscure hotel on the outskirts of the city going through the normal tourist ritual, speaking only German and visiting the usual sights. After about a week, they boarded an aircraft in the livery of some budget holiday airline and flew to Nicosia, Cyprus, ostensibly for a three-day stay. On landing, they boarded a bus for Larnaca on the coast where they booked into one of the many hotels situated on the Promenade overlooking the yacht basin. The British still maintained a military presence in Cyprus.

  He had to hand it to Doyle: the man had devised the most elaborate scheme to hide their true identities. Their arrival in Beirut in such a manner would completely fool the British. As they had been briefed, he and Gisela approached the Harbour Café, a restaurant on the old harbour wall, at just before nine-thirty. He was dressed in shorts and sandals, sporting sunglasses, hats and beach bags. They were the epitome of a German couple on holiday, his copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung newspaper under his arm. Already the European noveaux riches were beginning to make their presence felt in Cyprus, if the number of yachts moored in the basin was anything to go by. This attracted tourists from all over Europe. They blended in well with the others, many of whom were German. Who would ever believe that the Germans had just emerged from a world war which had devastated their entire country and economy?

  They sauntered into the sidewalk café and took seats at a table that bordered the sidewalk, being as inconspicuous as possible. They ordered the continental breakfast, conversing in German, and then going through the pretence of having to make themselves understood in broken English, the waiter not understanding them at all.

  The Harbour Café had been chosen as an ideal place to meet. It was a tourist landmark, many of the tourists from the yachts frequenting it for breakfast, sitting under the large umbrellas on the sidewalk and on the porch with a view over the basin. They were to rendezvous with another German couple. He kept a wary eye open. This was another of Doyle’s ‘we’ll contact you plans’. The less he knew, the better. Or so it seemed.

  ‘Look what we have here, it’s the Brendels,’ he heard behind him in German. He recognised the name Brendel, their new identity: Mr and Mrs Brendel.

  He swung round to be confronted by a couple considerably older than he expected, the man grey and portly, dressed similarly to him, obviously also on holiday, but exuding an aura of wealth. What was remarkable was their tan. They obviously spent a great deal of time in the sun.

  They greeted each other as old friends. He had been told that their names were Bernd and Ursula Hacker. She was the typical, slightly overweight, German hausfrau, a round face with rosy cheeks. Clearly, she did not tan easily. Her hair was short and grey. They were German but had lived in South Africa for years, he a successful industrialist who had accumulated a fortune in the structural steel business. Both were ardent yachtsmen and every year spent two to three months of the South African winter in the Mediterranean sailing the Greek islands. To all around, it appeared as if David had invited the couple to join them for breakfast. From the occasional greeting bestowed on the couple, he realised they were known to the locals, even the waiter recognised the newcomers, greeting them by name. The yacht anchored in the basin was their own, a forty-three foot, centre-cockpit rigged sloop – the Felicity.

  David had wondered how Doyle had persuaded this couple to assist. Actually, they were still German citizens but had permanent South African residence status. From Doyle he had learnt that they had an only son in Bulawayo also with a steel structure business, originally financed by his father. In addition, what the Hackers were about to do was not illegal. All they had to do was keep their mouths shut.

  There was nothing elaborate about the plan. They had kept their baggage to a minimum and, after breakfast, their bags were collected from the hotel and brought aboard the Felicity, which soon cast off its moorings and headed for the open sea. There was no record that the Hackers had ever left Cyprus. The harbour log would reveal that the yacht would be cruising around the island for a few days.

  They arrived in Lebanon two days later in the late afternoon, just as the sun set over the sea. The Beirut harbour authorities had been contacted and had alerted the custom official at the Beirut Yacht Club. Their reception was perfunctory, the official merely glancing at their passports and handing them back noting that their stay in Beirut was for pleasure and that the yacht would depart in a few days’ time. To further confuse any would-be followers, which David was sure they did not have, Peter Hacker rented an American Ford sedan in his name, using the vehicle to drive to the Meridian Hotel, which had been taken over by Siemens. Here they presented their Siemens security cards. What was surprising was that their arrival was expected and they were quickly whisked off to their room. It appeared that the Germans were being surprisingly helpful. He wondered whether Gisela had anything to do with this, but chose not to ask.

  It was with a sigh of relief that David flung himself on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head looking at Gisela. She was strikingly beautiful, already displaying the first signs of a good tan which she had acquired on the yacht crossing the sea, accentuated by her blonde hair. They had arrived at the hotel in smart casual wear.

  ‘I’m sure we’ve arrived unannounced. This gives us a distinct advantage,’ he said.

  ‘Be careful, they’re watching Hiram. That’s where the problem lies. If that telephone number you’ve got is tapped. Well, that’s that,’ she replied clicking her fingers.

  ‘I can’t see the British arranging a wiretap in Beirut,’ he replied, dismissing the notion.

  Both had refrained from discussing their individual stance on the bush war in Rhodesia. For her, it was no big deal. That he did not entirely share her view never bothered her. She loved him and was appreciative of what he was doing for her new country, which had given her so much, even if this was because of her marriage. She was sure that her late husband would have approved of David, in many ways the two men were similar. For David, it was not that simple. When it came to fighting, there was nothing effeminate about her. The woman was possessed of a degree of bravery and resolve which was astounding. These attributes coupled with her stunning beauty made for a formidable foe, and when she displayed the hate that she felt for her place of birth, East Germany, the Stasi and the Communists, which included the terrorists, this could be frightening and intense. She was Boadicea ready to do battle with the Romans and would spare them no quarter. It was then that he found her a stranger. Yes, the rift had narrowed but it still was ever-present.

  David had committed the contact telephone number to memory. His instructions were to phone immediately on arrival and, in French, ask for Monsieur Fabian. He would be told that Mr Fabian was not at that address and he would be given another address. This he had done. He stared at the piece of paper on which he had written the address. He opened the Beirut telephone book and looked at the map in the front, referring to the index to find the street. The
y had instructed him to report to the house at eight that evening.

  The suburb was in the lower foothills of the mountains that overlook Beirut. It was already dark, the street only illuminated by an occasional street light, as they tried to read the numbers off the walls as the headlights fell onto these. There it was, Number 46. He swung into the driveway at the end of which he could see the house with a few windows emitting light. He realised the house was in an affluent area, it being larger than most. As soon as the car stopped, two men appeared out of the shadows, one opening the door for Gisela and then, speaking French, asked that they follow, walking towards the house on the crushed white gravel, which crunched underfoot. He saw two other men. It seemed Hussein Hiram was taking no chances.

  Once inside, they were led to a spacious living room with a large, low coffee table at its centre, and surrounded by two couches and two deep lounge chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor and other decorative items lent the room a definite Arab flavour. A few small lamps on ornate tables illuminated the interior.

  A few minutes later, two cars stopped in the driveway, four men entering the house. They conversed for a minute or so with the other two, their voices low so that they could not be overheard.

  They heard footsteps approaching on the marble-tiled floor. It was Hiram in his usual dark suit, not a hair out of place. He greeted them both.

  ‘Sorry you had to wait, but I had to have my men check that you were not followed although I must say there was little likelihood of that, the British have absolutely no idea that you are here but they’re certainly expecting you,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘Well, you’ve seemed to have gone to elaborate lengths to conceal our arrival,’ David ventured.

  ‘In this game, it pays to be careful. I’m told that before we even discuss payment, and how it will be made, I need to prove to you that I have the equipment you’re looking for. In fact, it’s gathering dust in a warehouse in the dockyards. It is about to be re-crated, the contents disguised as general machinery. We would like to take you there now’

  ‘Sure, I have a copy of the list of items as these were provided to us by the French. I would like to check on a few of these items, you know what I mean, carry out a spot check.’

  ‘Fine. Shall we leave?’

  The drive to the warehouse was without incident. They travelled in three cars with Hiram with them in the centre car, the leading and trailing cars keeping a fair distance from them.

  It was an old warehouse built directly on the wharf. Opposite the warehouse an old tramp steamer was moored, an old Liberty ship, its high smoke stack towering over them, the hawsers tying it to the quay groaning as the ship moved to the movement of the sea. The warehouse was dirty with junk strewn around and pieces of paper blowing in the breeze. They entered through a small door, one of the men throwing a switch in an electrical switchboard, the warehouse lighting up inside, row upon row of orange mercury-vapour lights revealing a disarray of crates, boxes, steel beams, large rolls of printing papers and a host of other items.

  ‘This way please,’ Hiram said.

  They followed him down an aisle between stacked items of miscellaneous cargo until he stopped in front of a number of neatly packed crates.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, pointing with an outstretched arm.

  David took a bulky envelope from his pocket and removed the contents, which he studied. He then walked along the crates noting that they were sorted in numerical order.

  ‘Can we open this one please?’ he asked.

  Two of the men stepped forward with crowbars and prised the crate open. Inside was an item wrapped in heavy greaseproof paper. He opened this carefully, revealing a complete turbine engine and gearbox. Methodically, he checked the serial number against the manifest. He nodded his head in satisfaction. This operation was repeated a half dozen times, taking nearly three hours. Everything matched up.

  ‘I’m satisfied,’ he said.

  ‘Can we now re-crate?’ Hiram asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Whatever happened to the crates after this was not his problem. Nor had Doyle indicated how these were to eventually reach their final destination. The problem was the near eleven million dollars that had to be paid. What amazed David was that Aerospatiale had shipped these to Lebanon without payment or so he assumed. He could not imagine the French shipping them to a known international arms dealer based on a promised payment. The French were adamant that they wanted no direct financial dealings with the Rhodesian government and therefore the necessity of having to route the transaction through Hiram.

  ‘I propose paying you in three equal amounts simply to reduce the risk in the event MI6 should intervene,’ David said. ‘If, in any way, they are successful and confiscate the money, the most we could lose would be three million.’

  ‘Makes sense, but how are you going to get the money to me?’

  ‘What I have arranged is that the Byblos Bank delivers the money in cash by bullion van to a bank of your choosing. They check it and hold it, remaining ours until you decide what you propose to do with it. When you are ready, we sign off the release. That means I don’t have to actually handle the money and the British won’t be able to get access.’

  Hiram nodded his head in agreement. ‘That sounds acceptable,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you something. Normally I don’t involve myself in matters that really don’t concern me. However, perhaps you are somewhat different from the normal type of purchaser I deal with. You appear to have some decency and believe me, in this game, nobody’s decent.’ He paused and lit a cheroot. ‘Obviously, I have quite an extensive intelligence network of my own. It costs millions each year to maintain. I have access to information often classified “Top Secret”. If you are who I think you are, then I must tell you, that you are targeted. When I say targeted I’m saying that they won’t stop at killing you.’

  David felt a chill run down his spine. The man was confirming his worst fears, the British would come after him. The list of dealings which had crossed his desk and which the British considered illegal was nearly endless. He had been both directly or indirectly involved in virtually every item imported or exported from the country. They must surely perceived him to have done them irreparable harm and would continue to do so. He was sure that any such action would include all of his accomplices, which would also place Gisela in danger.

  ‘Where did you hear this?’

  ‘Suffice to say that I know that such a squad is in Beirut looking for you.’ He looked at David. ‘Is your real name Tusk by any chance?’

  His blood ran cold. This was getting worse. There was no doubt the he was the target. It had to be he they were looking for. He didn’t respond to the question but it was clear that Hiram knew he was right.

  ‘Be careful, Mr Brendel. Government-backed assassinations are usually successful. Strictly speaking, Britain is on a war footing with your country. You are the enemy and not even in uniform. Nobody out there would think that an attempt on your life was criminal and unjust. Please, you must realise that the British have tacit UN approval. You know what I mean.’

  Hiram noted Gisela’s expression. She was unfazed, unlike her counterpart.

  ‘We will be careful. I will avoid British-controlled territory like the plague,’ he said. What else was there to say?

  ‘I’m not sure that will help. They’re looking for you in Beirut at this very moment,’ he said. He motioned over one of his men who carried a small satchel. ‘I know that you’ve repeatedly said that you do not want to carry a weapon in a foreign country. Well, I’m now insisting that you both do. These weapons are licensed so if you are caught with them, you could explain your way out. Carry them with you at all time. This also applies to the lady and if need be, please – don’t hesitate to use them.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Christian Seymour had loosened his tie and leant back on the sofa, a whisky soda in his hand. He was not a happy man. He had arrived in Beirut a week ago on his own, his
other operatives having arrived a few days earlier. One of the secretaries at the embassy was an undercover MI6 agent and had arranged the use of this house, normally used as a safe house. Other than the housekeeper and the gardener, he was the only occupant. Denton and his crowd were billeted elsewhere and he doubted that their accommodation was as pleasant. Denton’s team comprised four men and they had been following every possible lead trying to establish the whereabouts of Tusk. Hiram had been under observation for days, revealing nothing. They had connections with the right people at the airports and border posts and anybody whom they thought remotely suspicious they investigated. Still, they had come up with nothing. He was disgusted. The damn Rhodesians were outsmarting him at every turn. He was sure that the embassy already had a message from Sir Henry that he should contact him urgently. The British knew that the remaining helicopters were in Beirut. Trying to confiscate these could only lead to a diplomatic incident, the documents in no way indicating that these either belonged to the Rhodesians or were about to be shipped there. What they had to do was stop payment and if possible get their hands on the money. Not simple when you did not know neither where the cash was nor the donor.

  The phone rang. He picked it up. It was Denton.

  ‘Yes, Denton?’ he answered impatiently. ‘Have you people not come up with anything?’ He listened to what Denton had to say.

  ‘No – well then, you better bloody well keep on trying. The shit’s about to hit the fan,’ he remarked. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking. The money is not in British pounds, it’s US dollars. No British banks handled it, neither those partially owned nor completely owned. We believe the money will arrive by telegraphic transfer in US dollars. We agree, okay? How many five million plus dollar telegraphic transfers do you think pass through these few banks daily? Not many. We know the transaction originated with the Republic Bank in South Africa. Which bank is their main correspondent bank in the States? Irving Trust Company, New York, right? Find out who Irving Trust Company’s correspondent bank is in Beirut and whether they have received any super-large transfers during the past fortnight. Nobody leaves that kind of money lying around for long.’