The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  He then listened to what Denton has to say, frustration clearly etched on his features. Finally, he spoke again his voice heavy with scorn.

  ‘Listen Denton, I know that’s a tall order, I don’t care. Get cracking.’

  Seymour replaced the phone muttering about incompetence and total imbeciles and threw the last of his drink into the back of his throat in disgust.

  Tusk was the proverbial thorn in his side. During the last three weeks, he had initiated an in-depth investigation into this man. From South Africa, he had established that the man was a banker who was said to be an expert in foreign-exchange dealings. He was South African by birth and multilingual, speaking English and German without any trace of an accent, as well as Afrikaans. Apparently, his French was not quite fluent but near enough. They said that he had resigned from the South African Air Force, where he served as a lieutenant flying various types of aircraft as well as helicopters. Seymour didn’t believe all that. He was sure the man still worked for the Republic Bank and was also in the employ of the Rhodesian intelligence services. Virtually all payments for all international Rhodesian purchases were routed through the Republic Bank; somehow he knew this to be Tusk’s domain. What he did know was that since Smith’s UDI declaration, Tusk seemed to have disappeared. MI6 also knew that he had travelled to Europe on a German passport. That he was targeting the right man, he did not doubt.

  CHAPTER 30

  The knockdown helicopters were safe for the moment. Nobody was going to forcefully remove these from Hiram’s warehouse. He would vigorously defend what was his property. Some obscure North African rebel group had attempted this before. Suffice to say that everyone knew that Hiram did not shy from violence if the need arose. Anyway, did the British really know where the helicopters were?

  Both David and Gisela had integrated well with the other Germans at the hotel. There were a few hundred Siemens personnel coming and going all the time. The hotel was closed to the public. Provided they kept a low profile and, at this stage, did not approach the banks, he was certain MI6 would draw a blank on their whereabouts. Best let them cool their heels for a while, he thought. Hiram agreed, not concerned if payment was delayed for a few weeks.

  CHAPTER 31

  Denton strode out of the apartment building and walked towards the car waiting at the kerbside. He opened the door and slid in next to his companion behind the wheel. It was hot. He was perspiring profusely, as was his companion. They had days ago decided that wearing suits was not on; very few wore suits in Beirut. Casual was the way to go. They wore slacks and knitted-collared golf shirts.

  ‘I had Seymour on the phone. Well, he’s not a happy man. We are going to have to find these people,’ he said, taking a little bound notebook from his pocket, which he studied. ‘We’ve drawn a blank at the airport and border posts and I’ve tried most hotels. Christ, do you know what it costs to bribe these concierges? A damned small fortune!’

  ‘What’re you worried about? You’re not paying.’

  ‘I know, I know, but still. Our man speaks fluent German, so where would you stay if you wanted to be inconspicuous? What was that hotel’s name where all those bloody Jerries are staying, you know, that crowd fixing the telephone exchanges? Well, whatever, that’s where we should look.’

  The Meridian was a huge hotel built on the beachfront. The car park was full and they were forced to park a fair distance from the hotel, having to walk back in the sweltering heat.

  Denton walked up to the reception desk and, as the concierge approached, surreptitiously revealed a large Lebanese banknote in his hand. He saw that two women were assisting, speaking German to each other. This concerned him.

  Nothing like being brazen and bold, he thought. ‘I’d like to see your register. I’m looking for a recent acquaintance, somebody I met on the flight from Europe, who arrived a few days ago; they could be a couple. I believe they are staying here.’

  ‘And what would the purpose be, Monsieur?’ the concierge asked, ignoring the proffered banknote and ratcheting up his hauteur a notch or two.

  Denton realised that this was not going to be easy. The bastard was not going to be bought. He wondered whether that was because the two frauleins were assisting.

  ‘Do you have a name, Monsieur?’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem, he gave me a business card which I lost, but if I see the name, I’ll recognise it,’ Denton said, a sheepish grin on his face.

  ‘Very well, Monsieur,’ the concierge said, hauling a large register from below the counter. He opened it, simultaneously shooting his hand out and removing the banknote from Denton’s hand. The move was slick and unobtrusive.

  Denton studied the register; it contained scores of names and address. He immediately realised that he would glean nothing from it. The register would need to be studied carefully and he did not have the time to do so. The concierge was already hovering impatiently. This would need another approach.

  He briefly studied the list and then indicated to the concierge that he thought it a futile task. The man was nonplussed.

  ‘Sorry I could not help you, Monsieur.’

  Outside he met with his companion.

  ‘That wasn’t much help. Christ, there were scores of names and we don’t even know what name to look for, but I’m sure we’re on the right track. This has got to be the best place to hide for somebody masquerading as a German,’ Denton said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Well, let’s get out of the bloody sun and with that I mean not get in the car!’ his companion said.

  There was a bar nearby, overlooking the swimming pool. It was open on three sides providing a clear all-round view. There were a few people sitting on barstools at the bar counter. Denton indicated that they should go there.

  They ordered two beers. They were ice cold, the condensation pearling on the glasses.

  Denton’s assistant raised his eyebrows and with a slight jerk of his head indicated towards the right. Denton turned to see what had drawn his attention. He chuckled to himself. A stunning blonde wearing the skimpiest of bikinis lay on a deckchair of which the back had been lowered. A pair of large sunglasses, the lenses reflective, hid her eyes. Her golden tan indicated that she had been here in Beirut a while or had recently acquired this elsewhere. He thought her exquisite, truly a beautiful woman. Ursula Andress, a Nordic bombshell, who had burst on the scene in the first James Bond film, came to mind. His assessment made him smile.

  Denton slowly faced his companion. ‘Wow, George, that’s something all right.’

  George was frowning. ‘She’s familiar.’

  Denton smiled.

  ‘With those looks, I would think so. Those images tend to stay. Seeing that you know her, why don’t you go up and say hello?’ Denton jokingly suggested.

  ‘No, no, I’ve seen this woman before,’ he whispered.

  Denton waved his hand dismissively, ‘That babe’s German and as far as I know, you don’t know any beautiful German women.’

  ‘You’re probably right. ‘

  Half an hour later, they reluctantly left the hotel and moved on to the next on the list. Both were dejected. This was boring and tiresome and the chance of success was pretty remote. They needed a break, some small thing that would put them on the right track. Somehow or other the opposition always slips up. It’s always something small, but enough to point them in the right direction.

  That evening from their apartment, Denton phoned Seymour and told him that they had drawn a blank again. He mentioned the register at the Meridian Hotel, saying that he believed that it would be a good idea if they could get hold of it and study it. Seymour said he would think about it but thought it not possible. He insisted that they continue working their way through the hotel list. Denton groaned inwardly.

  CHAPTER 32

  Gisela was used to men looking at her, but the two at the bar were different. They just didn’t fit in. All the guests were German, but these two men dressed in longs and knitted golf shirts sitting a
t the pool bar, spoke English. She could not ignore a lifetime of training. Something was wrong. She decided that she would ask the concierge who these men were who spoke English. She wondered whether they had made any enquiries regarding the guests. After they left, she donned a long, loose blouse which reached to just above her knees, slipped on her beach sandals and walked to the reception.

  The moment the concierge saw her, his demeanour changed. Gone was the stern, reserved look, now replaced with a friendly smile.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame, is there anything I can do?’

  She gave him her best smile. ‘There are some friends of ours looking for us, two men actually. Did anybody make any enquiries?’ she asked.

  ‘Two men were here but did not have a name. They said they had lost the business card. They asked to see the register but did no more than just glance at it,’ he replied.

  ‘Were they locals?’

  ‘No, no. They spoke French. Awful French. In fact, they sounded English. ‘

  ‘Really, well then it couldn’t have been us they were looking for. We don’t know any Englishmen. But if anybody comes looking for my husband or me, please let us know,’ she said with a chuckle, pretending it to be quite funny and incidental. She slipped him a twenty-dollar bill.

  ‘But, of course, Madame,’ he replied demurely, the banknote disappearing.

  She made her way to the elevators. Not for one moment did she doubt that this had something to do with David. She had no idea whether the British were even aware of her existence. If they were doing the rounds of the hotels then they were still in the dark. This was a consolation, she thought.

  David listened carefully to what she had to say. He realised that MI6 had to be on the lookout but if they were going from hotel to hotel in the city of Beirut, well, that could take a while. Still, it was a matter of concern. The thing was to not overreact. Had they associated them with any names? Doubtful, their identities were brand new. No, that was unlikely. On analysis, the only thing he thought the British had was his physical description. Surely, they had that by now. If he kept a low profile, that should keep them at bay, as they would be unable to find any trace of him. The question was how long would MI6 spend on this. Could he outwait them?

  CHAPTER 33

  It had been a tiring day. He would never have believed there were so many hotels in Beirut. The list was endless. To crown it all, Seymour insisted on meeting with them, probably for no other reason but to aggravate what was already a bad day, Denton thought.

  This type of tedious, relentless research was not new to him. He had done this before, many times. Invariably it began with their being handed a confidential folder, which contained everything you needed to know about the victim. This contained such ridiculous information as to what the victim’s taste was in food, theatre, women, and anything else that may be unique to an individual. Using this as a basis, they would systematically compartmentalise this information, slowly putting the puzzle together until they knew the man, his description, traits and character. When you set out to get him you knew him intimately, nearly able to guess his every move. Unfortunately, the information on Tusk was sparse, but they knew he was no walkover. The man was resourceful and cunning. He had evaded them before. He would know that what he was doing and would make every endeavour, even if this required force, to evade them. He would be on his guard. As an officer, weapons training would have been thorough and he would know how to use them. He was unique in that he was a pilot and has seen covert military action. He was no newcomer to danger. This was no ordinary adversary. They, too, had to be careful.

  Seymour had chosen a supper nightclub to meet, a place called the ‘The Super Super Star’. Denton realised that his boss was about to mix business with pleasure – the word ‘super’ before a bar’s name in Lebanon designates a strip club. A second ‘super’ before the name lends a completely different meaning to the place. This would be a strip club, but also where prostitutes could ply their trade.

  As they walked to the club from where they had parked the car, Denton remarked, ‘This could get quite interesting. I didn’t know Seymour was into this type of thing. I wonder whether Her Majesty’s government is paying.’ He laughed, giving George a jab in the ribs.

  George Berkeley had started his working life off as an English bobby stamping the pavements of London. He had diligently applied his mind to his studies, passing most exams first time. His devotion to duty was soon recognised and, within a few years, he joined the ranks of the detective unit. Shortly thereafter, military intelligence recruited him. He was a tall, well-built man with curly black hair. His complexion bordered on swarthy, a hint of a five o’clock shadow a permanent feature. He jogged every morning and played squash at every available opportunity.

  They walked into the club. There was a large bar at one end with a small stage, which took up the wall on the opposite side. The interior lighting was dim, purposely so, to lend the club the right atmosphere and to hide the shabby décor. It was still early, there were few guests although there were quite a number of women standing around, wearing either miniskirts or hot pants and displaying ample cleavage and thigh. Their lipstick was bright and garish as was the makeup and eyeliner. Seymour had already arrived and was seated at the bar with a drink in front of him, looking at a woman on the stage with enormous breasts, which seemed to defy gravity, she gyrating around a pole.

  Denton was a little uncomfortable meeting his boss in a strip club. It was as if Seymour was about to lay bare part of himself. It certainly seemed out of character. They were work colleagues, not friends. Still, he wondered about the man, the stiff-upper-lip-crowd was known to have their fair share of sexual deviants.

  They had a few drinks, Seymour never once touching on business. He had clearly had a few, now jovial and friendly. The mood relaxed, the men beginning to leer at the passing women who flaunted themselves.

  A very attractive blonde woman sauntered up to the bar with an exaggerated sway of the hips and greeted them in French, showing more than a casual interest in George. She certainly was a cut above the rest with a magnificent bosom, giving George every opportunity to stare. He played along. She stayed for a drink and introduced herself, finally leaving with a promise to be back later.

  As she left, Seymour patted George on the back. ‘Now, that’s a beauty, my boy. That’s the best I’ve seen around here and I have been looking.’

  They all laughed. They had all been looking.

  ‘Hang on,’ Denton said, ‘That’s nothing … Christ, there was some bird in a bikini at the pool at one of the hotels … ‘ He rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus, I would’ve given a month’s salary.’

  Again, the three roared uproariously as the conversation moved into a more conspiratorial phase where talk was laced with those secret sexual innuendoes shared by men as their alcohol intake increased.

  ‘Not a local, I take it?’ Seymour asked.

  ‘No. She must’ve been German. It was at the Meridian, you know, the hotel which the Siemens crowd invaded,’ Denton said.

  ‘Oh, what a dish. I’m sure I’ve seen her before.’

  Seymour thought that funny, slapping George on the back. ‘Next you’ll be telling us more about her … what?’ he said.

  ‘No, seriously, I’ve seen her before. It’s actually bothering me. Usually, I remember these things.’

  ‘Well, it could not have been an exciting encounter. You would’ve remembered,’ Seymour added, permitting himself a jovial grin.

  The evening slowly degenerated into a wild party, the three drinking heavily. George and the blonde – her name was Tinky – found themselves mutually attracted, she probably only from a pecuniary point of view, yet she was fun. By two in the morning, the other two having found themselves women of the night, they decided to return to their apartment. Seymour waved them off, saying he was returning to where he stayed, but still had his woman in tow.

  Accompanied by the women, Denton and George returned to their apartment and afte
r a few more drinks retired to their bedrooms.

  ****

  ‘Holy shit!’ George shouted, sitting bolt upright in bed. He looked around to find Tinky, the blonde lying next to him, her eyes wide in alarm. Suddenly, he remembered where he was.

  ‘Sorry, it’s okay, I just remembered something,’ he said, first flinging his bedclothes off, but then grabbing them and covering himself after realising that he was completely naked. He wanted to say something to her, but could not remember her name.

  ‘It is Tinky,’ she said, grabbing his arm and twisting it to read his wristwatch. ‘Merde!’ she shouted, jumping naked out of the bed and scampering towards the bathroom.

  He grabbed a pair of shorts, pulled them on, and ran to Denton’s room, flinging the door open. The fact that he had stumbled into them in flagrante delicto did not deter him in the least. He shouted, ‘Christ, Denton! I remember that bloody bird in the bikini at the swimming pool. I know who she is. She was at that hotel in London. Oh hell, you weren’t there. Anyway, I remember her.’

  Denton was not happy. With surprising alacrity, he had rolled off the woman, who pulled the sheet up, covering herself.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Denton shouted, ‘Was this bloody necessary?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. ‘

  ‘Okay, let’s get rid of these women. Get dressed. We’ll discuss this. You’d better get hold of Seymour. I’m sure you’re onto something here.’

  After giving them both a cup of coffee, Denton renegotiated payment with the two women and then paid them. He told them to find themselves a taxi.