He saw the axe swing down and virtually lop Denton’s toes off, the man’s cry of pain reverberating in the linen room. Again, the axe swung followed by another scream. Still, Denton kept the pressure on the garrotte around Tusk’s neck.
The sudden roar of the gun took him by surprise, not knowing from where this came. Another shot followed, Denton staggering back against him and falling to the floor. He looked down at his colleague, his gun pointing at the floor. He looked up and stared into the eyes of Tusk, who had his weapon levelled.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he uttered. The last thing he saw was the blossom of flame that erupted from the barrel.
CHAPTER 40
‘Run. Run!’ he shouted at Gisela, ‘There’s got to be more than two of them.’
They ran down the stairs. He realised that there was no fire and that this had been a diversion created by MI6 to enter the hotel unobserved and catch them unawares. The stairwell was still heavy with smoke. They were only able to navigate their way down by following the red lights. As they got lower, the smoke began to dissipate. They burst through the steel fire door into the underground parking garage. David grabbed Gisela by the arm and pulled her along the route he usually followed when leaving the hotel. Once outside they slowed to a walk.
Quite a crowd had gathered on the pavement all looking up to the hotel where smoke billowed from a few windows. Most of those around them spoke German and he realised that these were hotel guests.
‘Come on, honey, let’s go. It’s not safe here,’ he said.
‘God, you’re bleeding badly,’ she said.
He put his hand up to his neck, feeling the slick wetness of blood. As he brought his hand away, he saw his wet palm. He was bleeding profusely. The piano wire had cut deeply into the skin on both sides of his neck. He looked down and saw that his shirt was soaked in blood.
They walked away, avoiding any others, keeping a sharp lookout.
Seymour sat in the car with one of his assistants. He had heard the three shots. Smoke still billowed from the windows; he knew that the smoke canisters would work for about three minutes. This was just about up. People had streamed out of the hotel. He had heard the occasional scream of panic. A large crowd now stood outside the hotel on both sides of road, their attention focused on the building.
‘There was supposed to be no shooting,’ Seymour said, his concern mirrored on his face. He had no way of knowing who had done the shooting. ‘Just keep a sharp lookout for our chaps,’ he added.
In the distance, they heard the sound of an approaching fire engine, the blast of its klaxon audible. The crowd had grown considerably and a number of police cars had arrived. The fire engine screeched to a halt. Firefighters, wearing breathing apparatus, jumped off and entered the hotel. The canisters had burnt out and the smoke was rapidly disappearing. After about five minutes, the firefighters emerged from the building. It was clear that something was wrong; they all approached the police, with whom they were now in discussion.
‘They’ve found something,’ Seymour commented. ‘I hope it’s Tusk. Where the hell are our people? They should have been out of the hotel by now.’
‘Sir, I think something’s wrong. They’ve been gone too long.’
‘I know, let’s give it another minute or two. We are not the only car parked in the street. If the police come along, then we’ll get out of here,’ Seymour replied.
They watched as the police disappeared into the building, which was now smoke-free. A firefighter had come out of the building holding up the two smoke canisters. They then proceeded to allow the guests to return to the hotel. This had all taken about an hour. Neither Denton nor Berkeley made an appearance. Seymour realised that he dare not make any enquiries. Something had happened in the hotel and his people seemed to have disappeared. He instructed his assistant to drive back to the house.
CHAPTER 41
‘Other than this damn gun, I’ve got nothing on me,’ David said. He was dressed only in trousers, shirt and slip-on sandals. He needed to clean himself up. He wondered whether his neck wounds would require stitches.
‘I’m no better. I’ve got nothing to give you that you could use to clean yourself. At least I brought my purse, so I’ve some cash and my credit cards,’ she replied, breathing hard from the exertion of their rapid walk to the parking garage.
‘Oh, Christ! I forgot the car keys,’ he said, patting his trousers.
She opened her bag and withdrew a set of keys, which she dangled in front of him, a mischievous grin on her face. ‘Now, what would you do without me?’
He grabbed the keys and they both got into the car. Fortunately, the top was up, which would make them less conspicuous, especially him with his blood-drenched shirt.
‘What about our things in the hotel?’ she asked.
‘Hell, I don’t know. Let’s think about that later. May be we can salvage the stuff without going there. You seem to be taking what happened there quite well considering that we’ve just killed two people.’
‘I’m still feeling sick, but we had no choice. I had to shoot him, he was about to kill you!’
He reached out a hand and placed it on her knee. ‘And thank God you did, I thought I was a goner.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I have to get in touch with Hiram. He’s the only one who can help now. The Beirut police are going to be all over this. Eventually they will discover that our room is deserted and we are nowhere to be found. They will wonder what happened to us and whether we had anything to do with the killing. That could be a while, I mean our room is far from the fire escape, but get to us they will,’ he said.
‘You’ve forgotten the British. They’ll really be after us,’ she retorted.
‘I know.’
‘You’ve got to clean yourself up. You can’t let anybody see you like that.’
Everything had happened so fast. Now was the first time he could reflect on what had occurred. He had nearly died and, had it not been for Gisela, well, she had done the only thing she could. The men were dead. Both the police and MI6 would want to apprehend the perpetuators.
He drove to the airport. On the way, he pulled into a roadside garage and disappeared into the public toilet, which was deserted fortunately. He stripped off his shirt and washed his upper torso, removing all the blood. The cuts on his neck had stopped bleeding. He washed the shirt under the tap, wrung it out, and then donned it again. He had been able to wash out most of the blood, leaving only a few dark blotches just discernible. Hopefully, it would soon dry in the heat and the breeze through the car’s open windows. By the time they got to the airport, his shirt had partially dried. He was now sufficiently decent to pass scrutiny at a distance. He chose a booth from the bank of public phones in the hall and placed a call to the number Hiram had given him. When the phone was answered, he asked that he be phoned back giving them the booth’s phone number.
Within fifteen minutes, Hiram returned his call. Very briefly, in clipped sentences, he told him what had happened. Again, he thanked him for warning them and said that they probably had him to thank for saving their lives. He told him that they had abandoned the hotel and had left all their belongings. Hussein said that he had already heard that there had been a shooting at the hotel and that two men had died. He said he had no idea how the police would interpret the crime but thought that the used smoke canisters would indicate that this had been a planned operation, although they could not know to what end. He suggested that David drive to his lodge in the mountains where he would put them up for a few days until the tumult had died down.
Gisela had curled up in her seat, the full extent of the events only hitting her now, close to shock. He knew her to be a resourceful woman. This was not the first time she had killed. He left her alone.
They arrived at the bungalow. They were expected. They were shown the same room as before. Gisela excused herself saying that she was taking a sedative.
David’s mind was in tu
rmoil. The consequences of what MI6 had tried were appalling, although they had only themselves to blame. Eventually, the Lebanese police would piece the puzzle together, two dead men, a blood-smeared garrotte, two used smoke canisters, and two silenced automatics with only the dead men’s fingerprints on them. Surely, they would realise that this had to have a political connection? The dead men were British subjects in Her Majesty’s employ. Maybe the British government would go cap-in-hand and apologetically tell the Lebanese government all in order to avoid an international incident. Again, the British could hide behind the apron strings of the UN. After all, there was an international embargo in force against Rhodesia. Possibly, they thought their actions justified, although in a foreign country
Gisela and he had nowhere to go. Still clothed, he eventually fell asleep on the bed.
The next morning, Gisela found a first-aid kit in the house. She cleaned and dressed the cuts on his neck. They did not require stitches and a few sticking plasters seemed to do the trick. She seemed to have recovered quite well from their ordeal and he again wondered what true woman lurked in the recesses of her mind. He recalled the flashes of sheer unadulterated hatred she could display. She killed when so required, an extraordinary woman indeed. The Stasi trained their personnel well. He wondered what her field of expertise would have been had she stayed with them.
During the afternoon, Hiram arrived with a number of his men in tow. They deposited their personal belongings from the hotel in the lounge. Hussein had instructed that their hotel suite be cleaned out. Nothing was to be left behind, even the used toiletry items in the bathroom had been retrieved. The fictitious names in the hotel register would lead the police nowhere, nor would their German passport numbers. This information would not help the British either. For the moment, they had simply disappeared.
‘The only reason that I have gone out of my way to assist you as I’ve done is that I need to be paid. This must happen soon before I also compromise my own position,’ Hiram said when they were all congregated in the lounge, collecting their belongings.
‘I realise that and that’s why I think it imperative that you supply banking details so that I can instruct the bank to make payment to your account,’ David asked.
‘No, as I said before, I can’t do that. Ultimately this would be traced,’ he replied
‘I’ve another idea. I’ll try to persuade the bank to release the funds to you, to be collected by you in person without either of us being present. I could give them the necessary codes telephonically,’ David suggested.
‘If they agree to that it would be surprising, but try. I certainly will agree to such an arrangement.’
David contacted the bank and, although initially reluctant, they agreed to release the funds to Hussein Hiram in person, provided David and Gisela had signed certain release documentation. The bank also relented and agreed to send such documentation with a bank official to an address nominated by David where it could be signed in the presence of a bank official. The bank’s director assured him that this would take place in the strictest of confidence. Hiram, who listened to the conversation, using gestures, indicated to David that the signing should take place at the bungalow.
David was tempted but then said he would get back to the bank director with a time and place.
CHAPTER 42
Seymour sat alone in the office of the First Secretary of the British Embassy in Beirut. The reason he was alone was that he was waiting to be connected on a tested secure line to Sir Henry in London. He was shocked. Matters had gone dismally wrong. The developments of the last forty-eight hours had cast a pall of doubt over the Rhodesian desk’s operations in the corridors of the intelligence division in London. Two operatives were dead, ‘killed by their own kind’ as it had been put by his colleagues or so he had heard said. Everybody seemed to have forgotten or was unaware that the two operatives had themselves set out to wipe out their own kind. Seymour swore to himself, ‘Damn the Labour government. They could fuck anything up given half a chance. Christ, Denton of all people, he had been a bloody expert.’
How many so-called enemies of the state had he removed in his lifetime all in the line of duty and now? Then there was Berkeley, this all had been new to him and he too was a victim of incompetence. Now he had to speak to Sir Harry who, no doubt, would lay the blame at his feet.
The phone on the desk ran. He picked it up.
‘You’re through, sir. Just press the button on the top of the phone. The light will flash indicating that the scrambler is working.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, pressing the button.
‘Seymour, is that you?’ he heard the voice of Sir Harry but with a distinct metallic sound.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dreadful, absolutely bloody dreadful. I’ve just read the telexed report. Not much detail yet. What the hell went wrong? I mean two of our men dead, shot by the Rhodesians. I’ve still got to tell the Home Secretary.’
Seymour looked up at the ceiling. The bastard’s conveniently forgotten what we were trying to do to them, Seymour thought. What did he think, that these people would lie down and die?
‘I don’t know but it seems Tusk must have been expecting us,’ he hesitantly ventured.
‘Well, of course he was. Anyway, we’ve got to put this disaster behind us and stop Tusk and those helicopters. Every time they are mentioned, the PM goes apoplectic. We have confirmation that the money to pay Hiram is already in Beirut and believed to be with the Byblos Bank. Not much we can do about that. Lebanese banks are like the Swiss, they never help. Tusk is still the target. We don’t want him doing any more deals, not ever. Do you understand?’
The implications of what he had just said were clear.
‘Yes sir. ‘
‘Please, no cock-ups this time.’
This was followed by a click. He could picture Sir Harry slamming the phone down in frustration. The bastard had not offered any replacements for Denton and Berkeley. It was now up to him and his assistants. He had only the four, all relative newcomers. Christ, he thought, I’m not a field man. What did Sir Harry expect?
He walked out of the First Secretary’s office down the passage to another office, this one far from opulent, a working man’s office, and sat down in front of the desk looking at the man opposite him.
The man waited a few seconds watching the expression on Seymour’s face. ‘That could not have been very pleasant,’ he said.
‘No, it wasn’t. We’re on our own now. I need your help.’
‘You know I’ll do what I can but there’s not much I can do. I’m a desk man, I just collect information and pass it on. I can’t help you with the fieldwork. God, I haven’t fired a gun in years,’ the man replied, leaning back against his chair his hands folded in his lap, clearly indicating that he would live up to what he just said. He would not be taking any chances.
‘No, all we want is information. Hiram has to be helping this man. He knows that if anything happens to Tusk he may never be paid. Tusk holds the keys to the kingdom. Remember, we understand from our sources that Hiram has already paid the French. The damn helicopters now belong to him. He needs a buyer.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Hiram has this man and woman holed up somewhere. This has to be in or around Beirut or in the mountains. I need to know where and that soon. I also need to know everything you have on Hiram.’
The man removed a file from his desk’s top drawer and placed it front of Seymour.
‘Here, read this but you can’t remove it from my office, okay?’
Seymour nodded and took the file.
‘Meanwhile I’ll go and find myself a cup of tea,’ the man said and left the office.
It was a thick file. For over an hour, he studied the prodigious contents. Hiram was a very successful gunrunner but had shied away from supplying true terrorist organisations or so it seemed. He chose his clients carefully and had, on a few occasions, whispered in the ears of both the CIA and B
ritish intelligence when approached by known terrorist organisations whose deeds were designed to disrupt the Western way of life.
There was no doubt that he was an extremely wealthy man but with the exception that he did not flaunt it, his lifestyle far less flamboyant than that of the many playboys who had made Lebanon their playground. There was nothing ostentatious about him. The man possessed numerous properties, most of these registered in companies of which he or his close family were shareholders. It seemed the man planned for an eventuality, little was in his name. If things went wrong for him, he could still emerge with most of his wealth intact.
Seymour skimmed through the list of properties and addresses. He was sure Hiram would have chosen some out-of-the-way place. He purposely avoided the properties in the city and eventually came up with a list of five properties: three of them were beach properties; the other two in the mountains overlooking the coast. He copied down the addresses.
He thought the property situated high in the Lebanese Alps on the road that passed through Shtawrah and then onto Damascus to be the most likely place Hiram would have chosen. He decided that he would reconnoitre that property first.
CHAPTER 43
Just before dusk, Seymour and another operative left Beirut driving on the Damascus road. As they entered the foothills, the temperature gradually dropped with the increasing height. The road wound its way through the hills penetrating a light mist, which had descended on the slopes of the mountains.
His companion spoke Arabic fluently, his mother a Lebanese who had married an Englishman, born and educated in England and finally graduating from the University of Leicester, majoring in Arabic languages. The intelligence services had snapped him up and after completing the required military combat course – six months of gruelling, exhausting physical and weapons training in all aspects of undercover warfare – he was assigned to the Middle East desk as an operative. He had been seconded to Seymour for the duration of this operation. His name: John Bartlett. He fooled no one. His features were distinctly Arabic.
The Blockade Runners Page 22