The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  He was about to ask a gendarme when a police officer with a megaphone announced that the passengers were to use the southern exit to leave the depot and that the police would let them through. This was at least two hundred yards away. Fortunately, they were travelling light, not like many others who were loaded down with baggage.

  It had been a large bomb. Obviously, a car bomb. The explosion had left a crater in the road. The blast’s pressure wave had torn the roofs of the shelters, just leaving the blackened skeletal steel support beams and pillars, the cars adjacent to the blast now no more than smoking blackened hulks. Already forensic experts in white coats were on the scene inspecting the debris. The dead and injured had been removed. It was a gruesome sight.

  The passengers formed a scraggy line as they walked towards the exit. He kept right behind Gisela, who ignored him, her face still covered by the veil. He still had no idea which of the men on the bus was the British agent. He knew that they could not make a move. The atmosphere was tense, the police nervous. A bad time to create any type of commotion.

  Gisela stopped right next to a gendarme and looked for an available taxi, as did many others. He did not stray more than a yard or two from her and, together with the other passengers, they had formed a small crowd.

  He had to speak to her. They had no option. They had to split up.

  Pretending to crane forward as if looking for a taxi, she no more than a foot away, he said, ‘Meet me at the yacht club.’

  She made no sign of recognition, but merely waved her arm indicating that she required a taxi. A French Simca drove up with a taxi sign affixed to the roof. Gisela climbed in and the car sped off. He watched it leave. He saw no other car pull away as if it were in pursuit.

  David stepped forward to the kerb, waving his arm trying to draw the attention of a taxi. A black Citroën DS 20 pulled up, this too displaying a taxi sign. As he climbed in, he glanced back and in the distance could see the Jaguar.

  ‘The yacht club on the boat marina, please,’ he said to the driver in French. He withdrew fifty dollars from his wallet and waved this at the driver. ‘This is yours if you can lose the black Jaguar that will follow us. Can you do it?’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, I’m the best taxi driver in Beirut!’ replied the driver, his eyes twinkling with humour.

  He looked at him. From the paraphernalia which hung from the rear-view mirror post on the windscreen roof and the small religious placards stuck to the dashboard it was obvious the man was a Christian, an Eastern Orthodox. He was middle-aged, maybe forty-five, with a swarthy complexion and a huge drooping moustache.

  David wondered whether the Citroën was a match for the Jaguar. The Citroën took off, its hydrolastic suspension smoothing out every bump in the road. He noticed that there seemed to be more than the usual complement of gendarmes on the streets, some in cars and on motorcycles, and attributed this to the bomb blast. He kept glancing back. The Jaguar was still there behind them.

  ‘We’re going to have to do better than this,’ he said to the taxi driver.

  ‘Patience, Monsieur. I have a plan, I’ve been chased before,’ the man replied.

  He noticed that they were not travelling in the right direction but refrained from saying anything, hoping that the man knew what he was doing. The driver certainly handled the car superbly considering the amount of traffic and the congestion. In fact, the Jaguar had fallen slightly behind.

  He realised that they had entered the old city, the streets narrow. This could be a blessing or a disaster. If anything obstructed their passage, then it was over. The car swayed and bumped over the uneven road, the tyres squealing round every corner they took. Now the streets were even narrower. Suddenly, the car braked hard and swung left. He looked behind, the Jaguar was not yet in sight. The taxi driver stopped the car.

  ‘What the hell are you stopping the car for?’

  The driver smiled. ‘Don’t worry, just watch.’

  The Jaguar flashed past behind them. The Citroën reversed harshly backwards into the narrow street, the car now pointing in the same direction they had come.

  ‘Christ! This is a one-way!’ David expected a car from the opposite direction at any moment, his face a picture of apprehension.

  Fortunately they did not have far to go. At the next intersection, the taxi driver swung right onto a main two-lane road.

  ‘I think we lost them, Monsieur. By the time they find a place to turn their car around, we’ll be long gone.’

  He allowed himself to relax in the seat. ‘Well done, thank you.’

  ‘This is none of my business, Monsieur, but if you ever need my assistance again, please, here is my card,’ the driver said, handing him his card.

  ‘I will remember, thank you.’

  CHAPTER 54

  It was now late afternoon, the sun rapidly slipping towards the horizon. Gisela took a seat at a table in the corner of the La Marina Yacht Club restaurant on the terraced first floor overlooking the protected waters of the yacht basin. There were scores of yachts of every description moored to the jetties jutting out from the quay. The sea beyond was deep blue and a slight breeze blew, perfect weather for yachting. There were still a few boats out at sea. Somewhere amongst these yachts was the Felicity. They had never planned to leave Lebanon on board her. This was a last resort, the idea was not to compromise the Hackers in anyway.

  Gisela had been fortunate. She had not been recognised. She was concerned for David’s safety. They had clearly recognised him. She wondered whether he had been able to give them the slip.

  She had mixed feelings about David. Yes, she was deeply in love with him. Certainly, he was a good banker and an expert at circumventing every obstacle the British or the UN could produce to stop Rhodesian imports. The Rhodesian Department of Trade and Industries had the greatest admiration for him and revered the ground he walked on. He was not a Rhodesian and could move freely throughout most of the world. To cap it, he was multilingual, intelligent, and astute. There was no doubt that he would make a caring and loving partner. However, that was where it stopped. He was soft and pliable, his feelings for others sublime. He did not possess the merciless attitude required to be a successful operative. Yes, he did not lack courage and, in fact, was brave to the extreme, but was unable to apply the ruthlessness the job demanded.

  Of course, he would tell you that he had never wanted to be an undercover operative and that he was forced into this situation, which may have been true to a degree. Others would say he volunteered. Things had changed, the goalposts had shifted. Both sides no longer shirked from killing. This was war. She now realised that they should have ambushed and killed their pursuers long ago and not have waited to be taken out. She regretted leaving those silenced automatics behind in the hotel. They would’ve come in handy now.

  From her location, she kept the entrance to the marina under observation. All in and outgoing traffic passed through a boomed security area. Various vehicles, including taxis, came and went, but still there was no sign of him. The sun dipped lower as did her confidence. Had something gone wrong?

  At that moment a Citroën entered, its lit taxi sign indicating that it was occupied. From below, she heard the crunch of tyres on the chipped stone gravel as it drove under the terrace floor jutting out over the club’s main entrance. This was followed by the slam of a car door. She heard David’s voice. Her heart lifted, he was safe. She knew that he would not come to the yacht club if he thought he was still being followed.

  Each of the jetties that jutted out into the waters of the marina had a security hut at their entrance, manned by uniform security men who controlled access to the yachts. This was the playground of the super-rich, equivalent to the lavishness of the French Riviera, the haunt of millionaires, European aristocrats and Arab princes. It had a mystical atmosphere about it, a legacy from when it originally was mandated to France by the League of Nations. David came into view as he walked towards the nearest security hut and spoke to the guard. The guard
came out of his hut and stood on the quayside with David pointing amongst the yachts. David turned to face the yacht club, immediately seeing Gisela on the terrace. He smiled, waved, and then made his way to the entrance disappearing below the canopy. As he appeared on the terrace, she rose and rushed to him. Oblivious of the other guests, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, her face resting on his shoulder.

  ‘God, I was so worried,’ she whispered, her relief at seeing him evident in her voice.

  David told her how he had managed to make his escape, praising the taxi driver. He was confident that he had not been followed.

  ‘What are we going to do know?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I believe the Felicity is still here. I suggest we try to find where in this maze of boats and jetties the Hackers are moored. I asked the guard. He wasn’t too sure but gave me a vague indication. I hope they can get us out of Lebanon. I certainly don’t want us to try any of the airlines.’ He remained silent for a moment. ‘I’m sure they’ve got people watching. Christ! I need a stiff drink to settle my jangled nerves. I think we were just fuckin’ lucky,’ he said, raising his hand to signal a waiter. He ordered a double Black Label, neat, and when placed on the table in front of him, he just threw it back into his mouth. It burnt on the way down, giving his stomach a kick. He felt the coiled tension of the last twenty-four hours in his gut begin to release. He told the waiter to bring another but this time with branch water and ice. Gisela ordered a martini.

  The club’s restaurant-cum-bar filled rapidly. This was cocktail hour. Many of the crews from the yachts in the marina congregated daily at this watering hole, weather permitting. Dress was casual but smart, the men in white slacks and loafers with open-necked shirts, the women in slacks or shorts and summer blouses.

  ‘Keep a lookout for the Hackers. Knowing Bernd, he’s not about to miss this,’ he said. Bernd liked his drink.

  He had barely spoken when they saw the couple approaching and then disappearing under the canopy. A minute later, they emerged from the stairway. Ursula immediately saw them and her face broke into a smile as she waved to them. The elderly couple approached their table. They greeted, kissing and hugging each other.

  ‘This calls for a celebration. We thought we’d never see you two again. Christ, what a relief,’ Bernd said, ‘Please, I don’t want to know what happened. I’m just happy you are safe.’

  David leant back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘You’re right, you don’t want to know,’ then let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. They all laughed. ‘Did anything happen at the marina that was out of the ordinary?’ David enquired.

  Bernd shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I take it we’re dining together?’ Gisela asked with eyebrows raised.

  ‘But of course, and Bernd and I insist on paying. God, you deserve it!’ Ursula said. Again they all laughed.

  They started the meal off with grilled calamari. They followed it with tuna steaks caught in the Mediterranean off the Sicilian cost, grilled to perfection, with a butter sauce hinting of garlic. An ice cold and crisp Turkish Semillon wine accompanied the food, with its soft, unique taste. Their drinking a few bottles eventually reflected in their mood.

  The waiter removed the plates and served coffee and liqueurs. Bernd produced two cigars, wrapped in cellophane, offering one to David.

  ‘They’re Cuban,’ he said.

  He wasn’t really into cigars but then, these were Cuban and this was definitely a special occasion. He took it and watching Bernd, emulated the same elaborate ritual clipping it and lighting up, finally blowing a mouthful of smoke towards the sky.

  ‘Bernd—’ David hesitated. Bernd had raised his hand stopping him from finishing the sentence.

  ‘Say no more, I’ll take you out of Lebanon tomorrow even if I have to smuggle you out in the bilges,’ he whispered, having read the seriousness that had crept into David’s voice.

  David just nodded. He realised the man knew what was going on.

  Bernd had seen the automatic in the shoulder holster under his windbreaker.

  The tensions of the last few days had taken their toll. For the first time he felt relatively safe. The feeling was not his alone. Gisela seemed more relaxed and exuded an upbeat mood, enjoying the Hacker’s company, talking and laughing and swapping stories about Rhodesia and South Africa.

  It did not take long before the cumulative effect of the Black Labels, martinis, wine and then liqueurs finally kicked him in the head. He was drunk, not that the others hadn’t had their fair share, but he was streets ahead.

  As his head began to droop, Gisela kicked him under the table. ‘You’re drunk!’ she whispered.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he replied, his voice close to a slur.

  ‘God, let him be, you’ve both been through a tough time,’ Ursula said consolingly.

  ‘C’mon, let’s get him aboard the boat. Christ, just watch that he does not fall off the jetty.’ Bernd laughed and rose from his chair. He helped David to his feet. With David’s arm over his shoulder, they staggered down the stairs and out of the club, the two women following behind. The La Marina Yacht Club, with a few other restaurants and clubs, represented the epitome of society life in Beirut and as he passed the other tables many cast a reproving glance. Getting fall-down drunk was frowned upon.

  The yacht was moored stern-on to the jetty with about three to four feet of gangplank to traverse. Getting David across the gangplank onto the yacht was a hazardous affair, requiring both Bernd and Gisela, they nearly all going into the water. They helped him get his shoes off and then took him through to the for’ard cabin, which was a double two-tier set-up. Gisela eventually got him down to his shorts and let him collapse on the lower bunk. There was little else she could do. He had passed out.

  He awoke the next morning at eleven. The porthole curtains were still drawn, the interior dim. He sat up and then dropped back onto the bunk. His head pounded and his stomach churned. He recalled the previous night’s revelry and groaned aloud. He remembered all the different drinks he’d had and groaned again loudly. Today was going to be hell. After five minutes, he gingerly rose, supporting himself on the bunk, and waited for his head to stop spinning. Once his head cleared, he cautiously made his way up on deck. The moment he stepped into the cockpit the stark glare of the sun nearly took his head off. With eyes screwed shut he collapsed on the cockpit seating.

  ‘God, you look terrible,’ Gisela said.

  ‘Please, fetch my sunglasses, hurry!’ he croaked, his eyes still shut.

  She retrieved his sunglasses, which he immediately donned. ‘How about coffee?’

  ‘Good God, no, not yet.’

  She shook her head and went below.

  Slowly, he got his bearings. Bernd and Ursula were busy on the foredeck. Gisela had returned to the galley. He lay back hoping to start a slow recovery to normality.

  CHAPTER 55

  Seymour’s mood was subdued. He had just put the secure phone down after a lengthy conversation with Sir Henry. He was appalled, filled with a feeling of foreboding. To say Sir Henry was unhappy was an understatement. He was furious. He could not understand how Seymour and his men had lost Tusk. He did not consider the fact that a bomb had exploded in the bus depot just before the bus’ arrival as an excuse. He told Seymour that the manner in which this operation had been executed bordered on incompetence and insisted that Tusk be found and the matter brought to finality. Intelligence had established that the monies had not yet been paid and therefore Rhodesia still did not own the helicopters. That, in his mind, was the only consolation. Seymour said he needed more men. Sir Henry conceded and agreed to fly another four men out to Beirut.

  ‘Bartlett, get in here!’

  Bartlett entered the office. He knew he had to tread carefully. All hell seemed to have broken loose, the expression on Seymour’s face said it all; the conversation with Sir Henry could not have gone well at all.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He
only used the ‘sir’ designation with Seymour in times of acute stress. This was one of them.

  ‘Another four operatives are arriving sometime today. I want the group broken into twos and they will thoroughly, and I mean thoroughly, investigate the airport, border posts,and, oh, don’t forget the harbour. We have to find these two. Apparently the purchase has not been concluded, so they’ve got to be around,’ Seymour said, pacing the office, his head down, deep in thought.

  ‘Sir, if I may express an opinion, I doubt whether they’ll try the airport,’ Bartlett ventured.

  Seymour looked up. ‘You’re probably right. Christ, the bastard is like a piece of wet soap.’

  ‘I’d like to try the harbour first. The customs control there is pretty jacked-up because of the threat of arms being smuggled in by the fundamentalists. They keep a record of all movements.’

  ‘Fine, sort the men out. I’ll come with you. We’ll do the harbour, they can handle the rest,’ Seymour replied, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

  Bartlett assigned the two-man groups their various tasks and then informed Seymour that he was ready to leave. They drove out of the embassy and headed for the harbour. They easily gained entrance, using the diplomatic passports they carried. Both realised that this was a blatant misuse of their passports and that they would have to ensure that they caused no diplomatic incidents. Bartlett asked the senior customs official if he would mind assisting them: they were looking for a man and woman, both probably using German passports, who may have passed through during the last twenty-four hours. The official was initially surly but when Seymour withdrew a twenty-dollar note from his wallet, the man’s face lit up. He became a lot more accommodating, even smiling. He told the official that he thought they probably would have passed through during the previous early evening. They carefully perused the records and questioned other customs officials. They drew a blank. None could recall a couple matching the description Bartlett had given them.