The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  By nine that evening, the wind had whipped up a near gale, the yachts tugging at their moorings. The harbour was filled by a continuous drumming as the sheets on every yacht hammered against the masts. It was too unpleasant atop, even in the cockpit. Dinner was eaten below. After a few drinks, everyone retired early.

  David did not sleep well. Every two hours or so he woke up, unable to stop thinking about what had to be done the following night. Could they really do it? Were there no other options?

  By the next morning, the storm had passed, leaving a strong breeze at its tail end. The cloud cover had broken up and, already, stabs of sunlight struck the sea. It was turning out to be just another pleasant and probably hot day on the Levant.

  Bernd had already left to do some shopping and organise the car. David made a mental note not to forget to reimburse the man for all his expenses. A short while later, both Gisela and Ursula emerged, enjoying their first cup of coffee topside.

  After that, David took a stroll to the entrance of the club, ostensibly to purchase a newspaper, the New York Herald, from a vendor who had a kiosk just outside the walls, which surrounded the harbour. He wanted to place the men the British would have stationed to watch the entrance. There had to be at least one person with a radio stationed near the entrance, or so he thought. He bought the paper and then looked through the other magazines on the rack while furtively taking in the surroundings. At first, he saw nothing that appeared suspicious. Farther along on the opposite side, he saw only two people: a flower vendor and an underground car-park attendant. Then he saw a solitary panel van parked next to the kerb diagonally across the road. It was one of those strange French vans. It had a near-flat-nosed cab with that slightly corrugated body which only the French build. The vehicles were not renowned for their speed, another consolation. It bore no signage and the driver’s seat was empty. It just had to be them, he thought. There was another van, but this one had a driver behind the wheel. He was sure that this would be the vehicle that would pursue them. He saw a slight advantage. To follow them, the driver needed to make a U-turn, which would mean he would have to proceed up the road to the next intersection, it being the first place to afford him the opportunity to reverse direction.

  It was agreed that the fishing boat would wait until nine o’clock. The last of the twilight would be between seven to seven-thirty. That gave more than sufficient time to get aboard. Also, the fishing boat would be moored to the fishing jetty as close to the shore as possible.

  The car was delivered at noon, driven into the car park, and the driver disappeared into the club. The Brits would have to be clairvoyant if they were to connect the car with the escape. Bernd had chosen the car well. It was a white Mercedes 230, probably the most popular car in Lebanon, certainly amongst taxis. Bernd assured David that it had started at the first turn of the key. They had repeatedly tested it. The car was left unlocked. During the afternoon, they visited the local customs office and filled out a few forms, the customs officer informing the harbour master that the Felicity, with a crew of four, would be exiting the harbour around eight that evening.

  As soon as the sun disappeared, the temperature dropped. Both Gisela and he wore jeans over which they had donned dark-green waterproof yachting parkas, hoping that the colour would make them less conspicuous. Brilliant orange was out of the question. Bernd and Ursula were similarly dressed, this less likely to raise suspicion.

  The auxiliary diesel engine was started and, once this had warmed up, the mooring lines were cast off. The Felicity proceeded slowly to the club’s main jetty. No yachts were allowed to moor there permanently, large signs in various languages advertising dire consequences for the skipper of any boat infringing the regulation. They had already bid Bernd and Ursula farewell. He had remembered to reimburse Bernd who eventually accepted the money after furious protestations.

  Bernd had previously stacked a few boxes containing foodstuffs next to the small office hut on the quayside. He brought the yacht alongside, the engine running. No moorings were thrown out, he using the engine every time the yacht strayed too far from the quay. David and Gisela proceeded to fetch the boxes and carry these to the yacht where Ursula stowed them below. Finally, there were only two boxes left. They both stepped from the yacht walked towards these, within thirty or forty yards of the car.

  His apprehension over what was to happen next had further raised his already heightened adrenaline levels. He saw Ursula was just as tense, her face was drawn. The nearest point from which to make a dash for the car was about halfway to the boxes. They carried nothing except their firearms.

  ‘Now!’

  They both swung to the right and ran, their feet digging loudly into the gravel. They got to the car, her side being the nearest to them. They both slid into their seats. He lifted the floor mat and groped for the keys, his hand closing over them. The engine caught. He shoved in the clutch and engaged the gears. The wheels spun, throwing gravel and dirt. He turned and steered towards the boom, which miraculously rose. They shot through the gate and swerved onto the boulevard with a squeal of tyres. Only then did he switch the lights on. He glanced into his side mirror and saw the van pull away from the kerb. The pursuit was on!

  He quickly ran through the gears, the accelerator floored, the engine protesting loudly.

  ‘Just watch what’s going on behind. I saw the bastards pull away. They’re after us,’ he shouted. His senses were heightened, acutely aware of what was happening around him.

  They certainly had a good start on their pursuers who now had to be quite a distance behind them. David passed a number of slower cars, a few hooting at him for driving in this maniacal manner. The panel van would never match this speed.

  Soon they approached the entrance to the fishing harbour. It was not manned. He swung through the concrete posts, the car sliding to a halt in the car park. They abandoned the car as close to the main fishing jetty as he could get. They sprinted for the jetty. There were only three boats alongside as the others had already left for the fishing grounds. He recognised the boat, the only one without mooring lines, and the engine thumping in idle.

  They both jumped over the gunwales. He heard the throttle open. The boat pulled away, water churning at its stern.

  Christ, they had done it! He wrapped his arms around Gisela and hugged her close, the adrenaline still pumping in his veins. They were at least a hundred yards out when they saw headlights in the car park. Two men got out and ran onto the jetty.

  ‘Monsieur, I’m Skipper Gamal,’ he heard behind him.

  He turned round to face a huge man. What struck him was the man’s girth: it was considerable. His features were as dark as the full black beard he sported. He was dressed for the sea in a thick grey woollen pullover and dark trousers stuck into calf-high black rubber gumboots. He took the proffered hand and tried not to wince as his fingers were crushed.

  ‘I’m glad you are safely aboard,’ the man said with a twinkle in his eyes and a wide grin.

  Of course, the skipper was not entirely in the dark. At their first meeting, Bernd had to divulge the fact that they would probably be pursued. He had even hinted that, once away from the harbour, there was a possibility that they would be followed at sea. The skipper did not appear to be concerned and countered that nobody would interfere with him while in Lebanese waters. A look at the other crew members who watched what was happening indicated that these were men not to be trifled with.

  A slight fog began to lift from the sea but visibility was still fair. The boat’s appearance belied its performance, its blunt bow cut through the water at a good eight or nine knots. It passed the breakwater into the open sea where it ploughed through the first swell of the open sea, a legacy of the previous night’s storm.

  ‘How are you going to find the yacht?’ David asked.

  ‘We’re both going to hold the same course, which should stop us from drifting more than a mile or two apart. That means we’ll be able to see each other. Of course, the othe
r boats out there could confuse us but there won’t be many boats. The fish are not in the direction we’re sailing, so we should find each other rather quickly,’ the skipper replied, making corrections with the helm every time the boat slid over a swell.

  David realised that if MI6 had any sense at all they would have found a launch in order to give chase. That’s what he would have done.

  CHAPTER 58

  Bernd’s plan had taken the British completely by surprise. The van gave chase but by the time the two men inside turned the vehicle round, David had a good head start. The driver fumed, first having to drive in the wrong direction, find a gap in the road’s centre island, and then turn round. The panel van was a bad choice. It was underpowered and clumsy. Those in the hotel had kept track of the Mercedes that had been used to bolt from the marina and radioed its final destination to the van. With the fishing boat disappearing in the darkness, they reluctantly reported to Seymour by radio, explaining what had happened.

  This galvanised Seymour into action.

  ‘Jesus Christ! The buggers are on the loose again. Everybody to the launch now!’ He grabbed his coat and bolted down the passage to the lift tower, three other operatives following close behind.

  Once in the underground parking garage, they sprinted to the black Jaguar. The car roared up the ramp from below so fast it briefly launched and then screeched to a halt behind the boom. Seymour swore at the attendant in French to hurry up, this having the opposite effect, the man stoically taking his time while Seymour raged.

  The car tore into the yacht basin, again having to wait for a boom to be lifted, and then swung left to the marina where all motorised launches were moored. Once as close to the launch as he could get, he stopped. They scrambled out of the car leaving the doors open and sprinted to the launch, jumping aboard. Already the engines were started, the diesels bubbling away. The twin diesels roared, the cabin cruiser rapidly leaving the quayside. It climbed onto its plane, half the hull out of the water, rapidly reaching thirty knots.

  Seymour went down to the stern to a bundle that lay wrapped in canvas on the deck. He opened it to reveal two MAT-49 machine pistols. Into each, he rammed a magazine, each capable of holding thirty-two 9mm Parabellum rounds, and cocked the weapons. He gave one to Bartlett, keeping the other for himself. Soon they were beyond the breakwater, the hull slamming into the first of the swells. Seymour was nearly thrown off his feet. He quickly grabbed hold of a stay.

  He made his way to the wheelhouse and stuck his head into the cabin.

  ‘Head straight out to the twelve-mile limit. That must be about due west,’ he shouted at the helmsman above the roar of the engines.

  The man at the wheel just nodded to indicate that he understood, visibly concerned at the automatic pistol.

  Bartlett had climbed to the top of the flying bridge. At this height from the surface, the boat seemed to pitch and roll more violently. He realised that to accurately fire the machine pistol from the platform would be near impossible.

  Seymour stuck his forehead against the rubber hood of the radarscope. The rotating light beam on the oscilloscope enabled him to see about twelve miles. Numerous boats were visible. He had to make a few assumptions. Firstly, he believed the fishing boat would try to put as many miles as possible between them and the Lebanese coast. This meant that they would hold a due west course. Secondly, he believed that the yacht and the fishing boat planned to rendezvous just beyond the limit. The fishing boat’s only purpose was to get to the yacht where Tusk and his companion could board the yacht again, but where? The only thing to do was to plot the courses of all small vessels within a few miles radius on the radarscope. There were not that many. He was only interested in those moving westward.

  CHAPTER 59

  Gisela approached the skipper and asked him in French if his radar could tell them whether another craft had left Beirut yacht basin and was heading westward. Gamal gave the helm to another and manipulated the dials on the radarscope, staring at the oscilloscope.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘There’s another vessel on a course parallel to our own but moving at high speed. It must be a fast motor launch, probably one of those Chris-Craft Cruisers.’

  She turned to David. ‘That’s them, I’m sure.’

  He nodded.

  God, he thought, this game isn’t over yet. Everybody must be staring at their radar sets trying to figure out who was who.

  He called Gisela aside. ‘Tell him that we think that the fast boat could be after us and if we are seen it could open fire on us. Tell him that they’ve done it before.’

  ‘You’re sure you want to tell him?’

  ‘Yes, tell him! I don’t think we have much time,’ he said.

  Reluctantly she approached Gamal and told him that he could expect the launch to find their boat and approach, quite prepared to open fire.

  To her amazement, he uttered a French expletive, the equivalent of ‘Fuck them!’ and disappeared into the wheelhouse cabin only to emerge again with three brand new AK47’s. ‘Just let them try. I’ve wanted to try these out,’ he said with a wry smile. He handed a rifle to David and the other to another crewmember speaking to him in Levantine Arabic.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ she asked.

  He studied her for a few seconds and then shrugged his shoulders and disappeared in the cabin again, returning with another rifle.

  ‘Here. I hope you know what to do with it,’ he said curtly in French.

  ‘Just keep an eye on the scope. That fast boat could be our problem.’

  The skipper gave her a disdainful look. Where he came from women did not instruct men.

  ****

  Seymour looked at the radarscope again. He then walked forward to stand next to the helmsman and shouted above the engines. ‘There’s a boat about a mile or so on our right. I’m convinced that’s the vessel we’re looking for. Turn right and put us onto an intercept course. As you get nearer, just slow down and match his speed. Have you got a loudhailer?’

  The helmsman rummaged in a large locker above his head and extracted an amplified bullhorn, handing it to Seymour.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, grabbing hold of the console as the boat heeled over into a sharp turn to starboard.

  The going was easier, the cruiser now running parallel to the swell, the only distraction the spray that flew diagonally across the prow each time she dug her bow into a trough.

  The navigational lights of a boat became visible. The harsh throb of the engines diminished, the cruiser losing speed. The helmsman manœuvred the cruiser until it was running parallel to the fishing boat, matching its speed, the distance between the boats about a hundred yards.

  Seymour switched on a searchlight mounted on the top of the wheelhouse, the beam stabbing through the darkness illuminating the fishing boat. He had difficulty keeping the light trained on the fishing boat with the sea that was running.

  ‘That’s the boat all right!’ Bartlett shouted from the flying bridge.

  Seymour grabbed the bullhorn and asked another agent to take over the operation of the searchlight.

  ‘Are we beyond the twelve-mile limit?’ he asked the helmsman in French.

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’

  He hefted the bullhorn to his mouth and turned to face the fishing boat. ‘We are British intelligence agents. We require that you hand your two passengers over to us.’ His French boomed across the water. He saw everyone on the boat’s deck look in their direction,

  No reply followed. After thirty seconds, he repeated himself.

  ‘We are not obliged to hand anyone over to you. We are in international waters and you have no jurisdiction either here or in Lebanese waters.’

  Seymour realised that he would have to be more informative. ‘Your passengers are in contravention of international law and thus may be apprehended. Please hand them over. Failing that, we will have no alternative but to use force.’

  The agent had difficulty keeping the light on the boat but still there was no m
istaking the AKs that suddenly appeared in the hands of the crew.

  ‘Christ, they’re not about to let us walk over them,’ Bartlett said to Seymour from the flying bridge.

  ‘Oh, they will, I’ll make sure of that. Fire a short burst over their heads,’ Seymour shouted angrily.

  The staccato sound of the MAT machine pistol reverberated through the air. Fire was returned immediately, some shots scoring hits on the cruiser, everybody falling to the deck and taking cover behind the gunwales, the helmsman opening the throttles and swinging the cruiser out of range.

  ‘Bloody hell! That nearly hit me!’ Bartlett shouted as he clambered down from the flying bridge.

  ‘Swing back! Swing back!’ Seymour ordered.

  Again, they came within a hundred yards, the searchlight pointing at the other boat.

  He spoke to the helmsman, ‘On my command, turn towards the fishing boat aiming ahead of it so that we have a broadside view. Have you got that?’

  The man nodded. Seymour put down the bullhorn and lifted the machine pistol.

  ‘Okay, now!’

  The cruiser rapidly overtook the boat and then turned slightly right, closing the gap. At about fifty yards away, Seymour gave the signal. He and Bartlett raked the boat from bow to stern with gunfire. Even with continuous motion, at this range it was an easy target. The shots broke off wood splinters, shattered wheelhouse windows and ricocheted off of steel. As soon as they stopped firing, those on the boat who had fallen to the deck for cover rose in unison blasting away with their AKs. The rifles had better range and accuracy and their bullets chewed into the glass fibre structure of the cruiser.

  ‘Goddamn hell,’ Seymour shouted, still prone on the deck where he had fallen to take cover, ‘I never expected the boat to be carrying an arsenal.’

  He instructed the helmsman to circle back but to keep a good distance from the boat. What to do now? Both were evenly matched, they were not about to overpower the fishing boat with only the machine pistols. They needed heavier firepower.