"If it were Crane who were free, if it were Holt who was taken, then there is perhaps something we could do for Crane, something; but he would have to do much for himself. I doubt if it works on the other side of the coin."
Percy Martins's hands covered his face. His voice was muffled through the thickness of his fingers.
"Is it because of what I did?"
"I have no means of knowing."
"What will they do to Crane?"
"Torture him."
"Will he talk?"
"How would you respond to torture, skilled torture, Mr Martins? Put on your shoes, please."
"Where are you taking me?"
There was a cold, rueful smile on Major Zvi Dan's face. "London will want to know what has happened.
They will want to set in train whatever machinery they can to minimise the damage."
He took Martins to an office with a secure telephone.
He dialled for him the number of the station officer at the embassy in Tel Aviv.
In a dust storm the helicopter of the Syrian Air Force took off from beside the camp. The power of the rotors, thrashing for lift, buffeted the tents, scattered the refuse that clung to the coiled wire on the perimeter.
Heinrich Gunter now wore the tunic and trousers of a recruit of the Popular Front. Clothes he had been given, explanations none. He could not comprehend how his escape from his captors had come about. He thought his freedom had been gained by the man who lay on the floor of the helicopter. The man was dressed in military clothes that were indented with camouflage tabs, and his leg was badly wounded and no-one had attempted to dress the wound, and he was handcuffed to the bulkhead and he was covered by the handgun of the Syrian officer who had boarded the helicopter at the camp. He saw that the man he believed had brought about his freedom bit hard at his bottom lip as though he were suffused in pain, as if he would not show his captor his pain, as if he refused to cry out, gasp.
Through the portholes of the Gazelle helicopter, Gunter saw laid out beneath him the bright and tranquil breadth of the Beqa'a valley.
They clapped, the men and the boys, and the women from behind their face scarves trilled their appreciation.
There was the drone of the working generator, there was the splash of water lifted from great depths and now free to run in the dug channels.
The merchant grinned and bowed to receive the congratulations.
The merchant was asked by the headman of Khirbet Qanafar to take food at his table, to share the midday meal. He was pleased to accept. He fancied he could smell the cooking of partridge. He was pleased to accept because it suited him to stay at the village town of Khirbet Qanafar until last light.
The merchant had heard the shooting perhaps two miles north up the valley. News came that a Jew had been captured, that a hostage prisoner had been freed.
Only one man captured . . . In his long years in Lebanon he was practised in deceit, he could guard his emotions.
He would be honoured to take food with the headman, and with the headman's sons.
He had done it as he thought Crane would have done it.
When the sun was behind him at last Holt crawled out of the fragile cover of the net and down the hillside.
He thought that he had been moving for a little more than an hour. Flat on his stomach, stomach ground against the earth and sun-scorched rock, he had gone the four hundred yards from the lying up position to the place where Crane had killed the cook.
The blood was there. The blood reinforced the truth.
The truth was the capture and the throwing through the hatch door of the military helicopter of Noah Crane.
He could hear the shouting and the triumph from the camp. Singing and the yelling of slogans, voices competing one with another. Then he found Crane's belt. It was wedged down between two small rocks and half buried by a trailing network of undergrowth.
Crane had left his belt on purpose. Crane's bible, do nothing without a reason.
Slowly, with great care, each movement weighed and considered, young Holt began the stomach crawl back towards the lying up position, and the heat shimmered over him, and the sun burned through the cotton of his tunic top.
As Crane himself would have done it.
19
It was two o'clock in the afternoon.
It was that part of the daytime during which the valley slept. Low on the Beqa'a, where the Litani river and the irrigation channels made the shades of green, only the butterflies moved, hovering between flowers. That part of the day when the men had slid off to their homes, and their women to the coolness of their houses, and the children had gathered under the shade-spreading trees. The soldiers in their nearby temporary barracks had taken to their sleeping cots. The shepherd boys dozed, their flocks had tucked in their legs and knelt and panted. A great sloth blanketed the valley.
At two o'clock in the afternoon Holt managed to reach his lying up position again.
He lay under the scrim net and he gasped down the warm air. He heaved to draw the strength down into his lungs. He felt the sweat running on his body. He drank water until his belly, his bladder, could take no more.
He had no shortage of water. He had the water from Crane's pack. He had no shortage of food because he had Crane's food. As he dragged the air down into his chest, as he poured the water down his throat, he could lie outstretched under the rock overhang because he had also Crane's place. He had Crane's water, food and his place. He was alone.
When he had rested a little, when he had drunk heavily, he turned to Crane's belt. He opened each pouch in turn.
Two pouches holding litre water bottles.
One pouch holding a single day's emergency dehydrated rations.
One pouch holding two of the spare magazines for the Armalite rifle.
One pouch holding the survival kit. Matches, candle, flint, magnifying glass, needles and thread, fish hooks and line, compass, Beta light, flexi saw, capsules of sedative and antibiotic and antihistamine, surgical blades, plasters and butterfly sutures, and a condom.
One scabbard pouch. The knife was in the cook.
One small pouch holding five rounds for the Model PM. He took the pouch from the belt, clipped it to his own belt.
He anticipated that there was only one pouch that mattered to him. It was days ago, nights before, that he had identified the one pouch on Crane's belt that was not duplicated on his own. Perhaps he was nervous of intruding into a secrecy that was particular to Noah Crane. He did not doubt that it was this last pouch, the largest on Crane's belt, that Crane had meant for him.
Holt opened the flap and drew out the rectangular green painted metal cased box. He saw the switches and the dials. There were signs, directions, printed on the box, in English.
He read. His lips moved. The words croaked in his throat.
"Property of the Armed Forces of the United States of America."
His eyes flitted.
"Search Air Rescue Beacon, Mark V."
He strained to read, in the dappled shadow of the scrim netting, the smaller printed information.
"Three second bleep pattern . . . Can guide to 100
metres . . . To last 14 days . . . Extend aerial for maximum effect . . . Power switch . . . Red Spot, Green S p o t . . . "
Holt shivered. In the heat he trembled. He understood. The beacon device was the last ditch defence. It was for a cock-up, and because Crane didn't talk about cock-ups, then he didn't talk about it. The beacon had been left to him by Crane. He saw that the switch could go to the green spot or to the red spot, and he didn't know to which frequency they would be locked, and he didn't know what the range was, and he didn't know how the bleep transmission would be affected by the mountain and valley terrain, but it had been left for him by his mentor . . . Wait on, wait on, Holt. No bloody stupid ideas about crying in the sand and switching to green spot, or to red spot, and sitting on his backside offering up prayers. He was stuck between the training camp in the valley and the commando camp further up
the valley and the armed men of the village town of Khirbet Qanafar, all that below him, and above him there were the troops guarding the surveillance installations on the Jabal el Barouk ... Wait on, Holt . . . He wondered whether the leaving of the beacon was meant as a means of escape or whether it was meant as an encouragement.
He repacked the pouch. He found a space for it, just, on his own belt.
An encouragement.
He turned, heaved his body round. He lifted his binoculars. He had seen that Abu Hamid had not boarded the helicopter. He had watched Abu Hamid into his tent. The camp was now in siesta. Just the sentry at the entrance on the move and that rarely.
"He awaits you, Major."
"You are to be congratulated, Fawzi."
"For which, Major, I thank you."
"Tell me what happened."
Fawzi sat forward in the chair. He had the attention of Major Said Hazan, of the once-burned eyes and the once-scorched ears.
"I was taking a class through the detail of the assembly and stripping of a DShKM machine gun. The camp cook was on the hill above the camp collecting wood for the fire on which he cooks. I think he must have stumbled on this Crane. He shouted. He had a chance to shout before he was stabbed to death by the Jew. His shout alerted us. Immediately I took over the machine gun, and when the Jew started to flee I began firing. I have to confess, Major, that at first I was not successful, but in moments I had the range. I achieved a disabling hit. The moment I had done that, and seen that the Jew no longer had the capacity to run, I organised the capture party. I led a group of the Popular Front recruits onto the hillside, and we captured the Jew. He was not in a condition to resist."
"It was well done, Fawzi."
"I was carrying out my duty, Major."
"And the hostage, Heinrich Gunter?"
Fawzi shrugged. "I can only give you what is an opinion, Major. I think that our finding him was chance.
I cannot see a connection between the Jew and a hostage.
And the hostage has given no sign of any link between them. I believe that the flight of the Jew happened to take him towards a cave where the hostage was held. I believe that in fear the Hezbollah or the Islamic Jihad simply abandoned their hostage and much equipment besides. But it is good for us, regaining the hostage?"
"It is very good indeed. In the power play of diplomacy at the moment when our nation is confronted with the lies of the West European nations that we are a state which sponsors terrorism it is a beautiful thing that we are able to deliver this Heinrich Gunter to his ambassador, quite excellent. But it is the Jew that matters."
Fawzi warmed. " T o me, in the direction of his flight, from his actions, he tried to warn the others in his infiltration group of danger . . . "
Major Said Hazan clapped together his mutilated hands. "Closer to the security zone we block them. The orders have been given. So, he awaits me."
So much to concern Major Said Hazan. He had the evidence of an infiltration. He had an unconfirmed interception. He had the report of the conversation of an Englishman at Kiryat Shmona. He had the detail of the capture of the Jew named Crane, on the hillside above the tent camp occupied by the recruits of the Popular Front.
Major Said Hazan stood in front of his mirror. He tugged down the jacket of his uniform, he straightened his tie, he smoothed back the few hairs left on his scalp.
"I have bad news, Prime Minister."
The Director General stood in the centre of the room.
His pipe was in his pocket. The Prime Minister had been in a full meeting of the Cabinet. A note had been carried in, the discussion on the plight of the inner cities had been shelved, the Prime Minister had come out.
The Prime Minister was at the window, staring down at the spring bursting garden.
"Lebanon?" The voice was a murmur.
"You will remember that we sent two men in. We sent an expert in covert infiltration who was also an accomplished marksman, and we sent the young diplomat who was the eyewitness . . . "
"Of course I remember."
"We have lost the marksman. The marksman has been captured alive by the Syrians, and taken by helicopter to Damascus." It was the voice of a bell tolling.
"This is neither more nor less than I expected."
"The diplomat has not been held."
"And I wanted it called off."
"You said, Prime Minister, that the diplomat was fortunate to have the chance of real adventure. He has that chance now."
"Where did it happen?"
"In the target area."
"Holt, that's his name isn't it, the diplomat? Can he get out?"
"Frankly, no," the Director General said curtly.
"They were at the target and they had not fired?"
"If they had succeeded at the target we would have known of it. There is no information."
The Prime Minister twisted, venom in the eyes, a spit in the words. "You have made a fool of me. I will be ridiculed in the chancelleries of Europe, in Washington.
This government will be badly damaged. You don't concern yourself, of course, with such matters."
"Prime Minister, my concern at present is for the safety of young Holt, and it is for the life of Noah Crane."
"And if your Mr Holt is captured or killed, as seems most probable, will you still blather to me about vengeance? Will you send another clandestine team to Lebanon? . . . It was utterly preposterous, indeed it was criminally stupid."
"Recriminations, Prime Minister, regrettably do not help them."
"And what does help them, pray?"
"Sadly, nothing that I know of. I will keep you informed, Prime Minister."
When he had gone, the room was silent. The Prime Minister paced. Beyond the closed window the wind whipped the dust on Horse Guards and bent the trees in the walled garden. The clouds scurried low, the lights were dull in the room, and the face of Holt was unknown. The Prime Minister's lips pursed in angry concentration, but no effort could conjure up the face of the boy in such danger, nor of the assassin Abu Hamid, nor of the far away terrain of the Beqa'a.
The Prime Minister lifted a telephone, asked for the Cabinet Secretary in his Downing Street office.
The Prime Minister said briskly, "A covert mission in Lebanon has failed. I want the Foreign Secretary here at two, I want his principal Middle East people with him . . . " The Prime Minister paused, "And I would like you to draw up a list of names, three, four if you prefer, for us to consider as replacements for the Director General . . . Casualties? What do you mean, are there casualties? My dear man, we are dealing with a diplomatic catastrophe, not a train derailment."
The Prime Minister went to lunch - soup and whole-meal bread and a glass of fresh orange juice. A working lunch with close advisers, and the agenda involved future government initiatives to encourage industrial investment in Scotland.
He ate his food cold. Holt did not dare light the hexamine tablets to heat the water. The packet told him that the dehydrated flakes were intended as a beef goulash. He poured cold water into the packet and stirred it to a dark porridge with his finger. He ate as much as he could, as much as he could without vomiting. He drank a pint of water. He checked his watch, he measured the passing of the afternoon. He tried not to think of Noah Crane.
When he had eaten and when he had drunk, when he had stifled the hunger pain, and the pain of isolation, Holt took the condom from the barrel of the Model PM.
Meticulously, stage by stage he started to clean the rifle with the graphite grease.
From his vantage point, as he wiped the working parts of the rifle, he gazed down onto the tent camp. He reckoned the siesta would soon be finished, he reckoned they would emerge soon.
As Crane would have done it . . .
Holt couldn't help himself, couldn't wipe away the thoughts of Crane, tried and failed. In a dungeon, in a basement, in a cell. The interrogators howling at him, the blows raining on him.
He wondered if he would have the time, the time to wa
it until he was ready, until the sun started to slide in the late afternoon.
He said, "My name is Noah Crane. My IDF serial is 478391."
The kick heaved him across the tiled floor.
"My name is Noah Crane . . . "
The army boot again, into the kidney area at the small of his back.
"My IDF serial is 478391."
The army boot stamped onto the knuckle of his hand.
His eyes were closed. They had gone with their gloved fists for his eyes first. His eyes were puffed shut. His leg, where the 12.7mm round had taken away the flesh tissue and the bone at the knee, no longer hurt him.
Too much hurt from the fresher wounds. He was not handcuffed and his legs were not tied, yet he was too weak, too exhausted, to protect himself. He lay on his side, he tried to curl himself forward into his sleeping position, but that was no protection because they could then kick the back of his head, the back of his neck, the small of his back, the base of his spine. He knew that there were four of them in the room. He knew they were high in the building because strong light filtered through the dropped V e n e t i a n blinds. He knew that in the room were two men who wore the uniforms and arm markings of sergeants in the Air Force. He knew that also in the room was the lieutenant who had brought him from the Beqa'a. He knew that these three men were not the ones that mattered. The one who did matter wore the uniform of a major. The man sat on a hard wooden chair against the wall and ground his spent cigarettes on the tiles. The face of the man had been rebuilt. Before his eyes had closed he had seen the smooth baby skin of the major who asked the questions in quiet and cultured English.
"Mr Crane, you are being your own enemy."
"My name is Noah Crane."
"You need attention for your leg, the doctors and the nurses and the surgeons are waiting . . . "
"My IDF serial is 478391."
"You have to tell me what was the tasking of your mission into the Beqa'a . . . "
"My name is Noah Crane."
"You have to tell me what was the object of your mission."
"My IDF serial is 478391."
At Close Quarters Page 35