Ultimatum

by Antony Trew

  ‘He’s gone to the bank. At the Place Vendôme. He’ll be back before long.’

  ‘That’s fine. I must see him.’

  She took his hand in hers, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, it’s good to see you.’

  He grinned to hide his embarrassment. ‘But you knew I was coming?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I didn’t recognize you.’

  ‘Kemal sends his love.’

  ‘Oh. That’s nice. Does he still grin?’

  ‘All the time. How are you, Magda? You look marvellous.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She held his hand affectionately. ‘It’s quite a long time, isn’t it? Not since you worked in France?’

  ‘Yes. But I was also in Paris three months ago. You were away.’

  ‘Tewfik told me. I’d gone to my mother. She was ill.’

  ‘It’s really good to see you, Magda. How is he?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  He looked towards the street, became suddenly serious. ‘I’d better not stand here.’

  ‘Sorry. This way.’ She led him through the curtains at the back of the shop, up a small staircase to a room on the first floor.

  ‘It’s our room. There’s a bathroom and loo next door. Knock on the floor when you’re ready.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  When she’d gone he found the scissors and shaving gear in the travel-bag, took off his grey jacket and trousers, laid them on the bed, and went through to the bathroom in his underclothes. He got busy with the scissors and razor. When he’d finished the beard, the moustache and the long sideburns had gone. He put a towel round his waist, knocked lightly on the floor with a shoe.

  The girl came up. ‘That’s more like the Zeid I remember,’ she said. ‘What a transformation. And I can see the scar.’ She put her hand on his neck and touched it gently. ‘Poor Zeid.’

  She was very desirable, they had once been lovers, and for a moment he wanted to take her in his arms. He fought down the emotion, handed her the scissors and a comb. ‘Now my hair, Magda. To here.’ He turned his back and with his hand indicated the length.

  ‘Sit on that bath stool,’ she said. ‘You’re too tall.’

  He sat down and she began combing and cutting. At last she said, ‘Look now.’ He stood up and went to the mirror.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said.

  ‘See the mess on the floor.’

  ‘Sorry, Magda.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of it.’

  They went through to the bedroom. She sat on the bed while he changed into the blue suit he’d taken from the travel-bag.

  ‘What are the flight details, Magda?’

  ‘Eight-ten tonight. British Airways from Orly. Heathrow about half an hour later. Want the passport and ticket now?’

  ‘Please.’

  A bell rang in the shop below. ‘Customer,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’

  She came back later with a French passport and the airline ticket. ‘The passport’s been in the safe since you left it there with Tewfik. He bought the ticket yesterday.’

  ‘Good.’ He handed her the Algerian passport. ‘Keep this for me, Magda. Tell Tewfik I’ll pick it up again. In a couple of weeks, I hope.’

  She looked at him sadly. ‘Is it dangerous? Your mission?’

  ‘There is always danger, Magda. Every time one crosses the street.’

  ‘This is different, Zeid.’

  ‘Danger isn’t. The objective is.’

  She shook her head. ‘How nice if you could stay in Paris for a while.’

  ‘Just as well I can’t. It might start all over again. Tewfik wouldn’t like that.’

  She smiled sadly, knowing he was right.

  The immigration officer in Heathrow’s Terminal 1 looked at the passport – Simon Dufour Charrier, born September 7th, 1948, Philippeville, Algeria – and his well-trained eyes checked the man’s age, height and colouring, then the face on the photograph – high forehead, eyes set well apart, high cheekbones, prominent nose, mole on right cheek – against the face in front of him. Satisfied, he pushed the passport back, nodded curtly. ‘Right,’ he said, looking at the next passenger.

  Zeid Barakat turned up the collar of his raincoat, tightened the silk scarf which so well concealed the scar, and put on dark glasses before boarding the British Airways bus which took him to the West London Terminal in the Cromwell Road. There he changed to a taxi. ‘South Kensington tube station,’ he told the driver.

  After two weeks of exhaustive enquiry the Deuxième Bureau in Beirut, assisted by their colleagues from Damascus, had made no progress in solving the mystery of the whereabouts of the two packing cases removed from Shed 27 during the Israeli commando raid on the night of October 5th/6th.

  Nor had they succeeded in tracing the truck which had passed through the Port gates early in the morning of the 6th October, evidently carrying the missing warhead and detonator. It had been established that the truck did not belong to D.B. Mahroutti Bros. although the name of that firm had appeared on it. The Deuxième Bureau assumed that it had been re-sprayed and given new plates immediately after the incident.

  Checks at Djebel Naqura, the border post between Lebanon and Israel – reserved for UN traffic – revealed that the truck had not crossed at that point. At the end of the two-week search the head of the Lebanese security police informed his minister that there were two workable hypotheses:

  One, the warhead and detonator had been taken into Israel by sea immediately after the attack, the use of the Mahroutti truck being a calculated diversion; or, two, the missing weapons had been taken out of the Port by the truck and were either still in the Lebanon or had been smuggled into Israel in a manner not yet known.

  Digesting these facts, and with the outcry of the world’s media and chancelleries still ringing in their ears, the Lebanese Cabinet decided that the Israeli attack on Shed 27 had been both politically and technologically motivated:

  The Israelis’ political objective had been to reveal in dramatic fashion that France was supplying nuclear weapons to the Middle East, and by so doing justify in advance any subsequent Israeli decision to equip its forces in the field with nuclear weapons.

  The technological objective had been to assist Israeli physicists working on the MD-660 project by making available a recent example of French nuclear technology in a tactical weapons system.

  Reluctantly, the Lebanese Cabinet had to agree with their Syrian colleagues that the Israelis appeared to have achieved both objectives.

  10

  43 St Peter’s Road, Fulham, was an old Victorian terraced house somewhat in need of repair. It belonged to a maiden lady, Miss Katherine Morley, who took in lodgers – ‘guests’ she preferred to call them – provided they were what she thought of as ‘the right sort of people’.

  She was in the kitchen when she heard the clack of the letter-box lid and the postman’s double ring. The ring was her private arrangement with him. She liked to get to the letter-box before her guests. She put down the butter dish, wiped her hands, went to the box and cleared it. Among the mail was a buff-coloured envelope addressed to J. P. Leroux et Cie. The name of the sender was on the flap: Benallan Steamship Company Ltd, Fenchurch Street, London EC3.

  Miss Morley looked at the letter with respect. She’d no idea the nice young Frenchman – Jean Paul Leroux – who’d come to her a week ago, was a ‘company’. But then he was a quiet, reserved sort of man. Not one to talk about himself or put on airs and graces. A girl with a French accent had telephoned to make the reservation some time before his arrival, saying that he was coming from Paris. Miss Morley asked him who’d recommended her. The wife of a business acquaintance in Paris, he’d said. She had stayed at number 43 some time ago. Unfortunately, he could not recall her maiden name. Miss Morley couldn’t either but since several young French women had stayed with her over the years – and Mr. Leroux, though French, was a charming well-spoken man and obviously a gentlemen – she’d had no hesitati
on in taking him in for the week or ten days he expected to be in London.

  Miss Morley placed the letters on the hall table, went back to the kitchen and got on with preparing the breakfast.

  Later that morning Jean Paul Leroux took a taxi from Trafalgar Square where he’d arrived by underground.

  As was his custom he paid off the taxi shortly before it reached the Aldwych, walking the remainder of the way to 39 Spender Street.

  It was his third visit to the premises of the Middle Orient Consolidated Agencies Ltd since landing at Heathrow on October 20th. He rang the bell, went in through the front door, exchanged greetings with Hanna Nasour, Najib Hamadeh and Ibrahim Souref, hung up his raincoat and umbrella and accepted Hanna’s offer of coffee. She poured the coffee and passed him the mug. ‘Any news, Zeid?’

  ‘Yes. The letter came this morning.’ He felt more than heard the impact of his announcement.

  There was a long silence, broken by the girl. ‘When do you leave Fulham?’

  ‘It’ll be a few days yet. I told Miss Morley I’d be returning to Paris soon. I’ll have to move in with you then, Ibrahim. Okay?’

  The man with the mournful face sitting on the edge of the desk said, ‘Fine. If you don’t mind a stretcher.’

  Zeid looked round the office with dubious eyes. The premises were poorly lit, sparsely furnished. There was a musty smell of long ago, an atmosphere of decay and neglect. Where they were in the front office there was a monk’s bench, a table, some chairs, an old Royal typewriter, a stationery cabinet, two typists’ desks, two four-drawer steel filing cabinets, telephone directories – but no telephone – ‘in and out’ baskets with letters in them, a wall calendar from which gazed a breasty, sultry young lady, a number of newspapers and some periodicals. The shelves along one wall were stacked with pattern books, specimens of silks and damasks, brocades and other Oriental cloths. There were two doors at the back of the front office. One opened into a stockroom with modest stacks of Persian and Turkish rugs, and bundles of carpet samples on shelves along the back wall. The other gave on to an open passageway which led to an outside cloakroom, and a backyard with coal shed and garbage bins. There was a gas ring on a table, near it a corner cupboard.

  Zeid put down the empty mug. ‘I’ve some telephoning to do, Najib. Can’t be from a call-box. Can we go to Sandra’s?’

  ‘Of course. She’ll be at work now.’

  In the Strand they took a taxi to Rupert Street off the Bayswater Road where Najib’s sister Sandra rented a two-roomed apartment. Hamadeh, a regular visitor, had a key and knew the porter who was seldom about. They went into the apartment where Zeid got busy on the phone.

  First he rang Morrison, Dean and Fletcher’s officer in Fenchurch Street. The switchboard operator put him through to the clearing department and after some delay he got hold of the right clerk. ‘J. P. Leroux et Cie of Paris here,’ said Zeid. ‘We want you to clear a consignment of carpets ex Athens in the Student Prince. The goods are in transit shed 14, Millwall Docks. I’ll call this afternoon with the bill of lading and manifest, and arrange payment. How long will clearance take?’

  ‘A few days. We have to prepare the custom entries, process them through the Port of London Authority’s head office. You’ll receive notification from the PLA in due course that the goods are ready for collection. We can arrange for a haulier to pick them up.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the haulier. We’ll see to that,’ said Zeid. Next he dialled a Lewisham number. A man’s voice answered, ‘Speedy Removals.’

  Zeid chuckled. ‘Is that so? Zeid here.’

  ‘Oh, hullo, Zeid. I was expecting to hear from you.’

  ‘Listen, Rudi. The carpets have arrived. Transit shed 14, Millwall Docks. It’s going to take a few days to clear them.’

  There was a pause on the line. ‘Okay, Zeid. That’s fine. The voice had become suddenly husky.

  ‘You all right, Rudi?’

  ‘Of course. It’s just – you know – surprise. I’m okay.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be in touch as soon as the goods are ready for collection. We’ll fix then when you are to pick me up. Okay?’

  ‘Sure. That’s okay.’

  The driver of the Bedford panel van backed it up to the loading platform behind transit shed 14 in the Millwall Dock. The black van was several years old but well kept. There was nothing unusual about it except, perhaps, the absence of the name of any firm upon it. The driver got out, went into the office and gave the foreman the J. P. Leroux et Cie’s delivery order. The foreman examined it, checked through a file, found the relevant papers, handed a receipt in triplicate to the driver. ‘Sign here,’ he said. The driver signed with a flourish ‘L. E. Jones’. The foreman looked at the signature – thought to himself, he’s no Welshman, looks more like a Pakki to me – and handed over a pass which specified the goods the driver was authorized to take out of the docks.

  He gave the other papers to the clerk at the desk behind him. ‘Take this lot, Bert.’ He turned to the driver. ‘He’ll show you where your load is.’

  The driver followed the clerk down the shed through a maze of cargo. At the far end they found the hessian-wrapped bale addressed to J. P. Leroux et Cie. A fork-lift truck arrived. The clerk said, ‘That’s it, Jim.’ The driver, a small wizened man, backed and filled until the fork was under the bale. He pulled a lever and the bale lifted clear. ‘Where’s the van, then?’

  The van driver pointed to the far end of the shed. ‘Down there. At the first loading platform.’

  The fork-lift truck led the way, the driver and clerk following. Near the end of the shed the clerk called to two men leaning against a stack of packing cases. ‘Give us a hand, lads. Got to get this lot into a van.’ The men moved slowly, joining the cortège with reluctance. When they reached the Bedford the driver said, ‘I’ve got a roller pallet inside.’

  He slid the pallet out of the van. The fork-lift driver lowered the bale on to it. It took four of them, shoving and pushing, to get it across the tail-gate into the van.

  The driver thanked them, put chocks against the pallet rollers, closed the van doors, climbed into the driving seat and drove off.

  At the dock gates he showed the receipt and pass to the PLA policeman on duty. The policeman got him to open the van, and checked there was nothing inside but the bale specified in the pass. Satisfied, he said, ‘That’s all right, mate.

  The driver climbed in, started up the engine and drove away.

  The van made down Manchester Road towards Blackwall at a moderate pace, the man in the cab driving with extreme care. He turned into the Blackwall Tunnel, crossed under the Thames, and took a circuitous route to the east, making for Charlton. Later he swung north and then west towards Blackheath and Lewisham. It was after six in the evening when he stopped opposite the Clock Tower in Lewisham Way. A man in a raincoat carrying a brief-case climbed into the cab beside him. The van crossed over into Lee High Road, travelled down it for some distance, turned right into Kiddey Road and later left into Pimsvale Lane. The lane was a narrow cul-de-sac leading down between rows of old, weather-worn terraced houses. At its far end, almost a hundred yards beyond the last houses, stood an old brick building once used as a workshop by glass merchants. The van driver had for some months rented a part of it; a garage with a two-roomed flat above.

  He lived in the flat and kept the panel van in the garage which was a convenient arrangement for a man in the furniture removals business. For him the place had the added advantage that there were no houses adjoining the building. It stood quite alone, its back to a small field which had somehow escaped development. The driver, known to neighbours as Rudi Frankel, was a quiet reserved young man who kept himself to himself. He was regarded as a hard-working man and those inhabitants of Pimsvale Lane who’d used or recommended him to friends spoke well of his reliability and reasonable charges. He was understood to be Jewish and to have worked in Israel for some years before returning to London where he’d been born. His parents, he’d
said, lived in Birmingham.

  What was not known about him was that his name was not Rudi Frankel – nor for that matter ‘L. E. Jones’ – nor was he Jewish, notwithstanding his Israeli passport. Which was not surprising since forged passports were more easily come by in Beirut than most other places in the world.

  When they’d parked the van, the driver and his passenger climbed out and bolted and padlocked the garage doors on the inside. They got into the back of the van, the man in the raincoat taking his briefcase with him. He examined the bale carefully, cut away the stitches at one end of the canvas ‘contents’ label, turned it back and found a loose strand of carpet weave. He pulled on it until a flexible plastic tube emerged. He unscrewed its cap and exposed the end of a multicore cable.

  Frankel said, ‘Gives me the jitters, Zeid. Sure you know what you’re up to?’

  ‘I should know. Didn’t I put this lot together in Beirut?’ He looked up and laughed. ‘You know, Rudi, if I passed out now and you had to carry on with the job, you’d – Jesus! I don’t know. I suppose you’d be the only man in the world who’d detonated a nuclear bomb while he was sitting on it.’ He laughed again with nervous hilarity. ‘Know what the date is?’

  ‘Fifth of November?’

  ‘Yes. Funny isn’t it?’ Zeid shook with laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny, Zeid. It’s bloody terrifying. That’s what it is.’

  ‘Sure it is. But if it goes wrong we won’t know anything about it, so relax and let’s get on with the job.’

  Zeid pulled several inches of multi-core cable from the tube and separated the taped leads: two brown, two green, two black, one chequered. He took a cardboard box from the briefcase and placed it on the bale. Working methodically, he removed the insulation from the leads and joined them to coils of identically-coloured flex, attaching the ends of these to terminals on the plastic switchboard which he took from the cardboard box. He checked the spring-loaded locking device on the switch before testing the circuit with an ammeter. It was fed by dry batteries in the bale. Satisfied, he carried the switchboard forward with elaborate care, Frankel paying out flex from the coils. Zeid passed the switchboard through the small window behind the driving seat and lowered it gently into the driving-cab. The two men climbed out and locked the van’s loading doors. They left the garage by an internal door which led to the staircase to the flat. Frankel double-locked that door and they went upstairs.