by Antony Trew
‘Switch off,’ interrupted Ascher. ‘Give me that transcript of the Mocal tape.’
Ruth Meyer went to the desk and began to sort through a heap of papers. ‘How can he guarantee anything?’ she said. ‘He hasn’t a clue where it is.’
Ascher was pacing up and down the living room of the small apartment near the Vauxhall Bridge, arms clasped across his chest, shaggy head bowed. ‘Because he’s a politician. Got to reassure the people. Of course he doesn’t know where it is. That’s not the point. What he does know is what he’s going to do. That message came through loud and clear. All that spiel about “unequivocal assurances” and “absolute undertakings”.’
‘You mean?’ She looked up from the desk.
‘The British Government’s going to accept the ultimatum. For God’s sake! He couldn’t have made it more obvious. Britain’s not going to shed any tears for Israel. This nuke threat is just what they want. Now they can say they had to play ball with the Arabs. Maybe the Brits and the Yanks laid it on with the Arabs. In exchange for oil concessions. Like the French supplying Pluton.’
‘Oh, Shalom. It couldn’t be like that.’
‘Couldn’t it hell. You tell that to President Thieu and what used to be the Saigon Government. Israel can no more depend on the US and UK than South Vietnam could. Their promises and alliances don’t mean a goddam thing. Oil’s the only thing that means anything now. Got that transcript? I’m in a hurry.’
She came over, gave it to him and he saw that her hand was trembling. He squeezed it for a moment. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find the nuke. Then we’ll handle things our way.’
He sat cross-legged on the corner of the studio couch, reading through the transcript. At the finish he said, ‘It all ties up.’ There was an unusual light in his eyes, a sort of wildness, but he didn’t sound excited. He never did. ‘The “contract” was an ultimatum, Ruth. Not the one we thought. All that double-talk wasn’t about an attack on the Israeli Embassy. It was to do with what we’ve just heard. That Mocal bunch aren’t El Fatah or the PFLP or George Habash’s MPF or Hawatemeh’s PDF. No wonder we couldn’t identify them. They’re Ka’ed’s group … Soukour-al-Sahra’. God! That lot over here.’ He got up, shaking his head as if to shuffle his thoughts, and began pacing again. He was a heavy man and the floor of the old apartment creaked and groaned with his weight.
She stood in front of him, hands on hips, eyes bright with danger. ‘It’s not there, is it? In Spender Street?’
‘No. No.’ He waved the transcript at her. ‘Remember what Souref said.’ Ascher began reading aloud: ‘But think of Rudi and Ahmad. At least we don’t have to deliver the goods.’ He stared at her. ‘Rudi and Ahmad have the warhead.’
‘Deliver the goods where?’
‘Who knows. Could be idiom for having to be with the warhead – seeing the job through. Could mean physical delivery to a specified place. They knew there’d be a search, so maybe they keep the nuke out of Central London until they need it.’
He looked at the transcript again. ‘Listen to this.’ He read: ‘HAMADEH: Easily said. It’s impossible, Zeid. Too much to think about. Difficult to sleep on the edge of a volcano.’ Ascher laughed dryly. ‘It’s a volcano all right.’
She stood on her toes leaning over his shoulder. ‘Why did Zeid say: How would you like to try sleeping in Palace Green tonight. He means this very night?’
Ascher looked at her reproachfully. ‘Think! He’s talking of the Israeli Embassy. Up there right now at this minute they’ve just heard the British Prime Minister tell the world about the ultimatum. Do you think they’re going to sleep easily tonight, knowing what that means to Israel?’
‘I see.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘Sorry. I thought there was some deeper meaning to it.’
‘My God. That’s deep enough, isn’t it?’
‘What are you going to do?’
Ascher put the transcript into a back pocket of his jeans, took a duffel coat from the back of the door, handed another to her. ‘We’re going to the Embassy as fast as we can. I’ll phone from the call-box outside the laundrette.’
There were five of them, including the Ambassador, in his study at Palace Green. Ascher, Ruth Meyer, Ezra Barlov – who’d flown from Holy Loch that evening – and his assistant, Michael Kagan. They’d been talking for a long time: dissecting, analysing, arguing about the Mocal tape and the terms of the ultimatum. What lay behind them. Was there connivance by Britain and the United States? Through all these discussions messengers moved discreetly between the communications section, the cypher room and the Ambassador’s study, bringing in and taking away teleprinter and radio tapes – high speed transmissions, computer-scrambled, two-way traffic between Israel and the Embassy. Some of the messages were exchanges between the London Embassy and the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary in Jerusalem, but most were with Israeli Intelligence HQ in Tel Aviv.
The Ambassador finished reading the latest tape from Jakob Kahn. ‘Listen to this, Ascher,’ he said, and they could tell from his voice that he was pleased. ‘Jakob says he’s just got agreement to the proposition that we keep what we know to ourselves for the time being. He repeats the words time being.’
Ascher said, ‘Great. So we don’t tell Number Ten or the Special Branch what we know about Mocal and the tape.’
‘We don’t tell anyone on this side. Not yet at any rate,’ said the Ambassador. ‘All right with you, Barlov?’
Barlov nodded. ‘Suits me. I like it that way.’
‘So do I,’ said Ascher. ‘The Brits could ball this one up. We don’t bargain with terrorists.’
Barlov laughed. ‘Don’t be too contemptuous about terrorists. We were pretty good at that ourselves once.’
‘That’s different.’ Ascher was poker-faced.
‘It’s always different when it’s your cause,’ said the Ambassador. ‘I don’t suppose historians will see any significant difference.’ The Ambassador had taken an honours degree in History at Oxford and it was still very much in his blood. Somewhere a clock chimed midnight. He echoed their thoughts. ‘Sixty hours to the deadline.’ His voice was sepulchral.
A messenger came in with another tape. ‘From General Kahn, sir.’ The Ambassador took it and she glided away. He read it, frowned, then smiled. ‘Listen to this: Ascher must continue to keep Mocal premises under closest visual and audio surveillance since reference oblique or otherwise to whereabouts nuke probable now ultimatum is out. If location warhead becomes known take every precaution against pre-detonation and inform me instantly. While we acknowledge pre-detonation risk exists we believe it to be over-estimated. Warheads not easily come by. If detonation should take place on expiry time limit or otherwise objective of ultimatum would be defeated and future attempts with that warhead along similar lines aborted. This constitutes major psychological advantage our side.’
They discussed that message for some time and were still on it when another came in from Kahn. Once again the Ambassador read it aloud: ‘Ruth Meyer to fly Tel Aviv 0715 El Al tomorrow Tuesday with relevant tapes, photos and other material assist identification Zeid and report fully on situation your end. Hope return her London Wednesday latest.’
Ruth Meyer regarded the Ambassador with mixed feelings. She was in on the ground floor in London. She didn’t want to get off it. ‘How will Shalom manage without me?’ she asked.
The Ambassador turned to Ascher. ‘What do you say?’
‘You’ll have to give me Micky Kagan. We can’t do a twenty-four hour surveillance with less than three operatives.’
The Ambassador looked at Ezra Barlov. ‘It’s your pitch, Barlov. What do you think?’
‘Ascher’s right. We’ve nothing that takes precedence over this.’
‘Good,’ said the Ambassador. ‘Kagan is yours, Ascher.’
When they left the Embassy an hour later they took Michael Kagan with them. Not, when he’d changed, quite the dapper well-groomed Kagan the Embassy knew but nevertheless a cheerful Kagan. He dislik
ed the desk work associated with the Embassy job, and hankered after action. Where Shalom was, action was likely to be. That made Kagan happy.
During the taxi journey back to Vauxhall Bridge Ascher was silent, going over in his mind the discussion at the Embassy. Questioned by the Ambassador about the nuclear warhead he had been emphatic that it was not in Spender Street. ‘There are several reasons why I’m sure it’s not there. One – if it was, some of them would remain with it throughout each twenty-four hours. They don’t. They’re still working a normal seven/eight-hour day. All go home at night. Two – if it was, some hint of it would come through on the tapes. Nothing has. Three – the only taped reference so far suggests that Ahmad and Rudi – whoever and wherever they may be – have it. They are the only two we haven’t seen. The only names we can’t tie up. Four – we’ve been watching Mocal night and day now for a long time and nothing big and heavy like a nuke could have been taken in without our seeing it. The warhead’s not there. Ambassador. Believe me.’
That, finally, had satisfied both the Ambassador and Colonel Barlov.
Forty-eight Hours To Go
17
Soon after one o’clock on Tuesday, November 9th, El Al’s 747 from London touched down at Lod Airport and disgorged its passengers and luggage. Ruth Meyer had no difficulty in recognizing the sleek hair and rounded features of Bar Mordecai at the baggage checkpoint, notwithstanding dark glasses, sun-shirt and sandals.
There was no greeting. He came up, took her bag and she followed him to the dusty, dented Chevrolet. They’d driven several hundred yards before he said, ‘Glad to see you, Ruth. Good journey?’
‘Oh, it’s heaven to be here. Hot sun and dry earth.’ She remembered his question. ‘The journey? Okay. Usual anxiety and discomforts. Leaky loos, draughts, cigarette smoke, plastic food, plastic people. You’re so tanned, Bar. Lucky you. All this sun.’
‘I swim a lot. Did you bring the stuff?’
‘Everything you’ve not already had.’
‘Good. We see Jakob at once.’
‘Suits me. I’m back to London tomorrow.’
‘Things warming up there, huh?’
She looked at him sideways. ‘Forty-eight hours to go, and the twitch count rising.’
‘I know. Jakob keeps telling me. It’s as if he’s waiting for labour pains.’
‘I wouldn’t know. Never had them.’
They were old friends and for the rest of the journey into Tel Aviv they talked about colleagues, mutual friends and their work.
They passed the tall block of the Bank Leumi Le-Israel, turned left off the Jaffa Road and entered the industrial area. From long habit Mordecai followed a complex route before parking the Chev outside the red-brick building she knew so well.
‘That wasn’t really necessary, Bar,’ she smiled. ‘I know the route blindfolded.’
‘I vary it every time. Call it a compulsive obsession.’ He opened the boot, took her air-bag from it and led the way in. They negotiated two sets of guarded security barriers, went through a steel door at the back and arrived in the sandy courtyard. As they crossed it she saw the decaying oil drums and rusty remains of the bicycle still under the old fig tree.
‘Lovely garden,’ she said. ‘Nothing changes. Really makes me feel I’m home again.’
‘Great, isn’t it?’ Mordecai pressed the bell-push beside the steel door in the concrete building. They stood waiting under the scrutiny of unseen eyes. The door opened, they went in, passed a security barrier, went left and right down passageways, then through another barrier and on to the lift. They came out on the second floor. Mordecai spoke to the woman at the reception desk. ‘Okay?’
‘He’s waiting for you. Go right in.’
Ruth Meyer reported to Jakob Kahn and Bar Mordecai on developments in London after the British Prime Minister’s address to the Nation, in particular the Israeli Ambassador’s discussions at Number Ten and his appreciation of the situation thereafter. She gave them transcripts of the latest Mocal tape, interpreting the verbal shorthand used by the Palestinians. After that she explained the set-up and routine in Mocal’s Spender Street premises. Zeid, she said, the key figure and the man who’d posted the ultimatum, remained unidentified despite their efforts.
They considered the copies she’d brought with her of the morning’s London dailies giving first reactions to the Prime Minister’s broadcast. Little in them was new to Kahn. Earlier in the day he’d received transcripts of relevant radio broadcasts from the communications division of Israeli Intelligence which monitored radio services world-wide as a matter of routine. Kahn was discussing reaction in Washington and Moscow when his secretary came through on the intercom. ‘Hassfeldt’s waiting.’
‘I’ll see him now,’ replied Kahn.
A thin man with sunken eyes and a limp came in, laid a pack of blown-up photos on Kahn’s blotter. ‘Top one was taken by Ruth Meyer in the stationery shop near the Aldwych yesterday,’ he said. ‘We’ve computer-selected these five from micro-files on the basis of her shot and description. The scar is key data. We’ve arrowed him in all of them.’ He said it apologetically, the thin husky voice matching his general air of debility.
Kahn looked at the photos with a magnifying glass. Two were street shots, one a desert shot – group of armed Arabs in burnouses in the foreground, large passenger aircraft burning in the background – another was a campus picture, undergraduates sitting self-consciously in three tiers. The fifth, a portrait of a young man in cap and gown. Each was dated and captioned.
Kahn’s cheroot trained round swiftly seeking a target. It settled on the thin man. ‘Who is he, Hassfeldt?’
Hassfeldt read from a typed sheet. ‘Zeid Barakat, alias Simon Dufour, alias Simon Dufour Charrier. Born September 7th, 1948, in Philippeville, Algeria. The “Zeid Barakat” comes from his mother. Daughter of a Palestinian merchant settled in Algiers. His father, Paul Dufour, was a pied-noir – Frenchman born in Algeria. Charrier was his paternal grandmother’s name. Zeid Barakat is a top-echelon member of the SAS. Close to Mahmoud el Ka’ed. Educated Beirut and the Sorbonne where he took a degree in electronics. Worked for some time with Aerospatiale in the missile and rocketry divisions. Last operation was in September when he led the SAS raid on the Turco-Ottoman Bank in Istanbul. One and a half million dollars of bullion taken. Two bank clerks and one customer killed.’
‘Give me that note. Where did the scar come from? Hi-jack?’
‘No. He’s been involved in a couple of those. But this was way back. An early operation with the SAS. Border raid on Quiryat Shmona. Knife wound, Israeli inflicted. He got away.’
‘Pity,’ said Kahn. ‘Maybe we get him this time.’ He sighed, looked at his cheroot, rubbed his chin. ‘So he’s Zeid Barakat. Worked at Aerospatiale. They produce Pluton. No wonder he’s in charge in London.’ He passed the magnifying glass and photos to Ruth. ‘You’ve seen him at close range. Satisfied he’s the man in these?’
She examined them carefully. ‘Yes. That’s him all right.’ She smiled shyly. ‘He’s very good-looking.’
Kahn shook his head. ‘Don’t let that affect your judgement, Ruth. Maybe he’s a nice guy, too. But they’re all poison to us.’
‘I know, I know. Don’t worry.’
‘Okay, Hassfeldt. That’s all. Leave the photos with me. Thanks for the help.’
When the thin man had gone Kahn said, ‘We know from the Mocal tape that Zeid Barakat phones Brussels. Why?’
‘Shalom thinks it’s a communications link,’ said Ruth.
‘So do I,’ said Mordecai.
Kahn nodded. ‘Makes sense. Barakat’s in charge of the London end. He needs to communicate on a more-or-less immediate basis with Ka’ed. So Brussels acts as linkman.’
‘Probably more than one link.’ Mordecai winked at Ruth Meyer as he borrowed Kahn’s favourite adverb.
‘Like what?’
‘Rome, Athens, Istanbul, Nicosia – you name it.’
‘Method?’
; ‘Phone, I’d say. To avoid radio monitoring. Trouble is we can’t locate Ka’ed. Salamander says the Deuxième Bureau reckon he’s still in the Lebanon, most likely in Beirut.’
Kahn leant back in the swivel chair, swung it through 180 degrees to look at the large-scale map of Europe and the Middle East covering the wall behind him. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Whatever the linkage the end of the line’s Ka’ed – that’s probably Beirut. Phone? Yes. Radio? No. We monitor all radio traffic into and out of Beirut. Soukour-al-Sahra’ hasn’t anything as sophisticated as computer scrambling and squirt transmission. Not because they can’t afford it, but they’re a hunted organization and they’ve no HQ. They’ve got to be mobile. If they use the air it must be steam radio. We monitor all that stuff and there hasn’t been a whiff of this in it. So okay. It’s phone linkage, probably.’
Mordecai smiled. ‘Highly probably, Jakob.’
Kahn frowned, not amused, twisting the cheroot in his mouth ‘We have to find Ka’ed – and damn quick. Bug his room, tap his phone – if he has one. Then maybe we get in on his spiel with Barakat in London.’
‘That’s the crunch.’ Mordecai spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘We don’t know where Ka’ed is. Not for want of trying. And we’re not the only ones. Others are after him. Lebanon’s Deuxième Bureau and the French’s DST. The CIA and the Brits’ SIS. Like a pack of bloodhounds. But nothing we know of has come up so far. And the clock doesn’t stop.’
Kahn looked at his second-in-command speculatively, his eyes narrowing in a half smile. ‘We know something, Bar. It came through at lunchtime. You were out at Lod.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Salamander’s found Georgette Taaran’s apartment.’
‘Who in hell’s Georgette Taaran?’