by Antony Trew
Ascher pulled at his beard. ‘I like that.’
‘Useful routine,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘Good for counter-espionage.’
‘We must remember that, Ruth.’ Ascher lifted a quizzical eyebrow and they smiled privately.
The Chief Superintendent grinned. ‘Yes. You’ll have to watch it, won’t you?’
‘Not to bother,’ said Ascher. ‘Our cover’s blown. We won’t be operating in the UK again.’
McFagan looked at them speculatively. ‘I suppose so.’
Ascher said, ‘Nothing like a change of scene.’
‘Good for the health,’ said Ruth Meyer.
A few minutes later Whisky Bravo Five was reporting again … Contact leaving Sea-Bee … walking west on New Coventry Street … gone left into Whitcomb Street … contact entering Centrepark garage in Whitcomb Street …
The VHF speaker continued faithfully to relay the story of Whisky Bravo Five’s vigil: Raining hard … Volvo emerging from garage … left into Panton Street … left into the Haymarket … left into Orange Street … crossing Whitcomb Street now, travelling east …
The command vehicle interrupted, ordered Whisky Bravo Five to abort task and return to base. The time was 1.54 am and it was raining.
Moynihan, the Special Branch Inspector who spoke Arabic, wiggled his earphones, tapped Ascher on the shoulder, held up a warning finger.
Ascher, concentrating on the conversation in 39, raised a thumb in acknowledgement.
IBRAHIM SOUREF: Well, he had to call Brussels at one-forty. It’s fifteen minutes past two. He’s got to pick up and park the Volvo. It takes time. I’m hungry. That’s my trouble.
HANNA NASOUR: Here, try this apple. You greedy man.
SOUREF: Thanks. Be careful, Eve. You tempt me. (Laughter)
NAJIB HAMADEH: It’s nearly twelve hours now we’ve had that thing. It gives me the creeps.
SOUREF: You mean Abdul. I keep imagining I hear him tick.
HAMADEH: Not possible, Ibrahim. Anyway he’s not switched on yet. Must be your heart.
HANNA: Ibrahim hasn’t got one. I wish Zeid was back. What can he be doing? Oh don’t, Ibrahim. That hurts.
SOUREF: Sorry. Don’t worry. He’ll be here in due course.
HANNA: He’d better be. We could need that Volvo.
HAMADEH: You’re nervy, Hanna. That’s not until eleven. Another nine hours, nearly. Anyway, we can always take a taxi.
HANNA: How far can we get in one hour? (Nervous laughter)
HAMADEH: You’ve asked that before. Far enough. But we aren’t going to need it. You heard the British Prime Minister. Search called off. No explosion. Unpalatable but reassuring news in the morning. They’re going to accept, Hanna. It stands out like a camel in the desert.
HANNA: Oh God, I hope you’re right. I hate the idea of the alternative.
SOUREF: Yes. Of course I’m right. It’s obvious. You can be sure it’s been arranged with the President and Brezhnev. Why do you think their communiqués were issued an hour before he spoke. I think …
HAMADEH: Ka’ed knew this. He said the US and Britain would jump at a really good excuse for an independent Palestine and ditching Israel.
HANNA: Ka’ed is a fantastic man. He’s always right. But what a cynical world. Where else can …
HAMADEH: We can thank Allah for this cynicism if it gives us back our lands.
SOUREF: Thank Abdul, you mean. Listen to that rain.
HANNA: Pouf. It’s a terrible climate. No wonder they look so serious. Come on, Zeid. (Whistling) You should have got back by now.
HAMADEH: Give him a chance. The Brussels call could be responsible. Perhaps the British Government has communicated with Ka’ed. Maybe Ka’ed wants Zeid to contact the authorities here right away. Could be anything. Who knows?
SOUREF: That’s most unlikely. He’ll be back in time. Your hands are cold, Hanna. What’s wrong. There’s nothing to fear.
HANNA: Of course there’s something to fear. (Sounds of coughing) Of course I’m scared. I may be the one. I’m scared to death. Anybody who isn’t at this moment isn’t human.
SOUREF: There isn’t going to be any need for ‘the one’.
HAMADEH: Portrait of an inhuman man. (Laughter) Come and dance with me, Hanna. I’m not afraid. Let us celebrate the new Palestine. (Sounds of a scuffle and a man and woman giggling)
SOUREF: (Shouting) Keep away from that flex, you fool.
HAMADEH: Okay. No need to get excited. I was watching it.
SOUREF: You weren’t. You were messing about with Hanna.
HAMADEH: Look who’s jealous.
HANNA: Don’t be like that, Ibrahim. We were just fooling.
SOUREF: This is no time to fool. If you fall on that it’ll be the last thing you do.
HAMADEH: You forget the locking device.
SOUREF: Never mind the locking device. Zeid warned us. If the flex is wrenched out there can be a short circuit. Then you’ll have something to celebrate.
HANNA: Sorry, sorry, dear Ibrahim. We are all too excited. I’m just a bundle of nerves tonight. Twenty-three minutes past two. I wonder what has happened to Zeid?
HAMADEH: Remember what I said about the Brussels calls.
SOUREF: I’m tired. (Sounds of yawning) What about some sleep?
HANNA: Sleep. I’m too worked up. (More sounds of yawning)
HAMADEH: We must get sleep. Tomorrow is already here, but we’ve still got seven hours of darkness. It’s going to be a long day.
While Ascher listened, Moynihan gave the Chief Superintendent a brief summary of the conversation. There was a lot of discussion about what ‘the one’ meant, and in the end agreement.
The mobile command vehicle was parked in a deserted loading bay off Henrietta Street, a relic of Covent Garden’s former glory as a market. The small armoured windows set high on the rain-drenched sides of the big six-wheeler were blacked out, the driving cab door locked.
From the outside there was no sign of life in the vehicle. Inside things were different. It was brightly lit and much alive. One end was dominated by the communications system, the other by the operations table. From a console the controller could select frequency channels, switch transmitters and receivers, activate loud-speakers, handle landlines to the telephone exchange, and oversee transcribers. Between the two ends there were built-in desks with cupboards beneath, bookshelves over; yacht-like settees found space along the sides, and vertical map screens with sections of London stood on either side of the operations table. On it there was a large-scale plan and blown-up aerial photo of Spender Street and its immediate surroundings.
The five members of the Operations Sub-Committee and Barlov sat round the table, the General at its head. They were supported by Commander Barrington, Head of the Yard’s bomb squad, two Special Branch inspectors, a Metropolitan Police inspector, a scientist with burn scars on a face which had neither eyebrows nor lashes, and an official from the Thames Water Authority, Bob Yale, an ebullient Yorkshireman with a complexion like raw beef. The low voices of those in the command vehicle, the intermittent chatter of loud speakers and the hum of petrol-driven generators, wove a distinctive, never-ceasing pattern of sound.
The console operator tore a transcriber tape against the cutter bar and passed it to the General. ‘From GPO Tracing Section, Sir, by landline. Transcript of the Brussels conversation.’
The General read it against the steady buzz of R/T chatter. Gale was talking by radio to Whisky Bravo Seven – one of the three Thames Water Authority vehicles standing by in the area. The man with the facial burns was murmuring technical jargon into a hand-mike. At another Dugald McGann was talking by telephone to 56 Spender Street. The Special Branch inspector was still handling Whisky Bravo Five.
One way and another a lot was happening.
The General passed the transcriber tape to George Isaacson. ‘It’s in French. Barakat’s Brussels chat. Brussels wanted to know local, US and Soviet buyers’ reactions to the terms of sale. Barakat said
favourable. He expects a firm offer in the morning. He asked Brussels if there were any changes in the original terms of sale. The Brussels man said, “No, no changes.” Barakat said, ‘Still the lots?’ and Brussels replied, “Yes. I’m afraid that’s essential. There is definitely no change, but from what you say they’re not going to be necessary.” He wished him good luck, said goodbye and that was that.’
Isaacson said, ‘Is your French good?’
‘I hope so. I was military attaché in Paris for two years. In Brussels with NATO for another two.’
‘Sorry,’ said Isaacson. ‘Mine isn’t highly reliable. I wanted to make sure. It’s evident they expect acceptance. That exchange on top of the chat just recorded in Fifty-Six. What do you make of the reference to “lots”?’
‘Most interesting bit of the conversation, I thought. Might be a code word. Lots could be used in the context of a sale.’
‘It’s possibly more basic than that.’ Isaacson blinked at the General through thick lenses. ‘Brussels said, “I’m afraid that’s essential”. Afraid? Isn’t that an expression of regret?’ The Principal Scientific Adviser leant forward on the operations table. ‘They’re a fatalistic people. It could mean drawing lots, something unpleasant. Sacrificial.’
‘You may well be right. Fits in with Hanna and Souref’s references to “the one”.’
‘One remains behind.’ Isaacson made a steeple with his fingers. ‘I seem to recall your belief, General, that there would be a period immediately before the expiry of the time limit when all the Palestinians would have gone. You thought our bomb disposal people could then go in and make it safe.’
‘I was wrong,’ said the General. ‘Nice of you to remind me.’ He turned to Barlov. ‘Ask Ascher what he makes of “the one”.’
Barlov called Ascher on the landline and put the question.
Ascher’s reply was immediate. ‘Yes. That was Jakob Kahn’s assumption when he outlined the operational plan. Someone, he said, would probably remain behind to deal with an electric failure or outside interference.’
‘Extraordinary idea,’ said the General.
‘Not really,’ said Barlov. ‘The sacrificial concept is strong in terrorist philosophy.’
Dugald McGann put down the phone he’d been using. ‘They’re all set to start in Fifty-Six. Just waiting for the word from you, General.’
‘Good. I think we should go to fifteen minutes notice. Is that agreed?’ It was, and the console operator transmitted “alert fifteen” on the Whisky Bravo general call-sign. The acknowledgements came through, and he said, ‘There’s a hitch on Whisky Bravo Seven.’
The scientist with the burn scars reached for a mike. He spoke in the gentle voice which was becoming familiar to those in the command vehicle. When he’d finished he said, ‘They’re changing a defective valve on a cyclinder. Another ten to fifteen minutes.’
The General looked at the clock. ‘Brings us to two-forty. That’s acceptable. We want the water to come on stream at two forty-five.’
‘No problem,’ said Gale.
‘Has Whisky Bravo Five finished with Barakat yet?’ asked the General.
The Special Branch inspector said, ‘He’s just reported Barakat crossing Whitcomb Street, Sir … travelling east … it’s still raining.’
‘Good heavens,’ said the General. ‘Tell him to abort at once and return to base.’
‘Will do, sir.’
The General spoke to the Commissioner. ‘No point in following him now. The object of the exercise was to monitor the chat with Brussels. I imagine tailing’s a dodgy operation at this time of the morning. Don’t want to alarm Barakat. We know he’s returning to Spender Street. The sooner he gets there the better.’
Dugald McGann said, ‘Special Branch tails aren’t easily spotted, General.’
‘Here we go then,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Violin music, please.’
‘They’re a sight better than your CID tails,’ muttered McGann.
‘What’s that, Dugald?’
‘Nothing, Brian. I was thinking aloud.’
‘Bad habit for a Special Branch man.’
‘Come, come,’ said the General. ‘Do I detect inter-service rivalry?’
There was knocking on the front entrance to 56 Spender Street. Parry, the Special Branch man on duty in the darkened hallway, waited, puzzled. The front door was not to be used during the operation. Who would be wanting to come in that way at twenty to three in the morning? He wondered if it was the landlord, but then recalled that he had a key.
The knocking grew louder, more urgent. Parry went to the door, unlocked and opened it. A tall man in a rain-soaked overcoat, water streaming down his face, stared at him. Parry, conscious that someone in the Mocal premises opposite might be watching, said, ‘Come in.’
The tall man hesitated, the Special Branch man reached out, pulled him in and shut and locked the door. He shone a torch in the man’s face. ‘Who are you and what do you want?
‘Never mind that bull. I want to see her. And take that bloody light out of my eyes.’
‘See who?’ Parry smelt liquor.
‘You know who. Ruth Meyer. Where is she?’
‘Never heard of her. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?’ Parry took his arm.
‘Don’t touch me, you stupid bastard.’ The tall man pushed the hand away. ‘You’ve got her upstairs. I’ve been checking up. She comes to you at any old time, doesn’t she?’ He glared, swaying and belching. ‘Randy bloody Casanova, aren’t you?’
Parry’s tone changed. He took a firm hold of the other man’s arm. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. There was a sharp scuffle, heavy breathing, cursing and then the handcuffs were on. The Special Branch man said, ‘You’re under arrest. Attempted break-in.’
‘You lying bastard. You let me in. What’s going on?’ His eyes were frightened and angry at the same time.
‘You’d better co-operate unless you want to land yourself in worse trouble. Now. Let’s have your name and address.’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘Right. We’ll soon fix that.’ Parry felt inside his raincoat, brought out a mike, spoke into it. ‘Parry here. Ask the Chief to come down for a moment. It’s urgent.’
There was the sound of a door opening on the first floor. A torch beam shone from above and a man came down the stairs. It was Chief Superintendent McFagan. ‘What’s the trouble, Parry?’
‘This man, Chief. Trying to force the front door. I’ve put him under arrest. Attempted break-in.’
‘We heard some knocking. Thought it was the back door,’ said McFagan.
‘He’s lying,’ said the tall man. ‘I knocked on the door. He let me in. I want to see Ruth Meyer.’ He belched. ‘It’s my bloody right, isn’t it? She’s my girl. I know she’s here.’
The Chief Superintendent shone a torch in the man’s face. ‘You’ve been drinking. There’s no Ruth Meyer here.’ He turned to Parry. ‘Hand him over to the uniformed constable in Tanswill Lane. He’s to be held at Bow Street overnight for SB questioning in the morning. They’re not to take a statement. We’ll see to that. Make it snappy. I’ll keep an eye on things here until you get back.’
The tall man, querulous and chastened, went quietly, muttering about his Member of Parliament, the Ombudsman and the Association of Advertising Consultants.
‘He wanted to see you, Ruth.’ The Chief Superintendent looked at her quizzically. ‘Tall chap. Dark moustache. Not bad looking. Advertising man, I think.’
Ruth Meyer’s eyes went wide with surprise. ‘My God! Johnnie Peters. How on earth did he know about this place?’
‘Says he’s been checking up on you. Know him?’
Ascher said, ‘She knows him intimately.’
‘Drop dead, Shalom.’ She glared at him, turned back to the Chief Superintendent. ‘Yes. I do know him. Where is he now?’
‘On his way to Bow Street. Handcuffed. He’ll spend the night in a cell. Cooling off.’
‘Oh, poor Johnnie.�
� She was torn between tears and laughter. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Essential,’ said Ascher, looking rather pleased with himself. ‘All this scenario needed was your drunken boyfriend doing his Romeo to your Juliet. Business and pleasure don’t mix, Ruth.’
‘Get lost. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Love’s Labour Lost, more likely,’ said the Chief Superintendent. ‘He might have wrecked the whole show.’
25
Barakat replaced the handset in the call-box in Leicester Square, turned up the collar of his raincoat and set off for the parking garage in Whitcomb Street. It was raining but he scarcely noticed it. The Brussels call had left him disturbed. Somehow he’d hoped there would be a change. Admittedly the outlook was good, but they were dealing with politicians and there could be delays. Yet the message was ‘no change’. Ka’ed was making no allowances for delays or any sort of negotiation. If the ultimatum was not accepted by noon, that was it. After the Prime Minister had spoken at ten o’clock they’d know. Then, if there was to be no acceptance, they’d draw lots. Barakat was not afraid of that. In a way it would be better, much better, to die. He was deeply troubled about the morality of what they might have to do. Even in the planning stage he’d had reservations about that, but Ka’ed had talked him round. Now that the climax was approaching the implications bore on him in a frightening way. It was one thing to take part in an operation where a few people might be killed. That was part of the price for an independent Palestine. But to kill and maim hundreds of thousands? That would be something with which he could not live afterwards. It would be better to die with them than to live. In the few minutes since he’d left the call-box he’d made his decision. He would elect to stay if that were going to be necessary. There would be no lots.
He collected the Volvo in Whitcomb Street, drove it down to the exit barrier, paid the parking fee, bade the attendant ‘goodnight’, got an answering ‘it’s morning, man’, and accelerated out through a curtain of rain. At Panton Street he turned left into the Haymarket, travelled down it to Orange Street where he went left again and travelled east along it. His destination was the National Car Park in Drury Lane, one within easy walking distance of Spender Street.