Ultimatum

by Antony Trew

  For the main part the members of the Ground Force worked in silence as they made ready their equipment but when they did speak they had to raise their voices to make themselves heard above the din outside.

  Hamadeh said, ‘Zeid won’t risk coming now. Not with all this business going on.’

  Souref nodded. ‘You’re right. Too risky. Someone coming into business premises at three o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Three-fifteen,’ said Hanna. ‘They would have to choose this morning.’

  ‘You can’t choose when water mains burst, Hanna.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Najib.’

  In the street the deafening noise of the jack-hammers rose and fell from one crescendo to another, the occasional intervals of their silence filled with the thump and roar of the compressors.

  Three of the Palestinians had moved into the stockroom to get away from the worst of the noise, but they kept the door half open so that they could see into the outer office where Daab sat at a desk near the big bale of carpets, the plastic switchboard at his elbow.

  Souref was sitting on a pile of rugs peeling an apple. ‘We have to …’ He paused.

  ‘We have to what?’ interrupted Hamadeh.

  ‘We have to admit they’re prompt. I mean they lost no time in getting here.’

  ‘How do we know?’ Hamadeh worried at his side-burns. His nerves were frayed and his tone was challenging. ‘That mains could have burst long ago. We wouldn’t have known about it if the police car hadn’t come. The water could have been running all night.’

  ‘Have it your own way.’ Souref adjusted the shoulder-holster strap which was chafing his armpit, and yawned. He turned to the girl on the rug beside him. ‘Are you all right, Hanna?’

  ‘No. I’m not.’ She made a face. ‘This room is terribly stuffy and I’m allergic to rugs next to my face. And that terrible noise … it’s impossible.’ The frustration in her voice gave way to pleading. ‘Tell me, Ibrahim. What d’you think can have happened to Zeid. I’m frightened. I can’t bear to think of the hours ahead.’

  He stroked her cheek, looked into her troubled eyes. ‘Don’t worry. All will be well. They are going to accept. We shan’t have to use it.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  He could see in the dim red light how frightened she was but hadn’t the heart to deceive her. ‘If they don’t – well – you know – we shall use it. El Ka’ed has no reservations about that. We are at war, Hanna. This is not a diplomatic exchange. It is a calculated act of war. They know that, too. And they know Ka’ed’s record. He doesn’t bluff. They will accept. If you don’t believe me, think of the US President’s and Brezhnev’s communiqués. There is every reason to accept. But for the loss of face I am certain the British – like the USA – welcome the ultimatum as a means of getting Israel off their backs, settling the Palestine issue and ensuring good oil terms for themselves. How many times must I tell you these things?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ibrahim. But Zeid? Where is he?’

  ‘How should I know. He may have been delayed by the Brussels call. He could have asked Brussels to put a question to Ka’ed for immediate reply. Brussels has to relay the question to Istanbul – then Istanbul to Damascus – Damascus to Beirut. The answer has to come the same way. It can be a long business. And even when it is settled – which it may already have been – Zeid comes back here, sees the activity in the street and has to keep away. There’s always a reasonable explanation to these things.’

  She put out her hand, touched his face. ‘Thank you, Ibrahim. You are very patient with me. I’m supposed to be tougher than I look. But I sometimes wonder. This is so different from anything we’ve done before. It’s like a bad dream. A very bad dream, when you come to think of it.’

  Ahmad Daab called out from the front office, ‘You two keep talking. You’re supposed to be resting. No wonder Hanna’s nervy.’ He sat back again, his ear to the radio receiver, his thoughts confused by the pop music which poured from it, the noises from the street, the difficulty of hearing what his companions were saying, his thoughts about the carpet bale behind him, and the sight of the black switch at his elbow.

  ‘About there.’ Ascher made a cross with a pencil low down on the wall which number 37 shared with 39.

  ‘What’s the height of the shelving?’ asked Joliffe.

  ‘About two metres. It’s filled with pattern books.’

  ‘Can you recall seeing any metallic objects along that side of the wall? Plumbing, heaters, anything like that?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that which I can remember. But I couldn’t see behind the shelving.’

  ‘You’re certain it’s in there?’ said the Gas Board man.

  ‘Absolutely. We know from the bug-chat when they brought the bale of carpets in. They couldn’t get it through the door into the stockroom. Too big.’ Ascher ran his hands through his hair. ‘And we’ve heard enough in the last few hours to confirm that it’s in the front office. Right in there with them.’

  ‘Good. That’s the site for number one inlet, then.’ The Gas Board man put a white chalk mark over Ascher’s pencilled cross.

  Joliffe poked tentatively at his steel spectacles. ‘Ideally, the second inlet should be approximately six feet …’

  ‘Two metres,’ interrupted the Gas Board man staring at the scientist’s bald head.

  Joliffe blinked nervously through thick lenses. ‘If you wish. As I was saying … about six feet to the left of the first inlet – that is, towards the centre of the compartment.’

  The Gas Board man’s chalk hovered. ‘That’s right, then?’

  ‘A little lower,’ suggested Joliffe, adding, ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Any snags at that point on the other side, Ascher?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Still can’t guarantee the wall behind the shelving to be free of obstacles.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Joliffe. ‘One understands that.’

  ‘Best carry out the test before we go any further.’ McFagan pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch, looked at them speculatively, changed his mind and put them away.

  The Gas Board man unplugged the lead on the drill and moved to the wall separating the front office from the one at the back. ‘I’ll drill at this point,’ he said, indicating it.

  Zol Levi went into the back office, shutting the door behind him. The Gas Board man drilled the hole through the wall.

  Levi came back. ‘Couldn’t hear a thing,’ he said. ‘The jack-hammers win by a ton.’

  ‘Good.’ Joliffe cleared his throat. ‘I feel we should now make a start, gentlemen.’ It was as if he were inviting them to sit down to the first course.

  ‘Okay with me.’ said McFagan. ‘How about you, Ascher?’

  ‘Fine. Let’s go.’

  The Gas Board man unplugged the lead and they moved back to the wall which 37 shared with the Mocal premises. He plugged in again, placed the bit on the chalk mark and began drilling while Joliffe and his assistant moved the cylinders and coils of plastic piping into position. Levi was thinking what a weird scene it was: dim red light reflected on men doing strange things while others watched, and outside the ceaseless staccato of jack-hammers. He wondered if those around him suffered as he did from a heart which thumped against its rib-cage, and breath which came unevenly.

  The Gas Board man felt the bit break through and released the trigger. He looked to the desk where Ascher was sitting, a hand cupped over the earphone as he listened for indications of disquiet on the far side of the wall. Evidently there were none, for the Israeli cocked a thumb in an ‘all’s well’ signal.

  Before withdrawing the drill, the Gas Board man slid a steel clip along the bit until it touched the wall. He nodded to Joliffe and the Porton Down boffin took the open end of a plastic pipe which led from a gas cylinder and worked it gently into the freshly-drilled hole. When he judged it to be half-way he stopped, clamped the pipe in position, and sealed the space around it with a malleable compound.

  The
Gas Board man shifted the drill to the mark for the second inlet and triggered the drill. Shortly before he expected the bit to break through it came up against a hard object. He stopped, withdrew the bit, examined its tip. ‘It’s no good,’ he said to Joliffe. ‘There’s something metallic on the far side.’ He exchanged the old bit for a new one.

  ‘Try a foot to the left – and six inches higher,’ suggested Joliffe.

  The Gas Board man selected the new position and began drilling. There was no problem this time, the bit soon broke through, and Joliffe fitted the second pipe into the hole. He clamped and sealed it, then checked the pressure gauge readings on the cylinders. ‘We’re ready now.’ He took a stop-watch from his pocket. ‘On respirators, please. Then, as soon as you give the word, I’ll open the valves.’

  They were busy putting on respirators when there was a sharp hiss from Ascher and his hand went up in urgent warning.

  ‘Stop everything.’ He spat the words at them.

  Eight Hours To Go

  27

  Ascher had heard Hanna Nasour complaining about the impossibility of resting, let alone sleeping, while the noise in the street persisted. ‘I haven’t slept for twenty-four hours,’ she said, adding with a touch of hysteria, ‘This noise is driving me round the bend.’

  Souref had backed her up, suggested that those off watch should rest in the cloakroom in the back-yard. They could take rugs and make themselves reasonably comfortable. At least there would be freedom from the worst of the noise.

  After some discussion Hamadeh and Daab had agreed, undertaking to call them at five o’clock when they were due to come on watch. It was when Daab said, ‘That’s right, Hanna. Take those Kashan rugs, they’re soft,’ that Ascher had hissed his warning and held up his hand. When he was satisfied that the off-watch Palestinians had left the front office, he gave Levi the task of listening to the Mocal bugs. To McFagan he said, ‘There’s a complication. I must get on to the command vehicle at once.’ He picked up the mike, gave the call sign, got an answering, ‘Go ahead Bravo Whisky Three,’ and asked for Barlov. Moments later he heard the Colonel’s voice.

  Ascher said, ‘We have a complication here. Have stopped work temporarily. I’ll report again shortly. Over.’

  Barlov replied, ‘Roger, Bravo Whisky Three.’

  The members of the Ground Force removed their respirators and Ascher outlined the problem. ‘This is serious,’ he said. ‘We have an entirely new situation. Hanna and Souref have gone to rest in the cloakroom at the back of the yard. They get there through a passageway open to the sky. It’s about twenty-five feet long. Bounded on one side by the walls of the stockroom and cloakroom. On the other by an eight-foot brick wall.’

  ‘What’s on the other side of that?’ asked McFagan.

  ‘A more or less identical passageway. It belongs to number Forty-One. Occupied by a firm of coffee brokers.’ Ascher fidgeted with his beard. ‘A little more than halfway down the Mocal passageway there’s an open yard, about fifteen by ten feet, off to the right. The cloakroom door opens on to its south side. The cloakroom is about ten by six. A WG at the far end occupies roughly one-third of that area. The remaining two-thirds has the hand basin, wash-up sink, roller towel, etcetera. Adjoining the WC there’s an old coal shed. No longer used. Now a junk store.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Joliffe, ‘but disastrous. HXC324 is a splendid toxic agent, odourless, colourless, lethal, but like most gases it won’t run down open passageways.’ There was a tense discussion then on the possibility of introducing gas into the cloakroom, but it was soon dismissed. The Palestinians on watch would be relieved in about an hour. There was no safe place from which to drill into the cloak-room. Street noises made by the trench diggers would not reach so far back with the intensity needed and, finally, Joliffe was doubtful if his two cylinders could produce enough gas for a second operation.

  At this stage the Special Branch man operating the R/T was heard to say, ‘Go ahead, Whisky Bravo One. Over.’

  The others watched him closely, heard his ‘Roger, Whisky Bravo One. Will do.’ He spoke to McFagan. ‘Message from the command vehicle, sir. Two men are on their way over. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  The ‘two men’ who arrived soon afterwards, turned out to be the General and Colonel Barlov. Ruth Meyer, listening in Number 56 to the Mocal bugs, had heard the decision that those off watch should rest in the cloakroom and reported immediately to the Command vehicle. As it was not practical to discuss this with Ascher over the air the General and Barlov had come to 37.

  ‘Well.’ The General rubbed his hands with the air of a man about to do business. ‘Let’s have your appreciation of the situation, Ascher. You know the lie of the land next door, you know die Palestinians and their habits, and you’ve heard all they’ve said.’

  Ascher described the lay-out of 39 and dwelt on the limitations imposed by the new situation – two Palestinians with the warhead in the front office, two resting outside – and no possibility of getting at the latter with Joliffe’s HXC324.

  ‘What are the possible courses of action?’ Instinctively the General addressed his question to Ascher who appeared to have assumed command.

  ‘Only one worth considering. The watches change at five. That’s in about forty-five minutes. If we introduce gas into the front office now, the Palestinians outside may come back at any moment and find Daab and Hamadeh unconscious. Joliffe says his gas requires from three to five minutes to induce unconsciousness, ten to fifteen to kill. Taking the first factor, there’d be time for Hanna and Souref to detonate the warhead before they lost consciousness.’

  ‘What is your proposal?’

  ‘We delay the introduction of gas. I know the lay-out at the back. I’ve been over it before. We use one of the Water Authority vans. Get into it and ask the driver to back down Spender Street past 39 and park outside 41. We force the door of 41, go in through the premises to the passageway at the back. It runs parallel to 39’s and shares an eight-foot wall with it. When we’re in position at the far end we give the go-ahead by R/T and Joliffe opens the gas valves. Five minutes later we go over the wall and drop down outside the cloakroom.’

  The General said, ‘And then?’

  ‘We knock on the door. They’ll think they’re being called to go on watch. They’ll come out.’

  ‘And when they do?’

  ‘We kill them.’

  The General frowned in parade-ground fashion. ‘Sounds rather drastic. Is that really necessary?’

  ‘How else can we make sure they won’t warn those inside?’

  ‘Killing can be a rowdy business, Ascher.’

  ‘Not the way we do it. And not with those noises in the street.’

  ‘I don’t much like the idea.’

  ‘Do you like the idea of hundreds of thousands of Londoners being killed and maimed?’

  The General looked into the intense eyes set deep in the bearded face, bathed in the red light of the camping torch. In that moment he was glad he wasn’t resting in 39’s cloakroom. ‘You’re satisfied you can deal with the two outside without disturbing those inside?’

  ‘As satisfied as we can be. There are no certainties in this situation. And there are no alternatives.’

  ‘Other than to give in, Ascher. The politicians like the idea.’

  ‘Of course they do. And we know why. But, if they did, what guarantee would they have that other, probably more extravagant, demands would not follow? Blackmailers aren’t interested in the one-off business.’

  Ascher was preaching to the converted. This was a point the General had hammered home at meetings of the ad hoc Committee.

  ‘That, Ascher, is a very good question. One to which I believe there is no satisfactory answer. Now tell me. Who will go over the wall?’

  ‘Zol Levi and myself.’

  The general sat chin in hand, deep in thought, before he turned to Barlov. ‘What do you think of this, Barlov?’

  ‘I agree with Ascher’s vie
w.’

  ‘I thought you might. Yours, McFagan?’

  The Chief Superintendent didn’t answer immediately. By instinct and training he preferred to think things over before expressing a view. ‘I agree.’ He said it cautiously. ‘Subject to Moynihan and Barrett acting in close support. Things can go wrong. We have an overriding responsibility. With my men there, the chances of failure are reduced.’

  The General nodded. ‘I support that.’

  Ascher frowned. I’m not too happy about that. In my experience the smaller the number engaged in cloak-and-dagger stuff the better.’

  There was some discussion then, but McFagan was insistent and in the end Ascher gave way on condition the Special Branch men kept well behind and only interfered if such action became absolutely essential.

  ‘Respirators?’ enquired the General.

  ‘They cramp a man’s style,’ said Ascher. ‘We shouldn’t need them. Moynihan can keep some on his side of the wall. We’ll shout if we want them and he can throw them over.’

  The General asked his final question. ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Coshes, combat knives, automatics.’

  ‘Handguns are noisy.’

  Ascher smiled. ‘Not ours.’

  28

  The wind from the south-west had freshened, bringing more rain, heightening the darkness so that the men standing inside the doorway at the back of Number 41 could see nothing.

  Ascher said, ‘Give the CV the go-ahead.’

  Barrett, the Special Branch man, pressed the speak-button. ‘Whisky Bravo Five calling Whisky Bravo One.’

  There was an answering, ‘Go ahead, Whisky Bravo Five.’

  ‘Water main requires new valves,’ said Barrett.

  From the command vehicle came, ‘Roger, Whisky Bravo Five. Will do.’

  Ascher looked at the illuminated dial of his watch: 4.25 am. The gas would be going in within seconds. By four-thirty they should be able to go over the wall. In the darkness he touched Moynihan’s arm. ‘Fine. We’ll get into position. As soon as Barrett receives the okay, come down and join us. Okay?’