Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  "Right on time, Liam," the man said, the door only half open. He stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking from face to face, pausing on the man with the carbine before coming to rest on Suzy as she watched him. He was big, taller than Abou and broader, a white seaman's sweater straining across his shoulders and around the massive bulk of his chest. Dark hair was flecked grey and a scar on his cheek showed with a blue tinge to it, the way flesh sometimes heals from a bullet wound. "Well now?" he growled softly. "What's this, a British gunboat?"

  "Shouldn't you identify yourself?" Abou asked coldly.

  The man opened the door to its full extent and stepped forward, his very bulk threatening everybody in the cabin. "The name's Reilly. Big Reilly to most - to separate me from Liam," he looked at Suzy. "And you'll be Suzy Katoul," he jerked his head at the commando. "And if you've an ounce of sense you'll tell him to put that thing down - before I wrap it round his bloody neck."

  "Reilly?" she saw the resemblance immediately. It was in the eyes. Except that these lacked the amused irony so characteristic of the other face. These were cold and pitiless.

  "Where's Liam?" he looked straight through her. "I'm his brother."

  "There's been an accident," Abou said, needing to assert himself quickly. "A bad one. We've lost some men and we've a badly injured man below."

  "Liam," Big Reilly said, dead-voiced and threatening.

  "The cargo shifted," Abou lied in a firm strong voice. "We were turned over by a Customs boat a few miles out. They interfered with the crates. Afterwards one of the stacks collapsed. We thought we'd got it under control, but then another stack fell on top of it. I was below and Liam was helping. By the time I got up one of my men was overboard. I'm not sure what went wrong, it all happened so quickly. More crates toppled - Liam and Pat Brady were round the back - we heard a shout - it was dark - when I got there they were nowhere."

  "Nowhere?" Doubt and incredulity were written all over Reilly's face.

  "They must have been unconscious when they hit the water," Abou said. "Knocked out by the falling crates. We put a boat down and searched for half an hour," he paused, knowing the worst was said and watching the other man's face for a reaction. "We lost one of our own men as well - and we've another badly injured."

  Reilly's eyes went as dead as the last embers of a dying fire. "And you found nothing? Liam, falling off the stern of a boat? Liam, who's been at sea all his life?"

  "Not falling," Abou corrected. "We think he was knocked overboard by the collapsing cargo - in the dark on a choppy sea in a howling wind. It's all that could have happened, isn't it?"

  The "isn't it" was the hook. A test to see if Reilly had swallowed the lie.

  "You're telling me Liam's dead?" Reilly said.

  "We searched," Abou said, and carefully went through the story again.

  Listening, Suzy thought he might have been comforting a child. It was his dark brown voice, all soothing and reassuring, the one he used on her when they had argued or after he had beaten her. When he explained it was all for her own good. Oh Christ, why do I feel the way I do about him? she thought.

  Abou finished, "We searched for at least half an hour. Three men lost in the space of so many minutes. Three brave men."

  "You put a boat down, you say?" Reilly's bleak eyes bored into him. "And Pat Brady, too?" he shook his head like a fighter recovering from a blow. Expressions flickered across his face, comprehension mingled with shock as he paled and the scar on his cheek throbbed a deeper shade of blue. Liam dead! Liam and Pat Brady! And one of their men? His gaze wandered around the deckhouse, past the radar scanner and the depth sounder to the chart table. A pack of Liam's cigarettes lay open beside the sextant, four remaining from the original twenty. He stared, then reached for one as his other hand fumbled through pockets for a match. He smoked in silence, withdrawn, alone with the memories of a lifetime, while the pungent tobacco smell filled the cabin like incense in a church. Abou began to say something, but Reilly's look chilled him into silence.

  The cigarette in Reilly's hand was almost finished when he spoke. He cleared his throat noisily. "Liam left a wife and two kids. And Pat supported a widowed mother. My grief can wait its turn, now's a time to be practical."

  Abou needed every ounce of self-control to suppress his excitement, inwardly he shook but no hint of his feelings showed on his face. "We've had a rough trip," he said. "I'm sorry it's you we've had to break the news to, but I'd like you to know we're all in debt to your brother. It was his quick thinking which saved us. The coastguard would have taken the boat apart if he hadn't convinced them otherwise." He paused, judging the effect of his words and allowing time to lend weight to their meaning. "Debts should always be paid to brave men. Do I make myself clear? We've access to funds and would like to show our gratitude. We'll make proper financial arrangements - you have my word on that."

  Reilly's head lifted slowly and he stared at the other man, keen-eyed despite his grief. Abou submitted to the searching inspection without flinching. He sensed Reilly wanting to believe and exulted as he watched lingering suspicions begin to fade. Convince this man, he told himself, and there'll be no trouble. Convince him, convince him. Aloud he said, "We're all soldiers. We know how tragic it is to lose brave men. But we've the living to answer to now. My men are desperately tired, the man below needs a doctor and your men are in danger so long as this cargo remains out in the open."

  Big Reilly straightened. It was right to think of the men, it was as it should be. "Very well," he growled, "we'll talk later. It makes sense to get the cargo out the way. Tell your men to put up their guns Mister, they'll need their hands for other work."

  Abou nodded, his grave face showing none of his triumph. He signalled to the men outside while the commando next to him carefully set his carbine down next to the chart table. Big Reilly turned to the door with Abou a pace behind him. The Plan had docked safely in Ireland.

  1400 Wednesday

  Ross made a sound like wire scraping tin by scratching the side of his jaw with his gloved left hand. It was artificial of course. Only the thumb and forefinger worked, like a claw, a shiny black skin covered claw. He said, "Okay Archie, where are we at?"

  Archie Dorfman stared back across a table still littered with the debris of our lunchtime meal. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and his well-muscled frame would need all the help Spitari's Health Farm could give it in a few years' time. Even in the air-conditioned chill of Ross's office the heat was getting to him. Or maybe Ross was.

  "We're nowhere," he answered miserably. "At least we weren't an hour ago."

  Swearing softly Ross heaved himself up from his chair and walked to the wall map. He pointed to a dab of blue just out from the English Channel. "The Marisa was hit around here, right? About three in the morning. Then it ran like a scalded cat to Cherbourg where it docked at six. LeClerc was there three hours later and had a general alarm out by ten. So the raiders got a seven hour start, right?"

  Dorfman still looked unhappy. "That was some boat they had. Forty-five foot, hairy engines, could make twenty-five knots on a calm sea."

  "And was it?"

  "It wasn't rough."

  Ross calculated. "So they could have been two hundred miles away when the balloon went up?"

  Dorfman nodded.

  "Hell, they still had to cross some of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. Someone must have seen them?"

  "We've traced every ship known to have been in the vicinity. Even interviewed some of the crew." Dorfman shrugged. "Not much so far."

  "Anything at all?" Ross demanded.

  "The description of the launch could have been better," Dorfman grumbled. "Trouble was the Marisa's crew were kept well clear of the rails, so nobody's been that specific. But the harbour authorities of seven countries have been circulated with the best possible description. If it shows up almost anywhere in Europe, we'll know about it."

  "And?" Ross persisted.

  "We're checking all angles
," Dorfman sounded as tired as he looked. "Lloyd's Register, coastguard reports, the Royal Navy, yacht clubs, fishermen, marine service yards," he gestured helplessly. "It's a lot of territory, but we're covering it."

  "We?"

  "Indirectly - we've got cover through the various national narcotics agencies. Story is we're looking for a boatload of cocaine."

  Ross returned to the table and slumped into his chair. "You got anything, Paul?"

  LeClerc busied himself with the files laid out in front of him. "Suzy Katoul's apartment is under observation. Nobody's been near it in twenty-four hours, no mail, no phone calls, no—"

  Ross snorted. "Stable doors. The horse bolted forty-eight hours ago. How's the ident going?"

  "Suzy Katoul has been positively identified by the Marisa's First Officer and two of the crew."

  "And the men? The three in the life-raft?"

  LeClerc shook his head. "No positive ID."

  "What about voice prints?"

  "They've heard all we've got - nothing so for."

  Ross scowled. "So Suzy's working with hired hands. Not known members of any Palestinian organisation ."

  "Maybe," LeClerc sounded doubtful. "But the voice print library is still limited," he hesitated. "Even the one at Langley."

  Ross shifted his gaze to the next man at the table. "Any political noises?"

  "Nobody's claimed credit for the heist yet, if that's what you mean," the man said.

  "No, that's not what I mean," Ross growled. "That would be too much to hope for. That would be a positive lead for once," he shook his head. "Anyone been speaking out of turn, shooting his mouth off more than usual?"

  The man squared a dozen sheets of loose paper into a neat pack before answering. It was characteristic somehow - everything about him was neat. Neat linen shirt under a grey lightweight suit, silk socks worn with suspenders inside black shoes. He had arrived just before the meeting and Ross hadn't introduced him.

  "Arafat's in Moscow," he read from the papers, "and hasn't made a public speech in weeks. George Habash is in retreat in Lebanon; Mahamed Achmed is in South America, probably Cuba; Begin is on holiday; Sadat is—"

  "Not where they are," Ross interrupted. "What they're saving."

  "Nobody's saying anything," the neat little man shook his head. "At least not within the last forty-eight hours. Nothing worth reporting anyway."

  "Any Russian moves?"

  "Not apart from Arafat being in Moscow. But that may not be significant. He's been angling for an invitation for years now. So far it's all low key - at least so far as we know."

  Ross frowned and looked out of the window. He was quiet for a moment and then he flicked a wad of typescript with his thumb nail. It was the transcript of my recording session with the doctor. "I've read this," he looked at me. "Only thing missing is Noah's Ark. What the hell are you doing down there - giving a history lesson?"

  I nodded at the doctor two places away. "I started where he wanted, I can stop just as easily."

  Ross and I played our game of staring each other down and the doctor said, "Start halfway in these things and you risk missing something."

  "Oh?" Ross turned to him. "Well can't we speed it up a bit? You're supposed to be giving me a profile on Suzy Katoul. Knowing her grandfather belched in church isn't going to help."

  The doctor was lost for an answer to that, so we adjourned to the studio downstairs. LeClerc shuffled behind the bar and grinned at me from across the mahogany counter. The shelves behind him carried enough booze to stock a nightclub. In fact, the whole place had that kind of atmosphere. Dim lights with the occasional spot behind potted greenery, the smell of sweat doused in cologne, deep padded chairs and a thick carpet which stopped a foot away from a small stage.

  "Drink?" LeClerc upended a glass.

  "Only if you take American Express," I hooked myself over a stool and watched the doctor emerge from the shadows. He was still wearing his Harley Street suit and plastic smile. "It's on the house, Mr. Brand."

  I accepted a scotch and nodded at the platform. "Very intimate. Who's on tonight? A big name or a local tart?"

  The doctor contrived to look shocked, which was difficult with a face like his.

  Israel, 1948. The birth of a nation. At the time, journalists poured words out by the thousand and since then historians have written fifty times as many. The stink of the gas chambers still fouled the air of Europe and the world's conscience cried out at the fate of the Jews. For many, what happened in '48 was a sequel to the Second World War. To me, even looking back, it was a fragmented nightmare, a sick joke, orchestrated by Lewis Carroll without his marbles, the Maddest Mad Hatter's Tea Party of all. There had been a chance of peace in '47. Slim, but a chance all the same. Something worth hanging on to. But thanks to the apathy of the watching world, the incompetence of politicians, the greed of vested interests and the sheer breathtaking bigotry of a few - the Holy Lands were once again to be plunged into war.

  After the UN vote, I stayed on at the Imperial for a while, watching the pus bubble up from Palestine's open sores. Arabs attacked Jews, Jews attacked Arabs. There was violence even in Jerusalem as a hundred and five thousand Arabs swapped more than nervous glances with a hundred thousand Jews - all of them living in the shadow of the British guns. And as the rest of us prayed for some more positive UN involvement, Christmas came and went and Palestine stumbled into the new year like a drunk in a minefield. Only the lingering presence of the British prevented open warfare - and the British were leaving in May. Friendships which had endured generations strained and then snapped as both communities accepted the inevitability of war.

  During those months I saw a lot of the Katoul's. Time changed all of them. Nadi aged a year for every passing month, his sons turned militant and Haleem became even more beautiful. She flowered, somehow the tension-charged atmosphere boosted her adrenaline, quickened her step and put a flush to her cheeks. Unlike most Arab women she had always refused to accept a passive role in things, and as the weeks ticked past her political activities increased by leaps and bounds. If the Jews were to have Golda Meir then, it seemed, the Arabs would have Haleem Katoul. Not that Haleem ever joined the extremists - not for her the cry of "we'll drive them into the sea." But she desperately wanted to stay at Katamon and live in the house of her forefathers, in peace with her friends, Arab and Jew alike.

  But she struggled in vain. I remember one day in particular. Pierre Moreau and I were driving from the Jewish Agency to the French Consulate, through King George Avenue and Wauchope Street and along Julian's Way. Heavy firing had started and bullets were flying along most of the route, so that the car swerved and zigzagged like a stag outrunning a wolf pack. Even when we reached the Consulate, the atmosphere was heavy with tension. The Truce Commission was in session. The UN had sent a Belgian, an American, a Frenchman, a Norwegian and a Spaniard to sort things out. Dodge City might as well have hired a cripple for sheriff. I watched the Frenchman jump up and down while the Belgian twittered and the American pontificated and I remembered Nadi Katoul's sad little question on the night of the vote: "Was the League so successful?" I began to share his doubts. Not that he harboured them for long. Two days later he was dead.

  I had gone up to Katamon to visit, guessing the boys would be out but expecting to share a midday meal with Haleem and her father. In a few short weeks the place had become a battleground. The districts on either side were controlled by the Haggadah, and Katamon itself was on a ridge of high ground overlooking the Jewish positions. The strategic importance of the place was so obvious that the Haggadah had adopted a policy of trying to persuade the Arab families to leave, even offering armed escorts for families as they moved through the Jewish quarters to the Arab districts in the northwest of the city. Grimly I wondered what would happen if the persuasion failed. Or if the Haggadah ran out of patience - or even worse, if the Irgun or the Stern Gang took over.

  I parked against the villa's high wall and as I climbed out of the car Nadi
came down the steps laden with wicker baskets.

  He embraced me as always and when I asked where he was going he simply replied: "To feed the ducks." He meant the Jews of course. By then Jerusalem was a city of shortages as far as the Jews were concerned. The Arabs controlled most of the surrounding countryside and in spite of the British had begun to lay siege to the Jewish districts in the city. Except that Nadi was waging a one-man crusade to break the siege. No Jewish friend of his would go hungry - not while there was food on his table.

  "Take my car," I said. "It's safer." I pointed to the UN emblem daubed on the doors, no guarantee of immunity, but it improved the odds slightly.

  He shook his head, smiling up at the warm skies. "A day like today? The walk will do me good. Go, Haleem waits for you."

  So I went - and behind the cedar-wood door his daughter melted into my arms as I kissed her. It had been like that between us for weeks. God knows what sparked it off- maybe the whiff of cordite in the air or the ever-growing feeling that life was precious and short. Or perhaps the realisation that the only relief in a harsh world was to be found in the love which men and women sometimes share with one another. I don't remember either of us saying much that day. We just sat down and devoured each other with our eyes, holding hands and smiling with the trance-like contentment of people in love. And then the explosion rattled the shutters and tinkled the chandeliers, and white flakes of plaster showered all over us.