Snap Shot

by A. J. Quinnell

  He waited with nerves on edge: heard the scuff of a shoe, then the footfalls getting closer. He held his breath, willing his limbs to stay inert. The soldier was very close. There was a rattle of a stone kicked aside, a short grunting cough - then silence, apart from the sound of breathing.

  In those seconds Munger was aware of how much noise a human body generates: the thumping of his heart, even the beating of his pulse, the squelch as he gulped. Then there came another noise - a hissing and splashing. Moments later he smelt it. The bastard was taking a piss! He had a wild urge to laugh. Remembered as a child how he used to try to piss in as high an arc as possible. It had been a game at school. He had once pissed right through a latrine window six feet above the toilet. If this soldier tried it Munger would get wet. He heard the man sigh in relief and the few last splashing squirts against the bricks behind him. Then the footsteps moved away.

  Munger waited another minute and then took another peek over the wall. His way was clear. The trucks were obscured by the Nissen huts but there was a lot of noise from that direction: shouting voices, the clanging of metal against metal.

  He picked up his camera, took a look behind him and then put his right hand on top of the wall and vaulted over it. He ran in a crouch to the Nissen hut, edged to the end of it and very slowly peered around. The five Volvos were lined up with their rears to the open doors. He was looking from an angle of about sixty degrees and could see two fork-lift trucks as they manoeuvred to take off the cargo. There were dozens of soldiers: some inside the trucks, manhandling the drums, others just standing around. There were also several officers standing in a group watching. Also in the group were two men in white coats - the sort of coats worn by doctors and scientists. As the first two drums were lifted down by the prongs of the fork-lift these two men moved forward to inspect them.

  Munger raised his camera, through the view-finder he could see the black lettering on the yellow drums and the bright red seals.

  The two men in white coats leaned over and inspected the seals. They were in a jovial mood; he could clearly see their smiles. One of them patted the drum affectionately as Munger took his snap.

  It was the only one he got. He heard a sound to his left and his head jerked round. Two men were coming out of the mess building a hundred yards away. He was in full view.

  Only his camouflage saved him. He had the sense not to move. He was a chameleon, matching colour to habitat. He was in view for less than ten seconds before they passed in front of the Nissen hut. During that minute Munger came to understand the impact of the theory of relativity - it had felt like an hour. He cursed himself. He had got his angles wrong. By his estimation he should have been out of sight of the mess building. He had also been lucky, but he now had to make a decision. He was exposed. Others might come out at any moment. He only had one snap. Was it enough? It had to be. He was a professional - the image was on the film.

  He turned and scuttled back to the ruin and dived over the wall, rolling onto his back and cushioning the camera to his belly.

  There was only one more anxious moment that day: sitting in the culvert wondering whether Ahmed Nassir would pick him up. Wondering whether his cowardice would finally overcome his avarice.

  A dozen times he checked his watch and then he heard the car. It came slowly around the bend with the passenger door open. He leapt out of the culvert and ran along beside it for a few yards and then jumped in, bumping into Nassir’s shoulder and causing him to steer dangerously across the road. He laughed at Nassir’s squeal of panic and pulled the door closed behind him.

  ‘It’s done?’ Nassir asked as he stepped on the accelerator.

  ‘It’s done,’ Munger answered.

  ‘It’s all finished?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all finished.’

  Nassir grinned with relief. ‘So I get the other diamonds?’

  ‘Yes,’ Munger said as he twisted and struggled to pull off the camouflaged shirt. ‘First you drive to Baghdad - to the Sinbad. Then I do an hour’s work and then you get the diamonds.’

  ‘And you leave Baghdad . . . forever.’

  ‘For sure.’ Munger looked at his watch. ‘We won’t get to Baghdad before 9 o’clock, so I’ll miss the last flight. I’ll catch the Jordanian Airways in the morning. What you do, my friend, is drop me at the hotel and then come back an hour later and pick up your diamonds. And listen - don’t be stupid. Don’t start living in a lavish style. That’s how crooks get caught.’

  ‘I’m not a crook, Mr Munger,’ Nassir said. ‘I’ve stolen nothing; just rendered a service. If you want to know, I don’t support this regime. I go along with it because I have to. Oh, you can say I commit treason but then so do you. An Englishman working for the CIA - for the Americans. It’s no different.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Munger said placatingly. ‘Now please watch the road. Let’s get to Baghdad in one piece.’

  Nassir concentrated and drove well and they arrived outside the Sinbad Hotel just before 9 o’clock. Munger reached behind to the back seat for his bag, opened the door and said:

  ‘Come up to my room at 10 o’clock then.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  Munger shook his head. ‘I have something to do first.’ He could not explain that first he had to develop the negative and make sure that the snap was clear. If not, dread the thought, he would have to go back and try again and he would need Nassir. He could see the struggle on the Arab’s face, and the suspicion.

  ‘Relax, Ahmed. I won’t leave the room. Come up at 10 o’clock. Go and see your wife. Show her a good husband - a rich husband.’

  Nassir smiled sheepishly. He knew there were no flights out till the morning.

  ‘10 o’clock then,’ he said.

  Munger slapped him on the shoulder and watched him drive away. Then he went into the lobby, picked up his key from reception and checked for messages. There were none. He turned and walked across to the lifts and saw Pierre Renard about to enter one. He quickened his pace and Renard politely held back the door and ushered him in. As the lift started to move Munger asked very quietly:

  ‘Room number?’

  ‘302.’

  Those were the only words. At the third floor Renard walked out without a backward glance and Munger went on to the fifth floor and his own room.

  Two minutes later he was in the bathroom developing the negative. Half an hour later two contact prints were hanging up to dry. He studied one through a magnifying glass. It was perfect; the delineation crystal clear. He could read the black numbers and letters on the yellow drums. One of the white-coated men was in the act of patting a drum as though it were a pet poodle. The other was beaming at his colleague. Munger wondered who they were. Both were middle-aged and wore spectacles. They looked Arabic and they looked like scientists. Then again, they looked like doctors - it was the white coats.

  As soon as the prints were dry Munger wrapped one in cellophane together with the negative and slid it into a slit in the bottom of his shaving bag. By the next afternoon it would be on Walter Blum’s desk and his job would be over. However, he was going to give himself insurance. He had planned to put the other print in one of the ‘mail drops’ but decided that Pierre Renard was a safer bet. He put the print into an envelope and wrote on the front:

  ‘ORANGE ONE. FASTEST’

  He took the stairs instead of the lift, located 302 and slipped the envelope under the door.

  Back in his room he stripped off his shirt, unbuckled the money belt and extracted a folded square of paper containing Ahmed Nassir’s diamond bonus. Then he dropped the money belt into a drawer, poured himself a large vodka and soda and looked at his watch. It was 9.40.

  He was desperately tired and his eyes and head ached from the Dexedrine tablets he had taken to stay awake the night before. He went to the phone and rang Jordanian Airways and booked a seat out on the 8 o’clock flight. Then he rang reception and booked an alarm call for 6 o’clock. The only thing left now was to pay off Nassir. Ag
ain he looked at his watch: 9.50.

  The tap on the door came five minutes later and Munger smiled. Nassir was impatient. He picked up the square of paper and went over to the door. He would get it over with quickly. No drinks, no celebration.

  He opened the door with a smile and found himself looking at Sami Asaf. On each side of him were two men holding sub-machine guns. Behind them were four other men.

  Sami’s face was bleak. ‘Ahmed Nassir sends his regrets,’ he said. ‘He was unavoidably detained.’ His gaze moved to the square of paper and he reached put and took it from Munger’s nerveless fingers. Then he prodded him in the chest, pushing him back into the room.

  With eight people in it there was not much space. Sami told Munger to sit on the bed and he told the two gunmen to shoot him in - the legs if he moved. Then he went to the bathroom door, looked inside and sniffed. Even from the bed Munger could smell the developing chemicals. As he turned another man came into the room and reported that according to the doorman Munger had not left the hotel after his arrival at 9 o’clock.

  ‘So they are here,’ Sami said, and gave instructions to the four men and the new arrival. They were looking for either negatives or prints, or both.

  They were experts and they were methodical. They literally shredded everything in the room and the bathroom. While they worked Sami pulled up a chair opposite Munger and went through the contents of the money belt, placing the cash and the diamonds on the bed beside Munger. The two gunmen found it difficult to keep their eyes away from the fortune.

  ‘You were unlucky,’ Sami said conversationally. ‘This afternoon a Lebanese was arrested at the airport just as he was about to leave. Our people had been watching him for months on suspicion that he was a courier for illegal currency dealers. He made frequent visits to Baghdad. Well, we were right. A great deal of money was found on him and also two diamonds.’ He gestured at the glittering pile next to Munger. ‘Exactly like those. After strenuous questioning the courier admitted that he had got them from a certain dealer in Al Azamiya, and that dealer admitted, again after strenuous questioning, that he had bought them two days ago from a certain Ahmed Nassir. That was when I was called in - just an hour ago. We went straight to his house. As you well know, he’s a coward. It only took half an hour and he was talking - and what a story, the famous photographer David Munger is a CIA spy!’ He laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘There’s a good precedent for that. Remember Duff Paget. He was a CIA spy. Incidentally, I saw a report this afternoon from the Beirut police about the death of Janine Lesage. Apparently a prime suspect is Paget’s widow.’

  For the first time he saw an expression in Munger’s eyes and he laughed again.

  ‘Yes, the beautiful Ruth Paget. She was at the scene. In fact she was booked on the same flight to Baghdad. Neither of them caught the plane. Ruth Paget was seen being helped out of the airport by a man. She was bleeding.’

  Munger was looking at him intently. He started to say something but was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the men in the bathroom. He came out holding the shaving bag in one hand and the little square of cellophane in the other.

  Sami unwrapped the negative and print, took them directly under the light and studied them. He nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Only one? That’s all you took?’

  Munger shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘You will talk, Munger, believe me. I’m personally going to conduct the interrogation. I’m going to enjoy it. I don’t like people who betray me. I helped you and you made a fool of me.’ He was standing next to Munger, towering over him, his eyes narrowed in anger. Munger looked up and said:

  ‘It wasn’t difficult.’

  Sami’s arm swung and his fist caught Munger full in the face, slamming him onto his back on the bed. He came up in an instant, his hands reaching for Sami’s throat. But the two barrels of the sub-machine guns came up to cover him as Sami jumped back and laughed.

  ‘That’s just the beginning, Munger. You’re going to Kasr al Nihaya . . . Being a spy, you will have heard about it. They call it “the Palace of the end”.’

  Chapter 20

  The Cabinet meeting took place during the morning of June 5th and was predictably stormy. Major-General David Ivri, Commander of the Israeli Air Force, waited in an anteroom. If the decision was taken to strike, the raid would take place on the 7th, which was a Sunday, and when hopefully most of the French scientists and technicians would be off the site.

  The Cabinet had divided itself and for half an hour the hawks and the doves had been shouting at each other. By their natures the hawks were a little louder.

  Menachem Begin let them rant on. In a few minutes he would call the meeting to order and the decision would have to be taken and the consequences faced. There were no doubts in Begin’s mind: the reactor bad to be bombed. But as he listened to the hubbub around him he knew that the Country would be just as divided as his Cabinet. If anything, the raid would help the coalition’s chances at the coming election but for the rest of his life he would be accused of acting for political reasons. He sighed and pounded the table with his hand.

  The noise had just died down when an aide opened the door, crossed to Begin and gave him a note. They all saw his eyes light up as he read it.

  ‘General Hofti is outside,’ he said. ‘It seems that he has something interesting to show us.’ To the aide he said ‘Ask him to come in.’

  The aide bent down and whispered something in his ear and Begin nodded and said ‘Yes, him too.’

  A moment later General Hofti and Walter Blum entered the room. Hofti was holding a large manila envelope. Begin was immediately struck by how much Walter Blum appeared, to have aged in the intervening days since he had first met him. His face was pale and the flesh seemed to droop from his bones. For a moment Begin thought that the news might be bad but then he saw the excitement in Hofti’s eyes and was reassured.

  Chairs were found for them and Begin said ‘You all know General Hofti.’ He indicated Walter. This is Mr Blum. Some of you will know that he has served our country well.’

  Walter nodded at the rows of faces.

  ‘What do you have for us, General?’ Begin asked.

  Hofti opened the envelope and took out a dozen copies of a large photograph. They were passed around the table. Some of the Ministers had to share a copy. There was total silence as they ail studied the photograph, then Begin said ‘Please interpret it for us, General.’

  Hofti cleared his throat, it was taken by one of our agents in Iraq two days ago at a secret establishment in the north-east of the country. The drums contain uranium oxide - yellowcake. They are part of a shipment of one hundred tons supplied by Colonel Gaddafi. The numbers and lettering have been checked and are on file with the IAEA in Vienna. As you know, the Iraqis cannot use yellowcake as fuel for their new reactor. They can, however, extract enough Pu239 from that shipment to manufacture about twenty Hiroshima-sized nuclear bombs.’

  They were all watching him intently. He cleared his throat again and said: ‘The two men in the picture are Professor Jabar Mohammed and Professor Saddam Azzawi. They are two of Iraq’s top nuclear scientists. Two years ago they were officially reported to have been executed for treason. That was obviously a smoke screen to hide the setting-up of a secret research centre away from the prying eyes of the French and the IAEA inspectors.’

  He sat back in his chair and Ariel Sharon laughed quietly and said: ’Is there any more argument?’

  There was a general shaking of heads and Begin said ‘Then we can give David Ivri his orders.’ He turned to Hofti. ‘Well done, and to you Mr Blum. It was a magnificent job. Please convey our congratulations and thanks to the man who risked so much to get this proof.’

  There were murmurs of agreement around the table and then Walter said flatly:

  ‘I cannot. They caught him.’

  Begin’s face fell. ‘Oh God. When?’

  ‘Only hours after he took that photograph. He mana
ged to get a copy out with a courier.’

  Ariel Sharon, always the man of action, asked: ‘Do we know where they’re holding him? Is there any chance of getting him out?’

  ‘They’re holding him in the “Palace of the end”.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sharon looked glum. He knew all about the “Palace of the end”.

  ‘There is a chance,’ Hofti said, turning to Begin, it’s a very slim one and it’s why I brought Mr Blum with me here. But to attempt it will need a Cabinet decision.’

  ‘Explain,’ Begin said and Hofti outlined the plan. It centred on the fact that Mossad had an agent, Hammad Shihab, inside the Palace. Up to now he had been passive but this time he would have to be made active, even if it took a threat of exposure to do it. He had already reported that very morning that the agent was being interrogated. So far he had said nothing and the Mukhabarat still believed that he worked for the CIA. In Shihab’s opinion the agent could not last more than a week.

  Mossad had long had detailed plans of the Palace and, through Shihab, even the exact location of the agent’s cell. It was at the end of a corridor. On the other side of the corridor and through a heavy metal door was a courtyard surrounded by stone walls fifty feet high and eight feet thick. Shihab could obtain the key to the door.

  ‘A commando raid?’ Sharon asked.

  Hofti shook his head.

  ‘Impossible. The Palace is well inside the city. No, we have to breach that wall at a given time. The only way it can be done is by a bomb dropped by an aircraft - a low-flying aircraft. We would like the Air Force to detach one of their planes from the reactor raid and attempt it. The target area is only eight metres by ten.’

  ‘And if the wall is breached,’ Begin asked, ‘what then?’

  Walter supplied the answer. ‘One hundred and fifty metres away across the square is the “souk”. We believe that in the confusion of the bombing our agent, together with Shihab, could reach it. There will be people waiting for them. It will not be difficult to disappear in the souk. Then they will make their way to a Kurdish safe house. Shihab’s wife and two children will be there already. After that the Kurds will get them out through Kurdistan and Turkey. The escape route is arranged.’