Sèvres Protocol

by David Lee Corley

  “Leave,” said Nasser.

  “Excuse me.”

  “It is time for British troops to leave Egyptian soil. Once you are gone the problem will cease to exist.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.”

  “We have a treaty.”

  “Which you violated by exceeding the ten thousand troop limit.”

  “The expanded troop levels were necessary to protect the canal against Axis forces.”

  “Perhaps. But World War Two came to an end over ten years ago and your troops are still in Egypt. In fact, the numbers have increased to eight-eight thousand, I believe.”

  “Egypt is not capable of protecting the canal.”

  “I assure you it is and will. It is ours and we protect what is ours.”

  “I am not prepared to dispute the ownership of the canal. We have agreed that it is Egypt’s. But we also agreed that Britain has the right… no… the obligation to protect it.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Now leave.”

  “We are not going to just leave as you say.”

  “Oh, but you will.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Because it pleases you.”

  “I assure you it does not.”

  “It will. When enough blood has been shed, you will leave of your own accord.”

  “Are you threatening war with Britain?”

  “War? There is no need for a war.”

  “Then what is it you plan to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Nasser, confident. “If I do nothing the Egyptian rebels will pick off your soldiers one by one and you will not even see them coming. They are excellent marksmen, as you well know. Egypt will achieve its goals by doing nothing to stop them.”

  “You have a moral obligation to patrol your lands.”

  “Egypt is a big country with vast deserts and wastelands. Our army cannot possibly be everywhere at once. As you say… our resources are stretched thin.”

  “This is blackmail.”

  “This is justice. Egypt is fed up with the British. You have refused to share in the revenue from the canal. You have treated us, your hosts, as second-class citizens. You have disrespected our authority over our own land. The people have grown to resent your presence and it is they that are asking you politely to leave. Soon, they will insist.”

  “We are well-armed.”

  “Not well-armed enough, I fear. You have eighty-eight thousand soldiers stationed on Egyptian land. We are twenty-one million civilians that can easily overwhelm your army, not to mention create an international travesty should you choose to resist them by force. It is time to leave, Prime Minister.”

  “I don’t know what game you think you are playing or what you hope to achieve, but British troops are not leaving the Canal Zone.”

  “Then our conversation is at an end,” said Nasser, rising.

  Eden was stunned that Nasser would call an end to their meeting after having traveled so far. Nasser had said what he came to say. There was no need to stay and watch Eden boil over like a tea kettle too long on the stove. Leaving their well-publicized meeting early would be seen as an insult to the British. Insulting the British gave Nasser power and power was the thing Nasser craved most of all.

  Eden stood outside of 10 Downing Street with Lloyd and Dean and watched as the Rolls Royce carrying Nasser pulled away from the curb and drove down the street. “I truly despise that man,” said Eden with a snarl. “He will be crushed under his own ambition.”

  August 12, 1955 - Jerusalem, Israel

  In his office in Jerusalem’s Givat Ram, David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s prime minister, greeted Shimon Perez, his Defense Minister. Isser Harel, Israel’s spymaster was also waiting in Ben-Gurion’s office. Perez gave Harel a polite nod instead of the traditional hug and cheek-kisses. It was the best Perez could muster. Harel knew Perez didn’t like him. He wasn’t alone. Too many secrets and not enough sharing was the general complaint among the Knesset cabinet members. As head of both Shin Bet - Israel’s internal security service, and Mossad - Israel’s intelligence agency, Harel wielded considerable power. He reported only to Ben-Gurion which made others envious, including Perez. They sat, and iced tea was served.

  “Tell him,” said Ben-Gurion to Harel.

  “The Egyptians are negotiating a large weapons purchase from the Soviets through Czechoslovakia,” said Harel.

  “Jets?” said Perez, concerned.

  “We believe so.”

  “We are fucked if Nasser gets jets before we do. He will attack without delay.”

  “And if he does?” said Ben-Gurion.

  “We will lose our air force,” said Perez. “There will be nothing to stop his tanks from crossing the border.”

  There was a long silence in the room.

  “Others will join him?” said Ben-Gurion.

  “If he gets jets… probably,” said Harel. “They’ll wait until he wipes out our air force then… Syria for sure. Kuwait and Jordan are possibilities, maybe even the Saudis.”

  “My god,” said Ben-Gurion. “Will the French side with us?”

  “Maybe. They’ve got their own problems with Algeria.”

  “The British and the Americans?”

  “The British will want to stay out of it, especially if the Saudis and Iraqis get involved. They need the oil. The Americans will follow the British lead, as always.”

  “Then France,” said Ben-Gurion.

  “Maybe,” said Perez.

  “Go. Talk to them, Shimon. Quietly,” said Ben-Gurion. “We do not want Nasser to see us in a panic. It will only encourage him and the others.”

  April 7, 1956 - Paris, France.

  Tom Coyle sat in a hospital patient’s room browsing through a newspaper. He couldn’t read it. It was in French and he didn’t speak French beyond a few social niceties. But he liked the photos and tried to piece together what the articles were saying. The lead story was something about the last British soldier leaving the Suez Canal Zone. Coyle knew this because the photo above the story showed a British soldier boarding a landing craft filled with soldiers.

  In the bed beside Coyle lay Colonel Marcel Bigeard, asleep with tubes running in and out of his body. He had been shot in the back by an assassin while out jogging along the Mediterranean in Algiers and flown to Paris for treatment. The bullet missed his heart by a fraction of an inch… again. Bruno, as everyone called him, stirred.

  Coyle walked to the doorway and peeked out as if looking for someone. He walked back to the bed and leaned over Bruno. Bruno’s eyes slowly opened. Coyle’s face hovering above him was not what he was hoping to see. “Where am I?” said Bruno.

  “In heaven. You’re dead,” said Coyle.

  “Really? Why do I hurt so much if I am dead?”

  “Penance for your sins.”

  “Ah. That explains it.”

  “Seriously. Why are you still alive? You’ve been shot in the chest twice in less than a year and survived. That’s not normal.”

  “I do not have time to die. Where’s Brigitte?”

  “She went for coffee. She’ll be upset that she was not here when you woke.”

  “She will blame you.”

  “Probably.”

  “Life is just. Is my nurse cute?”

  “No. Life is just.”

  “Did they catch the woman with the bicycle… the one that shot me?”

  “They captured the bicycle, but not the assassin.”

  “A shame. She was quite attractive.”

  “And a bad shot.”

  “No. Her aim was true. I am like a bear. It takes more than one bullet to kill me.”

  “Apparently.”

  A paratroop commander, Bruno was considered by many to be the healthiest man in the French army. He exercised daily for two to three hours.

  Brigitte Friang entered carrying two coffees. “You are awake?”

  “Coyle poked me until I woke,” said Bruno.

  “He’s lyi
ng,” said Coyle.

  “I would hope so,” she said.

  “Is one of those coffees for me?” said Bruno reaching up with a groan.

  “Not until the doctors give their okay,” said Brigitte. “Should I get your nurse?”

  “Not yet. She will kick you out.”

  “Okay,” said Brigitte with a smile.

  “Besides, Coyle told me she was really beautiful, and I wouldn’t want to distract him.”

  “He’s lying again,” said Coyle.

  “I know. I saw her,” said Brigitte. “A face like a mule.”

  “Then it is true. God is punishing me,” said Bruno.

  The nurse entered. Bruno was surprised. She was far from ugly and had a trim figure. “You are awake?” she said. “I’ll get the doctor.”

  “Maybe you could adjust my pillows first?” said Bruno.

  “Of course,” said the nurse leaning over him, her breast inches from his face.

  “Shift must have changed,” said Brigitte with a shrug.

  “Yes. The shift,” said Coyle.

  Bruno was in pain but happy.

  May 2, 1956 - Cairo, Egypt

  It was early in the morning when Ben Bella traveled to Cairo International airport in one of the Egyptian government’s limousines. He was a legend and treated like royalty in most of the Arab world, but was a wanted man in his own country of Algeria. As one of the top leaders of the FLN movement, the French had a price on his head. The Arab people saw the bounty as a badge of honor awarded to Bella for resisting the Western nations. He lived in Cairo under the protection of Nasser, who supported the FLN in their war of independence against the French.

  The war had dragged on for two years with heavy losses on both sides. The constant stream of bombings and drive-by shootings in Paris had a particularly devastating effect on the French public, who treasured their café culture. There was genuine fear of sitting at a café and enjoying a coffee. One never knew when the person at the next table was going to place a bomb and excuse themselves to go to the restroom.

  The French had had enough and were offering peace talks with the FLN in Rome. Bella had been selected to represent the FLN. His mind was clear. He knew that the FLN would accept nothing less than full independence from France. There could be trade agreements, cultural exchanges and even some say so in the protection of the European colonists that called Algeria home, but the Algerians wanted their nation back and they were going to get it.

  When Bella arrived at the airport, the plane that the Egyptians had chartered for him was already fueled and waiting. He and his entourage of five FLN bodyguards would be the only passengers. They boarded immediately and the plane took off.

  The plane reached the northern coast and headed out over the Mediterranean Sea. Still a hundred miles from the Italian coast, two French Mystère fighter-bomber jets with external fuel tanks under their wings pulled up alongside the plane. The pilot in one of the jets contacted the plane’s pilot by radio and informed him that the plane was to follow the two jets. When the pilot protested, the jet pilot simply said, “Follow us or we shoot.”

  The plane followed the two jets as they changed course and headed west. The pilot was concerned about the plane’s fuel consumption but realized that the French probably knew how much fuel the aircraft was carrying and would have planned accordingly.

  The co-pilot went back and informed Bella and his bodyguards what was happening. Bella knew immediately that he had been set up. The French could do nothing while he remained in Egypt under Nasser’s protection. Now, they had him. The French had no interest in negotiating with the FLN. Bella considered making a stand after the plane landed but knew that the French would be only too happy to kill him and his men there and then. He was not afraid to die but he didn’t want his bodyguards hurt. He knew they would fight to the death for him. If he lived, there would be international outrage at the manner of his capture over international waters. In prison, he would become a living symbol of French cruelty and injustice. He abandoned his plan to fight and informed his men that he would give up.

  The plane was forced to land at Nice airport. Bella and his men were immediately taken into custody by French Army Intelligence. It was a huge loss to the FLN. Bella had planned most of the major attacks against the French. He was a hero and his leadership would be missed.

  In Paris, the news of Bella’s capture was celebrated. People felt safer with the notorious Bella in custody. Many went out to dinner at their favorite restaurants. The FLN set off three bombs that night to honor Bella and to remind the French that the war was far from over. The French bled.

  May 8, 1956 – Paris, France

  Brigitte sat staring out the window at her office in downtown Paris. She was the only journalist at the magazine that had an office. It was one of the perks that Damien, her editor, used to keep Brigitte from considering employment offers from other magazines or newspapers. She didn’t like how it looked to the other reporters, but she had to admit it was nice. The bullpen where the rest of the journalists worked was a maelstrom of clacking typewriters and overly loud phone conversations, not to mention the ever-flowing river of gossip.

  Half the battle of writing an article was figuring out the angle, and Brigitte was on the verge of discovering the angle for the series she was going to call “The Café Wars.” Her phone rang and she answered it. Brigitte recognized the voice on the other end of the line. It was a gate attendant at the international airport and one of Brigitte’s informants.

  “Shimon Perez,” was all the man said.

  “What is Israel's Minister of Defense doing in Paris?” said Brigitte.

  “And even more interesting… why is he traveling without his usual entourage of bodyguards?”

  “No bodyguards?”

  “Not that I can see, but one never knows with the Israelis.”

  “Sounds like a man that doesn’t want to be recognized.”

  “I think maybe yes. At any rate… I thought it might be of interest to you,” said the man.

  “It just might,” said Brigitte. “I’ll send you something if it pans out.”

  “Merci,” said the man and he hung up.

  Brigitte thought for a moment. She couldn’t make any sense of it, but thought it was worth investigating. She grabbed her coat and purse on her way out the door.

  Shimon Perez sat across from Maurice Bourgès-Maunoury, France’s Minister of Defense. Perez had become Director-General of Israel's Ministry of Defense at the age of twenty-eight. He was the protégé of David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s founding father, and was considered one of his country’s greatest orators. Even though France was Israel’s biggest supporter, Perez was still cautious.

  “We are surrounded on all sides by our enemies,” said Perez.

  “Israel has always been surrounded. What you need are fewer enemies,” said Bourgès-Maunoury.

  “What we need are weapons. The Arabs are arming themselves.”

  “Where are they buying their weapons?”

  Perez knew he could not reveal what he had learnt from Harel about the Czechoslovakian arm sales. “The black market. Weapons left over from World War II,” he said.

  “Piecemeal relics. More rust than metal. I would hardly concern myself.”

  “You do not have them pointed at you. We do. I am telling you the Arabs plan to attack Israel.”

  “They always plan to attack. They are Arabs. They say one thing and do another.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time. Nasser is whipping them into a frenzy. The only thing stopping them is that they still squabble amongst themselves. Once that ends, they will unite and try to wipe out Israel.”

  “Ah, Nasser. At least we can agree on one thing. He is a menace.”

  “He wishes to unite the Arabs against the western powers. And he helps the Algerians in their bid for independence. He helps the FLN.”

  “The FLN and others, yes.”

  “He is a thorn in your side?”

  �
�Yes… and yours,” said Bourgès-Maunoury.

  The French minister remained quiet for a long moment as if considering. It was an act. He knew exactly what he wanted to do and what he wanted Perez to do. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we should sell you arms.”

  Perez was surprised by the sudden change in attitude. The Western nations had been united in their efforts to restrict arms sales to all nations in the Middle East. Why the sudden change of heart? thought Perez. He was confident in his ability to put forth a good argument, but this was too easy. He decided to probe a bit. “What types of weapons?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Everything.”

  “Then you shall have everything.”

  “Fighter jets?”

  “They would be part of everything, would they not?”

  Perez was again stunned. Israel had been pleading since its inception for modern weaponry to defend itself.

  “Beware of Greek’s bearing gifts,” said Perez.

  “It is hardly a gift. You will still have to pay for the weapons,” said Bourgès-Maunoury.

  “And what of the Tripartite Declaration?” said Perez referring to the agreement between the U.S., Britain and France to limit arms sales to Israel.

  “What about it? I don’t see any need to publicize your weapons purchase from France.”

  “You would have us hide the shipments from the Americans and the British?”

  “I would have you only tell them what they need to know which is exactly what you have always done.”

  “Why is France being so generous?”

  “We are a friend to Israel. We like it when our friends survive and thrive.”

  “You do not want us going to the Russians or the Chinese.”

  “The thought had crossed our minds but there is more too it,” said Bourgès-Maunoury.

  “Such as?”

  “A message.”

  “For Nasser?”

  “You are very perceptive. His meddling in France’s affairs is not appreciated.”