‘I don’t know my plans yet, but I’ll let you know. Anyway, thanks.’
‘Thanks for what? It’s going to be tough. You may get to think it wasn’t such a good idea after all,’ he warned. His face was guileless.
She just smiled, putting the vehicle in gear. She waved as she drove off.
CHAPTER 4
It was a typical winter’s day in Rotterdam. A bitter, cold wind blew off the North Sea over the Schelde, driving the rain before it, buffeting the DAF Daffodil they had hired. The little car was ideal. It negotiated the narrow streets easily and, with its ingenious gearbox, requiring no gear-change, was a pleasure to drive. He drove while she navigated to the offices of René Oosterwijk, the broker through whom David proposed to route all the crude transactions. The man’s background had been scrutinised and his credentials appeared impeccable.
More to the point, he had done this before.
The British and Dutch governments had worked closely together to close all oil loopholes. This did not seem to deter Oosterwijk. He knew the ramifications if his government ever got to know that he had assisted in busting the embargo, though still agreeing to act on their behalf. The fee he was offered and the added incentive of making a profit on the oil was attractive, although it did not appear he needed the money. He thought it abhorrent that some European countries now turned on their colonies and its white colonists – the English, Dutch, Belgians and French. Oosterwijk’s family were not newcomers to conflict and adversity. They were colonists in Indonesia who lost everything. In Indonesia, his brother had been a POW in a Japanese camp during WWII. He had not survived the ordeal. The loss of his only brother devastated René. He was sympathetic to the Rhodesians. They, as the Dutch colonists in Indonesia, risked losing everything, their home governments no longer supportive of their previous colonies.
‘Stop here,’ Gisela said.
They were in front of a tall, modern building, all concrete, aluminium and glass. The Rotterdam Bank NV
‘We can’t stop here,’ David said, ‘Jump out and I’ll go and find parking somewhere.’
She walked to the main entrance to get out of the rain. He drove around and finally found parking, initially baulking at the ridiculously high hourly rate. Real estate was obviously at a premium in this city. He walked back the two blocks to the bank building.
They met in the foyer. Gisela was studying the large glass-encased board and found that Oosterwijk’s offices were on the seventh floor. ‘De Mescht Markelaars NV’, he recognised the name.
They stepped out of the lift and followed the arrow to the reception area. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Oosterwijk,’ David announced in German.
A few minutes later, a tall, white-haired man appeared from a passageway. David thought him to be in his mid-fifties. He was thin and at least six foot three. He wore modish, rimless glasses with large lenses and was immaculately dressed in a silver-grey sharkskin suit. He exuded an air of opulence, affirmed by the gold Rolex on his wrist and the Gucci loafers on his feet.
‘Goede dag.’ He greeted them in Dutch.
They followed him into a large office which overlooked Rotterdam harbour in the distance. The office was wall-to-wall carpeted; the furniture was modern Swedish. A few chairs surrounded a coffee table while his desk and cabinets in matching wood took up the other side. Paintings of ships at sea adorned the walls.
David studied him as Oosterwijk ordered coffee to be brought in.
Rhodesian Intelligence had researched Oosterwijk. He was a member of the Dutch nouveau riche which had emerged after the Second World War. While Holland was occupied by Germany and his brother held by the Japanese, he had been part of the Dutch underground and heavily involved in the black market. When the war ended, he had surfaced as a small commodities broker who appeared to be reasonably well financed and soon gained a reputation for good business ethics and prompt payment. His war activities opened a few doors in the newly-appointed Dutch government. As time passed, he spread his business wings by going international. He had a reputation for looking at anything that had money in it. He lived with his wife in an apartment which overlooked the Nieuwe Maas Canal in the Hillegersberg suburb of Rotterdam. His children had already left home.
His secretary came in carrying a tray of coffee, leaving it on the coffee table as everyone got down to business.
‘I bought the ship as instructed, the Georgio V. Currently, she flies a Greek flag, but we’ll change her registration within the next few days. It would be best to get her registered out of Panama.’ Oosterwijk spoke quickly, ‘She’s heading for Bandar Mashur in the Persian Gulf where she’ll load 16,000 tonnes of crude. The documentation shows that a commodities company, fictitious of course, has bought the crude shipment from the Iranians. The whole transaction was routed through a South African entrepreneur, a Mr Michael Rafael. He has excellent connections with the Iranians.’
‘As I thought, the Iranians never ask where or what, they just want to sell their crude,’ David said.
Oosterwijk looked at David.
‘Well, the fact that everything is being paid up front worked miracles. It’s a lot easier to confuse the paper trail. The Iranians were very keen to do the deals, especially with immediate payment and no questions. Now, currently the ship’s officers are all Greek. Once we re-register the ships, we’ll replace the crew and re-issue cargo papers and certificates. I’ve a French crew on stand-by. We couldn’t have chosen any better. De Gaulle has been re-elected in France. Rest assured, Anglo-French relations are not about to improve.’ The Dutchman smiled. ‘De Gaulle’s dislike of the English is notorious. Also, he was involved in a colonial war in Algeria and, whilst not openly admitting it, he admires Ian Smith. Of course, he would abide by a United Nations directive if necessary, or at the very least, go through the motions.’
‘I think the use of a French crew is an excellent idea.’
Oosterwijk nodded.
‘The captain is paid for taking the ship from point A to point B, that’s from the Persian Gulf to Beira. According to the documents, the crude is destined for a company situated in Beira, a Portuguese company in fact. What happens to the crude thereafter is not his concern. Therefore he is in the clear.’
‘The English will know it is a ruse, but once the ship’s in the harbour and discharges its cargo into the tank farm, what can they do? Sure, they’ll be obstreperous, but that’s it. Also, the Portuguese will endeavour to help without being too obvious,’ David confirmed.
Oosterwijk leant back in his Jacobsen Swan Chair. ‘Well, all I’ve got to do is see to it that the ship is loaded and sell the cargo while it’s on the high seas. After that, it’s your concern. You do agree, don’t you?’
‘Of course, Minjheer Oosterwijk,’ David replied.
Gisela looked at David, ‘What are you going to do if the British blockade stops your ship?’
‘When it’s flying its new flag? They would not dare.’
‘With a United Nations oil embargo in force? Don’t be so sure. I believe you can expect a lot of trouble,’ Oosterwijk warned.
David ignored the warning. ‘What other progress have we made?’
‘Well, we bought another ship, the Deborah. She is also en route to take on her cargo of crude, but that will be a little later.’
They rehashed a few other less important items for the next half hour before David rose from his seat and proffered his hand, which René took.
‘Thank you. We are on our way to Germany and London. We should see you again within the next fortnight.’
****
They had planned to cross to England using the ferry services but Gisela said that flying was better.
‘There’s more pressure on immigration officials at airports. On ferries, the pace is sedate. They are more thorough with people trying to covertly enter a country, usually lacking funds, choosing the cheapest option – either rail or ferry. I learnt this during my stint with the Stasi,’ she said.
Producing the
ir German passports, they passed through HM Customs at Gatwick without incident. They booked separately into the Belleclaire Hotel, a nondescript but good hotel in Knightsbridge, London, as they did not want to create the impression that they knew each other. Gisela had a few other duties to perform for Rhodesian Intelligence, which she had not divulged to David.
David, on the other hand, needed to visit Industrial Confirming’s London offices. This would have to be done clandestinely. It was known that MI6 had it and its personnel under observation.
The employees in London were all British nationals and most had never been to Rhodesia. Virtually all Rhodesians had strong family ties with Great Britain. The colony was not even seventy years old and many in Britain believed what Ian Smith said about the British government working against their own ‘kith and kin’. Aghast at the Labour government’s attitude, they were supportive of Rhodesia.
David had hired a Morris Minor from Avis, which he left parked in the street nearby. In the hotel, he went to the public phones in the foyer and dialled a number from memory.
‘Hello, Mallory and Sons,’ a female voice replied.
‘Mr John Davidson, please.’
‘John Davidson? We don’t have anybody by that name here. You must have a wrong number,’ the receptionist said.
‘I dialled Swiss Cottage 0371, my apologies.’ David put the phone down.
The receptionist would tell Mallory that he had phoned, mentioning the digits 0371. This meant they were to meet that afternoon at 17.30, five thirty. Both knew where and would spend part of the afternoon losing any tails they might have collected.
That afternoon, David rode the Underground, climbing into and then deserting coaches as the doors were about to close, hopping on or off buses and ensuring that he was not followed. At five twenty-five, he walked into The Bohemian, a crowded pub near Belsize Park. He ordered a pint of bitter at the bar. As he strode through the haze of cigarette smoke, he espied a pillar around which a chest-height table had been constructed for those patrons forced to stand. Most of the clientele was office staff: the men in suits, the office’s women clearly single, judging by the interaction amongst them.
David kept a sharp lookout and, precisely at five thirty, he saw Doyle enter while removing his bowler. There was no missing his six foot two height. He was dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit and waistcoat, wearing his regimental tie. Doyle was in his mid-thirties, with a mop of ginger hair and a slightly ruddy complexion. He saw David but moved towards the bar and waited until he got the beer he had ordered. Then he looked round as if he were looking for a place to stand, finally sidling over to the pillar where David was.
They stood in silence as they scrutinised the patrons. Only when satisfied nobody appeared suspicious or was watching them did David speak.
‘Abominable weather, what?’
‘Absolutely,’ the freckled-faced man replied while smiling, ‘but what can you do, this is England.’
They made small talk, like strangers in a bar. Once they finished their beers, they left and entered a small, nondescript Chinese restaurant, still deserted at this hour. They were the only occupants. They took a table facing the door. Doyle knew the owner, who produced two bottles of Yangtze Chinese beer which David sipped while they waited for their light meal.
‘So, how are my aircraft and radio spares coming along?’
‘The radios aren’t a problem, but those spares for your Hawker Hunters and Canberras, that’s another story,’ Doyle replied while scanning the empty restaurant. ‘I’ve got somebody within the Force who’ll help. He’s connected to the logistics side of the maintenance division, but he’s looking for a hefty price. He’s legit all right. His folks are in our country, but he says he has to pay handsomely to get his hands on these.’
‘I can believe that. How are we going to get them out of the country?’
‘Boldly. We are going to ship them as aircraft and radio spares right under their bloody noses, to National Airways, Rand Airport, Johannesburg, as spares for Hawker Siddeleys and Vickers Viscount Rolls-Royce jet engine parts. It’ll take a bloody expert to realise what they really are. Ship them conspicuously. They’ll never expect that. I suppose you will be able to intercept these once they arrive at Rand Airport?’
‘I can arrange that. We’ll have to be careful. The South African Customs will be really pissed off if we smuggle spare parts for military use. Remember, South Africa is also contending with an international arms embargo. Christ, when they get involved, things are tied up for months while they debate whether they should or shouldn’t release the stuff to us. We call them draadsitters.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Guys who sit on the fuckin’ fence,’ David said.
‘What else is new? South Africa is just looking after itself. Watch, if the shit hits the fan, they won’t be there for us. They’ve got their own lot to attend to.’
‘How are things in London?’
‘Not too good. The British are wising up. They know we’re buying stuff for you but they can’t prove it. They’re always sniffing around on some pretext. If it isn’t the fuckin’ tax people, then it’s Customs. The phones are tapped and we are followed. Be careful they don’t follow you now,’ Doyle said. He improvised a smile to emphasise his point. ‘I personally believe we should close this office down and reopen elsewhere with new staff. It’s easy enough.’
‘Okay, come up with a proposal and let’s look at it. Maybe put the main office in France and just keep a guy and a girl here. The British are very careful about upsetting the French. If British Intelligence were to send operatives into France to harass your chaps, that’d create a fuckin’ furore, especially if we tip off the French Sûreté. They hate British undercover operatives.’
David, absorbed by his thoughts, stared out of the restaurant’s entrance at the people passing by outside. He woke from his reverie.
‘What about the spares? What have we got to do to get those?’
‘I’ve got a Bedford in RAF colours. My contact tells me we must get the truck to RAF Brize Norton. He’ll see to it that it’s cleared through the base’s security checkpoints. Once inside, we drive it to the maintenance and spares depot. The driver and assistant do nothing other than produce documentation, which my contact will give us. We merely go through the motions of being RAF personnel there to collect the consignment. The documentation will indicate that this is an urgent collection. Our contact will load the crates, produce the papers, and we’re gone.’
‘Well, if it’s as simple as it sounds, do it.’
‘I can’t.’ His irritation showed.
David swivelled his chair to face Doyle. ‘Why not?’ He paused. ‘What about MacTavish? I thought he did all this undercover stuff with you?’
‘MacTavish, our illustrious Scot, is in hospital, in St Mary’s in fact, having his bloody appendix plucked from his bowels. Actually, it’s worse than that. The damn thing burst and now he’s fighting peritonitis, or whatever it’s called. I understand he’ll be out of action for weeks.’
‘Fuck. Well, use somebody else.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? I don’t have the people. Nobody wants to take the chance. If arrested as British subjects, they’d be up for bloody treason,’ Doyle retorted.
‘You’re shitting me. I don’t like what I’m hearing.’
‘You’re right, David. It’s just fuckin’ you and me, friend.’ His lips stretched into a sarcastic smile.
‘Don’t call me David. I’m Gunther Wohlhuter.’
‘Christ! And a German, too.’ Doyle shook his head. He didn’t like David’s attitude.
‘Listen, I can’t get involved. I’m not a spook. I’m a bloody financial sanctions buster. I work for a bank.’
‘Sssh. Not so loud. That’s not quite correct. You have affiliations with a bank, but you work for us now. Everybody believes you’re one of us. You’re Rhodesian CIO.’
‘God Almightly! You’ve got a cheek asking me,’ David rep
lied. He was unable to veil his feelings of irritation.
‘I need somebody who can pass himself off as an officer. With that toffee mouth of yours, you’re a sure thing.’
‘Let me get back to you on that,’ he muttered.
CHAPTER 5
Bruce Doyle drove. Thank God it was raining, David thought. That meant any security people would be in slickers, keen to get out of the weather again. He hoped to avoid a jobsworth who wasted too much time inspecting the contents of the vehicle instead of just relying on their papers for veracity.
The Bedford truck had its home base, Northolt, stencilled on the door; its Royal Air Force lineage clearly displayed. This was the main staging point, the logistics centre from where the forces airlifted all material to its overseas bases. Doyle was dressed in a sergeant’s uniform while David was a flying officer. They were on the access road that led to Brize Norton. As far as David was concerned, this was madness, whereas Doyle thought it was, as he put it, a piece of cake. Christ! This was ridiculous. If they caught you doing this during WWII, they hanged you, no questions asked.
The documentation was perfect. The goods were intended for onward distribution. Who would believe otherwise? David didn’t know whether he was perspiring out of fear or because Doyle had the heater on.
‘Turn that bloody heater off,’ he said.
Doyle looked at him for a moment. The tension on his face was obvious.
‘Just relax,’ he said, but he turned the heater off.
They rounded a corner. In the distance, down the tree-lined road, he could see a huge signboard proclaiming the base. The base was surrounded by a double fence of barbed wire, patrolled by a security detachment with dogs. Sliding gates sealed the entrances and exits. These were open but sturdy booms across the entrance barred any vehicle access or departure. Next to the gate, a brick, window-lined building had been erected. From its roof, radio aerials and a radio dish sprouted. Lights glowed in the interior of the building. At regular intervals around the perimeter fence as well as the building, additional security lights could be seen.
The Blockade Runners Page 4
