The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  ‘I’m not waiting to see what happens,’ he said, putting the car in drive and making a U-turn, the tyres squealing.

  Gisela turned round to stare out of the rear window.

  ‘There are some men. They’re getting into the cars,’ she shouted excitedly, her concern evident, glancing anxiously at him.

  ‘Jesus Christ! It must be the British.’

  He floored the gas pedal, the car rapidly gaining speed as they disappeared over the rise. Gisela kept a sharp lookout behind them.

  ‘There are two cars after us!’

  He had also seen them in the rear-view mirror as they topped the rise.

  They were in the mountains, the road undulating from one valley to another, twisting and turning as it followed the topographical contours of the terrain. He pushed the car hard, driving as fast as the road permitted, constantly having to slow down for a curve. It was impossible to maintain a constant high speed, occasionally having to slowdown to eighty kph to negotiate a bend, the tyres squealing. The main problem was the trucks, which plied the route to Damascus, most of Syria’s imports passing through Beirut, the trucks dominating the road. The road consisted of two lanes only and most trucks were heavily laden, labouring up every incline at low speed, forcing David to stick behind as they approached each blind rise. Their pursuers had to contend with the same problem, sometimes gaining and then falling behind again. The cars appeared to be evenly matched.

  ‘This can’t go on. We need to plan something to pre-empt anything going wrong, and at this rate, something will go wrong. We need to do something to give ourselves an advantage,’ Gisela said. She turned round to look for the pursuers. They were about half a mile behind.

  He had been thinking the same thing. Make a stand at a place of their choosing. Like this, it could only go bad for them.

  ‘I’ve been racking my brains and I can’t come up with a damn thing!’

  ‘Look, we’re ten miles from Bhamdoun, it’s a small town.’ With an outstretched hand, she indicated the signboard that had just flashed by.

  ‘Listen, hon. I’ve an idea. We have to abandon the car, but we have to find a crowd. Somewhere we can disappear. We leave everything. We only take the guns and what we’re wearing. What do you think?’

  She was silent for a few moments. It could work.

  ‘We’ll only have about thirty seconds to disappear into the crowd, but that should be enough,’ she replied. They were casually dressed and could blend easily into the throng. ‘We need to find a market or big bazaar. Every town in Lebanon has one,’ she added.

  The car rapidly approached the outskirts of the town, the traffic increasing, forcing him to slow down. He negotiated a sharp turn in the road, the beginning of an S-turn through the town. On reflex, as the cars behind them disappeared from view, he suddenly swung right into a side street. He now needed to get out of sight. At the next available turn to the left, he skidded around the corner and quickly reduced speed so as not to attract attention. He knew that this would not give him much time. As soon as his pursuers lost him, they would realise that he had swung off the main road. The question was what would they do?

  There were quite a few people in the street. Gisela opened her window and asked him to stop. She asked a man close to the car in French where the market was. He understood, pointing further down the road.

  ‘He says the market is a few hundred metres down the road.’

  Again, he drove off. The nearer he got to the market, the more people they encountered until they were literally driving at a walking pace through the people who opened up in front of them to allow them passage. The throng then closed behind them.

  David looked around for a place to abandon the car. Through the milling people, he glimpsed the first of the market stalls ahead. To the side of these, on an open patch of ground, a number of trucks were parked, these belonging to the farmers who had brought their merchandise into town. He parked behind a large truck, hiding the car from view from the road. He left the keys under the seat. They grabbed their coats and left the car unlocked, the windows up. Eventually, somebody would realise that it had been abandoned and, hopefully, alert the local gendarmerie. Hiram was sure to get his car back.

  The market teemed with people, some shouting loudly to each other from stall to stall. Gisela had taken a scarf, which she now put over her head throwing one end of it back over her shoulder. A cursory glance would have left anyone with the impression that she was an Arab woman from a middle-class family. She had also donned her sunglasses. She no longer walked next to him but left a small distance between them so as not to create the impression that they were together.

  They came upon an old building that dominated the market ground. This was a huge hall where merchants had erected a multitude of shops separated by partitions, one next to the other, selling goods and food of every description, the owners standing at the entrances calling upon the passers-by to stop and shop.

  David had to do something about his appearance. He was far too conspicuous in this crowd, so obviously European. Walking past the shops, mingling with the crowd, he looked out for a shop selling clothing. He found one and entered, noticing that Gisela had entered an adjoining shop to wait there for him. He selected a turban and paid. When he emerged from the shop and mingled again with the crowd, he believed he was no different from any of the many other Arabs in the crowd. Only on close examination would they discover differently. She joined him and they continued as a couple.

  ‘From the map, can you remember if the train station was nearby?’ he asked.

  ‘Are there trains running in Lebanon?’

  ‘There’s a railway line between Damascus and Beirut but whether passenger trains run on the line, I really don’t know. We’ll have to find out. If there are no trains, we can take a bus,’ he replied.

  They were not about to ask a gendarme for directions. He espied a small coffee house inside the Arab market, the souk, and led her to a secluded table not visible from the alley. They ordered coffee and flatbread with a bowl of the local lamb stew to share. This they ate with their fingers. It was delicious, they both hungry.

  ‘Great lamb stew,’ she said, licking her fingers.

  ‘Probably goat,’ he replied mischievously.

  He kept a wary eye on the passers-by.

  CHAPTER 49

  Seymour was frantic. They had outsmarted him, turning either left or right in the town the moment their pursuers were out of sight. Seymour fumed. They had driven past the first intersection and noticing that the Mercedes was missing, he ordered the cars to double back. It took a minute or two before they were able to find a place on the main road to do that.

  ‘For God’s sake, hurry!’ he shouted, repeating this into the radio for the benefit of the occupants in the other car. Finally, they turned left, following the road that led to the market, looking out for the Mercedes, slowly threading their way through the pedestrians. It took them twenty minutes to find the car, obvious that it had been abandoned.

  Bartlett got out of the car, telling the others to do the same and they spread out to start a systematic search. Seymour stopped him.

  ‘Let’s not waste our time. The bastard is smarter than that. He’s not going to sit around this town. He’ll find a way out of here and soon. He’s got three options: rail, bus or taxi. Take your pick,’ he said. ‘Okay, we’re six men.’ He indicated to two of the men and continued, ‘You two take the station. Bartlett and I will tackle the bus terminus and you two get to the taxi rank. We’ll all still be in radio range, so don’t hesitate to talk to one another if you come up with anything.’

  The three groups dispersed.

  Seymour pondered the situation. The quickest way out would be the taxis, but Seymour wasn’t so sure that’s what Tusk would do. C’mon, concentrate. What would the man do? He was sure Tusk would opt for large crowds, making them difficult to find amongst all the people. The town was a major bus terminal with routes running in four directions, to Damascu
s and Beirut and then north and south. They asked directions and were glad to find that the terminus was no more than two hundred metres away. As they neared the terminus, the crowd seemed to swell. It was as if everybody in the town wanted to catch a bus. They entered the depot. Buses lined up alongside the boards indicating their respective routes, the people boarding while other buses waited their turn. The question was where would they go? Given a choice, he was sure it would be Beirut.

  ‘Find the Beirut bus,’ he said to Bartlett.

  Oh, they found the Beirut bus or rather busses soon enough. The problem was there were various routes to Beirut. Now, which route to choose?

  CHAPTER 50

  In the bus depot, Gisela purchased two tickets and, when asked what route, said the shortest.

  She emerged from the ticket office with the two tickets in hand. ‘It’s bus Number Fourteen. It leaves in nine minutes, so the ticket man said. We’d better hurry.’

  ‘Never mind hurry. Watch out for those bastards. They have to be here somewhere. They’re not giving up,’ he replied, looking furtively around.

  They made it to the bus, joining the queue that inched slowly forward as the passengers boarded, the bus driver taking the tickets and punching them before handing them back. During this time, they both kept their backs turned to the direction from which they thought the British would arrive. The British would not recognise them from the back.

  ‘Shit! Something just struck me. When we board, split up. Let’s not sit next to each other. Also, keep your face covered until we are sure that none of them have followed us aboard.’

  She realised what he was getting at and nodded.

  CHAPTER 51

  As they boarded, David realised that she had bought tickets from one of the better bus operators. The bus was new with high-backed, cloth-covered seats and the windows had pull-down blinds. At least they would travel in comfort. Still, the bus was crowded, every seat taken. He sat next to a middle-aged, dark-haired man with a large bushy moustache and sideburns. He stank of tobacco smoke and garlic.

  The bus started. This was followed by the whoosh of compressed air and hydraulics as the automatic doors closed. The bus jerked into motion pulling away from the kerb.

  He had taken a seat near the back of the bus, seated on the aisle. He scrutinised each passenger. Those that looked typically Arab, he ignored, as did he the women. That left him with fifteen men, carefully noting their positions in the bus. How many men were there chasing them? If what he had seen in the valley represented their full complement, he doubted whether they could have more than one or two people on this bus.

  For a minute or two, he reflected on his position. The situation was ridiculous. The trip to Lebanon was supposed to have been a simple affair. That the British wanted to kill him was a fact and it was highly probable that Gisela was on their list as well and for no other reason than she was his accomplice. He had not forgotten how close to death he had been in the hotel. They would want to leave no witnesses. It had never occurred to him that they would have set out to kill them. It just seemed so un-British. He was shocked. This whole affair read like the script of a James Bond movie. He recalled his first meeting with the bank’s managing director when he was coerced into participating in assisting Rhodesia to fool the British. It had sounded like fun! Killing and death had been furthest from his mind. Now this was a reality. They both could die at any moment at the hands of MI6. He was bewildered. Never would he have volunteered for the job, no matter what rewards were on offer. Had Butler, the minister, not indicated that he stood to make substantial financial gain for assisting them? War was one thing – he had been there and had known what he was letting himself in for – but this undercover stuff, now that death and killing was part of it, and he not even Rhodesian. Well, this was simply was not acceptable. He wanted out.

  Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him. Gisela sat three rows in front of him, also in an aisle seat. She fashioned the scarf into a veil, covering her head and her face from the eyes down. The bus had left the town and was now moving at a fair speed. Some passengers had opened the sliding windows and a cool breeze blew through the bus. He sat with his arms folded, his hand resting on the butt of the automatic under his windbreaker. He wanted to sleep but dared not do so until he was sure that none of the men were British agents.

  Lebanon was such a cosmopolitan society: the population was made up of Arabs steeped in the Muslim faith – Sunni and Shia; then there were Eastern Orthodox, Marmite Christians, and Coptics. Their dress was predominantly European except for the die-hard fanatics who stuck to their traditional dress. Without speaking to them, there was no way of knowing which of the men could be the British and of whom he should be suspicious. All they had to do was wait until the bus reached its destination and then apprehend him when he stepped off. He needed to think of something before then.

  CHAPTER 52

  Seymour was close to panic.

  ‘They are bound to be on the next bus or two due to leave for Beirut. Find those taking the shortest direct route. You take one and I’ll take the other,’ he said.

  ‘What do I do if I don’t have time to get a ticket?’ Bartlett said exasperatedly.

  ‘Board anyway. Bribe the driver if you have to. Do anything, I don’t give a shit! Offer him anything. Just get on the bus and whatever you do, don’t lose them,’ Seymour replied with savage irritation.

  ****

  Seymour made it to the bus and managed to find a seat two rows from the front. He wanted to sit further back but had boarded the bus too late, the rear seats already taken. He had immediately seen Tusk seated towards the rear, recognising him from the photograph. He dare not turn round. This would surely give him away. He was sure the man was watching all those passengers who did not appear to be Arabs. He had not recognised Tusk’s companion but assumed that she had to be on board, probably disguised, he thought. A few women wore veils which complicated matters. At least he had not lost them. The question was what to do now. He still had the hand-held radio although he had switched it off. He dare not switch it on. This would reveal him. There were two of them and it would be futile to try to do anything while still on the bus. He decided that he would wait until they reached Beirut, but he needed to contact his own people so that they could prepare for the bus’ arrival. He hoped Bartlett realised that he must have found them and was now unable to make contact, this being too obvious while on the bus. He wondered whether Bartlett was smart enough to realise this.

  ****

  Bartlett covered every inch of the bus depot. Seymour was not found. He repeatedly called Seymour on the radio, also to no avail as he remained silent. He realised he had to make a decision and could only assume that his boss must have recognised Tusk and boarded the same bus, which would mean that they were on their way to Beirut.

  He called the others and conferred with them. They agreed that their targets were on the bus. The men decided to travel as fast as possible to Beirut and intercept the bus at the terminus. Bartlett enquired at the ticket office as to whether that particular bus made any stops on the route. The ticket clerk assured him that it was an express bus. Its next and only stop was Beirut.

  The three men climbed into their two cars and sped off in pursuit of the bus planning to overtake it and await its arrival at the terminal. The bus had little start on them and after about twenty kilometres, the first car shot past.

  Seymour watched the Jaguar pass. He sighed with relief. At least his men would arrange a reception at the terminus. This time Tusk would not get away.

  ****

  He was not the only one who recognised the car. So had Gisela. She waited for the second car to pass and, when it didn’t, she turned round and looked out of the rear window. It was there, about a hundred yards back, keeping pace with the bus. They’ll be waiting at the terminus, she thought, while the second car kept a lookout to ensure that they not try and leave while still en route.

  CHAPTER 53

 
The bus was no more than five miles from the Beirut bus terminus and still David had no plan other than hijacking the bus. He had immediately discarded the idea, as this was sure to introduce the police. Although the police may be looking for them, he doubted whether this would result in a murder charge. A hijacking would merely aggravate the situation. How big a reception committee could he expect? Surely, the British agents had radioed ahead. Of course, there was Gisela. He doubted whether she had been recognised.

  The last few miles were slow, the traffic congestion in Beirut a continuous nightmare. Driving in Beirut required steel nerves and practised use of the car’s horn. The bus was big, which gave the driver a slight advantage, the smaller vehicles giving way.

  Finally, the bus terminus came into view. Something was wrong. A huge cloud of smoke billowed from the centre. Police vehicles, fire engines and ambulances surrounded the area. Police and paramedics were everywhere. The police had strung a cordon around the source and all movement into the terminus was being monitored.

  As the bus approached, a police officer stepped forward, his hand raised, and halted the bus. The driver leant out of his open window and spoke to the police officer. The driver was being given instructions. The bus moved forward and drove through a gap which had opened in the cordon. It moved slowly towards the bus shelters, all affected by the smoke.

  Christ! he thought, it’s a bomb. Either a Muslim or a Christian fanatical group trying to send a political message. This is how these fanatics made a point: plant a bomb and then claim responsibility. Tensions between Muslim and Christian had simmered for years and all indications were that this was on the increase.

  With a squeal of brakes, the bus came to a halt under a sheltered off-loading point, the pneumatic doors opening with a whoosh. Four police officers, armed with machine pistols, lined the pavement watching as the passengers disembarked. It then struck David. If the British intended to meet him on the bus’ arrival this was no longer possible, the police cordon blocking all entry to vehicles and persons other than busses. That meant that he only had to contend with one or two agents and they certainly were hamstrung as long as he remained in sight of the gendarmes. Fortunately, the gendarmes were not subjecting the passengers or their luggage to a search. He stepped down, walking just behind Gisela. The idea was to take a taxi but this was now a restricted area. Taxis were not permitted.