The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  Demoralised, the two men approached the customs office that served the yacht basin. By then it was already mid-afternoon. Here the officials were more courteous. Dealing with the rich and sometimes famous, being rude and uncooperative usually had serious consequences. They told the two men that, since the previous day, a few boats had left for international waters and certainly nobody who matched the descriptions. However, they were told that papers and passports had only to be produced on a boat’s departure and that the people they were looking for could well be on a boat.

  Seymour stood on the quay looking at the mass of yachts and boats. Some rode at anchor while others were tied to the jetties in the basin. Not taking his eyes of the boats, he said to Bartlett, ‘Just looking at this lot, I’m thinking that this has got to be the best place to hide. Christ, it’ll be like a needle in haystack. There must be hundreds of boats. You can’t just go tramping on every yacht. But something tells me we’re close. Just a feeling I’ve got.’ He pondered the situation for a while, watching the boats and people on the decks and suddenly blurted, ‘Shit, we should’ve thought of this before. Christ, I’m a bloody fool! This bloody lot came to Lebanon on a yacht.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I damn well know so. Pull in one of the other groups. With four we can systematically go through these boats. We can establish which yachts have arrived here in the last seven days or so. Then we can have a good look at each of those boats. Also, we need to speak to each of these jetty supervisors.’ A smile touched his lips. ‘I believe they’re here!’

  He grudgingly admired Tusk. The man seemed to slip through every attempt made to seize him.

  For the first time that day, Bartlett smiled, taken up with his boss’ enthusiasm.

  Again, after parting with money – the customs officer did not come cheap – Seymour found success and cajoled a list of all yacht movements covering the last week from him. Surprisingly, the list was not long, only a dozen or so boats appearing on it.

  ‘Okay, which of these has already left?’

  Only four had left, leaving fewer than a dozen to investigate. Systematically they worked through the list, asking the supervisors whether these were moored to the jetties and eventually established where is each yacht was positioned in the harbour.

  ‘We’re not going to visit each of these boats. What we’ll do is book a hotel room with a balcony overlooking the basin and use a powerful telescope. This should enable us to study each yacht carefully. During the day you don’t want to be cooped-up below deck, they’ll be about on deck. We’re bound to spot them,’ Seymour said with confidence. ‘Bartlett, get a room as close to the marina as possible and quite high up. And oh, by the way, you’d better secure a launch, a sea-going boat, something we can rent for a few days. It just struck me. If we wait until the yacht is beyond the twelve-mile limit, it’ll be in international waters. That could save Britain a lot of embarrassment. Piracy on the high seas, something like that.’ He chuckled, pleased with his assumption. ‘Besides, the Israelis have gunboats patrolling this part of the coast beyond the limit all the time. They could even be lumbered with the blame.’

  There now was a bounce in Seymour’s step. He was convinced that he was on the right track and that they may just pull the mission off.

  They had discarded their suits and now wore casual beach outfits, blending in easily with the many tourists who crowded the hotel, beach and marina. From the balcony, they had an excellent view. The telescope was powerful, able to read the names of the yachts and distinguish the features of the crews. The jetty supervisors were mostly elderly men, each doing an eight-hour shift. Most were uncooperative, morose, and suspicious of Seymour and his men. However, once they realised that there was good money on offer for what was not confidential information, they relented and became willing informants.

  By midday the next day, they had whittled the list of potential yachts down to three boats: the Esmeralda, the Felicity, and Sea Strike. These were distributed in the basin. They were unable to observe the Esmeralda from the balcony of the hotel as the vision was blocked. There was no alternative but to approach it on foot. The yacht was moored side-on to the jetty about halfway down its length. Seymour and Bartlett, dressed in shorts, T-shirts and moccasins, casually approached, talking, and not appearing to take much interest. The first thing Seymour noticed was the Argentinean flag fluttering from the stern. Four people sat in the cockpit beneath an awning. They were speaking Spanish. One of the crew actually waved as they passed. Although there were two couples, an elderly couple and the other younger, it was obvious that none were Tusk and his accomplice.

  ‘Okay, gents, I think it is the Felicity,’ Seymour said once they were back at the hotel, ‘Those on the Sea Strike speak American, a real southern drawl which is just about impossible to imitate. They’re Yanks all right. Concentrate on the Felicity.’

  Bartlett trained the scope on the Felicity. He recognised her as a sloop, which he estimated to be about forty feet in length, gleaming white with a centre-cockpit covered by an awning.

  ‘That thing cost a few bob,’ he said to Seymour.

  He saw movement below the awning and a woman emerged from the cockpit, dressed in a skimpy white bikini.

  ‘Wow, you’ve got to see this! Now, that’s what I call knock ’em dead. What a figure, just look at those tits.’

  Seymour pushed Bartlett aside and stuck an eye to the scope. ‘I’m telling you, that’s her. His woman or whatever. No mistake,’ he said, unable to contain his excitement. ‘We’ve found them, thank God.’ He stared, making slight adjustments. ‘Hey, I can see Tusk. He’s just shown up from below dressed in bathing trunks.’

  He stepped aside and invited Bartlett to have another look to confirm it was Tusk.

  ‘Okay, see to it that someone keeps the boat under continuous observation while you and I sit down and plan exactly how we are going to go about carrying out this mission from here on. Seriously, a fuck up now will see the end of our careers. Sir Henry says the American press is laughing at us as the Rhodesians run circles around us. Nobody takes this bloody embargo seriously! They’re buying and selling stuff all over the world. Tusk and his bank have lot to do with this. Remember, it has to look like an accident. That’s the new directive,’ he said.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, that’s a tall order,’ Bartlett responded, clearly unhappy with the new directive.

  CHAPTER 56

  Gisela changed their identities again, although they remained German nationals. She thought staying German would fit better with both Bernd and Ursula when they cleared customs to leave Lebanon.

  ‘Have you got a suitcase full of these?’ he asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

  ‘I’ve still got a few left,’ she giggled.

  Bernd decided that they would leave early in the evening of the next day, which would shroud their departure in darkness and, hopefully, they would be unobserved and only known to the harbour master.

  David had recovered from his excessive alcohol intake and spent most of the day on deck sunbathing with Gisela and the others. He stuck to beer, avoiding any hard tack.

  At about four in the afternoon, he took Gisela’s hand. ‘Come, all this bare flesh in such close proximity is getting to me. Let’s go below,’ he said.

  She lay with her head on her hands, her face turned sideways. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He looked at her, his face propped up on his elbow, lying on his side. She let her gaze wonder down his body and stared at his crotch.

  ‘Good God! Is it that bad?’

  ‘Damn right it is, c’mon, let’s go,’ he replied with a leering grin.

  Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, they passed the Hackers sitting in the cockpit and disappeared below.

  Gisela was asleep on the bunk opposite him, the bunks too narrow to accommodate them both. Their lovemaking had been intense, she giving herself completely to him, he forgetting his concerns and the world around, loosing himself completely in her
. As the euphoria wore off, his mind returned to the problems on hand. He realised that the MI6 operatives would be scouring every exit point in the country looking for them. They were not about to give up. They probably knew that once the pair were back in Rhodesia or South Africa, they would be beyond their reach, still able to buy and sell on the international market with impunity. Leaving Lebanon on the yacht no longer seemed such a good idea. It narrowed down their options and heightened their vulnerability. The Hackers were no mercenaries, they were elderly folk – retired was the right description. He did not wish to place them in danger and, from experience, he knew that the British were prepared to condone some collateral damage, if the need arose. Yes, they could board the yacht out at sea in international waters and well away from Lebanon. Also, if the British knew of their whereabouts, a sudden change of plan could throw them off the trail. But how else to exit the country? He decided to discuss this with Bernd and swung his legs off the bunk.

  ‘Where you going?’ he heard her muffled voice.

  ‘Going up. I need to speak to Bernd.’

  ‘Tell them I’ll be up later. They’re not to worry about me. I’m taking a nap. ‘

  He stepped into the cockpit to find Bernd and Ursula each with a drink watching the sun set over the sea.

  ‘Gisela?’ Ursula asked.

  ‘She’ll be up later. She’s having a nap,’ he replied. He wondered whether they had guessed what had happened below. Probably, but did it really matter?

  ‘Bernd, I don’t think it a good idea that we be aboard the yacht when you leave.’

  ‘But I thought we were going to help you escape the country?’ he asked, clearly confused.

  ‘Well, who says they haven’t found us. I know these bastards. They don’t give up. The British never do. They could nab you.’

  ‘Christ! How else are you to get out of Lebanon at such short notice?’ Bernd asked, unable to hide his mounting irritation.

  ‘I’ve an idea, but I need to bounce it off you. It’s going to need your cooperation.’

  ‘Okay, go on.’

  ‘I find a motor boat, a large one. You know, a boat that you can take out to sea. Gisela and I use this to leave the harbour and then rendezvous with you once beyond the twelve-mile limit or even further out, out of sight of land.’

  ‘You must assume you are being watched, otherwise why this new elaborate plan?’ Bernd asked, still sceptical.

  ‘Precisely, we see you off. Quite openly, that is. If they are watching, they’ll see this. Hopefully it will confuse the shit out of them, throw their plans in disarray.’

  ‘Obviously you’ll want to do this at night.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bernd chuckled, unable to hide his sarcasm. ‘You’ll need somebody to operate the launch. Where do you propose finding him?’

  ‘That’s why I’m speaking to you. I need some input.’

  Bernd didn’t reply but got up to pour another drink. It was clear to David that he was mulling over what he had just heard. With a fresh drink in hand, Bernd sat down again.

  ‘Forget the launch. We need a fishing boat. They go out every night, nothing suspicious about that, it’s a time-old tradition in these parts. The fishing harbour is no more than a mile away.’ He smiled, pleased with himself. ‘You’re going to have to part with a lot of money,’ he added.

  ‘I’ve enough.’

  ‘Okay, don’t you do anything. Be inconspicuous and let me arrange something. I know one or two people who possibly can help or can put me onto the right people.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate that. I’ve quite a stash of US dollars. Can I not give you some?’

  ‘No, we’ll work out how you need to pay these people later. God, I don’t even know whether they would be prepared to help. But I do know that the whole lot are smugglers. Some small, some in a big way.’

  When they came up on deck the next morning, they found only Ursula aboard preparing breakfast. She told them that Bernd had risen early and had left before eight.

  It was overcast, the weather slowly building up to a blow. The temperature had also dropped overnight.

  ‘The weather experts say we’re in for a storm tonight, probably with some rain. Bernd listens to the weather every morning at seven,’ Ursula said.

  The weather steadily worsened and, by the time Bernd returned at about four, the wind was blowing near gale strength.

  They both stood on the deck looking at the weather.

  ‘Can you go out in this?’ David asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s not so bad out there.’

  ‘What did you manage?’

  ‘Well, I got an introduction to a fishing boat skipper, Sameh Gamal is his name. He owns a fifty-foot boat and goes out every night, weather permitting, but not Sundays. He’s an ardent Catholic, I mean, he’s serious. Anyway, he’s prepared to take you out and rendezvous with Felicity. He has the works on the boat. It may not look like much but there’s nothing wrong with the equipment, radio, radar and echo-sounder.’

  What does he want?’ David asked loudly, grabbing a mast stay as the wind gusted violently.

  ‘Two thousand. Half when you get on the boat, the rest when you jump over. Oh yes, he’s also heavily armed. Probably a smuggler. He says if anybody tries anything, he’ll shoot. He wants to take you beyond the twelve-mile limit.’

  David smiled, this was the best news he had heard today. ‘Sounds fantastic. Thank you very much!’ he shouted above the wind.

  ‘Hang on. It can’t be done tonight. They won’t go out in this weather. It’ll be tomorrow.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. He would have to live with it. What choice did he have? He was reliant on Mr Sameh Gamal, the skipper, to get him out of the country.

  ‘Bernd, listen to me, this is the hard part. We’ve have to let them realise – that’s presuming they’re watching – that we’ve stayed behind while you depart on the yacht. That’s relatively easy, do you agree? The hard part is to lose them so that we can make it to the fishing boat without being tailed. Hell, the moment they see we don’t board … well, I don’t have to tell you the rest.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get into the cockpit. I can’t hear a bloody thing!’

  It certainly was a lot better in the cockpit, the screens down, the wind now partially contained. Bernd rummaged in a locker under the bench seat and withdrew a bottle of Black Label. He took a generous swig and then handed it to David. He too took a generous swallow. It burnt his throat on the way down, its warmth spreading through his stomach.

  ‘If they’re watching, it’s going to be difficult. They’ll be watching from up there.’ He indicated the tall hotel building on the opposite side of the beach boulevard overlooking the marina. ‘That’s where I would be watching from. They probably will have a few men below, just in case you make a smart move. Know what I mean? So, you suddenly make a dash for it, you’ve a car standing by. Will you get away?’

  ‘Give me that bottle.’ David stretched out a hand and took another swig. ‘We would have to coordinate that. You have to bring the boat to the club end of the marina, as close to the cars as possible, ostensibly to load something prior to departure. That would not look suspicious. The car would then be nearby. We also buy the gate guard, pay him handsomely. Gisela and I make a dash for the car. Not run and make it obvious, just a quick walk, jump into the car and drive out of the already open gate. That’s what the guard has to do, ensure that the gate is open before we get to it. What do you think?’

  ‘Bloody dicey. I can think of a couple of ifs that could go wrong,’ Bernd replied sourly.

  ‘Listen, they’re not about to shoot in a public place, even with silenced weapons. They’ve got to catch us on the boat, or somewhere else that’s isolated. A deserted road, building or whatever.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll have a car delivered by the rental company, something not conspicuous, a Renault or Simca. They can leave the keys under the mat. I mean it will be safe in the car park. Provided we don’t go anywhere
near, it won’t raise any suspicions.’

  CHAPTER 57

  David applied his mind to the escape, but every option he came up with was fraught with problems. He did not like the car idea with its dash for the fishing harbour. He thought too many things could go wrong. Yes, he believed the British would not start a gun battle in Beirut’s streets but still, if what had occurred at the hotel was anything to go by, well, that had to be an indication as to how desperate they were. Better not take a chance.

  There was another option that he favoured. A night-time escape. He and Gisela would slip over the hidden side of the yacht, the side that did not face the hotel and harbour. They’d swim along the yachts and, when well away from the Felicity, would emerge farther along the jetty or at least to where they would not draw attention. Surely the surveillance was concentrated only on the yacht to see who came and left. It was impossible to watch the whole basin.

  He put this to Bernd.

  ‘Forget it. I think they’re convinced you’ll stick to the yacht. They’re not expecting a dash for a car. You’ll take them by surprise. Secondly, the guys on the fishing boat won’t let the Brits harm you. They’ll resist, shoot if necessary, especially if they think they’re being shot at. These Lebanese are savagely possessive and don’t shirk from a fight,’ he retorted.

  What could he say, the man was probably right. He harrumphed an okay.