Mirage

by James Follett

  Lenny opened his Torah and recited a brief prayer while the boatyard workers released the shackles that harnessed the boat to the bogies. On a word from Marcel Aliott, the brakes were released and the whole swaying contraption rumbled down the slipway. The launching was so gentle that waves caused by the boat entering the water were smaller than the wake of a passing fishing boat. The men preparing the nets on the trawler’s afterdeck stopped work and added their own lusty accompaniment to the Israelis’ burst of enthusiastic cheering. Passing motorists who had stopped to watch the launching waved and clapped as Tania floated clear of the cradle.

  The Israelis were allowed aboard the craft once it had been made secure alongside the other four boats. There was much to do: a boat changes its shape when launched, which means that shaft logs, plummer blocks and engine couplings have to be realigned. And then begins the most complex task of all in building a boat - fitting out. Whilst the post-launch inspection was going on, Lenny held a brief conference with Joe in the bare wheelhouse.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Joe, I feel much happier now that we’ve got all five boats with wet keels.’

  ‘So what’s next on the agenda, Lenny?’

  ‘How’s the fuel situation on the other boats?’

  Joe smiled. ‘We ran a dipstick check on all the tanks yesterday. As near as we can judge, they’re all half full. Haven’t you noticed the way they’re sitting in the water?’

  ‘Just so long as M’sieur Aliott doesn’t notice anything,’ said Lenny.

  Joe shrugged. ‘He’s no fool, Lenny. I think he suspects something

  - they all do. And they’re still giving us over the odds in our fuel ration.’

  ‘How about Judy’s low oil pressure on her Number Two engine?’ ‘We fit a new pump tomorrow. So what’s the next step?’ ‘Concentrate on getting this boat ready.’

  ‘Mean working double shifts to get it done in time.’

  Lenny nodded. ‘Okay - fine, Joe. Now - crew. I reckon that we’ll need a minimum of five hands per watch for each boat. That’s fifteen hands per boat plus a back-up crew. So let’s say a hundred hands will have to be brought into Cherbourg.’

  Joe looked startled. ‘A hundred! What about twelve-hour watches?’

  Lenny shook his head. ‘We’ve got a three-thousand mile run to Haifa. Three refuellings at sea in God knows what weather. I’m not taking risks with exhausted, undermanned crews.’

  ‘What are our refuelling points?’ Joe wanted to know.

  ‘That’s something we don’t have to worry about yet,’ Lenny replied. ‘But victualling is our problem. We’re going to need food and fresh water for a hundred hands for five days. Let’s say a week to give us a safety margin.’

  This time Joe looked really alarmed. ‘You’re talking about a couple of truck loads of grub, Lenny.’

  ‘That’s right. We use the same technique that seems to be working well for the fuel. I want everyone to start buying extra food each week. Tell them to concentrate on high-protein tinned stuff - peas, beans, corned beef - that sort of thing. But they’re not to change their regular shopping patterns too quickly. Tell them to buy a little more than usual each trip. We could also organize occasional expeditions out to that giant supermarket on the road to Caen.’ ‘The Elf hypermarket?’

  ‘That’s the place. I’ll arrange for Paris to send me out some extra cash to cover the cost.’

  That evening Lenny had a visitor. The two men dined at the Theatre Restaurant in the Place du Theatre. The visitor was the Assistant Naval Attache at Israel’s Paris embassy. He made careful notes as he listened to Lenny’s requirements. He returned to his embassy at midnight. An hour later Lenny’s instructions were encrypted and radioed to Tel Aviv.

  25

  BLACKBUSHE AIRFIELD

  For once in his chequered career Lucky was discovering that threats and abuse got him nowhere; not with a hard-nosed merchant banker like Rodney Braden.

  ‘I worked my arse off for that Ghanaian deal! For Chrissake - it’s put me in the black! Jesus Christ - what more do you want?’ Braden toyed with his gold pen. ‘It’s put you in the black only because we waived the interest charges on last month’s late payment, Mr Nathan,’ he pointed out.

  ‘For fuck’s sake - paying interest on interest!’

  ‘That’s business,’ said Braden suavely. ‘You’ll have to sell those airframes to Hawker’s.’

  ‘They want the ten best ones!’ Lucky snarled.

  Braden glanced at some papers. ‘Which happens to be a better deal than the five you sold to Euroarmco.’ He paused. ‘I hope they don’t end up in Rhodesia, Lucky. We don’t wish to be involved in anything illegal.’

  ‘If those airframes go to Hawker’s, then I’m really fucked on the Israeli contract!’

  ‘After over a year, Lucky, you can kiss any hopes of that goodbye. For God’s sake be realistic.’

  ‘You’re telling me to give up? I’ll tell you something, Mister Pound of Flesh-Grabbing Braden. I never give up. Never!’ Braden’s patience was wearing thin. The row had been dragging on for an hour. They were now into the lunchbreak. No more hammering rivet guns. The men down on the shopfloor would be listening to every word. ‘I’m just telling you to face up to practicalities, Lucky.’ He swept up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. ‘You have to sell those airframes, Lucky. Okay - zero profit for four months, but at least that’s better than having me sitting at your desk giving you orders.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you are doing!’

  Braden shrugged.

  ‘I never give up,’ Lucky muttered again. ‘Never.’ He turned to the inner windows and stared down at the workshop where his men were eating their sandwiches. Of his original workforce, only eight fitters

  were left. A torment of black rage welled up inside him. He had lived through a year of misery and uncertainty as everything had fallen apart slowly around him; a year with this pin-striped pratt breathing down his neck, telling him how to run his company. Braden had already taken his house from him. Jesus Christ - someone was going to pay for this.

  And pay ... and pay ....

  26

  CHERBOURG July 1969

  Joe Tyssen shut down Tania’s Number Two diesel engine, pulled off his ear defenders, and went through his entire repertoire of oaths. He even added a few in French that he had learned from the CMN men.

  Lenny climbed down the ladder into the engine room. ‘Trouble, Joe?’

  ‘Two thousand rpm - uncoupled, no load - is all we can get out of her. I told Jean-Paul that the new injectors were no bloody good.’ Joe paused and glanced around. ‘It’s going to be touch and go to get Tania ready by the fourteenth, Lenny.’

  ‘It’s all academic now anyway.’

  There was a dejected note in Lenny’s voice. Joe looked sharply at him. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  Lenny punched a bulkhead in anger. ‘You’d think with de Gaulle gone things would be different, but nothing’s changed. Pompidou’s just the same. I’ve just seen Marcel. He’s had a tip-off from the Préfet. Tomorrow the Ministère de l'Intérieur are issuing expulsion orders for ten of us.’

  Joe slammed his toolbox shut. ‘Bastards,’ he said softly after a pause. ‘Can we appeal?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘So who’s going?’

  ‘That’ll be up to us to decide. They want our team halved. We provide a list and they issue twenty-four hour expulsion orders. They’ll even provide us with a bus to take us to the airport.’

  ‘Generous of them. It means we’re fucked.’

  ‘For Bastille Day, we are,’ said Lenny. ‘Ten of us haven’t a hope in hell of getting the boats ready in two weeks.... But maybe we could for the next big public holiday.’

  Joe thought for a moment. ‘Christmas Day?’

  Lenny’s worried expression became a slow smile. ‘You’ve got it, Joe.’

  27

  WINTERTHUR

  ‘I’m at the foot of the ladder. The LEM’s foot-
pads are only depressed in the surface about one or two inches. Although the surface appears to be very finely grained, as you get close to it, it’s almost like powder. Now and then it’s very fine. I’m going to step off the LEM now. That’s one small step for a man; one giant leap for mankind.’

  Raquel’s timing was excellent; like millions of other Americans the world over, she let out a whoop and popped the champagne cork the moment the ghostly TV image showed Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon. She yanked a protesting Albert to his feet and waltzed him joyously around the bar. Jack and Katra joined in the celebration while Daniel and Avrim complained good-naturedly that they couldn’t hear what was going on.

  Albert was flustered with excitement. ‘It’s all going so well, Raquel - isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure it is, Albert. You’ll be a rich man when it’s all over.’ She laughed and added: ‘I shall come and live with you and help you spend it.’ No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she regretted them; one did not joke with Albert - he took everything so bloody seriously.

  They settled down to watch the ectoplasmic images of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin loping about in the moon’s one-sixth gravity like a pair of animated Michelin men. The astronauts saluted an ovenfoil Stars and Stripes which they had planted. They set out instrument packages, and scooped up samples of moondust. Like the well-trained tourists they were, they took plenty of photographs and left much litter. There was a brief pause while they talked to an enthusing President Richard Nixon.

  ‘There’s a rumour that he might unbend on supplying Phantoms,’ Jack commented.

  Daniel snorted. ‘Then another president in five years does a U-turn because we’ve used them and kicks us right back to square one. That’s the sort of hypocrisy that makes me sick: countries saying “Oh, yes - we’ll sell you what arms you like. But you mustn’t actually use them. And if you do, and need spares, we’ll refuse to supply them.” Anyway, the Phantom is not the sort of aircraft we need. It’s too big.’

  Avrim nodded. ‘Can carry a hell of a payload though. That’s where it scores over the Mirage.’

  ‘How many more drawings are there now?’ Jack asked, spiking the makings of an argument. He looked questioningly at Daniel. Daniel raised a questioning eyebrow at Albert.

  ‘About sixty thousand,’ said Albert.

  ‘So two more trips?’

  ‘About that - yes.’

  ‘September and December?’ Katra asked. ‘It would be nice to wrap the whole thing up by the end of the year.’

  Daniel had not given any serious thought about what would happen to himself and Raquel when the operation was over. He caught her eye and wondered if she was thinking the same thing. The operation was now a tedious routine. The early days, when they had jumped at every knock on the door, now seemed very distant. Those days had had a certain piquancy - an excitement - which was no more.

  They sat in the darkened bar in silence, all six wrapped in the fortresses of their thoughts as they watched the remarkable, if fuzzy, pictures from the Moon.

  Raquel wondered what would become of Albert. Perhaps he and his wife would spend the rest of their days in luxurious exile in South America. A happy exile, denied the right to return to their own country? She doubted it.

  Katra broke the long silence. She stood, yawned, and stretched her graceful limbs. ‘Wake up, everyone. We don’t want to be loading the drawings in daylight.’

  An hour later they waved goodbye to Jack and Katra and returned to the bar. It was 5.00am. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were climbing back into their Lunar Excursion Module - tht Eagle. They were due for a period of sleep before beginning their quarter-of-a- million-mile return journey to Earth.

  Raquel stared at the ghostly lunar scene for a moment before turning the television off. She shook her head sadly and watched Daniel, Albert and Avrim clearing up after the party. ‘I wonder if they watched in Hanoi and Biafra?’ She asked sadly of no one in particular.

  28

  CHERBOURG November 1969

  It was one of those beautiful days which gave everyone a chance to prepare themselves for winter. The good citizens of Cherbourg were busy in their gardens or under their cars.

  Joe Tyssen bumped and swayed through the outskirts of the town on his way back from the hypermarket: his overloaded 2CV aiming its headlights at the clear blue sky. He had grown to love the absurd little car, his ‘chicken house on wheels’, and had decided to buy one upon his return to Israel. He wondered whose hands it would fall into. Lenny had ruled that the team were to sell nothing before leaving. They were to do nothing that might suggest they were planning a sudden departure.

  He turned into the Rue Dom Pedro and parked outside Lenny’s house. The elderly woman next door was trimming her hedge. He exchanged a few pleasantries with her and helped her stuff the clippings into her incinerator.

  Lenny came out of the house. The two men unloaded the boxes of tinned groceries and carried them into the hallway. They spent an hour preparing the purchases and transferring them to the marked boxes for eventual loading on to the five boats. Most of the food purchased over the preceding weeks had already been hidden in the bilges. Preparing the tins involved ripping off their paper labels and marking them with an indelible spirit pen to indicate their contents. Lenny’s experience of long powerboat races was that tins, in the damp conditions of bilges, quickly shed their labels. Not only did the contents of the tins become unknown, but fifty-seven varieties of shredded baked bean labels slopping about in the bilges of a boat knew more than fifty-seven ways of choking pumps.

  Such was Lenny’s legendary attention to detail.

  29

  WINTERTHUR December 1969

  Avrim shook hands with Daniel and Raquel. His work was finished. Albert had confirmed that the last five parcels to be delivered contained large drawings only.

  During his year-long sojourn in Winterthur, Avrim had lived like a hermit in his room above the bar. In that time, without ever complaining, he had photographed over quarter of a million drawings, processed over a thousand rolls of film and worn out two cameras. At no time had he allowed pressure of work or exhaustion to tempt him into taking shortcuts. He meticulously checked his work at every stage and the result was that there were six Mirages flying in Israel that would otherwise be grounded.

  He had spent a week thoroughly cleaning out his room and burning rugs and floor coverings. Anything that might carry forensic clues that the room had been used as a photographic processing factory was consigned to the incinerator. Even his clothes.

  ‘We’ll have a party back home when the first Mirage is built,’ Daniel promised as Avrim started his engine.

  ‘I shall look forward to it,’ Avrim replied. ‘Shalom.’

  Raquel opened the back-yard gate. The DAF bumped over the uneven ground and turned into the alley.

  30

  CHERBOURG

  Emil’s operation to smuggle, if not the entire Israeli Navy into Cherbourg, a sizeable chunk of it, started with the arrival on 18 December of Petty Officer Eugen Zwicker. He trooped off the cross-channel ferry from England and showed his false passport to the official who waved him through to Customs. The geography of Cherbourg had been drilled into him during his month’s intensive training, therefore he found his hotel in the town without having to ask directions. He had already spotted the five boats moored at CMN’s quayside before the ferry docked. The next day two of his comrades checked in at the hotel. Eugen ignored them at breakfast although he later had a brief conference with them in his room.

  Thirty more Israelis arrived that week. They came in twos and threes. Some arrived by train from Paris; some by hire car; some by bus; a few from England via the cross-channel ferries. They scattered themselves into Cherbourg’s thirty or so hotels. Some were luckier than others: some had rooms with friendly staff and plenty of hot and cold running water; some had rooms with friendly cockroaches and plumbing installed by the Romans. All of them knew by heart the details of the
Christmas Day breakout.

  31

  WINTERTHUR

  Daniel’s emotions were mixed as he opened the boot of Albert’s Peugeot for the last time. There were only two parcels. He carried them upstairs and opened them. The familiar smell of ammonia was released. Avrim had said to burn the curtains before they left in case they had absorbed the telltale fumes. He checked the drawing numbers against his short list of outstanding drawing numbers. When he had finished, the well-thumbed sheaves of parts lists had a tick against every drawing.

  He sat on the bed staring at the thirty parcels and the bag of five hundred rolls of film: the final consignment that was awaiting the arrival of Jack and Katra. The impossible had been achieved. They had now accounted for every drawing of the Mirage and its Atar jet engine. Every single drawing right down to those for switches and special nuts and bolts. Even the drawings of the instruction transfers to be stuck on to the Mirage’s outer skin were accounted for.

  32

  TEL AVIV

  It was a chance in a thousand that Jacob Wyel happened to see a secretary feeding a typewriter carbon ribbon into a shredding machine. It was after 6.00pm - the large open office on the second floor of the Ministry of Defence building was quiet. He would have left thirty minutes earlier but for a long-distance telephone call he had taken on his personal assistant’s extension.

  The protesting noises made by the shredding machine as it chewed into the carbon ribbon caused him to pause. ‘What are you doing, young lady? You’ll ruin it - that machine’s meant for paper.’

  The girl looked embarrassed. ‘We have to use it, sir, until we get an incinerator.’

  ‘It’s a typewriter ribbon, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir - a carbon ribbon. New office standing orders. Security. Carbon ribbons have to be destroyed.’

  Jacob frowned. ‘How can typewriter ribbons be a security risk?’ ‘Carbon ribbons can be, sir,’ the girl explained. ‘Because they’re used only once as they pass through the typewriter, they leave a readable impression of everything that’s been typed with them ... see?’ She held up a length of ribbon to the light so that Jacob could read the words punched through the thin strip of black film.