Mirage

by James Follett

  ‘We’re safer up here,’ a crewman explained. ‘If anything hits us, at least we can break the rafts out quickly.’

  Joe climbed into the wheelhouse from the engine room.

  ‘At a guess Class T47 anti-submarine destroyers from Toulon,’ Lenny commented, handing Joe the binoculars. He unhooked the microphone and told the other boats to reduce speed and to follow him.

  At two miles, one of the warships manoeuvred so that it was in a better position to bring its pair of 100-millimetre guns to bear on the approaching boats.

  Lenny altered course towards the destroyers.

  ‘What are you doing, sir?’

  ‘Showing the bastards that we’re not frightened of them.’

  ‘I think I could muster up a bit of fear if pushed,’ Joe admitted.

  Lenny grinned. The warships made no move to change their station. They stood high in the water ... grey and sinister and menacing.

  At half a mile they could see the sailors on the destroyers’ decks. Leaning on the rails. Staring curiously at the little fleet that was edging towards them.

  Quarter of a mile ...

  ‘We’re going between them,’ Lenny decided.

  Two hundred yards ...

  Lenny slowed to ten knots. The following boats did the same.

  One hundred yards ...

  The twenty people on Honey’s deck were transfixed by the destroyers which were now looming over them like menacing cats about to pounce on some impudent mice. Still the warships made no overt move. Not even when Honey crossed the sombre shadows they were throwing on the water.

  Raquel looked up in the eyes of the men staring dispassionately down at them as they slipped by. She saw nothing. Not a flicker of emotion. Not even a wave. She shivered and held Daniel’s arm. Then Honey was past the destroyers and if was Tiffany’s turn. One by one the boats in the little fleet edged through the valley of what had looked like certain death.

  ‘Why?’ asked a crewman within earshot of Raquel. ‘Why do this to us?’

  ‘The British have an apt expression for it,’ said Raquel. ‘It’s called “putting on the frighteners”. The idea is to scare you.’

  ‘You know what?’ said another voice. ‘It worked.’

  65

  TEL AVIV 28 December 1969

  The smoke and the flashing strobes in the Butch Cassidy’s Thirty- Plus disco stung Emil’s eyes. That the Rolling Stones’ ‘Honky Tonk Woman’ blasting from serried ranks of column speakers at a level that could loosen dental fillings was inaudible in the hotel above was a credit to the sound engineers responsible for insulating the basement from the rest of the building.

  He edged his way around the dance floor that was packed with about forty heaving, jerking, sweating young adults. These were Israel’s nouveau riche sufficiently distant from the shackles of selfquestioning adolescence to be able to enjoy themselves without regarding an evening in a disco as a ritualized psyching-up in readiness for an aftermath of furtive, messy sex in the backs of cars. These were young people with double beds and marriages awaiting them at the end of the evening. There was a cluster of older men gathered around the bar, pinning it down with their elbows in case it made the same escape as their youth. One of them was the object of Emil’s dispassionate stare. He was wearing an expensive worsted suit and was laughing and joking with a Lebanese waiter. This was the man he had come to destroy.

  He was about to tap him on the shoulder, but hesitated, as if the man was somehow contaminated. Instead he raised his voice and said: ‘Good evening, Jacob.’

  Jacob wheeled around and used his skills acquired as a politician to quickly change his initial expression of alarm and astonishment to a beaming smile. ‘Emil! This is a pleasure. What can I get you?’ ‘Thank you, Jacob. But I’ll buy my own drink.’ Emil nodded to the barman. ‘An orange juice, please.’

  Jacob’s smile vanished. He shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’

  The Lebanese waiter made an excuse and left.

  ‘A friend of yours, Jacob?’

  ‘He works here. So what are you doing here, Emil? On business?’

  ‘In a way - yes. I want to talk to you. Somewhere quieter.’

  Emil paid for his drink and followed Jacob to a booth some distance from the speakers’ epicentre. The two men sat opposite each other. The music changed to Jane Birkin’s ‘Je T’Aime ... Moi Non Plus’; a quiet, smoochy number banned by the BBC because it was a little too smoochy. At least it made conversation in the disco possible.

  ‘So what’s on your mind, Emil?’ asked Jacob, lighting a cigar with a gold Colibri.

  Emil’s grey eyes regarded Jacob over the rim of his glass. ‘A few days ago an operation of mine in Switzerland was blown and two of my operatives murdered. One of them was a woman. The Swiss police believe that she was tortured to death in a particularly sadistic manner.’

  Jacob sipped his drink. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Later Emil would wonder how he managed to restrain himself and not smash the glass into Jacob’s face. ‘There was a leak.’

  ‘Really? Who from?’

  This time Emil noticed a barely perceptible flicker of unease. ‘You, Jacob.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘Two weeks ago you flew to England.’

  ‘A private visit,’ said Jacob, now smiling again. ‘So what? I have many friends in England. I used to live there, remember.’

  ‘Oh, yes - you definitely visited a friend. An old friend. Lucky Nathan. And you told him all about my operation in Switzerland.’ Jacob remained calm. ‘What operation in Switzerland? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I’m surprised at you, Emil. You’ve never been one for making wild accusations.’

  ‘And I’m not starting now,’ Emil replied evenly, watching Jacob’s face carefully. He placed an object on the table and saw a momentary flash of panic in the politician’s eyes. The object was a typewriter carbon ribbon.

  ‘Should that interest me, Emil?’

  ‘I think so. Two of my men found it earlier this evening when they broke into your apartment. They were curious. Why should you have a ribbon that doesn’t fit your typewriter? The reason is simple: because it doesn’t belong to your typewriter - it belongs to the one in my office at the Ministry of Defence. As you know, I hardly ever use the place and only then as a mailbox. And I rarely use the typewriter except for private business.’

  Jacob sipped his drink. ‘You’re finished, Emil. You know that? When Mrs Meir hears you’ve been breaking into apartments of ministers, she’ll demand your resignation. There was a memo circulated about the security dangers of carbon ribbons. I remembered that there was a typewriter in your office, so I removed its ribbon. I was waiting for a chance to speak to you about it before destroying it.’

  Emil nodded. ‘One of my men also read that memo. He suggested that the ribbon Daniel used to type his plan might be the source of the leak.’

  Jacob smiled. ‘Neat, Emil. You leave a ribbon in your typewriter for two years - a major breach of security - and you try to swing the blame on to me.’

  ‘These were also found in your apartment,’ said Emil, fanning out some typewritten lists on the table.

  This time Jacob’s demon of panic lasted longer. He seemed unable to speak for some moments.

  ‘Bank statements going back nearly twenty years,’ said Emil. ‘No name or address, or account number. That alone tells us that they’re Swiss without looking at the water marks.’ He pocketed the papers. ‘At least it explains your general life style, Jacob. But how will you explain to Mrs Meir payments you’ve received over twenty years totalling nearly half a million dollars?’

  Jacob recovered his wits. ‘It doesn’t say they’re dollars. There’s no currency shown.’

  Emil raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re not going to ask me to believe these amounts are for Italian lire are you, Jacob? If so, I don’t see how you could have afforded your trips around Europe. Always staying at the best hotels. Let’s take your li
ttle visit to London last February as a typical example. One of the assistant managers knows you very well, doesn’t he? You always pay him around fifty pounds to find you a “rent” boy - I believe they’re called.’ Emil shook his head. ‘Fifty pounds wasn’t enough, Jacob. We offered him substantially more and he was happy to talk. And the story is much the same elsewhere ... Paris in November; Rome in May—’

  ‘Stop!’ Jacob had crushed his half-smoked cigar into the ashtray. His eyes were shock wide. The amused, slightly arrogant expression no more. His jaw muscles twitched as though he was having trouble framing a sentence. ‘Have you been following me?’ he choked out.

  ‘Keeping you under observation,’ Emil replied. ‘Not all the time. About a quarter of your trips over the past ten years.’ Emil leaned forward. His eyes steely hard and grey like a snake outstaring its prey. He was no longer the bland, smiling Emil Kalen. This time the ugly dagger that the genial side of his nature effectively concealed was out of its sheath, just as it had been twenty-five years earlier when he had assassinated a former SS officer. ‘Listen, you treacherous bastard. I had always despised J. Edgar Hoover for his nasty snooping practices against people in public office, and I’ve always fought against the Institute being used for that sort of purpose. But if US society is infested with despicable vermin like you, then, by God, maybe Hoover had a point. You’ve sold your country down the river, you’re responsible for the murder of a young couple and you’ve endangered my son’s life.’

  Jacob’s political experience enabled him to give the outward impression that he had recovered his composure. Inwardly he was sick with fear. His years of caution - never even picking up men in Israel - had come to naught. He sought refuge in bluster. ‘I didn’t come to this country as an armed member of the Irgun. You were the one who was prepared to murder innocent people. I should’ve killed you or left you to drown when I had the chance. Okay - you’ve got a file on me. So what are you planning to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Jacob looked surprised.

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you leave Israel within twenty-four hours and never return. You’ve amassed a respectable sum so you can live in reasonable comfort if you’re careful. I’m giving you a chance that you never gave my two operatives.’

  Jacob lit another cigar. This time his hand shook noticeably. Emil stood. All Jacob’s bravura had gone. He sat staring across the dance floor, his shoulders bowed. Suddenly his expensive suit looked as shapeless as a donkey jacket. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’ he said, not looking up at Emil.

  ‘No,’ said Emil flatly. ‘No choice at all.’ He turned on his heel and made his way to the exit just as Desmond Dekker and the Aces started belting out ‘The Israelites’.

  Jacob sat transfixed by the turmoil of his thoughts for another five minutes. He eventually roused himself and went out to the car park. None of his old friends spoke to him when he left the hotel. It was as if they had overheard every word of the conversation. He drove north along the coastal road towards Haifa. Deciding that a walk would help him think, he pulled off the road and parked near the edge of the low cliffs. The cold night air cleared his head. He strolled along the clifftop, his eyes on the twinkling lights of Tel Aviv. Twenty-five years before, when he had flown as a Mahal in the War of Independence, all this land had been under cultivation. Now hotels, bars, discos and shops were a glowing lava river of affluence creeping inexorably along the coast towards Haifa.

  The rutted path became asphalt. He was in a park. With a start he realized that he was in the Garden of Independence dominated by its memorial - a soaring bronze albatross, wings fully outstretched, supported on a slender needle of concrete. A plaque in Hebrew and English proclaimed that the memorial was dedicated to the airmen who had fought in the skies of Tel Aviv during the War of Independence. He looked up at the floodlit albatross. Its graceful soaring wings carried his thoughts back to the roar of Avia engines, white tracers punching across clear blue skies in pursuit of Jordanian Spitfires running scared for home; crazy truck races across fields to be first on the scene of enemy aircraft crashes to cannibalize the wreckage for useable spares. The parties; comradeship; friendships forged by war and ended by war. Memories ... so many bitter sweet memories.

  He retraced his footsteps along the cliff path to his car and sat behind the wheel, alone and miserable with his confused thoughts while gazing with unseeing eyes out to sea through the windscreen. He started the engine and eased the shift into drive. The torque converter strained impatiently against the transmission that he held in check with the footbrake while his right foot pressed the accelerator to the floor. The roar of the car engine became his old Avia. Sand blasting past his canopy as he tested the magnetos. The feeling of excitement in his stomach at the thought that he would be back in the air within a few minutes - engaging the enemy in a clash to their death or his; the vague outline of mechanics in the swirling dust, dragging the chocks away and giving him the thumbs-up signal. And then releasing the brakes. The aircraft charging forwards, left and right on the rudderbar because the Avia’s eight feet of snout stuck up in the air made it impossible to see straight ahead unless you weaved. Gathering speed ... sixty knots ... eighty .... His body bucking madly in the cockpit as the wheels hit ruts .... A hundred knots. Too fast to weave now. Impossible to see anything. Aim at the top of a tree - a roof - anything to keep her straight. Fly by feel. And then a sudden divine smoothness as the wheels unstuck and you knew you were flying.

  66

  CENTRAL MEDITERRANEAN

  By noon the sun was so warm that Raquel persuaded Daniel to stretch out on the foredeck beside her with their backs propped against a stack of liferafts where they were out of the icy slipstream although the fleet had reduced speed to a steady twenty-five knots. For once Honey’s diesels were a muted throb, making normal conversation possible, and the sea was unusually calm which afforded a blessed relief from the merciless pounding of the past three days.

  ‘So where are we now?’ Raquel asked, pulling Daniel’s arm around her shoulder.

  ‘About due south of the heel of Italy. We’re in the widest part of the Med and about fifteen hundred miles to go. We’ll be in Haifa in time for tea tomorrow.’

  ‘Tell me about Haifa.’

  ‘Oh - it’s a lovely city. Green hills surrounding a beautiful little harbour. Except that it’s not so little now. That’s where I was in hospital when I injured my foot.’

  Raquel closed her eyes. ‘It’s a pity all this happened.’

  ‘How do you mean, Rac?’

  ‘Didn’t you enjoy running the bar?’

  ‘Yes - it was great.’

  ‘It was more than just great,’ Raquel murmured. ‘At least it was to me.’

  ‘Maybe we could run a bar in Haifa?’

  Raquel opened her eyes and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Daniel.’

  ‘Why not? Not exciting enough?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve just had my fill of excitement. I just don’t think it would work a second time. You’re one of those people who has to have an objective. Everything you do is a stepping stone towards doing something else. A means to an end.’ She frowned and peered round the liferafts towards Honey’s bow. ‘What was that?’

  Daniel also heard the strange sound. It was a shrill whine that was just audible above Honey’s diesels. He stood and stared eastward at the surprisingly heavy haze that seemed to be forming. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It sounded like gas turbines.’

  Daniel went aft and reported the noise to the helmsman who, in turn, relayed it to Lenny. He entered the wheelhouse rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  ‘There’s something out in the haze. If you could stop engines, we might hear it properly.’

  Lenny was unimpressed. ‘A merchant ship,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’m not stopping—’

  ‘I think these were turbines,’ Daniel persisted. ‘I think we should stop.’ He
broke off when he realized that Lenny wasn’t listening.

  ‘What the hell’s that haze?’ Lenny muttered, frowning.

  ‘I thought it odd, sir,’ said the helmsman.

  Daniel was at a loss. He was no sailor. ‘Just a haze, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody odd in December,’ Lenny declared. He reached for the microphone. ‘Okay, we’ll stop engines.’

  All five boats were lying stopped, rolling in the gentle swell. The air was still and warm. The haze now seemed to be settling like a fog, further reducing visibility to less than a mile. All the men standing on Honey’s foredeck heard the distant whine.

  ‘Gas turbine engines,’ Lenny muttered. ‘Bloody powerful ones at that. Froggies up to their stunts again. Okay - let’s get moving. I’ve got a date in Haifa with ten litres of beer tomorrow night.’

  The little fleet resumed its easterly voyage.

  The fog closed in.

  With visibility dropping to half a mile, Lenny ordered the boats to line abreast to minimize the danger of collision.

  The fog got thicker. Suddenly the visibility plummeted. Within minutes it was down to fifty yards and getting steadily worse. The helmsman reduced speed to ten knots and radioed the other boats to do likewise.

  Lenny sniffed suspiciously. He yanked the wheelhouse door open and tested the air. ‘That’s not fog!’ he snarled. ‘Someone’s making smoke!’

  At that moment Honey’s port inner engine faltered, slowed and stalled.

  The boat began to lose way.

  ‘Shaft’s jammed!’ Joe’s voice yelled from the engine room. ‘Don’t try to start her!’

  And then the port outer engine died, forcing the helmsman to spin the wheel to starboard to maintain his heading. The radio came to life. Pussy reported that all her engines had stopped.

  ‘Lenny!’ Daniel yelled. ‘There’s netting in the water!’

  Lenny and several crewmen raced to the rail and stared down at the stout green netting that was spread out and floating just beneath the surface. ‘Snare netting!’ Lenny shouted. ‘Christ, there’s tons of the stuff!’