Ultimatum

by Antony Trew

  ‘Six?’

  ‘Yes. For the purpose of this hypothesis the dead body was another Syrian officer. This time with an Israeli identity disc, phoney Israeli documents in his pocket, and a face slashed beyond recognition. That’s an easy set-up.’

  ‘Motive, Jakob?’ Mordecai was pretty sure he knew the answer but he liked flying kites. Kahn would shoot them down.

  ‘To throw a spanner in Kissinger’s works. To destroy the détente he’s trying to set up between Israel and Egypt. The Syrians suspect Kissinger’s is a wedge-driving operation.’ Kahn stubbed out the cheroot, took another from the packet on his desk. ‘Filthy habit,’ he said. ‘But I enjoy them.’

  Mordecai shook his head disapprovingly. ‘It’ll kill you before the Arabs do, Jakob. You mentioned two possibilities. What was the other?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the more probable. Who in the Arab world has the greatest need to block Kissinger’s efforts?’

  ‘The Palestine liberation movement.’

  ‘Sure. A successful détente would leave both Syria and Palestine isolated. Unable to exert pressure on Israel for their own ends. But it’s not the PLO. Arafat wouldn’t do it that way. Even the El Fatah attack on a Tel Aviv tourist hotel was out of character for him. That was the PLO’s attempt to neutralize Kissinger. But Arafat wouldn’t deliberately kill Syrian army officers or risk an operation like the attack on Shed 27. The consequences for the PLO if that failed would have been disastrous.’

  ‘So it was an extremist splinter group?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kahn nodded vigorously. ‘Habash’s MPF, or Hawatemeh’s PDF or,’ he paused, staring at Mordecai, ‘for my money, Mahmoud el Ka’ed’s SAS. Ka’ed wouldn’t hesitate to do something like that if he thought it would kill an Egypt-Israeli détente.’

  ‘So what do you tell the PM and CGS at tonight’s meeting?’

  Kahn stood up, went to the corner, filled a glass with water from a carafe, came back. ‘Several things. First, exactly what I’ve told you. They must make their own choice. The Prime Minister has superb political intuition. Let’s see how he rates the possibles and probables. Second, whatever the motive for the incident, the nuclear warhead is now in the hands of the people who hi-jacked it. The high probability is that it’s the Palestinians. What are they going to do with it? That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. They’ve got physicists. They know the technology. It’s my belief they’ll use that bomb – use it in Israel, because we’re right next door and we’re target number one. With it they can take out Tel Aviv or Haifa. That’s my appreciation of the situation.’

  Mordecai said, ‘I’ve been thinking that for some time. But I didn’t want to put it into words.’

  Kahn stood up. ‘There’s another thing the Prime Minister and CGS have got to decide pretty soon.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Syrians have got Pluton. So now they have nuclear capability. We’d better confirm what the world suspects – tell them straight or leak it – that we’ve got it too. Project MD-660. No need to tell them it has four times the range of Pluton. Russian and US intelligence already know that. We can take out Cairo, Damascus, Beirut and Amman if they are looking for that sort of fight.’

  ‘It’s been rumoured for some months that we’ve got nuclear capability. The Times report on October 12th mentioned it.’

  ‘A rumour’s one thing, Bar. If we confirm it they’re not going to use Pluton unless they’re crazy. But that’s a decision for the Prime Minister.’

  The Times report on October 12th was followed by world-wide condemnation of France’s action in supplying nuclear weapons to the Middle East. The French Government’s defence that Israel had already developed a nuclear capability of her own, and that the Soviet Union would have supplied Syria had France not done so, was brushed aside.

  In a leading article the editor of the New York Times declared: The enormity of the moral offence can only be matched by the consequences likely to flow from it.

  The unusual shape these consequences were to take, the speed with which they were to follow, were soon to astonish the leader writer.

  The Soviet Government, quick to join hounds baying at the heels of the hunted, requested an urgent meeting of the Security Council … to take immediate steps to preclude the proliferation of nuclear weapons in the Middle East. By way of a sop to Arab opinion, and to ensure that France and Israel were not let too easily off the hook, it added … and to censure the French and Israeli Governments for their grossly irresponsible imperialistic actions.

  In a statement issued the next day the Israeli Government reiterated its denial of Israeli complicity in the happenings at Beirut Port on the night of October 5th/6th.

  ‘On the contrary,’ the statement continued, ‘the incident was clearly a desperate attempt by Palestinian terrorists to block progress towards a détente between Israel and Egypt.’

  Israel endorsed the call for a meeting of the Security Council and censured France for initiating the supply of nuclear weapons to the Middle East.

  World opinion appeared to attach little credence to the Israeli counter-charge which Yasir Arafat had quickly repudiated on behalf of the PLO in particular and the Palestine liberation movement in general. Indeed, there was widespread agreement that the Israelis had been responsible for the attack on Beirut Port.

  In Washington, the President announced that France’s action in supplying nuclear weapons to Syria would compel the United States to consider making such weapons available to Israel in order to maintain the balance of power. ‘Nothing is more likely to provoke aggression,’ said the President, ‘than the knowledge that you have a nuclear capability and your opponent has not.’

  The British Government, with characteristic phlegm, urged calmness and caution, stressing that everything possible should be done to preclude a nuclear build-up in the Middle East. It supported the Soviet Union’s call for a meeting of the Security Council knowing, as did the other Governments concerned, that France would veto any resolution critical of her policy.

  On October 14th Le Monde announced that its correspondent in Beirut, Pierre Gamin, had been arrested by Lebanese security police on October 7th and held incommunicado ever since. The paper recalled that Gamin had, on the day of his arrest, telephoned a report of the incident of 5th/6th October and that it was he who had first revealed that France had supplied the consignment now known to be nuclear arms. Le Monde urged the French Government to exert pressure to secure his release. ‘He has committed no crime,’ wrote its editor, ‘unless truth itself be a crime.’

  Which excellent point was unlikely to carry much weight with the French Government, considering how angry it was with Pierre Gamin.

  Three days after the Leros arrived in the Piraeus, the bearded man with the scarred neck walked out of the Attica Palace Hotel and set off on foot for Constitution Square. It was almost eleven o’clock and the sun was well up in a cloudless sky. When he reached the Square he sat at a table drinking coffee, watching the passers-by. He was early and it was pleasant sitting there basking in the sun. With much tension behind him, and more to come, he found it curiously soothing; the patches of shade cast by lemon, casuarina and cypress trees, the sponge sellers, curio and lottery-ticket pedlars, and the bustle of people and traffic.

  But mostly he watched the steps which led down from the Square’s eastern end, where the Parliament building loomed solid and rectangular. He was doing this when he heard Kemal Tarshe’s, ‘Hullo, Zeid.’

  Kemal Tarshe, a slight man with large eyes, ran Dimitri Ionides and Co., the shipping and forwarding business his wife Cleo had inherited from her father. It was a small firm. The staff consisted of Kemal and his wife and two Greek typists, one of them a woman who had spent most of her working life with the firm. Tarshe, a Palestinian, had settled in Athens soon after his marriage in 1974. His wife knew he’d been a member of El Fatah, the militant arm of the PLO, but she did not know he had been, and still was, a member of SAS – Soukour-al-Sahra’, the Deser
t Hawks.

  He pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down, Kemal. It’s good to see you again. You gave me quite a fright. I thought you would come down the steps.’ He and Kemal were old friends. They’d been at school and university together in Beirut.

  The new arrival rubbed his hands and grinned. ‘I was seeing how alert you were, Zeid.’

  ‘I’m off duty. You wouldn’t have caught me like that at any other time.’ He beckoned to a waitress. ‘Two black coffees, please.’

  When she’d gone they talked eagerly of mutual friends, catching up on each other’s news in a sort of verbal shorthand. The waitress brought the coffee and Zeid paid her. When they’d finished it he said, ‘Let’s walk. Safest way to chat.’ They left the table and started up the southern side of the Square.

  Zeid said, ‘Delivered yet?’

  ‘This morning at nine-thirty.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No. The truck had a wheeled pallet with it. Just as well. It’s a hell of a weight. Took the driver and his mate, plus four of us, to get it in.’

  ‘Carpets are heavy, Kemal. What’s the programme?’

  Tarshe lowered his voice. ‘I’ve received the letter from London requesting re-consignment to English clients since the Athens buyer has defaulted.’

  ‘What address did they give?’

  Tarshe took a slip of paper from his wallet and passed it to the bearded man. It read:

  J. P. Leroux et Cie,

  43 St Peter’s Road,

  Fulham, London SW6.

  ‘You ask for a Miss Morley,’ said Kemal.

  Zeid folded the slip of paper, placed it in an inner pocket of his jacket. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘And now?’

  ‘We’ll sew on address and marking labels tomorrow. I’ll burn the old ones when the staff have left the office.’

  ‘Don’t on any account touch the label on the right-hand side. The one which describes the contents.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll make sure of that. The truck will come for the bale on the eighteenth and take it down to the harbour. It’ll be loaded on the Student Prince that day or the next. She sails on the nineteenth.’

  They reached the bottom of the Square and began a second circuit. ‘That’s great,’ said Zeid. ‘When does she arrive?’

  ‘She’s calling at Genoa, Marseille and Gibraltar. Due to berth at Millwall Docks on October 29th.’

  ‘Arrangements there still the same?’

  ‘Yes. The freight forwarding agents, Morrison, Dean and Fletcher, are to clear the consignment. You’ll arrange that. And collection from the bonded warehouse. Right?’

  ‘Yes. Rudi has the van.’ Zeid looked at his watch. ‘Nearly one o’clock,’ he said. ‘Wish we could lunch together, but we can’t. Better say goodbye now.’

  ‘What passport are you travelling on?’

  ‘Algerian – Simon Dufour.’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, Air France to Paris. The nine-fifteen flight.’

  ‘I wish I was coming. May Allah be with you, Zeid.’

  ‘I’m a Christian, Kemal. But I hope he will overlook that.’

  They laughed, shook hands and parted.

  9

  In a small office on the first floor of 56 Spender Street, not far from Covent Garden, two men sat at a table, a tape-recorder between them.

  ‘Play it back, Zol.’

  ‘Okay.’ Zol Levi ran the tape back, restarted it. A conversation in Arabic followed. Shalom Ascher hunched forward, pulling at his beard, a gesture which his companion knew indicated intense concentration. The tape ran on for about five minutes before Ascher held up his hand. ‘Stop. Let’s have that last section again. Where the voices fade. Can’t get that.’

  Levi ran the tape back and re-started it. They listened intently.

  ‘It’s no good.’ Ascher stood up, stretched, yawned loudly. ‘We’ll never get it.’ He went to the small table where there was another recorder, watched the reels turning, thinking what it was all about. There were already twenty reels. The recorder’s mike was fed by the receiver/amplifier on the shelf beneath the table. It in turn was fed by transmissions from the bugs on the ground floor premises of the MIDDLE ORIENT CONSOLIDATED AGENCIES LTD On the Opposite side of the street. The bugs – the miniaturised microphone/transmitters – were a good deal smaller than a new penny piece.

  ‘So,’ said Levi. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Two things. One, the man called Zeid is mentioned again. This is the third time we’ve heard his name. They expect him soon. Right?’

  Levi nodded agreement, watching the big shaggy man with affection. He had much respect for Shalom Ascher.

  ‘Who is this Zeid?’ continued Ascher. ‘We don’t know. But it sounds as though he’s got something to do with the consignment.’

  Levi said, ‘And the consignment?’

  Ascher shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows. They don’t say. The Middle Orient Consolidated Agencies Limited …’ He rolled out the words deliberately. ‘And they’re expecting it from Athens.’

  ‘That fits, doesn’t it? I mean they are import and export agents. The name of the firm doesn’t necessarily restrict them to doing business with the Middle East.’

  ‘If they really were, you’re right. But they’re phoneys, Zol. We’ve heard them talk for two weeks – jaw, jaw, jaw – haven’t we? That’s the first time they chat about any goods coming in or going out. So what sort of import/export agents are they? Anyway, here they are in business at last. But with Athens – not Beirut or Damascus?’ He spread his hands with an air of finality. ‘Don’t ask me why?’

  ‘So we’re no wiser.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Zol, Notice something queer in the chat about the consignment?’

  ‘Not really. Bits of it weren’t all that distinct.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Ascher stared at the younger man.

  ‘How d’you mean, that’s it?’

  ‘Each time they talk about the consignment it’s like they’re talking of God or Allah, or whatever. They get serious. Full of respect. They drop their voices instinctively. There was that bit that sounded like whispering and we couldn’t make it out. Right?’

  Levi said, ‘Yes. Now you mention it. It is like that.’

  ‘Another thing. Here are these import and export agents doing business for the first time in the two weeks we’ve been listening. They’re expecting a consignment. But they never say who it is for, or when it is coming, or how it’s coming. Know why? Either they don’t know or they’re security conscious or both. And that goes for the dropped voices, etcetera.’

  ‘What’s it then, Shalom?’

  Ascher picked up a paper-weight, threw it into the air and caught it with an outstretched hand. ‘I think the attack on the Embassy will take place not long after Zeid and the consignment arrive. And that won’t be long now because Kissinger and Sadat are making progress. The Palestinians can’t afford to be left out of any Israeli-Egyptian settlement that Kissinger’s cooking up.’

  Levi pursed his lips. ‘So we do what?’

  ‘We go on watching and listening. Every second, every minute. Night and day. We have problems. We don’t know what the consignment is. We don’t know how it’s coming or when, except they expect it soon.’ Ascher sat down, a bearded, brooding figure. ‘So we watch and we listen and maybe we find out.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Levi. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘In the meantime I see the Ambassador tonight.’

  ‘What shall you tell him, Shalom?’

  ‘What we’ve seen and heard. What we think. He’ll pass it to Intel HQ. They’ll have ideas, you can be sure.’

  Levi made a face. ‘More of Jakob’s possibles and probables.’

  ‘Right,’ said Shalom Ascher. ‘And sometimes they’re good.’

  The Air France flight from Athens arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 11.57 am. It was twenty-three minutes late having been delayed in Rome with engine trouble.

>   At the immigration barrier the bearded man showed his Algerian passport. The immigration officer noted the name on the immigration form, ‘Simon Dufour’, and other answers, opened the passport with professional ease, checked the details, compared the bearded long-haired young man in the photo with the bearded long-haired original standing in front of him, closed it and passed it back. ‘Bon,’ he said, turning to the next passenger in the queue. The bearded man moved on through the complex of travellators which gave the new airport its science-fiction ambience, arrived at the baggage pick-up point and after some delay collected the brown travel-bag from a distributor.

  He travelled into Paris in an Air France bus. At the terminal at Port Maillot he took a taxi. ‘Rue des Beaux Arts,’ he said to the driver. ‘Hotel de Nice.’ It was a small unpretentious hotel in St Germain-des-Prés on the left bank, not far from the gates of the Académie des Beaux Arts. But he would not be staying in the Hotel de Nice.

  On arrival outside it he paid off the taxi, put his travel-bag on the pavement, and made much of searching through his pockets. When the taxi had gone he picked up the bag, walked round into the Rue Berligny. It was a narrow street with small art galleries, picture framers, and shops given over to artists’ materials for the students of the Académie.

  Outside a small picture shop, the Galerie Duquesne, he paused to look at the paintings in the window. Beyond them, through the glass, he saw a young woman. She was alone. He went in. ‘Hullo, Magda.’ He spoke quietly.

  She looked at him, frowning, her head on one side. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘You should. Don’t you remember me? Zeid. At BUC?’ They had overlapped for a year at Beirut University College.

  She laughed with relief. ‘Zeid! All that beard and hair. D’you blame me? There’s not much left to recognize.’

  ‘Still the same person, Magda. Where’s Tewfik?’