by Antony Trew
‘Coil’s burnt out,’ Frankel shouted back. ‘Can’t move.’
The policeman parked his motorcycle at the kerb and walked back to the van. Frankel got down from the driver’s seat. He explained what had happened. The policeman was sympathetic. ‘Can’t leave her on this intersection. Holding up too much traffic. Get back in,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask the bloke in the truck behind to shove you round the corner into Gill Street. It’ll be all right there.’ He went back to the truck, spoke to the driver and returned to the Bedford. ‘Release the brakes. Put her in neutral,’ he said to Frankel. ‘Keep slight pressure on the brake pedal when the truck starts pushing.’
Frankel said, ‘Okay,’ the policeman waved the truck forward, it bumped the van gently, pushed it clear of the intersection and round the corner into Gill Street. Frankel waved a hand to the driver as the truck backed clear and continued on down Gill Street.
The policeman stopped his motorcycle alongside the Bedford. Trickles of rainwater ran down his face. ‘You’ll be okay there,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a breakdown truck along to you.’ He spoke into his radio telephone and Frankel heard the answering voice. There was a brief exchange. The policeman said, ‘They’ll send help. I’ve told them it’s a coil. May take time.’ Something, the look of dismay on Frankel’s face, his air of shaky apprehension, may have aroused the policeman’s suspicions. ‘What’ve you got in there, mate?’
‘Bale of carpets,’ said Frankel, hoping the fear he felt so profoundly wasn’t apparent.
The policeman hauled the motorcycle on to its stand, took off his gauntlets and walked round to the back of the van. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’
Frankel unlocked the doors. He was praying the shakiness of his hands wouldn’t be noticed.
The policeman peered into the van, climbed in and examined the hessian-wrapped bale. Near the ‘contents’ label there was a small tear. He pulled at it until the edges of the carpets were exposed. He poked at them for a moment before gettng out of the van. ‘What are you going to do with that lot?’
‘Deliver it to the consignees.’
‘Got any documents?’
Frankel felt in the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Yes,’ he said, and produced copies of the bill of lading, the invoice and delivery note.
The policeman examined them. ‘Where did you pick up the bale?’
‘Millwall Docks. Came in by ship from Athens.’
The policeman looked at him for a moment before handing back the documents. ‘Right,’ he said, taking his motorcycle off its stand and swinging his leg across the saddle. ‘Better watch that engine or you’ll land in real trouble.’
Frankel mumbled a dutiful, ‘Yes. Thanks a lot.’
The policeman kick-started the engine into life and rode slowly away up Gill Street.
Frankel was trembling as he watched the motorcycle go out of sight. He was wet through and his long black hair hung in dank locks. He didn’t know what to do. Zeid had given instructions that the van was not to be left unattended, but Daab had no means of knowing it was now in Gill Street and would be hunting for it. Frankel hesitated for a few minutes, hoping that his companion might look down Gill Street. But he didn’t, so Frankel walked up to the top of the road and found him waiting in the rain at the intersection where the van had stalled. ‘Where the hell have you been, Ahmad?’ he asked.
‘Phoning. Where’s the van?’ Daab’s eyes were wide with anxiety.
Frankel jerked his head in the direction of Gill Street. ‘Down there. A lorry gave me a shove. The policeman radioed for a breakdown truck. They’ll bring a coil. Let’s get back to the van.’ Drenched by the rain, they set off down the road. Frankel said, ‘Did you give the message to Ibrahim?’
Daab shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rudi. I lost the slip of paper with the number. I thought I knew it, but it was wrong. No one answered. Then I tried a few combinations and some people answered, but it wasn’t the call-box.’
Frankel stopped walking. ‘You fool, Ahmad. You stupid fool. How could you do such a thing?’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But I did. I’ve been through my pockets a dozen times.’
‘Wait till Zeid hears.’ Frankel stared at him.
Daab said, ‘Look. There’s still plenty of time. We’ll be late, but what odds does that make as long as we deliver in normal working hours.’
‘You tell that to Zeid,’ said Frankel. ‘Come on. We can’t hang around in the rain.’
They got back to the van, sat hunched and miserable in the driving cab, arguing fruitlessly about what they should do. It was a hopeless situation. There was no phone in the Mocal premises and Daab had lost the number of the call-box where Ibrahim Souref was waiting for just such an emergency. Zeid would not only be worried but extremely angry. Frankel considered sending Daab on by taxi, but the breakdown van might arrive at any moment and Zeid’s strict instructions were that they were to stay with the van at all times.
So they waited, becoming more and more agitated as time went on. At ten minutes past two the breakdown truck arrived. The mechanic soon changed the coil and at 2.25 pm Frankel and Daab got back into the van and resumed their journey to Spender Street.
The taxi travelled down the Strand, turned into Bedford Street and made for Covent Garden, its squelching tyres throwing up spurts of water as it went. The driver drew up at the kerb in King Street, Ruth Meyer got out, paid the fare, turned up the collar of her raincoat, adjusted her headscarf, and made for Spender Street.
As she walked she was obsessed with the thought which had been with her throughout the flight from Tel Aviv. When the 747 touched down at Heathrow at 11.27, jets roaring in reverse thrust, tired stewardesses adjusting hats and scarves, she was worrying about it; and later, as she travelled into London in the British Airways bus, it was nagging at her; as it was in the taxi from West London Air Terminal to Charing Cross Station where she handed in her travel-bag at the left-luggage counter … had the delivery at noon been to Spender Street? Had Ascher and his men – alerted by Jakob Kahn’s urgent message to Palace Green – seen it? How had it been done? By whom? And what did the thing look like? If Ascher & Co hadn’t seen it, then Jakob’s no more than possible rating of Spender Street as the delivery point was right. And if it wasn’t Spender Street how on earth would they find out where it was in the less than twenty-four hours left to them?
As she rounded the first bend in Spender Street and approached Number 56, she looked across the street to 39. All seemed normal there, the rain beating down against the dark green glass of the window front, distorting the gold-leafed letters, MIDDLE ORIENT CONSOLIDATED AGENCIES LTD. She wondered what was going on inside. In her mind’s eye she could see the sinister steel cone of a nuclear warhead, the Palestinians sitting round it trying to look unconcerned. But no, it would be concealed – under a stack of carpets maybe.
These thoughts were interrupted by her arrival at the entrance to 56. She turned into it, went quickly up the stairs to the first floor and stopped outside the door with its sign Ascher & Levi, Music Agents. She knocked, heard footsteps and knew she was being examined through the spy-hole. The door opened and Ascher was there, a broad smile on his bearded face, and she wanted to throw her arms round him and say, ‘Oh, Shalom, how marvellous to see you,’ but she knew that wasn’t for her so she said, ‘Hi, Shalom,’ and he said, ‘Hi, Ruth,’ and she went in and he shut the door behind her.
Micky Kagan, listening at the working Grundig with an earphone, sitting near the window watching Mocal’s premises, turned his head and waved. She made no move to take off her dripping raincoat. She had to find out first. ‘Was it delivered at noon, Shalom?’ Her voice trembled.
‘No. It wasn’t.’
She was confused, disappointed and worried, though she’d half expected this. She took off her raincoat, hung it on the peg near the door, undid the wet headscarf and fussed with her hair. ‘Hasn’t anything happened since I left yesterday?’
‘Yes. The British Prime Minister will speak to the Nation
at 10 pm tonight. Most of the media, public opinion, are pushing for acceptance of the ultimatum. I expect he will. He’s an appeaser.’
‘God. You sound so calm, Shalom. That’s terrible. Don’t you realize what’s happening?’
‘I do,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s why we’re going to find the nuke. By the way,’ he added, ‘we had an interesting visit while you were away.’ His expression was blank.
‘What was that?’ She was still thinking of what he’d said before that. She didn’t understand what was in his mind.
‘Two policemen and our landlord.’
‘So. For what?’
‘Looking for it. Nice guys. Apologized for disturbing us. Said they had to search. Explained warrants were unnecessary where explosives were concerned. They had a good look round. Asked was it just these two offices we rented. The landlord said yes. So did we. They wanted to know about our business. We explained. Mostly pop. Showed them the catalogues, the stock of cassettes, the LP and single sleeves, the recorders – we’d switched off, of course, and taken out the bugging tapes when we heard the knock. One guy wanted to know if we had any Burt Bacharach numbers. So we put Don’t Go Breaking My Heart on the hi-fi and he said his girl was doing just that to him, and his chum said it was a great number but they had to go. We switched off and they asked had we seen anything suspicious around this locality and we said no we hadn’t and they thanked us and pushed off.’
‘Anything else?’ She thought Shalom looked tired and didn’t know he was thinking the same about her.
‘Yes,’ he said. Quite irrelevantly he was wondering about Johnnie Peters and experiencing pangs of jealousy. Maybe she’d be seeing him tonight. ‘When they left here they crossed the street. Went into Mocal’s. Spent quite a time there. Came out with Hanna and Zeid. Laughing and joking. Parted from them on the best of terms.’
Her eyes were wide. ‘I wonder if that’s why the delivery was brought forward. Because the premises had been searched.’ She hesitated, her eyes searching his. ‘What on earth are we going to do, Shalom. For God’s sake, tell me.’ She was pale and very earnest.
‘About what?’
‘The nuke, of course. They haven’t delivered it to Spender Street. Where is it?’
‘I don’t know. But I’ll tell you something in a minute. First brief us on your Tel Aviv jaunt. Quickly. There isn’t much time.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’ She held her hands to her ears.
‘Like some coffee?’
‘Give my soul for it.’ She smiled wanly.
‘You needn’t do that. I’ll make it for you. You start talking.’ Ascher went to the cupboard and switched on the kettle. For the next fifteen minutes she told them all she knew.
‘Good.’ He ran his hands through his shaggy hair. ‘Get across to Palace Green right away. Tell all that to the Ambassador and Ezra Barlov. They’ve had the hardcore stuff from Jakob. But you’ve got the detail. After that make for Vauxhall Bridge and get some rest. You’re going to need it soon. Be back here not later than six.’
She stamped her foot. ‘Shalom! We don’t know where it is. What are you doing? We’re wasting time.’
He looked at her in silence. ‘We don’t know where it is, Ruth. But we know it’s expected. Listen to this.’ He switched on the spare Grundig and let it run for a few minutes before switching off. ‘Recorded at ten to two,’ he said. ‘Just over an hour ago.’
‘My God,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before. So Rudi and Ahmad are on their way.’
Ascher shrugged his burly shoulders. ‘Should be, you heard. Due at noon. They’ve not yet arrived. That’s what they’re twitching about in Mocal right now. And that’s why Zol’s up at Palace Green with Ezra Barlov. They’re telling Jakob on the scrambler.’
‘What d’you think has happened?’
‘I don’t think, Ruth. Makes me tired. Better wait and see.’
‘And if we see it delivered?’
‘Let Jakob know at once and wait for instructions.’ He turned to Kagan. ‘Anything new, Micky?’
The young man looked up for a moment. ‘Zeid’s phoned Rudi’s place – wherever it is – from a call-box, but gets no answer. They’re getting really worried over there. Wondering what the hell’s happened. They can’t understand why Souref was not phoned at the call-box.’
‘That makes two of us.’ Shalom pulled at his beard and watched a puzzled, tense Ruth putting on her wet headscarf. He thought once again what an attractive woman she was. One day, perhaps, when there was more time, he’d tell her how he felt about her.
22
There was sudden urgency in Kagan’s ‘Shalom! Look!’
Ascher checked the time – 2.47 pm – took the opera glasses from the coffee table, moved into the shadows beside the window and looked through the slots of the Venetian blind. A black van had stopped on the opposite side of Spender Street, outside 39.
‘Just arrived.’ Kagan was husky with excitement.
Two men got out. One went into 39, the other unlocked the van doors, pulled out a pallet and a porter’s two-wheeled trolley. Before long the man who’d gone into 39 came back. He was followed by Zeid Barakat, Hanna Nasour, Najib Hamadeh and Ibrahim Souref. The Israelis had seen Souref leave 39 that morning, and come back at a quarter-past-two.
‘The van crew must be Rudi and Ahmad,’ said Ascher.
The six Palestinians gathered round the back of the Bedford, three climbed in and presently the end of a large hessian-wrapped bale appeared. The pallet was pushed beneath the tail-gate and those in the street reached for the bale while those inside lowered it with check ropes. Slowly, with much pushing and heaving, it was settled on the pallet. The men in the van joined the others and, with the aid of the porter’s trolley and crow bars, lifted the front end of the pallet over the kerb. Then all six shoved and pulled until they’d got the bale to the entrance where the double-doors had been opened to receive it. They struggled to get it through, turning it half sideways because it was too wide. Eventually they got it in and the double-doors closed behind them. The two men Ascher had assumed were Rudi and Ahmad came out, climbed into the van and drove off.
Carried out in pouring rain, the whole operation had taken less than five minutes. Other than the Israelis, no one but a handful of pedestrians had witnessed it.
‘Phew,’ said Kagan. ‘Made me tired to watch. It was heavy.’
‘Must have been rollers in the van,’ said Ascher. ‘The pallet had rollers too. Four Israelis could have handled that lot.’
‘Chauvinist!’ Kagan laughed in his excitement. ‘Reckon that’s the nuke?’
‘Of course,’ Ascher said it with finality. ‘They wouldn’t have killed Salamander for a bale of carpets.’ He was thinking that what they’d seen was strangely unreal. They’d waited so long, so patiently, watched and listened so thoroughly, even when it had seemed they were wasting their time. But his mind was too full of what lay ahead to dwell on what had just happened. He put on a duffel coat. ‘You stay here,’ he said to Kagan. ‘Zol Levi will be along in the next half hour. I’m going up to the Embassy. We’ve got to get cracking before the Brits’ Prime Minister announces the sale of Israel.’
At 5.50 pm local time on Wednesday, November 10th, a Sikorsky helicopter touched down on the outskirts of Tel Aviv, not far from the Ramat Aviv Hotel. Cars and a group of security men were waiting on the patch of open ground as two passengers stepped from the helicopter into a big sedan with armoured-glass windows.
Three traffic policemen on motorcycles moved off, a car with five security men followed, then the big sedan. Two more cars, each with five security men, fell in behind.
The motorcade travelled down the Haifa Road into Tel Aviv, picked up the Petah Tikosh road, turned left into Herzl Street and shed the motorcyclists. Soon afterwards, following a series of left and right hand turns, the sedan pulled up outside the entrance to a red-brick building while the escorting cars drove slowly on
. A group of men on the pavement formed a semi-circle round the entrance while others, unseen, watched from windows above the street, sniper rifles at the ready. The helicopter passengers were ushered into the building and the men on the pavement melted away. It all seemed very casual, but it was highly organized.
A few minutes later the Israeli Prime Minister and his Foreign Secretary were in Jakob Kahn’s office. They had left Jerusalem within half an hour of receiving an urgent message from the Israeli Ambassador in London. They had come to Kahn rather than summon him to Jerusalem because the situation required immediate secret exchanges with the Ambassador in London and the facility of direct consultation with intelligence staffs at either end. Only Tel Aviv could satisfy those requirements. The Prime Minister and his Foreign Secretary had come directly from an emergency meeting of the Israeli Cabinet where decisions concerning the London message had already been taken.
The discussions in Jakob Kahn’s office – both with him and London – concluded shortly before eight o’clock. They were as intense as they were decisive.
The Israeli Ambassador, accompanied by Colonel Ezra Barlov, was received by the Prime Minister at Number 10 Downing Street, at 6.45 pm Greenwich Mean Time. The Prime Minister had with him the Foreign Secretary and Andrew Lanyard, his principal private secretary.
The usual courtesies having been exchanged, the Prime Minister said, ‘I understand you have news of exceptional importance for me, Ambassador.’
The Israeli Ambassador nodded. ‘Yes, Prime Minister. We have found the nuclear warhead …’ He paused. ‘In London.’
The Prime Minister, skilled in concealing emotion, lit an already-lighted pipe with slow deliberation. ‘You have, I take it, reported this to Scotland Yard?’ He knew perfectly well the Ambassador hadn’t, for Scotland Yard would instantly have informed him.
‘No, Prime Minister. I have not.’
The Prime Minister’s manner changed. ‘May I suggest, Ambassador, that that was a serious omission. Where was it found?’
