by Antony Trew
Blown by a south-westerly wind the curtain of rain became denser and he leant forward to put the screen-wipers to FAST. This must have unsighted him for he had no warning of the car coming in on his left from St Martin’s Street. Fortunately neither car was travelling fast and the collision left them stopped on the intersection, front ends locked. Before he could get out, two men tumbled from the other car and wrenched open his door.
‘What the bloody hell d’you think you’re up to?’ demanded the driver. He was a big man with long, black hair.
‘Stupid twit,’ said his bearded companion. ‘You drove straight into us. You weren’t bloody looking.’
Barakat sensed danger. The men were angry and excited. They had two women in the car with them. This was presumably the return from a night on the town. They’d certainly been drinking. The last thing he could afford was trouble. The intersection was in a backwater, its thoroughfares more or less deserted at that hour. He was determined to do nothing provocative.
‘Get out,’ said the big man.
‘You’ve scared the tits off our birds,’ complained the bearded man. ‘Sods like you shouldn’t be allowed to drive, except a pram or a hearse.’
Barakat said, ‘I’m sorry. It was the rain. I didn’t see you coming.’
‘Blooming fool,’ muttered the bearded man.
‘You didn’t bloody look,’ said the big man. ‘What’s your name and address?’
Barakat opened his diary, tore a page from it, wrote Simon Charrier and the address in Rupert Street where Najib Hamadeh’s sister lived. He handed it to the driver who went back to his car, while the bearded man leant into the Volvo and inspected the dashboard. He took the keys from the ignition lock, looked at the tag. ‘Hey, Joe,’ he called out. ‘It’s not this bloke’s car. It’s an Avis hire job.’
The big man was checking on the damage to his Austin Allegro. Barakat joined him and saw that it was slight. It hadn’t been a serious collision thanks, he had to admit, to the prompt reaction by the other driver.
Barakat said, ‘I accept all responsibility. I’ve got full insurance cover with Avis. It won’t cost you anything.’
‘You’re bloody right it won’t, mate.’ The big man got into his car, started the engine and moved it clear of the Volvo. He drove it forward for about a hundred yards, then backed up to the kerb. ‘She seems okay,’ he said. ‘But it’ll cost at least sixty quid to put this lot right.’ Barakat realized the figure was not far off the mark. The big man said, ‘Got sixty quid on you?’
‘I’ve got about forty.’
‘That’ll do as a deposit. Don’t try and get away with the rest though, unless you’re looking for trouble.’
Barakat took a wallet from his pocket and produced four ten-pound notes. The man took them, went back to the Austin and said something which made the girls laugh shrilly. Both men came back and he thought they were going to attack him. But he was wrong. While he looked on helplessly, they let the air out of the Volvo’s tyres.
‘You’ve been a bloody nuisance to us,’ said the big man. ‘Smashed up our car, scared our women, got us soaking wet. I reckon you could do with a bit of trouble yourself.’ He and his companion got into the Austin and drove off, shouting to him as they passed. The girls waved and shrieked something he couldn’t understand. Anxious for peace, he’d not asked the driver for his name and address. The man’s failure to offer it, and the demeanour of his companions, caused Barakat to wonder if the car was a stolen one.
With a sigh of resignation, he examined the Volvo. The damage was slight. A crumpled nearside wing, a buckled fender and a smashed headlamp. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drive with flat tyres, but he got into the driver’s seat. He had to know if the engine was working.
It was only then he realized that the men in the Austin had driven off with the Volvo’s keys. He couldn’t start the car or open the boot to get at the tyre pump. The Volvo couldn’t even be pushed clear of the intersection because the ignition key locked the steering. There were, he knew, spare keys in the glove-box but he’d locked that and the key was on the ring they’d taken. It was a hopeless situation.
Frightened and anxious he looked at his watch. It was a quarter-past-two. It would take about fifteen minutes to walk to Spender Street, but the Volvo was their get-away car. If the ultimatum wasn’t accepted by noon that day, they were going to need it badly. There were alternatives. They could take a train from Charing Cross, or a taxi, or hire another car — but the first two were risky and the third time-consuming. And there was very little time. There was also the problem of the Volvo. He couldn’t leave it where it was. The last thing he wanted was trouble with the police or the Avis people. He must, he realized, somehow or other get it going again.
He remembered that an Avis car carried AA membership. The collision had taken place not far from the AA office near Leicester Square. He set off up St Martin Street. When he reached the AA office he found it locked. A notice on the door gave the emergency service number. He went to a call-box and dialled it. It was engaged for some time and it was fully ten minutes before he finally got through. He told the duty clerk of his troubles. Yes, he would send an AA patrol van. Barakat should return to his car, lift the bonnet and wait. It might take a little time.
At two-thirty an AA patrol arrived. It didn’t take the patrol long to pump up the tyres. Then came the problem of the locked ignition and steering. ‘That’s not so easy,’ said the patrolman. ‘The difficult we do at once. The impossible takes a little longer.’ Barakat laughed feebly. The patrolman was as good as his word. Before long he’d forced the lock on the glove-box, taken out the spare keys and started the engine. He waited while Barakat test-drove the car for a short distance, only leaving when it was evident that the collision had not affected its road-worthiness.
It was 2.53 am when Barakat parked the Volvo in Drury Lane and made for Spender Street. The rain had stopped but he was wet and miserable. He walked fast, sometimes breaking into a trot.
Spender Street was a little-used thoroughfare. Narrow, it ran from north to south, twisting as it went, its northern end higher than its southern. Numbers 39 and 56 faced each other in the lower part of the street, some distance below the point where it curved to the north-west.
At about a quarter-to-three that morning a small service van belonging to the Thames Water Authority stopped near a man-hole at the higher end of the street and two men got out. Some fifty yards further up it a policeman stood in the shadows watching. Having erected traffic barriers and diversion signs, they lifted the cover from the man-hole. One of them eased himself down into it while the other passed him tools. A few minutes later the man inside climbed out. The steel cover was replaced, the men got into the van, started the engine, drove a few yards and stopped. The driver then worked the engine up to maximum revs, and the noise all but deadened the dull thump of an explosion. They got out and walked back. Several feet from the manhole there was a gaping hole in the road from which water poured in a powerful stream.
‘Never thought I’d do a thing like that,’ said the Water Authority man. ‘What a wicked waste.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I suppose you people know what you’re up to?’
The Special Branch man said, ‘You needn’t worry about that. We’ll wait here now. Keep an eye on things. If anybody asks what we’re up to, we’ve checked the report of the burst water main and asked for assistance.’ He got into the van, picked up a mike, pressed the speak-button. ‘Whisky Bravo Nine calling Whisky Bravo One.’
‘Go ahead, Whisky Bravo Nine.’
‘Have located burst water main. Please send assistance.’
‘Roger, Whisky Bravo Nine. Will do.’
The inside of 39 Spender Street, dimly lit by the red light of a camping torch, was a good deal untidier than usual. Empty tins and wrappers shared waste-paper baskets with apple and orange peel and scraps of foodstuff wrapped in newspaper spills. The smell of food, coffee and human bodies hung in the air like an invisible pall. The
re were four people in the front office and they lounged on chairs with outstretched legs or sat on desks. A portable radio churned out pop music between hourly news broadcasts.
Hanna Nasour went to the corner cupboard in the stockroom and poured herself a cup of water. She came back, sat down next to Souref. ‘What on earth has happened to Zeid?’ she pleaded.
‘In the name of Allah. Don’t go on about that,’ said Ibrahim. ‘He’s late. There can be a dozen reasons. Even if he doesn’t arrive we can manage.’
‘I don’t like it. It’s … it’s odd.’
Ahmad Daab rolled his eyes. ‘Rubbish, Hanna. You’re suffering from nerves. Have you ever known an operation go smoothly? No hitches? Of course you haven’t. Anyway, what’s eating you? We can manage. If Zeid’s not back, we can switch on and Najib can make the ten-thirty Brussels call. Apart from that all we need do is listen to the radio. There may be announcements before the Prime Minister speaks at ten.’
‘I’m tired,’ Souref yawned. ‘Wish I could sleep.’
Najib Hamadeh yawned in sympathy. ‘You and Hanna are supposed to be resting now. While Ahmad and I …’
Daab’s warning hand interrupted them. ‘Sheesh. sheesh. Turn that radio down.’
Hanna switched it off. They heard a car stop in the street, the slamming of doors, the sound of men’s voices.
‘What’s that?’ Hanna’s was a frightened whisper.
‘Put out the torch,’ Hamadeh stood up. ‘I’ll take a look.’
The light went out and he went to the front of the office. They had long ago scratched a spy-hole in the dark paint on the inside of the window. A bit of black masking tape covered it. He pulled the tape aside, put his eye to the spyhole. ‘Police car,’ he whispered. ‘They’re looking into the gutter. It’s running with water. Like a small river. Must be a burst water main up the street.’ He paused. ‘They’re walking back to the car. One of them is speaking into a mike. Reporting the trouble, I suppose.’ There was a long pause before he said, ‘Now they’re going …’
The Palestinians heard the police car drive away. Souref switched on the torch.
‘Phew …’ Hamadeh pressed the palms of his hands against his stomach. ‘That worried me. I thought they might be coming in here.’
‘Thank God.’ Hanna’s eyes were half closed. ‘Oh, thank God.’
‘You Christians,’ said Daab. ‘What about Allah? Turn up that radio.’
The Thames Water Authority man hung up the mike and took out his earphone. ‘Whisky Bravo Nine reports task completed, sir. They’re standing by.’
‘Good,’ said the General. He looked at the time-table. ‘I see your maintenance vans are due to move at five past three.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve given them the stand-by.’ It was warm in the mobile command vehicle and the Water Authority man mopped his face with a bandana. His discomfort was not altogether due to the temperature. What happens, he was thinking, to the wife and lads if this lot goes up? A number of people in and around Spender Street were asking themselves the same question and most of them were arriving at the same answer. If it did at least they wouldn’t know anything about it. Which was about the best human beings could be expected to do in the circumstances.
Barlov, talking into a microphone, listening with an earphone, tapped the console operator on the shoulder. ‘Put Whisky Bravo Two on a speaker, Jim.’
The operator flicked a switch and Ascher’s throaty voice came on the air. ‘The gutters outside are running with water. Presume Water Authority has been notified. Brown John has not, repeat not, arrived. Suggest you collect. Over.’
‘Tell him we will,’ said the General.
Barlov pressed the speak-button. ‘Roger, Whisky Bravo Two. Will do.’ Brown John was the code-name for Zeid Barakat.
Barlov looked at the operations clock. ‘It’s five minutes to three, General. What do we do about him?’
The General twiddled a ball-point and considered the plan of Spender Street. ‘It won’t do to have him walking into Mocal after three o’clock. If he turns up now we’ll have to pick him up as soon as he enters Spender Street.’
The Commissioner said, ‘I’ll see to that right away.’
The scientist with burn scars said, ‘The defect in the valve has been made good, General.’
‘Splendid. Your people know they must get involved with the digging party, don’t they? Must appear to belong to them.’
‘Yes. They’re briefed on that. And dressed for it.’
‘What about the transfer of equipment? Any snags?’
‘None that we haven’t foreseen, I hope. The dig is on the Mocal side. A little bit up the street. Say twenty feet.’ The scientist’s pencil hovered over the blown-up photo of Spender Street. ‘The van with the equipment will park further up on the same side. When the dig is under way, they’ll take equipment in through this lane.’ The point of the pencil touched it. ‘From there, through the back into Thirty-Seven.’
The General said, ‘Good. They’ll be out of sight of anyone in Mocal?’
‘Yes,’ said the scientist.
‘Three o’clock.’ The General looked at the operations clock. ‘Five minutes to go.’
26
It was two minutes past three in the morning when Barakat rounded the corner into Spender Street and saw the traffic diversion signs at the foot of the street, beyond them water tumbling down the gutter and disappearing into a drain.
Late and worried he paid little attention to the two men working on the flicker-lamps, until one of them stepped on to the pavement. Barakat saw the revolver and with disbelief heard the words, ‘Put your hands up.’
He did. The second man frisked him, found the handgun in the shoulder-holster and whipped it out.
‘He’s clean now,’ he said, holding a mike in front of Barakat as if interviewing him.
‘What’s your name?’ asked the first man, poking the revolver into Barakat’s stomach and pulling the silk scarf from his neck.
‘Simon Charrier.’
‘Address?’
‘Seventy-three Rupert Street. Off the Bayswater Road.’
‘Why are you armed?’
‘For protection.’
‘Against what?’
‘I’m a stranger. This is a big city.’
‘What is your nationality?’
‘French.’
‘Where do you live?’ The man pressed the revolver more firmly into Barakat’s stomach.
‘In Paris.’
‘Is it normal for Frenchmen visiting London to carry handguns in shoulder-holsters?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where did you get that neck scar?’
‘Car accident.’
The frisker took away the mike and spoke into it. ‘Is it him?’
‘Yes,’ came Ascher’s disembodied reply. ‘That’s his voice.’
The man who held the revolver said, ‘Zeid Barakat, you’d better come along with me.’
At seven minutes past three, two Thames Water Authority maintenance vans towing air compressors came up Spender Street from its southern end, rounded the first bend of its ‘S’, and parked outside the adjoining premises of numbers 35 and 37.
Workmen climbed out, erected traffic barriers, signs and lights, unloaded airlines, jack-hammers, axes, forks, shovels and crowbars. The foreman drew chalk lines on the road surface to indicate the limits of the trench to be dug. It was to run parallel to the water-filled gutter, and to extend from number 35, down the road to number 41.
While they got ready for their task they talked, laughed and shouted to each other. An observer would have concluded from the unhurried but deliberate way they set about things that this was something they’d done many times before.
The compressor trolleys were uncoupled and manhandled into position. Their diesel engines were started up, airlines connected, and workmen began to break up the hard surface of the street with pneumatic jack-hammers. As they moved forward they were followed by men with
forks and shovels who cleared the loose rubble. The excavation of the trench had begun.
The boom of the compressors was soon lost in the deafening clatter of the jack-hammers. It was fortunate that Spender Street was not a residential one, for heads might otherwise have hurled abuse from upper windows.
While some worked on the trench, others, dressed as workmen, stood watching, waiting for tasks yet to come or moving between the burgeoning excavation and the maintenance vehicles. Among these were two nuclear weapons scientists from Aldermaston, two bomb disposal experts from Aldershot, three Special Branch men and a technician from the Metropolitan Gas Board.
A service lane ran in from Spender Street between numbers 35 and 37, its entrance opposite the thirty feet or so of space left between the parked vans. From time to time a workman walking between them with equipment would slip into the lane and become lost in the darkness at its far end. There he would enter 37 through a side door. It had been forced by the Special Branch soon after the vans arrived.
In this way the Gas Board technician and the Special Branch men had by 3.25 am assembled with their equipment in number 37 which shared a wall with 39. They were joined soon afterwards by Ascher, Levi, Chief Superintendent McFagan and Herbert Joliffe, the scientist from Porton Down. They arrived singly, entering Spender Street at its northern end which they’d reached by means of a detour from Tanswill Lane. With their arrival the Ground Force was complete. Its equipment included gas cylinders, coils of plastic piping, electric drills, anti-gas respirators, a radio receiver tuned to the frequency of the bugs in 39, and a mike and earphone connected by long leads to the R/T set in the nearer of the two maintenance vans. This made it possible for those in 37 to talk direct to all Whisky Bravo stations.
