Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  The First Officer hurled questions into the radio, interrupted by Abou's shout of, "What about the cargo?"

  An agonising silence which seemed to last forever. Then the radio crackled: "Undamaged. Not moved an inch. The restraining ties held good and even the crates of fish are intact."

  "And the boat?" queried the Irishman.

  "Nothing really - superficial damage to the deckhouse, but very slight."

  The Captain turned from the instrument panel, his face lined with fatigue, skin pinched tight around his eyes. "And the crew?" he asked.

  The radio barely hesitated: "One dead. One with a fractured arm."

  The Captain nodded. He had seen the blow delivered by the hawser. It had looked like a death blow. As it was, only one death was a miracle. He glanced at the man known as Abou, choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps it is appropriate to baptise that boat with the blood of a countryman. Anything less would have seemed trivial."

  Even so, both men knew that the death would be read as a sign of bad luck. Bad luck for the Aileen Maloney and all who sailed in her. Seamen universally are superstitious. But Abou was grateful for the remark. It might help steady Suzy and the two Irishmen, and the seven commandos who would sail with them. Anyway, what was one life against the future of fifteen million? He held out his hand. "Our country's thanks Captain, for getting us this far. Now it's up to us."

  The radio interrupted with its last message of the night. "Ready for you to embark on the Aileen Maloney."

  Abou shook hands with the other officers and turned for the door. "Good luck," called the Captain. Abou paused and looked down at his djellaba, trying to think of a suitable reply. Finally he smiled wryly, "May Allah go with you, too." One of the Irishmen grinned hugely as he followed the girl and the others out into the black of the night. "Up the Republic," he whispered, and softly slid the bridge door back on its runners.

  "Whose bright idea was that?" I asked. "Transporting plutonium on a scheduled shipping route. It's madness. An invitation to—"

  "A hell of a lot of material gets moved around that way," Ross interrupted. "You'd be surprised. Every government does it. It's the easiest way of avoiding publicity."

  "Until something goes wrong!" I snapped.

  We had been arguing for over an hour. The English policeman had long since gone, Ross as good as dismissing him once the introductions had been completed. I wondered just who the hell Ross was? And what authority was vested in him that he could handle an Inspector from Special Branch quite so casually.

  LeClerc remained. He had one of those sharp-nosed Gallic faces with quick brown eyes, altogether a bit like a fox, mobile, alert and watchful. By comparison Ross seemed almost sluggish. "There's hardly any danger to the public," he was saving comfortably. "And it's nearly impossible to convert fuel for atom plants to nuclear weapons."

  "That's nearly comforting."

  He ignored me. "Katoul and her crowd face the real peril. There's a fifty percent death risk just in opening that container."

  "And a thirty percent death risk in bomb manufacture," LeClerc chimed in.

  "Ten little Indians," I said. "At the end of the day one terrorist might be left clutching an atom bomb. That's what really frightens you."

  "Doesn't it frighten you?" Ross countered quickly.

  Even then I wasn't absolutely sure that I believed what I was hearing. "Are you telling me it's possible?"

  For an answer LeClerc asked, "Do you know how an atom bomb works, Mr. Brand?"

  I shook my head. Third form physics had floored me and, God knows, that was a long time ago.

  "In its crudest form it's simply a matter of bringing two chunks of plutonium together with sufficient force to make it go critical," he said. "Once the mathematics have been worked out the rest is easy. It could even be done with an alarm dock mechanism and a chemical explosive primary charge."

  I stared, prepared to have misunderstood. "So any trained terrorist could do it?"

  Ross fidgeted, clearing his throat to interrupt. He wore a glove on his left hand like a golfer. Except that his was made of shiny black kid and was long enough to disappear up the sleeve of his jacket. And now that I looked at it, the fingers were shaped differently from those of the right hand, long and tapered as opposed to short and stubby. "Let's just say that nuclear physics aren't much of a secret anymore," he said.

  "And knowing that, governments still move the raw material in unguarded containers?"

  "I've already said there's no real danger," he snapped irritably. "But it's an emotive issue. All governments would prefer to ship the stuff under armed escort, but that would alert people to what's going on. So to avoid public outcry, it's moved this way - in secret."

  "Some secret," I snorted. "Whoever raided that ship knew exactly which container to take."

  "That's for the Brits to worry about," he said with evident satisfaction. "Their boys arc kicking it to death. My job is to find Suzy Katoul."

  "If it was Suzy."

  "It's her all right. Her handwriting's all over it."

  I fell silent, thinking about Suzy and what I had been told. But Ross barely gave me time to digest it. "Look, nobody's going to make a nuclear device on a kitchen table, but whoever hit the Marisa had a lot of muscle. Maybe enough muscle to overcome the scientific problems involved in putting a bomb together. All they need now is time - weeks, more likely months, but someday soon a terrorist organisation will have an atomic bomb - unless you get off your butt and help stop them."

  The room went very quiet. Ross and I stared at each other and LeClerc studied his whiskey while the ormolu clock ticked our lives away. Finally I heard myself ask: "And where do I come in exactly?"

  Ross smiled. Not a nice smile. The kind which said I knew you'd see it my way in the end. He even took time to sip his whiskey before answering. "You probably know more about Suzy Katoul than any man living. We want everything. On tape - for our people to analyse. Dates, places, friends, contacts, the whole damn shooting match. Understand? Then when we make contact with her, you'll be the courier."

  "Courier?"

  "Courier. Go-between." He stared at my baffled expression. "Well, you don't think she'll let my boys anywhere near her, do you?"

  "I don't know. I mean I hadn't thought about it." Which was true, but the prospect of telling complete strangers everything I knew about Suzy disturbed me. Made me feel dirty, like a police informer, a spy. I said, "I'm not sure I like the idea."

  "I don't give a shit what you like!" He was suddenly blazing angry. "Get it straight Brand - we're working together, no matter what. And if it's any consolation, I don't like it either. People like you - your whole concept of what goes on in the world sickens me. You're so bloody naive. All that lily-livered crap in your newspaper column. Fifty dollar words, that's all."

  It was quite an outburst. As calmly as I could I said, "Flatterer. Where did you learn your technique, Major? Running press conferences at the Pentagon?"

  "Listen buddy boy!" he jabbed a finger under my nose. "Some screwed-up bitch is out there with the makings of a bomb big enough to kill at least half a million people. And you're on the sharp end for once, instead of shooting your mouth off from behind a typewriter. For once you'll be protecting democracy, instead of knocking it."

  "Whose idea of democracy, Major? Yours or mine?"

  He almost threw his glass at me. He would have, had it been empty. Instead he scowled. "I'll give you another thought to hang on to. Your relationship with this Katoul woman is known. Not just to us, but probably to every flea-bitten political outfit in the Middle East. If it gets out that Katoul's involved, you're in danger. Reprisal killing, taken hostage, just about anything could happen to you. At least by coming with us you'll get protection."

  "Coming with you? Where? I'm due to Bonn tomorrow and—"

  "That's what you think!" he held his right hand out to LeClerc. "You're on indefinite leave - as of now. Cleared this afternoon by your office."

  LeClerc
extracted an envelope from an inside pocket and passed it to Ross, who handed it to me. The letter inside stunned me. All of it, but most of all the warm message of good luck from Joe Haines, Chairman of Crusader Press. Someone from a high place had got at Joe. A very high place. I wondered what they'd hit him with. Maybe they threatened to revoke his license to publish newspapers, or something.

  I said, "There should be a government health warning on you. 'Contact with this man is dangerous' - stamped across your forehead."

  "Halfa million people, Brand," he said grimly. "Any city in the world reduced to rubble. New York, London, Paris. Think about it."

  I did. Earlier, the enormity of the idea had numbed my mind, and the sudden aggressiveness of Ross's manner had generated enough hostility to blind me to everything else. But if he was right?

  "As for government health warnings," he growled, "we're going to just the right place."

  I looked at him.

  "Spitari's Health Farm," he smiled. "At Delimara Point."

  "Where in hell's that?"

  "You'll find out. Meanwhile, let's just say it's a step nearer the Middle East."

  Including the two Irish Provos, there were eleven of them aboard the Aileen Maloney. It was a familiar situation, being the only woman in an all-male environment. She was untroubled by it, well used to the smell of men, accustomed to their talk and their way of looking at things. It was better than being with women, especially Arab women, or even Europeans. Women copped out, consciously some of them, but half the silly cows never knew what it was about to begin with. For some reason the thought provoked memories of touring British universities eight years ago, raising funds and finding friends for the Palestinian refugees. At night she had stayed with the girl students, eaten in their cafes, shared a joint, slept with their men. "Oh yes, we want to do something worthwhile," some of the girls had assured her. "We're going to be social workers." She laughed aloud at the memory.

  "Something funny?" Reilly asked.

  The two of them were alone in the deckhouse, the others asleep or playing cards below. The Aileen Maloney pitched into the wind at a steady twelve knots as the skies above darkened again and the sea below hurried in the teeth of a cold north-westerly wind.

  "I was thinking of the English," she said.

  "Were you now?" He squinted through the windscreen, giving the wheel a slight touch as he did so. "There's a wondrous source of amusement for you."

  "Your enemies amuse you?" she looked at him. A man of about forty, thickset, curly hair still brown, blue eyes, clothes smelling of fish and those foul cigarettes.

  "Our enemy is the British Government," he grunted, then half laughed and half sighed. "And sometimes our own."

  After thinking about it she nodded, "It's like us and the Jews. We're not against them as an ethnic or religious community. We're against Israel as the expression of colonisation based on racist and theocratic principles of Zionism."

  "Is that a fact now?"

  "It was one of the seven points of the '69 manifesto."

  "Ah," he nodded, his serious expression betrayed by a glint of amusement in his eyes, "that explains it."

  "Explains what?"

  "Why a nice girl like you uses language like that."

  Temper flushed her cheeks. "Don't be so damned condescending! Or so sexist." She simmered for a moment, burning with anger and indignation. Then she said, "Anyway - what sort of remark is that from a political activist?"

  "And I thought I was paying you a compliment," he grinned. "And is that what I am? A political activist?" He shook his head. "And there's me not knowing. It's lacking in education I am - thanks to years of British repression."

  "We had our share of that."

  "Ah, but you got rid of them. Half Ireland's still owned by them."

  "The Jews own all Palestine."

  He was silent at that, his eyes searching the deepening gloom while his thoughts took refuge behind an expressionless face.

  "Anyway, is that all you're fighting for?" she challenged. "To beat the British Government?"

  "Is that all?" he mocked. "And I thought it was for a united Ireland. Ireland for the Irish! God's own country for God's own people."

  "God's awn people," she mimicked. "The Chosen. You're as bad as the Jews. And what if you win? What about the social revolution? What about the fundamental alterations to society?"

  He threw his head back and roared with delighted laughter. "Will you just listen to the girl? Haven't we been fighting the English for two hundred years? Will you give us a chance to sort that out first?"

  She lit cigarettes for both of them, her face still dark with temper. "You'll never win - not without joining the international movement. People all over the world are fighting imperialist aggression - that's what you've got to realise. They'll help if you ask - but you Irish are so - so bloody insular!"

  "Pigheaded you mean," he puffed the cigarette. "Going to hell in our own sweet way and getting there fast enough without other people's help."

  "You do take help," she objected. "But from the wrong people. Look at the money you get from the States."

  "Used to get," he corrected. "It's been a bit thin the last year or so. And anyway, what's wrong with money from the States?"

  "They're not revolutionaries."

  "Ah!" he was openly amused. "Is that where we're going wrong? We should mix more with the revolutionaries. Like those on the tanker back there?"

  She stiffened. "Meaning?"

  His smile faded. "And there was I thinking you were a big girl now. Someone with all the answers."

  "They're brothers in the revolution," she protested.

  "Big brothers," he scowled. "What do they care about the Palestinians? Or the Irish come to that? What's in this for them - that's what I'm asking myself?"

  She stared at him, not answering.

  He shook his head, "There was never a whisper of them before. Pat and I were to go to Copenhagen and hang around till you contacted us. After that we'd take the Aileen Maloney to Conlaragh and hide your lot up for a few days. Our payment to be the boat, one hundred Kalashnikovs and fifty thousand rounds of ammo - with you paying all expenses."

  "And that's what you're getting, isn't it?"

  "That and a lot more."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as meeting five men on the bridge of that tanker and your lover boy the only Ay-rab amongst the lot of them. Such as a trip out past the Orkneys at dead of night and a laden boat which came back empty."

  "So now you've seen it all," she sneered.

  "Including you committing piracy and then dumping the spoils in the middle of the ocean - boat and all. What the hell was that all about?"

  "That's our business."

  "Not when we're involved, it isn't," he said, grim-faced and with a determined edge to his voice. "Something's going on we weren't told about. Something big. There'll be some talking to do back at Conlaragh, I'm telling you."

  "Not by you there won't. You're to tell nobody what you've seen - that's part of the contract."

  "I'll tell nobody outside the movement," he corrected her. "But I'm a soldier. They'll want a full report when I get back."

  "Abou won't like it," she warned.

  His frown gave way to a grin. "Well now, you'll just have to be extra nice to the man, won't you. To take his mind off his worries."

  Her eyes blazed with anger. "Screw you, Reilly."

  His head went back with another delighted peal of laughter.

  "There now and isn't it a thousand pities - but even with you burning your bra an' all, that's a thing you'll never do."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Politics is war without bloodshed, while war is politics with bloodshed." Chairman Mao Tse-tung (1966)

  The Second Day

  0300 Wednesday

  The mist was drenched in the scent of the sea. Abou sucked it into his lungs until the cold air caught in his throat and choked him into a fit of coughing. His eyes blurred as he looked at hi
s watch. Almost twenty-three hours aboard the Aileen Maloney. Twenty-three come and gone - two or three still to go. Below decks two of his men had been sick and the rancid smell of their vomit had driven him up to the rails for the early morning air to blow the fog from his brain. The sleep had relaxed him. Now he felt strong and confident for what lay ahead. It was up to him now. Whatever happened now, the men aboard the tanker were too far away to be of any help. Strangely the thought comforted him. Being alone had become a way of life. At least for the past four years. Ever since he had suspected that their allies might betray them. And the consequences of that were worse than death itself. So the Plan had been devised and he had been chosen to implement it - should the day ever come. And now it had.

  His thoughts turned to the others aboard the fishing boat. To the seven commandos, whose oath of allegiance to him and their country could lead them to their deaths. To the two Irishmen fighting a war fifty years out of date, and to Suzy Katoul with her half crazed babbling about a Palestinian Marxist State. He smiled at the irony of his life - of pretending to share her politics while devoting his entire existence to saving his country from being compelled to adopt them. It was that bitter devotion which had led to the formation of the Plan. And it was the Plan which had sent him first to Switzerland for plastic surgery and from there to the very private school in the mountains, where he had learned Arabic and many of the customs of that ancient race. For two years he had toiled there, half hoping that he worked in vain, half pretending that the plan would never be needed, but knowing in his heart that it would be. Watching and waiting and listening, as their powerful allies edged ever closer to the day of betrayal. Until, almost two years ago to the day, the ruling families had grown alarmed enough to send him to Paris - in search of Suzy Katoul.

  He made his way forward to the deckhouse. The wind had dropped and the mist clung to his hair and clothing. Reilly was there, leaning in one corner, sharing the inevitable cigarette with Suzy while Brady, the other Irishman, took a turn at the wheel. Suzy was asking about Conlaragh.