As to Zimmerman’s third recommendation, Hofti was in favour. After all, Yahia el Mashad was acting against his own government’s wishes. The last thing Sadat wanted was for Iraq’s Saddam Hussein to obtain nuclear weapons and thereby strengthen his claim to leadership of the Arab world.
At this point Misha Wigoda interjected. He had been informed a month ago by a Lebanese scientist, to whom he paid a retainer, that two of Iraq’s top nuclear scientists working on the Tammuz project had recently been arrested by the Mukhabarat. Their names were Jabar Mohammed and Saddam Azzawi and apparently in the volatile machinations of the Iraqs Ba’ath party they had come under suspicion of disloyalty.
Now Isaac Shapiro added his voice. Their agent in the Iraqi Mukhabarat, Hammad Shihab, had reported only a few days ago that both scientists had been interrogated in the ‘Palace of the end’ in Baghdad. Shihab had not personally been involved but he had heard of it. Subsequently they had been transferred to an unknown destination. The agent thought they may have been eliminated.
‘It’s curious,’ Walter said, ‘that the Iraqis would dispose of two of their top nuclear scientists shortly before taking delivery of the Tammuz I reactor. You’d think such men were immune to purges. To the Iraqis they’re worth their weight in gold - or at least in enriched uranium
Hofti smiled but disagreed. ‘You know how paranoid they are. The more important a man is to the regime, the more he had to proclaim and display his loyalty. No-one in that country is safe from a purge.’
‘And they’re both Shi’ite moslems,’ Misha added, alluding to the fact that Saddam Hussein and most of the Iraqi hierarchy belonged to the minority Sunni sect.
Walter was not totally convinced but he kept his counsel while Hofti went on to point out that the information added to the importance of the Egyptian scientist Yahia el Mashad.
Next Misha Wigoda made his report. He advised that since the murder of Duff Paget a close watch had been kept on Janine Lesage. It had revealed that she was seeing a lot of Sami Asaf - in fact was his lover. It was a reasonable conclusion that SDECE and the Mukhabarat were co-operating closely to protect Tammuz I from Mossad and that this co-operation was personified by the Lesage-Asaf relationship. What should be done about it?
Misha Wigoda was quite confident that in the prevailing anarchy of Beirut he could easily arrange for the lovers to meet a timely death.
Both Walter and Hofti were against it though. The French and the Iraqis would quickly replace them. Better to have known devils than otherwise. In the meantime Misha should do his best to ‘bug’ her apartment and car.
‘Don’t worry,’ Walter said to Misha. ‘In the course of time I’ll take care of that lady.’
Finally the meeting discussed the situation inside Iraq. Walter felt uncomfortable. For several weeks he had resisted suggestions to try to set up a new network in Baghdad. He wouldn’t explain why but he had been simply waiting. His discomfort now stemmed from the acknowledgement that he had made a mistake. His judgement had been at fault. In spite of expert advice he had followed a personal hunch. He was made more uncomfortable by the fact that most of the men around the table were being solicitous about his mistake. They knew he had delayed, but they did not know exactly why. As they discussed the problem only Efim Zimmerman allowed a note of criticism to creep into his voice. An operation should have been carefully planned months ago, he pointed out. All the actions to be taken in France would only delay delivery of the reactor. In time they would have to act in Iraq itself. Walter accepted the implied criticism. Efim Zimmerman had bounced him on his knee as a boy and had been a witness at his Bar Mitzvah. He was one of the few men who could talk to Walter exactly as he chose. So Walter sat with his eyes lowered and listened in silence while the others discussed future strategy and talked of possible agents within Mossad who might, against the odds, be able to establish themselves in Baghdad. Walter was not feeling very penitent. Many times in the past he had successfully followed his instincts. Espionage was not a cut and dried business. People were its vital element.
Walter would rather have one man in whom he had complete personal faith than a score of skilled agents who, for him, lacked the spark of charisma.
As he listened to the discussion he knew that none of the schemes being promulgated contained a real chance of success. They were merely going through the motions. The knowledge did not lighten his mood or serve to justify his mistake. He sensed that the void in Iraq would prove crucial. It was his responsibility.
General Hofti, perhaps sensing Walter’s despair, had just suggested that they adjourn for half an hour, when the yellow phone in front of Isaac Shapiro buzzed.
Five pairs of eyes swivelled to look at it. With a nervous glance at Walter and then at Hofti, Isaac picked it up.
‘Shapiro.’
He listened for a moment then said: ‘I’ll tell him.’
Looking puzzled he cradled the phone. To Walter he said:
There’s a man at Walen reception asking for you. He gave your code name ORANGE ONE. Says his name is Munger.’
The others all looked at Walter and saw a beatific smile light his face.
Book Three
Chapter 10
REUTERS: BEIRUT, JANUARY 10th, 1979. 19.33. FLASH . . . David Munger, renowned British combat photographer who disappeared from Hong Kong in 1969 after auctioning his equipment, reappeared today in Beirut. Munger, who covered wars in Biafra, Angola, Cyprus, Borneo and Vietnam, announced his intention to cover Middle East area as freelance photographer. He refused to comment on his whereabouts or activities during past nine years. Stop.
Gordon Frazer, Bureau Chief of Reuters, Beirut, looked over the girl’s shoulder as she tapped out the news flash. He sighed as it ended. He would dearly have loved to have been able to add more.
The girl turned and looked up at him, a puzzled smile on her lips. She was a Maronite Arab, educated at the American university, and she was darkly beautiful. She had worked in the Bureau office for only three months and since then Gordon Frazer had divided his energies between gathering news and lusting after her. So far it had been unrequited lust, but he was an optimistic man.
‘Why,’ she asked, ‘does the reappearance of one photographer rate a special flash?’
He smiled down at her, admiring the lovely curve of her neck and the outer sweep of her breasts. His fingers tingled.
‘Because he’s a very special photographer,’ he mumbled and looked up as one of the machines across the room began to clatter.
‘That’ll be UPI putting out the same flash. Ed Makin must have moved like a scalded cat!’ He grinned at the thought of beating one of his arch rivals even by a few seconds. He gestured at the machines.
‘Pretty soon the other agencies will pick it up and all over Europe and the States photographic editors will be grabbing their phones, trying to get Munger on contract.’
‘He’s that good?’ the girl asked.
‘The best - or he was.’
He unlocked his gaze from her cleavage and walked across to the row of machines. UPI had reported in much the same terms, with the additional information that Munger was now thirty-nine years old and appeared to be in good health.
Then the AFP machine started up. Frazer did not read French but “he saw the name ‘Munger’ and called the girl over and she stood and translated for him while he peered over her shoulder and gently pressed his front against her buttocks. She stood still and he felt a thrill of anticipation; a week ago she would have moved away from the pressure.
A few more days, he promised himself, and staff intercourse would progress from being merely social to positively sexual.
The AFP report was a rehash of his own. He wished it was longer for the girl now moved back to her chair. She was still curious, for in three months she had never known the agencies to report on any of their own media people.
‘What’s he like?’ she asked. ‘And where has he been all these years?’
Frazer shrugged. ‘He won
’t say.’
He glanced at his watch. Her replacement would arrive in a few minutes. He was about to invite her down to the Commodore Hotel for a drink. Munger would still be there and a party would surely develop - but he abruptly checked himself as he remembered Munger’s way with women. Frazer decided he would keep this one well away.
She was looking at him curiously so he told her a little of Munger’s past, then suggested that they have dinner one evening and he would tell her more. She agreed readily and he felt another tingle of anticipation, slightly marred by the thought that her easy acceptance might be more out of curiosity than his own charm.
During the short walk back to the Commodore his thoughts turned once more to Munger and the shock when he had strolled into the bar. Frazer and Ed Makin had been alone drinking Martinis. As usual Makin had been complaining in his nasal Bronx accent. He had just returned from a visit both to his head office and his wife in New York.
‘My troubles always come in threes,’ he had said. ‘My boss complained about my expense account. My dentist told me my new bridge work is gonna cost three thousand bucks . . . and my wife whined that with the long separations she ain’t gettin’ enough sex.’ He had sighed, taken a gulp from his glass and looked morosely up at the tall red-headed Scotsman.
‘What would you do, Gordon?’
Frazer had shrugged. He liked the small, bald, chubby American and he respected his professional skill, but his perpetual pessimism could be mildly boring.
‘It’s very simple,’ he had answered. ‘Move out of your suite and into a normal room like everyone else. Have all your rotten teeth pulled out and get a good set of dentures. Buy your wife some new batteries for her vibrator. Stop complaining . . . and get some more drinks in - it’s your turn.’
Makin had grunted in exasperation but looked up for the bartender. He had seen something in the mirror behind the bar and his morose expression had changed to astonishment. Slowly he had swivelled on the bar stool, a curious Frazer did the same, and they had gawped at the figure of Dave Munger standing at the door with a slight smile on his lips.
‘So nothing changes,’ he had said, moving forward. ‘There’s a war going on outside and Makin and Frazer are propping up the bar.’ He had shaken hands with both of them but they were still speechless. He looked down at their empty glasses.
‘Let me guess what will be on the wires tonight: “flash from Beirut: average temperature of Dry Martinis in bar of Commodore Hotel raised by three degrees. This causes major media riot outside Ministry of Information. Government reshuffle expected momentarily”.’
He grinned, held up three fingers to the bartender and indicated the empty glasses. Makin had been the first to find his voice.
‘Where in hell have you been? We’d given you up for dead.’
‘Here and there,’ Munger answered, easing himself onto a bar stool.
‘Where? What happened?’ Frazer demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’
Munger held up a hand to ward off the questions. He watched as the bartender finished mixing the drinks and pushed the glasses in front of the three men. Munger picked his up, took a sip and nodded in satisfaction.
‘The temperature’s perfect. I guess there’ll be no riot.’ He turned to Makin and Frazer and examined them critically.
‘Ed, you’ve got fatter, shorter and balder. Gordon, apart from a few more freckles you look about the same as when I last saw you in Saigon. That’s bad, because then you were cynical and debauched. You should have mellowed with the years.’
The two Bureau Chiefs ignored the bantering. They in turn had carefully examined Munger. He was clean-shaven but the pallor of his chin contrasted with the deep tan on his forehead and arms, indicating that he had recently shaved off a beard. Frazer noted that his fingers were calloused from manual labour. So he had not been working as a photographer. He appeared not to have aged much, but even nine years ago he had looked older than his years. The lines across the forehead, around the vivid blue eyes and at the corners of his mouth, had deepened a little. It was the sort of face that appeared poised on the verge of middle age without ever sliding over.
In spite of his quizzical smile there was a strange dullness in his eyes. He had never shown much expression but both men had known him well and remembered that if you could read him at all it was through his eyes. When relaxed they appeared wider and the blue of the irises lighter. When angry or tense they darkened and narrowed. They were truly like lens apertures adjusting to the controls of his mood. Now there was an opaqueness, a misting as though a filter had been clipped over them.
‘So give!’ Makin had finally said. ‘What have you been up to?’
Munger had shaken his head. ‘The past is gone, Ed. I don’t want to talk about it.’ His voice was flat and definite and Makin shrugged in acceptance.
‘You’re going to work?’ Frazer had asked and when Munger had nodded Makin immediately asked.
‘For whom?’
‘I’ll freelance for a while. See what turns up. I’ll cover the area from here.’
At that Frazer had casually stood up and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder that he’d be right back. Munger had started to question Makin about local conditions and the American had been sketching in the problems faced by the media in Beirut when suddenly he had stopped and jumped up.
‘That son of a bitch! Of course, it’s news itself. He’s filing the story!’ He rustled to the door on his short legs, shouting: ‘Don’t go away Dave!’
Makin’s office was in the Hotel itself but Frazer still beat him by a few seconds.
He had only been gone twenty minutes but the word had already started to spread. There were half a dozen men in the bar now, surrounding Munger. It was to be expected. The great phalanx of photographers and correspondents who had covered Vietnam and the Far East in the sixties and early seventies had moved on to the Middle East. It had become the world’s perpetual hot spot and so provided the bread and butter for several hundred of the world’s leading media men and women.
Frazer pushed through the group around Munger and claimed his original stool from George Blake, a photographer from the ‘Toronto Star’. Ed Makin was also back with a glass in his hand. He gave Frazer a baleful glare and muttered ‘Bastard!’
Munger was standing with his back to the bar. He had switched from Martinis to his usual vodka and soda. As Frazer settled himself and ordered a drink he heard Munger parrying questions from the newcomers and asking some of his own. He was relaxed and smiling but his eyes were still mirrors reflecting nothing.
So the bar filled up, the level of noise rising. Many of the people knew Munger from earlier years. Others, the younger ones, had come out of curiosity to see a reincarnated legend. War correspondents are drawn to a spontaneous party the way bees swarm to a hive. The more dangerous the place, the more fervent is the atmosphere.
During a lull in the conversation Frazer said to Munger: ‘You’ll be getting any number of calls tonight offering contracts.’
‘They already started,’ Munger answered. ‘I told the switchboard just to take messages.’ He took a sip of his drink and gave Frazer a quizzical look.
‘What’s the opposition like these days?’
Frazer thought for a moment then held up his left hand with the fingers spread. ‘In the top league there’s only four.’ He indicated the Canadian. ‘There’s George, and Ray Morris, whom you know. Don McCullin works out here occasionally and there’s a young Frenchman called Latière who freelances. He’s good.’ He shrugged. ‘Duff Paget’s death left a gap. You heard about that?’ He watched as Munger nodded, then asked: ‘You knew he bought your camera at that auction?’
Again Munger nodded and for the first time Frazer saw an expression deep in his eyes. ‘Yes, I picked it up from his widow in Cyprus a few months ago.’
Frazer’s curiosity was pricked. ‘How was she taking his death?’
‘She was all right,’ Munger answered, then abruptly cha
nged the subject. ‘Is Janine Lesage in town?’
Now Frazer’s curiosity was definitely aroused. From the corner of his eye he could see Ed Makin, who was listening to George Blake, but had an ear cocked to their conversation.
‘Yes, she’s around,’ Frazer replied. ‘No doubt she’ll be along as soon as she hears.’ He paused. ‘She’s having an affair with Sami Asaf. Remember him?’
‘Sure.’ Now there was a different expression in Munger’s eyes. They had narrowed, grown darker.
‘She’s still a damned beautiful woman,’ Frazer said, watching him closely. A slight smile twitched at the corners of Munger’s mouth.
‘Gordon, you should have used your first adjective in isolation.’
Frazer laughed and glanced at Ed Makin who was now ignoring Blake. He started to say something but was interrupted by more arrivals who pushed through to pump Munger’s hand and ask questions which all began with. ‘Where in hell . . .?’ Munger parried them easily but firmly. The noise level built up. The manager had drafted in two extra bartenders. He recognised all the signs and was- well pleased! Hotel business in Beirut was very patchy and the media men and women represented his best customers. He stood at the end of the bar, a small, dapper Lebanese in his late forties. During the Vietnam War he had worked in several hotels in the Far East and he knew Munger well. He too had been astonished when he had walked in a couple of hours ago with four large cases and asked for one of the biggest suites on a permanent basis. Perhaps remembering that, he beckoned to one of the bartenders and whispered in his ear. A few minutes later the noise was interrupted by the popping of champagne corks. Someone shouted ‘Hallelujah’ and the tempo in the bar moved up a notch. It was now truly crowded and at first the woman who appeared at the door was not noticed. Then slowly, in concentric waves, a silence emanated from her direction and all eyes turned towards her. It was Janine Lesage, dressed in a black and gold Pucci jump suit, a sequinned bag held in one hand and a cigarette in a long ivory holder in the other. Her golden hair was twisted up onto her head and as she looked over the mass of heads to Munger at the bar her lips formed a tender smile.
Snap Shot Page 15
