The Levanter (31 page)

The saloon was immediately below the bridge and at the end of the alleyway serving the officers’ cabins. It wasn’t much of a place, I admit; just functional.

On one side was the table where the officers took their meals, on the other were some scruffy armchairs and a recently recovered leatherette sofa. There was a door to the galley and a second door opened onto a narrow strip of covered deck. From there an iron companionway led up to the bridge. Inside, the smells of cooking oil and stale cigarette butts mingled with that of the new leatherette.

Ghaled looked about him as if he had been used to better things.

“A little different from the Howell villa,” he observed. “I see you don’t believe in pampering your officers.”

The comment irritated me. “They don’t have to be pampered, Mr. Yassin.”

I didn’t wait to see how he took the suggestion that front-fighters
did
have to be pampered; I went in search of the captain. I found him on the starboard wing of the bridge looking down at the quay.

“In the saloon?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Which is Mr. Yassin?”

The one in the white shirt How much have you told Mr. Patsalides, Captain?”

“That they are
fedayeen
and that we are to be cautious in dealing with them for the present. I could scarcely tell him less.”

“No. I am interested in their baggage, Captain. Not that strange-looking case with Yassin, I know what’s in that, but their other baggage. I’d like to know what arms they have with them.”

“So would I, Mr. Howell.”

“Do you think Patsalides could organize a discreet search? Perhaps while we are at the evening meal?”

“I think so. I have arranged for a cabin for Yassin, as you asked. The other three will be in the special compartment aft.”

There had been a time, before it became strictly illegal, when the Agence Howell had done a little business, mainly with American dealers acting for museums, in newly excavated Greco-Roman antiquities. The dealers said what they wanted; we had it shipped out of the area in which it had been found. Hence the special compartments.

“I had forgotten you had one.”

“We still find uses for it occasionally.” His expression was bland. “They will not be too uncomfortable. They can sleep on palliasses.”

“What kind of door is there on the compartment?”

“It has a clip that is very difficult to move, unless you know how, and can also be padlocked. Perhaps I should now go below and introduce myself.”

I had not been wrong in choosing Captain Touzani. It was almost a pleasure to introduce him to Ghaled.

“Mr. Salah Yassin, Captain Touzani.”

They nodded, eying one another; two very different Arabs.

“And Mr. Aziz Faysal.”

More nods. I didn’t bother with the other two.

Captain Touzani smiled expansively. “Gentlemen, you are all most welcome aboard this ship. Mr. Howell will have told you that we do not normally carry passengers, so the accommodation I can offer you is limited. However, the second officer has offered to share another cabin until we reach Alexandria. His berth is therefore available to Mr. Yassin. Mr. Howell as owner will naturally berth with me. The other gentlemen will be accommodated aft.” He pressed a bell-push. “The steward, Kyprianou, will show you where to go. Meals will be taken here. There will be separate sittings for passengers at times of which you will be told. I must ask you to observe certain rules. The bridge is strictly out of bounds to passengers at all times. You may walk anywhere on the main deck, that is the one below this.”

The steward, a dirty little man in a clean white jacket, had come through the galley door in answer to the bell.

The captain pointed Ghaled out to him. “This is Mr. Yassin, Kyprianou,” he said in Greek. “Show him and his companions to their quarters.”

Ghaled was glaring at the captain. Clearly he hadn’t liked being told what he could and could not do, but he wasn’t quite sure how to go about registering his displeasure.

Touzani looked him straight in the eye. “The weather forecasts are good, Mr. Yassin. I see no reason why we should not have a smooth and pleasant journey.”

Then he turned and went back up to the bridge.

We sailed shortly after dawn.

I had dozed fitfully on a couch in Captain Touzani’s office cabin. The results of the baggage search the previous evening had not been reassuring.

The front-fighters each had machine pistols. Ghaled had in his case, in addition to a new black suit, a Stechkin automatic in a webbing holster and a small transistor walkie-talkie set.

It was this set that worried me. When Patsalides told me about it I immediately asked if he didn’t mean a pair of walkie-talkie sets. That’s what I hoped he had meant, but he shook his head.

“No, Mr. Howell, just one.”

When he had left us Touzani looked at me curiously. “Why should you mind about this set? If he has one that only means that someone on the boat coming from the shore has the other.”

“Yes.”

“What difference does it make? You can’t use those things as direction finders, at least not effectively. A boat from the shore would be looking for our lights.”

I didn’t tell him what I was worrying about was not a boat from the shore, but Hadaya from the sea. It looked as if Ghaled intended to control and coordinate the whole operation from the
Amalia.

I should have worried more about that walkie-talkie, seen the danger it really represented and so been better prepared to counter it. The trouble was that in my own mind at that moment I was quite certain that I knew what the Israelis were going to do. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part; I had been using the ship’s radio.

As soon as we had left Syrian waters that morning I had begun sending messages to Famagusta, a series of three. They could not be explicit; I had to wrap everything up in commercial jargon; but they made and remade three points.

First: that the information previously furnished had been found to be incomplete and that two ships were now involved in the transaction.

Second: that modifications to the announced routing would have to be made.

Third: that, as a consequence, the steps to be taken already discussed should be taken not later than 21:15 hours in order to be effective.

They had been difficult messages to compose and one of them read like gibberish. The ship’s radio operator had given me some odd looks
.
But I didn’t care what he thought. From the fact that all three messages had been acknowledged without the bewildered demands for clarification that might have been expected, I concluded, rightly, that they were getting through to Barlev, and that my
mad cable from Damascus had had the desired effect of alerting him. The final acknowledgment added what I took to be a personal assurance from him. Famagusta said that they would “proceed as planned”.

To me that meant that the interception was going to be off Caesarea at 21:15 that evening. I felt that all I had to do now was wait.

Ghaled had kept to his cabin most of the day. The front-fighters preferred the deck - understandably, since the special compartment had no porthole. I stayed in the captain’s quarters aft of the bridge until the late afternoon. This was with Ghaled’s approval; I was supposed to be keeping an eye on the ship’s progress. But around about five o’clock a message came, brought by Kyprianou the steward, that I was to report to him in his cabin.

With the message Kyprianou brought additional information. “Mr. Yassin is armed,” he said dramatically.

“Oh.”

“He is wearing his pistol on a belt, sir.”

“I see.”

“Shall I tell him to take it off, sir?”

“No, Kyprianou, it is perfectly all right.”

He seemed disappointed. Touzani, who had been listening, added a further caution.

“You will pretend not to have seen the pistol. Just get on with your work in the ordinary way.” He dismissed the steward. To me he said: “When you get back, Mr. Howell, it may be as well if we have a little talk.”

I
nodded and went down to see Ghaled.

He was sitting at the small cabin desk writing, and I stood in the doorway for several seconds before he turned.

“Ah, Comrade Michael. There was a small task I gave you on the day before we left.”

“Task, Comrade Salah?”

“Two bottles of brandy.”

“Oh yes. For the celebration. Would you like them now?”

“I would like one. And bring two glasses with you from the saloon.”

I had to go back up to the captain’s quarters to fetch the bottle. He watched in silence while I got it out of my bag. It was an eloquent silence. I would have preferred some spoken comment.

When I returned to Ghaled he had some papers in his hand.

“Sit down, Comrade Michael.”

As he had the only chair I sat on the bunk beside the
Serinette.

“You can open the bottle? Good. Then pour two drinks and let us talk about the future. We arrive in Alexandria tomorrow at what time?”

“Early afternoon I expect, Comrade Salah, but with the course changes ahead it is difficult to say exactly.”

“My arrival will be kept secret, of course. It must not be known how I
have arrived. The press conference I
hold will be in Cairo.”

“Is that already organized?”

“Everything is organized.” He gave me a sheet of paper with mimeographed typing on it. “That is the preliminary statement in English which will be issued to the international news agencies in Beirut as soon as the first reports of our attack begin coming in.”

The paper was headed
Palestinian Action Force Information Service
and datelined Beirut, July 4. The statement began:

At approximately 22:00 hrs. yesterday July 3, troops of the Palestinian Action Force under the personal command of their leader, Salah Ghaled, launched the most devastating attack yet seen on the Zionist pseudo-state of Israel. The target selected was that citadel of Zionist expansionism, Tel Aviv. Massive bombardments by both land and sea forces of the PAF, though directed primarily at military installations in the area, are believed to have caused some civilian casualties. In a statement following the attack, PAF leader Salah Ghaled said that, while such casualties were regretted, he could not allow the presence of so-called innocent bystanders to influence PAF war policy. “While we Palestinians must still fight for justice,” he said, “no bystanders are innocent. In the Palestinian liberation movement there have been too many words and too few deeds. With this offensive the PAF, representing the new militant leadership of all Palestinian forces, begins the march to victory and ultimate justice.”

There was more of the same - Melanie Hammad’s work obviously - but I only pretended to read it.

“It is good English, Comrade Michael?” he asked anxiously. “I can read English a little but not very well.”

‘’Yes, it is to good English.” I
knew that there would be one question expected of me and that I had better ask it quickly.

“It says here, Comrade Salah, that there will be a bombardment from the sea. Can that be correct?”

He smiled contentedly. That is a surprise that I have been keeping for you. Fill our glasses again.”

So then he told me about the
Jeble
5 attack.

I made the appropriate sounds of delight and amazement. In a way, he had made my task a little easier, because now I did not have to maintain quite so much of a pretence with him. On the other hand, I now had more to conceal from Captain Touzani. Instead of my own surmises and deductions to keep quiet about - and they just
could
have been mistaken - I had confirmed information to withhold. I would have to be careful when we had our “little talk”.

The problem now was to get away from Ghaled. All he wanted to do was talk about Cairo and the reception he expected there. Last time it had been cold. This time it would be very different. He was looking forward to seeing Yasir Arafat’s face as they embraced for the photographers. He had been making notes of some of the questions the reporters would most likely ask him and preparing his replies.

I had to listen to them. He went on and on. After the third brandy I said that I must go and make arrangements for that evening.

“What arrangements?”

“The first course change will be made at eight o’clock. When I am sure that all is well I think that we should have our meal, Comrade Salah, so that we are all ready for the next change at nine fifteen off Caesarea. I imagine the
Jeble
5 will be joining us soon after.”

“Yes, you have work to do. Very well, go.”

When I left he was pouring his fourth brandy.

Captain Touzani was drinking beer and not looking as though he was enjoying
it.

“So,” he said, “our armed passenger is now busy getting drunk, Mr. Howell. As captain of this ship you cannot expect me to be pleased.”

“He doesn’t get very drunk. He gets nastier, but not drunk. I don’t expect you to be pleased.”

“But you have no change of plan to propose.”

“None that we haven’t already discussed.”

“I take it, then, that you want me to issue arms to the watch officers.”

“Yes. And when Yassin and the rest of the passengers go to the saloon to eat I would like the special compartment door locked. There’s nothing we can do about Yassin’s automatic, but we don’t want the others armed as well.”

“They may be already armed.”

“No. I checked. They’re on deck forward, smoking.”

“When they find the door locked they won’t like it.”

“Maybe they won’t find out.” I was still banking on the Caesarea interception.

“You mean they won’t be going to sleep tonight?” The brown eyes were watching me intently.

“I mean that I expect the situation to change in our favour, Captain.”

There was a long silence before he said: “I do hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Howell.”

“I
think I do, Captain.”

When we made the first course change the sun was low in the sky. As soon as we were on the new heading I went down to the saloon and reported the fact to Ghaled. He didn’t seem very interested. He must have gone on drinking steadily after I had left him. I sat down next to Aziz and forced myself to eat. Kyprianou gave me disapproving looks; I was not conducting myself as an owner should. As soon as I reasonably could I left the saloon and went back to the bridge again.