Ultimatum (21 page)

Ascher’s reply was immediate. ‘Yes. That was Jakob Kahn’s assumption when he outlined the operational plan. Someone, he said, would probably remain behind to deal with an electric failure or outside interference.’

‘Extraordinary idea,’ said the General.

‘Not really,’ said Barlov. ‘The sacrificial concept is strong in terrorist philosophy.’

Dugald McGann put down the phone he’d been using. ‘They’re all set to start in Fifty-Six. Just waiting for the word from you, General.’

‘Good. I think we should go to fifteen minutes notice. Is that agreed?’ It was, and the console operator transmitted “alert fifteen” on the Whisky Bravo general call-sign. The acknowledgements came through, and he said, ‘There’s a hitch on Whisky Bravo Seven.’

The scientist with the burn scars reached for a mike. He spoke in the gentle voice which was becoming familiar to those in the command vehicle. When he’d finished he said, ‘They’re changing a defective valve on a cyclinder. Another ten to fifteen minutes.’

The General looked at the clock. ‘Brings us to two-forty. That’s acceptable. We want the water to come on stream at two forty-five.’

‘No problem,’ said Gale.

‘Has Whisky Bravo Five finished with Barakat yet?’ asked the General.

The Special Branch inspector said, ‘He’s just reported Barakat crossing Whitcomb Street, Sir … travelling east … it’s still raining.’

‘Good heavens,’ said the General. ‘Tell him to abort at once and return to base.’

‘Will do, sir.’

The General spoke to the Commissioner. ‘No point in following him now. The object of the exercise was to monitor the chat with Brussels. I imagine tailing’s a dodgy operation at this time of the morning. Don’t want to alarm Barakat. We know he’s returning to Spender Street. The sooner he gets there the better.’

Dugald McGann said, ‘Special Branch tails aren’t easily spotted, General.’

‘Here we go then,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Violin music, please.’

‘They’re a sight better than your CID tails,’ muttered McGann.

‘What’s that, Dugald?’

‘Nothing, Brian. I was thinking aloud.’

‘Bad habit for a Special Branch man.’

‘Come, come,’ said the General. ‘Do I detect
inter-service
rivalry?’

There was knocking on the front entrance to 56 Spender Street. Parry, the Special Branch man on duty in the darkened hallway, waited, puzzled. The front door was not to be used during the operation. Who would be wanting to come in that way at twenty to three in the morning? He wondered if it was the landlord, but then recalled that he had a key.

The knocking grew louder, more urgent. Parry went to the door, unlocked and opened it. A tall man in a
rain-soaked
overcoat, water streaming down his face, stared at him. Parry, conscious that someone in the Mocal premises opposite might be watching, said, ‘Come in.’

The tall man hesitated, the Special Branch man reached
out, pulled him in and shut and locked the door. He shone a torch in the man’s face. ‘Who are you and what do you want?

‘Never mind that bull. I want to see her. And take that bloody light out of my eyes.’

‘See who?’ Parry smelt liquor.

‘You know who. Ruth Meyer. Where is she?’

‘Never heard of her. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?’ Parry took his arm.

‘Don’t touch me, you stupid bastard.’ The tall man pushed the hand away. ‘You’ve got her upstairs. I’ve been checking up. She comes to you at any old time, doesn’t she?’ He glared, swaying and belching. ‘Randy bloody Casanova, aren’t you?’

Parry’s tone changed. He took a firm hold of the other man’s arm. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. There was a sharp scuffle, heavy breathing, cursing and then the handcuffs were on. The Special Branch man said, ‘You’re under arrest. Attempted break-in.’

‘You lying bastard. You let me in. What’s going on?’ His eyes were frightened and angry at the same time.

‘You’d better co-operate unless you want to land yourself in worse trouble. Now. Let’s have your name and address.’

‘Get stuffed.’

‘Right. We’ll soon fix that.’ Parry felt inside his raincoat, brought out a mike, spoke into it. ‘Parry here. Ask the Chief to come down for a moment. It’s urgent.’

There was the sound of a door opening on the first floor. A torch beam shone from above and a man came down the stairs. It was Chief Superintendent McFagan. ‘What’s the trouble, Parry?’

‘This man, Chief. Trying to force the front door. I’ve put him under arrest. Attempted break-in.’

‘We heard some knocking. Thought it was the back door,’ said McFagan.

‘He’s lying,’ said the tall man. ‘I knocked on the door. He let me in. I want to see Ruth Meyer.’ He belched. ‘It’s my bloody right, isn’t it? She’s my girl. I know she’s here.’

The Chief Superintendent shone a torch in the man’s
face. ‘You’ve been drinking. There’s no Ruth Meyer here.’ He turned to Parry. ‘Hand him over to the uniformed constable in Tanswill Lane. He’s to be held at Bow Street overnight for SB questioning in the morning. They’re not to take a statement. We’ll see to that. Make it snappy. I’ll keep an eye on things here until you get back.’

The tall man, querulous and chastened, went quietly, muttering about his Member of Parliament, the
Ombudsman
and the Association of Advertising Consultants.

‘He wanted to see you, Ruth.’ The Chief Superintendent looked at her quizzically. ‘Tall chap. Dark moustache. Not bad looking. Advertising man, I think.’

Ruth Meyer’s eyes went wide with surprise. ‘My God! Johnnie Peters. How on earth did he know about this place?’

‘Says he’s been checking up on you. Know him?’

Ascher said, ‘She knows him intimately.’

‘Drop dead, Shalom.’ She glared at him, turned back to the Chief Superintendent. ‘Yes. I do know him. Where is he now?’

‘On his way to Bow Street. Handcuffed. He’ll spend the night in a cell. Cooling off.’

‘Oh, poor Johnnie.’ She was torn between tears and laughter. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Essential,’ said Ascher, looking rather pleased with himself. ‘All this scenario needed was your drunken
boyfriend
doing his Romeo to your Juliet. Business and pleasure don’t mix, Ruth.’

‘Get lost. It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Love’s Labour Lost, more likely,’ said the Chief
Superintendent
. ‘He might have wrecked the whole show.’

Barakat replaced the handset in the call-box in Leicester Square, turned up the collar of his raincoat and set off for the parking garage in Whitcomb Street. It was raining but he scarcely noticed it. The Brussels call had left him
disturbed.
Somehow he’d hoped there
would
be a change. Admittedly the outlook was good, but they were dealing with politicians and there could be delays. Yet the message was ‘no change’. Ka’ed was making no allowances for delays or any sort of negotiation. If the ultimatum was not accepted by noon, that was it. After the Prime Minister had spoken at ten o’clock they’d know. Then, if there was to be no acceptance, they’d draw lots. Barakat was not afraid of that. In a way it would be better, much better, to die. He was deeply troubled about the morality of what they might have to do. Even in the planning stage he’d had reservations about that, but Ka’ed had talked him round. Now that the climax was approaching the implications bore on him in a frightening way. It was one thing to take part in an operation where a few people might be killed. That was part of the price for an independent Palestine. But to kill and maim hundreds of thousands? That would be something with which he could not live afterwards. It would be better to die with them than to live. In the few minutes since he’d left the call-box he’d made his decision. He would elect to stay if that were going to be necessary. There would be no lots.

He collected the Volvo in Whitcomb Street, drove it down to the exit barrier, paid the parking fee, bade the attendant ‘goodnight’, got an answering ‘it’s morning, man’, and accelerated out through a curtain of rain. At
Panton Street he turned left into the Haymarket, travelled down it to Orange Street where he went left again and travelled east along it. His destination was the National Car Park in Drury Lane, one within easy walking distance of Spender Street.

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. There 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.’