Ultimatum (18 page)

The black van backed out of the garage at the end of Pimsvale Lane, turned and travelled up to the intersection with Kiddey Road where it stopped before moving off in a westerly direction. It was a wet, windy morning and Rudi Frankel drove with exceptional care, yet not so slowly as to inconvenience other traffic or draw attention to the van. Ahmad Daab sat next to him. They seldom spoke and then only in low voices as if afraid that, notwithstanding the noise of the engine and traffic, they might be overheard. Both were frightened, worried men. This was the most dangerous phase of a dangerous operation and slippery streets did nothing to comfort them. They would have been even more frightened and worried if Barakat had not come to the garage at nine o’clock that morning and disconnected the wires which led to the plastic switchboard. He’d taped their ends and pushed them back under the bale’s ‘contents’ label, the loose end of which he’d stitched back into place. He’d disconnected the switch because the risk of accidental detonation was unacceptably high if the van were in collision or had turned over.

Now, with its dangerous cargo made relatively safe, it travelled down through the Lewisham Road and
Greenwich
High Road to the approaches to the Blackwall Tunnel. It dropped down into the tunnel and emerged on the north side of the river less than twenty minutes after leaving Pimsvale Lane. Once clear of the tunnel, Rudi turned left and hugged the Thames almost to Limehouse Pier where he veered right up West India Dock Road. As the van
approached
the busy intersection with the East India Dock Road the traffic lights went red and he pulled up in the nearside lane, ready for the turn to the left. The traffic was
heavy and soon built up behind as he waited for the lights to change.

The amber came, then green. He let out the clutch, the van moved forward and shuddered to a stop as the engine stalled. He pressed the starter several times but there was no response.

‘Christ,’ said Daab. ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Sounds like ignition.’ Rudi’s voice was hoarse. He jabbed at the starter again. The engine spluttered into life and the van moved forward in a series of jerks before the engine died again, leaving the van straddled across the intersection. In desperation Rudi kept using the starter but without success. The traffic behind began to hoot.

‘Name of Allah,’ cried Daab. ‘It had to happen now. Can’t you do something?’

‘Shut up. I’m doing my best.’

The hooting increased. Frankel climbed down from the driver’s seat and opened the bonnet. The rain came in wet sheets, and rivulets trickled down his neck. He checked the distributor and plugs and at last found the trouble. He turned to Daab. ‘Go and phone the call-box number where Ibrahim is waiting. Tell him what’s happened. It’s a burnt coil. We’ll have to get garage help.’

Daab turned up the collar of his jacket. ‘Okay. I’ll do that. They must be worried.’ He jumped down into the road. His nerves were jangling and he was glad to get away from the van in spite of the rain.

A truck driver came up. ‘What’s the trouble, mate?’ The noise of electric horns drowned Frankel’s, ‘Coil’s had it.’

A traffic policeman in oilskins arrived on a motorcycle. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted above the noise of his engine.

‘Coil’s burnt out,’ Frankel shouted back. ‘Can’t move.’

The policeman parked his motorcycle at the kerb and walked back to the van. Frankel got down from the driver’s seat. He explained what had happened. The policeman was sympathetic. ‘Can’t leave her on this intersection. Holding up too much traffic. Get back in,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask the bloke in the truck behind to shove you round the corner into Gill
Street. It’ll be all right there.’ He went back to the truck, spoke to the driver and returned to the Bedford. ‘Release the brakes. Put her in neutral,’ he said to Frankel. ‘Keep slight pressure on the brake pedal when the truck starts pushing.’

Frankel said, ‘Okay,’ the policeman waved the truck forward, it bumped the van gently, pushed it clear of the intersection and round the corner into Gill Street. Frankel waved a hand to the driver as the truck backed clear and continued on down Gill Street.

The policeman stopped his motorcycle alongside the Bedford. Trickles of rainwater ran down his face. ‘You’ll be okay there,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a breakdown truck along to you.’ He spoke into his radio telephone and Frankel heard the answering voice. There was a brief exchange. The policeman said, ‘They’ll send help. I’ve told them it’s a coil. May take time.’ Something, the look of dismay on Frankel’s face, his air of shaky apprehension, may have aroused the policeman’s suspicions. ‘What’ve you got in there, mate?’

‘Bale of carpets,’ said Frankel, hoping the fear he felt so profoundly wasn’t apparent.

The policeman hauled the motorcycle on to its stand, took off his gauntlets and walked round to the back of the van. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’

Frankel unlocked the doors. He was praying the shakiness of his hands wouldn’t be noticed.

The policeman peered into the van, climbed in and examined the hessian-wrapped bale. Near the ‘contents’ label there was a small tear. He pulled at it until the edges of the carpets were exposed. He poked at them for a moment before gettng out of the van. ‘What are you going to do with that lot?’

‘Deliver it to the consignees.’

‘Got any documents?’

Frankel felt in the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Yes,’ he said, and produced copies of the bill of lading, the invoice and delivery note.

The policeman examined them. ‘Where did you pick up the bale?’

‘Millwall Docks. Came in by ship from Athens.’

The policeman looked at him for a moment before handing back the documents. ‘Right,’ he said, taking his motorcycle off its stand and swinging his leg across the saddle. ‘Better watch that engine or you’ll land in real trouble.’

Frankel mumbled a dutiful, ‘Yes. Thanks a lot.’

The policeman kick-started the engine into life and rode slowly away up Gill Street.

Frankel was trembling as he watched the motorcycle go out of sight. He was wet through and his long black hair hung in dank locks. He didn’t know what to do. Zeid had given instructions that the van was not to be left unattended, but Daab had no means of knowing it was now in Gill Street and would be hunting for it. Frankel hesitated for a few minutes, hoping that his companion might look down Gill Street. But he didn’t, so Frankel walked up to the top of the road and found him waiting in the rain at the
intersection
where the van had stalled. ‘Where the hell have you been, Ahmad?’ he asked.

‘Phoning. Where’s the van?’ Daab’s eyes were wide with anxiety.

Frankel jerked his head in the direction of Gill Street. ‘Down there. A lorry gave me a shove. The policeman radioed for a breakdown truck. They’ll bring a coil. Let’s get back to the van.’ Drenched by the rain, they set off down the road. Frankel said, ‘Did you give the message to Ibrahim?’

Daab shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rudi. I lost the slip of paper with the number. I thought I knew it, but it was wrong. No one answered. Then I tried a few combinations and some people answered, but it wasn’t the call-box.’

Frankel stopped walking. ‘You fool, Ahmad. You stupid fool. How could you do such a thing?’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But I did. I’ve been through my pockets a dozen times.’

‘Wait till Zeid hears.’ Frankel stared at him.

Daab said, ‘Look. There’s still plenty of time. We’ll be late, but what odds does that make as long as we deliver in normal working hours.’

‘You tell that to Zeid,’ said Frankel. ‘Come on. We can’t hang around in the rain.’

They got back to the van, sat hunched and miserable in the driving cab, arguing fruitlessly about what they should do. It was a hopeless situation. There was no phone in the Mocal premises and Daab had lost the number of the
call-box
where Ibrahim Souref was waiting for just such an emergency. Zeid would not only be worried but extremely angry. Frankel considered sending Daab on by taxi, but the breakdown van might arrive at any moment and Zeid’s strict instructions were that they were to stay with the van at all times.

So they waited, becoming more and more agitated as time went on. At ten minutes past two the breakdown truck arrived. The mechanic soon changed the coil and at 2.25 pm Frankel and Daab got back into the van and resumed their journey to Spender Street.

The taxi travelled down the Strand, turned into Bedford Street and made for Covent Garden, its squelching tyres throwing up spurts of water as it went. The driver drew up at the kerb in King Street, Ruth Meyer got out, paid the fare, turned up the collar of her raincoat, adjusted her headscarf, and made for Spender Street.

As she walked she was obsessed with the thought which had been with her throughout the flight from Tel Aviv. When the 747 touched down at Heathrow at 11.27, jets roaring in reverse thrust, tired stewardesses adjusting hats and scarves, she was worrying about it; and later, as she travelled into London in the British Airways bus, it was nagging at her; as it was in the taxi from West London Air Terminal to Charing Cross Station where she handed in her travel-bag at the left-luggage counter …
had
the
delivery
at
noon
been
to
Spender
Street?
Had Ascher and his men – alerted
by Jakob Kahn’s urgent message to Palace Green – seen it? How had it been done? By whom? And what did the thing look like? If Ascher & Co hadn’t seen it, then Jakob’s no more than
possible
rating of Spender Street as the delivery point was right. And if it wasn’t Spender Street how on earth would they find out where it was in the less than twenty-four hours left to them?

As she rounded the first bend in Spender Street and approached Number 56, she looked across the street to 39. All seemed normal there, the rain beating down against the dark green glass of the window front, distorting the
gold-leafed
letters,
MIDDLE ORIENT CONSOLIDATED AGENCIES
LTD
. She wondered what was going on inside. In her mind’s eye she could see the sinister steel cone of a nuclear warhead, the Palestinians sitting round it trying to look unconcerned. But no, it would be concealed – under a stack of carpets maybe.

These thoughts were interrupted by her arrival at the entrance to 56. She turned into it, went quickly up the stairs to the first floor and stopped outside the door with its sign
Ascher
&
Levi,
Music
Agents.
She knocked, heard
footsteps
and knew she was being examined through the spy-hole. The door opened and Ascher was there, a broad smile on his bearded face, and she wanted to throw her arms round him and say, ‘Oh, Shalom, how marvellous to see you,’ but she knew that wasn’t for her so she said, ‘Hi, Shalom,’ and he said, ‘Hi, Ruth,’ and she went in and he shut the door behind her.

Micky Kagan, listening at the working Grundig with an earphone, sitting near the window watching Mocal’s premises, turned his head and waved. She made no move to take off her dripping raincoat. She had to find out first. ‘Was it delivered at noon, Shalom?’ Her voice trembled.

‘No. It wasn’t.’

She was confused, disappointed and worried, though she’d half expected this. She took off her raincoat, hung it on the peg near the door, undid the wet headscarf and fussed with her hair. ‘Hasn’t anything happened since I left yesterday?’

‘Yes. The British Prime Minister will speak to the Nation at 10 pm tonight. Most of the media, public opinion, are pushing for acceptance of the ultimatum. I expect he will. He’s an appeaser.’

‘God. You sound so calm, Shalom. That’s terrible. Don’t you realize what’s happening?’

‘I do,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s why we’re going to find the nuke. By the way,’ he added, ‘we had an interesting visit while you were away.’ His expression was blank.

‘What was that?’ She was still thinking of what he’d said before that. She didn’t understand what was in his mind.

‘Two policemen and our landlord.’

‘So. For what?’

‘Looking for it. Nice guys. Apologized for disturbing us. Said they had to search. Explained warrants were
unnecessary
where explosives were concerned. They had a good look round. Asked was it just these two offices we rented. The landlord said yes. So did we. They wanted to know about our business. We explained. Mostly pop. Showed them the catalogues, the stock of cassettes, the LP and single sleeves, the recorders – we’d switched off, of course, and taken out the bugging tapes when we heard the knock. One guy wanted to know if we had any Burt Bacharach numbers. So we put
Don’t
Go
Breaking
My
Heart
on the hi-fi and he said his girl was doing just that to him, and his chum said it was a great number but they had to go. We switched off and they asked had we seen anything suspicious around this locality and we said no we hadn’t and they thanked us and pushed off.’

‘Anything else?’ She thought Shalom looked tired and didn’t know he was thinking the same about her.

‘Yes,’ he said. Quite irrelevantly he was wondering about Johnnie Peters and experiencing pangs of jealousy. Maybe she’d be seeing him tonight. ‘When they left here they crossed the street. Went into Mocal’s. Spent quite a time there. Came out with Hanna and Zeid. Laughing and joking. Parted from them on the best of terms.’

Her eyes were wide. ‘I wonder if that’s why the delivery
was brought forward. Because the premises had been searched.’ She hesitated, her eyes searching his. ‘What on earth are we going to do, Shalom. For God’s sake, tell me.’ She was pale and very earnest.

‘About what?’

‘The nuke, of course. They haven’t delivered it to Spender Street. Where is it?’

‘I don’t know. But I’ll tell you something in a minute. First brief us on your Tel Aviv jaunt. Quickly. There isn’t much time.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’ She held her hands to her ears.

‘Like some coffee?’