Ultimatum (22 page)

The Commissioner said, ‘I’ll see to that right away.’

The scientist with burn scars said, ‘The defect in the valve has been made good, General.’

‘Splendid. Your people know they must get involved with the digging party, don’t they? Must appear to belong to them.’

‘Yes. They’re briefed on that. And dressed for it.’

‘What about the transfer of equipment? Any snags?’

‘None that we haven’t foreseen, I hope. The dig is on the Mocal side. A little bit up the street. Say twenty feet.’ The scientist’s pencil hovered over the blown-up photo of Spender Street. ‘The van with the equipment will park further up on the same side. When the dig is under way, they’ll take equipment in through this lane.’ The point of the pencil touched it. ‘From there, through the back into Thirty-Seven.’

The General said, ‘Good. They’ll be out of sight of anyone in Mocal?’

‘Yes,’ said the scientist.

‘Three o’clock.’ The General looked at the operations clock. ‘Five minutes to go.’

It was two minutes past three in the morning when Barakat rounded the corner into Spender Street and saw the traffic diversion signs at the foot of the street, beyond them water tumbling down the gutter and disappearing into a drain.

Late and worried he paid little attention to the two men working on the flicker-lamps, until one of them stepped on to the pavement. Barakat saw the revolver and with
disbelief
heard the words, ‘Put your hands up.’

He did. The second man frisked him, found the handgun in the shoulder-holster and whipped it out.

‘He’s clean now,’ he said, holding a mike in front of Barakat as if interviewing him.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the first man, poking the revolver into Barakat’s stomach and pulling the silk scarf from his neck.

‘Simon Charrier.’

‘Address?’

‘Seventy-three Rupert Street. Off the Bayswater Road.’

‘Why are you armed?’

‘For protection.’

‘Against what?’

‘I’m a stranger. This is a big city.’

‘What is your nationality?’

‘French.’

‘Where do you live?’ The man pressed the revolver more firmly into Barakat’s stomach.

‘In Paris.’

‘Is it normal for Frenchmen visiting London to carry handguns in shoulder-holsters?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where did you get that neck scar?’

‘Car accident.’

The frisker took away the mike and spoke into it. ‘Is it him?’

‘Yes,’ came Ascher’s disembodied reply. ‘That’s his voice.’

The man who held the revolver said, ‘Zeid Barakat, you’d better come along with me.’

At seven minutes past three, two Thames Water Authority maintenance vans towing air compressors came up Spender Street from its southern end, rounded the first bend of its ‘S’, and parked outside the adjoining premises of numbers 35 and 37.

Workmen climbed out, erected traffic barriers, signs and lights, unloaded airlines, jack-hammers, axes, forks, shovels and crowbars. The foreman drew chalk lines on the road surface to indicate the limits of the trench to be dug. It was to run parallel to the water-filled gutter, and to extend from number 35, down the road to number 41.

While they got ready for their task they talked, laughed and shouted to each other. An observer would have concluded from the unhurried but deliberate way they set about things that this was something they’d done many times before.

The compressor trolleys were uncoupled and manhandled into position. Their diesel engines were started up, airlines connected, and workmen began to break up the hard surface of the street with pneumatic jack-hammers. As they moved forward they were followed by men with forks and shovels who cleared the loose rubble. The excavation of the trench had begun.

The boom of the compressors was soon lost in the
deafening
clatter of the jack-hammers. It was fortunate that Spender Street was not a residential one, for heads might otherwise have hurled abuse from upper windows.

While some worked on the trench, others, dressed as
workmen
, stood watching, waiting for tasks yet to come or moving
between the burgeoning excavation and the maintenance vehicles. Among these were two nuclear weapons scientists from Aldermaston, two bomb disposal experts from
Aldershot
, three Special Branch men and a technician from the Metropolitan Gas Board.

A service lane ran in from Spender Street between numbers 35 and 37, its entrance opposite the thirty feet or so of space left between the parked vans. From time to time a workman walking between them with equipment would slip into the lane and become lost in the darkness at its far end. There he would enter 37 through a side door. It had been forced by the Special Branch soon after the vans arrived.

In this way the Gas Board technician and the Special Branch men had by 3.25 am assembled with their
equipment
in number 37 which shared a wall with 39. They were joined soon afterwards by Ascher, Levi, Chief Superintendent McFagan and Herbert Joliffe, the scientist from Porton Down. They arrived singly, entering Spender Street at its northern end which they’d reached by means of a detour from Tanswill Lane. With their arrival the Ground Force was complete. Its equipment included gas cylinders, coils of plastic piping, electric drills, anti-gas respirators, a radio receiver tuned to the frequency of the bugs in 39, and a mike and earphone connected by long leads to the R/T set in the nearer of the two maintenance vans. This made it possible for those in 37 to talk direct to all Whisky Bravo stations.

For the main part the members of the Ground Force worked in silence as they made ready their equipment but when they did speak they had to raise their voices to make themselves heard above the din outside.

Hamadeh said, ‘Zeid won’t risk coming now. Not with all this business going on.’

Souref nodded. ‘You’re right. Too risky. Someone coming into business premises at three o’clock in the morning.’

‘Three-fifteen,’ said Hanna. ‘They would have to choose
this
morning.’

‘You can’t choose when water mains burst, Hanna.’

‘You know what I mean, Najib.’

In the street the deafening noise of the jack-hammers rose and fell from one crescendo to another, the occasional intervals of their silence filled with the thump and roar of the compressors.

Three of the Palestinians had moved into the stockroom to get away from the worst of the noise, but they kept the door half open so that they could see into the outer office where Daab sat at a desk near the big bale of carpets, the plastic switchboard at his elbow.

Souref was sitting on a pile of rugs peeling an apple. ‘We have to …’ He paused.

‘We have to what?’ interrupted Hamadeh.

‘We have to admit they’re prompt. I mean they lost no time in getting here.’

‘How do we know?’ Hamadeh worried at his side-burns. His nerves were frayed and his tone was challenging. ‘That mains could have burst long ago. We wouldn’t have known about it if the police car hadn’t come. The water could have been running all night.’

‘Have it your own way.’ Souref adjusted the
shoulder-holster
strap which was chafing his armpit, and yawned. He turned to the girl on the rug beside him. ‘Are you all right, Hanna?’

‘No. I’m not.’ She made a face. ‘This room is terribly stuffy and I’m allergic to rugs next to my face. And that terrible noise … it’s impossible.’ The frustration in her voice gave way to pleading. ‘Tell me, Ibrahim. What d’you think can have happened to Zeid. I’m frightened. I can’t bear to think of the hours ahead.’

He stroked her cheek, looked into her troubled eyes. ‘Don’t worry. All will be well. They are going to accept. We shan’t have to use it.’

‘And if they don’t?’

He could see in the dim red light how frightened she was
but hadn’t the heart to deceive her. ‘If they don’t – well – you know – we
shall
use it. El Ka’ed has no reservations about that. We are at war, Hanna. This is not a diplomatic exchange. It is a calculated act of war. They know that, too. And they know Ka’ed’s record. He doesn’t bluff. They will accept. If you don’t believe me, think of the US President’s and Brezhnev’s communiqués. There is every reason to accept. But for the loss of face I am certain the British – like the USA – welcome the ultimatum as a means of getting Israel off their backs, settling the Palestine issue and ensuring good oil terms for themselves. How many times must I tell you these things?’

‘I’m sorry, Ibrahim. But Zeid? Where is he?’

‘How should I know. He may have been delayed by the Brussels call. He could have asked Brussels to put a question to Ka’ed for immediate reply. Brussels has to relay the question to Istanbul – then Istanbul to Damascus – Damascus to Beirut. The answer has to come the same way. It can be a long business. And even when it is settled – which it may already have been – Zeid comes back here, sees the activity in the street and has to keep away. There’s always a
reasonable
explanation to these things.’

She put out her hand, touched his face. ‘Thank you, Ibrahim. You are very patient with me. I’m supposed to be tougher than I look. But I sometimes wonder. This is so different from anything we’ve done before. It’s like a bad dream. A very bad dream, when you come to think of it.’

Ahmad Daab called out from the front office, ‘You two keep talking. You’re supposed to be resting. No wonder Hanna’s nervy.’ He sat back again, his ear to the radio receiver, his thoughts confused by the pop music which poured from it, the noises from the street, the difficulty of hearing what his companions were saying, his thoughts about the carpet bale behind him, and the sight of the black switch at his elbow.

‘About there.’ Ascher made a cross with a pencil low
down on the wall which number 37 shared with 39.

‘What’s the height of the shelving?’ asked Joliffe.

‘About two metres. It’s filled with pattern books.’

‘Can you recall seeing any metallic objects along that side of the wall? Plumbing, heaters, anything like that?’

‘No. Nothing like that which I can remember. But I couldn’t see behind the shelving.’

‘You’re certain it’s in there?’ said the Gas Board man.

‘Absolutely. We know from the bug-chat when they brought the bale of carpets in. They couldn’t get it through the door into the stockroom. Too big.’ Ascher ran his hands through his hair. ‘And we’ve heard enough in the last few hours to confirm that it’s in the front office. Right in there with them.’

‘Good. That’s the site for number one inlet, then.’ The Gas Board man put a white chalk mark over Ascher’s pencilled cross.

Joliffe poked tentatively at his steel spectacles. ‘Ideally, the second inlet should be approximately six feet …’

‘Two metres,’ interrupted the Gas Board man staring at the scientist’s bald head.

Joliffe blinked nervously through thick lenses. ‘If you wish. As I was saying … about six feet to the left of the first inlet – that is, towards the centre of the compartment.’

The Gas Board man’s chalk hovered. ‘That’s right, then?’

‘A little lower,’ suggested Joliffe, adding, ‘That’s it.’

‘Any snags at that point on the other side, Ascher?’

‘Not that I know of. Still can’t guarantee the wall behind the shelving to be free of obstacles.’

‘Of course,’ said Joliffe. ‘One understands that.’

‘Best carry out the test before we go any further.’ McFagan pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch, looked at them speculatively, changed his mind and put them away.

The Gas Board man unplugged the lead on the drill and moved to the wall separating the front office from the one at the back. ‘I’ll drill at this point,’ he said, indicating it.

Zol Levi went into the back office, shutting the door
behind him. The Gas Board man drilled the hole through the wall.

Levi came back. ‘Couldn’t hear a thing,’ he said. ‘The jack-hammers win by a ton.’

‘Good.’ Joliffe cleared his throat. ‘I feel we should now make a start, gentlemen.’ It was as if he were inviting them to sit down to the first course.

‘Okay with me.’ said McFagan. ‘How about you, Ascher?’

‘Fine. Let’s go.’

The Gas Board man unplugged the lead and they moved back to the wall which 37 shared with the Mocal premises. He plugged in again, placed the bit on the chalk mark and began drilling while Joliffe and his assistant moved the cylinders and coils of plastic piping into position. Levi was thinking what a weird scene it was: dim red light reflected on men doing strange things while others watched, and outside the ceaseless staccato of jack-hammers. He wondered if those around him suffered as he did from a heart which thumped against its rib-cage, and breath which came unevenly.

The Gas Board man felt the bit break through and released the trigger. He looked to the desk where Ascher was sitting, a hand cupped over the earphone as he listened for indications of disquiet on the far side of the wall.
Evidently
there were none, for the Israeli cocked a thumb in an ‘all’s well’ signal.

Before withdrawing the drill, the Gas Board man slid a steel clip along the bit until it touched the wall. He nodded to Joliffe and the Porton Down boffin took the open end of a plastic pipe which led from a gas cylinder and worked it gently into the freshly-drilled hole. When he judged it to be half-way he stopped, clamped the pipe in position, and sealed the space around it with a malleable compound.

The Gas Board man shifted the drill to the mark for the second inlet and triggered the drill. Shortly before he expected the bit to break through it came up against a hard object. He stopped, withdrew the bit, examined its tip. ‘It’s no good,’ he said to Joliffe. ‘There’s something metallic
on the far side.’ He exchanged the old bit for a new one.

‘Try a foot to the left – and six inches higher,’ suggested Joliffe.

The Gas Board man selected the new position and began drilling. There was no problem this time, the bit soon broke through, and Joliffe fitted the second pipe into the hole. He clamped and sealed it, then checked the pressure gauge readings on the cylinders. ‘We’re ready now.’ He took a stop-watch from his pocket. ‘On respirators, please. Then, as soon as you give the word, I’ll open the valves.’

They were busy putting on respirators when there was a sharp hiss from Ascher and his hand went up in urgent warning.

‘Stop everything.’ He spat the words at them.