Ultimatum (9 page)

‘Has Zeid put on the settings?’

‘Yes. I’ll show you when you take over. We can only pre-detonate. There’s no time-setting yet. He’ll fix that later.’

‘Want me to take over now?’

‘When did you last sleep, Ahmad?’

‘This afternoon. Four hours.’

‘That’s good.’ Frankel looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten past ten. Relieve me at midnight. There’s a portable phone-line between the driving-cab and the bedroom. We can be in touch at any time. Got your gun?’

Daab opened the duffel coat and pulled aside his jacket.
Frankel saw the Vzorgi nestling in the shoulder-holster.

Daab said, ‘What’s the drill for a pee on watch?’

‘There’s a bucket under the garage workbench.’

‘Okay.’ Daab grinned. ‘You think of everything.’ He lumbered up the stairs.

Frankel went back to the garage.

The day after the Bedford van collected the bale of carpets from the Millwall Dock, a dark clean-shaven man wearing sun glasses, raincoat and silk scarf, called at the Avis desk in Heathrow’s Terminal 2. After a brief discussion he completed forms for renting a Volvo 244 Automatic, provisionally reserved by phone from Paris a few days earlier.

The business was quickly done and with a minimum of fuss. He would, he said, require the car for a week or ten days. The Avis girl asked if he wanted full collision damage waiver at extra cost. He said he did, adding, ‘I do not expect collisions, mam’selle, but here it is not like France. You drive on the wrong side of the road. This makes for us problems.’

She laughed. ‘We think you drive on the wrong side in France.’

He produced his French driving licence and passport, signed the rental forms and paid the deposit.

The girl explained that the Avis courtesy car would take him across to the depot where the Volvo would be waiting. He thanked her for her help.

When he’d gone she said to the girl with her, ‘Quite a dish! Wouldn’t mind what side he drove with me.’

‘It’s the accent, love. Makes you all goosey. What’s his name?’

‘Simon something or other.’ She looked at the form on her desk. ‘Simon Charrier.’

‘Sounds familiar. Pop star?’

‘Could be. Never heard of him.’

It was a cold grey day, wet and windy, London at its worst, and the man and woman in the first-floor office at 56
Spender Street, kept as close as they could to the electric fire.

‘It’s a bloody climate.’ Through the venetian blinds the man was watching the street where the light was already failing.

The young woman nodded gloomily. ‘Terrible, Shalom. What wouldn’t I give to be back in Tel Aviv.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Three-twenty-seven. Zol takes over at five. Can’t wait for it.’

She moved her chair closer to the window, concentrating on the premises on the opposite side of the street. ‘I hope our Mocal friends feel the cold.’

‘Must do,’ growled the burly man. ‘We differ politically but we come from the same climate.’ He went over to the table where the two Grundigs stood. The tape-wheels of one were turning. ‘Number two’s almost ready for changing. Zol can play it back as soon as we’ve left. Maybe the last two hours will throw some light on what we heard this morning.’

She remained at the window, leaning forward in her chair, chin in hand, opera glasses on her lap. ‘It’s so
frustrating
. Cryptic references to “goods” … new names and things we can’t place. Something’s happening. We don’t know what or where.’

‘At least it’s happening. It’s taken us time to sort out “Zeid”. Now we’ve seen him several times, photographed him. We know he’s a Palestinian.’

‘We don’t even know his surname. What’s it help to know he’s Zeid?’

‘A lot. Zeid and “the goods” are just about synonymous. They seldom mention one without the other. Be patient, Ruth.’

She yawned, stretching her arms. ‘At this rate they’ll have blown up the Embassy before we can do anything about it.’

‘We’ll hear something worth while before that. We’re bound to. Law of averages.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Wish I could be so sure.
Where
are “the goods”?
What
are they? Who’s Rudi …
and the other guy? What’s his name? Ahmad? What’s all that talk about posting Christmas cards?’

‘You know what I feel about that – I keep telling you. “The goods” must be explosives. If they’re really out to smash up the Embassy it means a car-bomb in Palace Green. A big one. That could mean a hundred pounds of explosives, or maybe a bazooka. Who knows?’

‘I suppose you’re right. And the Christmas cards, Shalom. They’re Moslems.’

‘Not all of them. Hanna and Zeid aren’t. But they could be code-words for letter bombs. Anybody’s guess.’ He became suddenly irritable. ‘Don’t ask me.’ He beat his chest with both hands. She recognized the symptoms. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he repeated. ‘They’re playing security. Talking shorthand.’

‘Think they know they’re bugged?’

He shook his head. ‘Definitely not. It’s their training.’

‘How can you say definitely?’

‘Because Hanna and Ibrahim wouldn’t come back there at night and make love. Not if they thought the place was bugged.’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘They’re in love. Why should they be ashamed to make it. It’s not unnatural.’

‘Would you like to make love and talk about it in a room bugged by Palestinians?’

‘Might be fun.’ She was flippant. ‘And anyway the listeners wouldn’t be able to see. Who knows if …’ She broke off, leant towards the window. ‘Look! Look!’

‘What?’ He went to the window, knelt beside her chair. On the coffee table next to it there was an Asahi Pentax with a telephoto lens, and a pair of binoculars.

A tangerine Volvo had stopped outside the premises opposite, notwithstanding the double yellow lines which ran the whole length of the narrow thoroughfare. Leaving the engine running, the driver jumped out, ran across to 39, rapped on the windows, got back into the car. A man and woman came out. She thrust the shopping bag she was
carrying through the Volvo’s open near-side front window. After that she and the man chatted to the driver and walked round the car, apparently admiring it.

Ascher aimed the Asahi Pentax, clicked the shutter, pulled the rapid wind lever, and clicked again. He did this several times, hoping there was enough light. ‘Got the registration number, Ruth?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And the make – Volvo 244. Tangerine sedan.’

‘Zeid’s the driver,’ said Ascher. ‘Wearing his silk scarf as usual. Hanna put a shopping bag in the front seat. Not much in it. Now they’re admiring the car.’ He put down the camera and picked up the binoculars. ‘She looks tired.’

‘Must have been last night. It was a Marks and Spencer bag.’

‘You’ve a nasty mind, Ruth. It was light. She flicked it in with her wrist.’

‘Not nasty. Just realistic. Yes, I agree. Nothing heavy in it.’

The man and the woman on the pavement were waving and laughing.

‘Zeid’s off,’ said Ruth. ‘If it was a film we’d follow.’

‘Yes. With a car dropped by helicopter into Spender Street. Slap on his tail. Laser beams at the ready.’

‘Wouldn’t that be great. The Volvo’s an automatic,’ she said. ‘He never took his hands off the wheel.’

‘Right. Get on to the Embassy. Check that registration number.’

Ruth Meyer picked up the phone, dialled the Israeli Embassy.

The man and the girl outside 39 stood talking for some moments before going back into the premises.

Normally Zeid was a fast driver but he took no chances with the Volvo. On the contrary he observed speed limits
scrupulously
, driving in a manner which would have earned the approbation of the Police Driving School at Hendon.

He crossed the Thames by Putney Bridge, threaded his way gingerly down the High Street and up Putney Hill to the junction with the A3. The drizzle became more opaque as he reached the Kingston by-pass and he switched on the Volvo’s lights.

There was a good deal of traffic but for most of the time he stayed in the slow lane. He could not afford an accident. At the
Marquis
of
Granby
he turned left following the
Portsmouth
Road into Esher. Opposite
The
Bear
he picked up the A244 and went on through Hersham towards Weybridge. Leaving Walton-on-Thames, he switched to the A3050 and drove down into Weybridge. He parked the Volvo near
The
Ship
,
put on leather gloves, raincoat and trilby, took the shopping bag from the front seat and locked the car.

He walked down the High Street to the letter-boxes outside the post office. From the shopping bag he took five large envelopes of the sort used by solicitors for legal
documents
. Having examined the addresses and checked the stamps, he posted them. On his way back to the Volvo he screwed the shopping bag into a ball and put it in a refuse basket.

It took him the best part of an hour to get back to the West End. He travelled down Piccadilly towards Leicester Square, turned into Whitcomb Street and left the Volvo in the car park at its lower end. Walking towards the
Haymarket
he looked at his watch. ‘Eight minutes to six, Saturday, the sixth of November,’ he muttered, his mind full of many things.

It was a cold night and rain fell indiscriminately on the never-ending streams of traffic and people. Zeid turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the trilby and made for the Piccadilly tube station.

At the top of the Haymarket he had to wait at the traffic lights. Worried and fearful at first, he slowly relaxed, his emotions heightened by the scene: the abstract patterns of light reflected on wet streets; the subdued roar of traffic; the squelching hiss of tyres; the glistening raincoats and umbrellas; and overall the insidious odour of exhaust fumes.
All this activity, he reflected, might be brought to an end within the next few days, and the people pushing and thrusting round him hadn’t a clue that he was the man who might do it. To them he was just another Londoner in a raincoat with pulled-down trilby and dark glasses.

Filled with a sudden euphoria, a feeling of supreme power, his emotions fed on themselves until all fear had gone. Now he saw himself as a man of destiny, holding in his hands not only the life of a great city, but the future of all his people.

The crossing lights went green. His mood had made him careless and he bumped into someone crossing from the opposite side. The woman he’d nearly knocked down let out a startled, ‘Christ!’

Before Zeid could apologize, the man with her said, ‘You stupid twit! Why don’t you look where you’re going.’

The morning’s mail on Monday, November 8th, brought identical envelopes with identical contents to the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, to the United States Ambassador in the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, to the Director-General of the BBC in Langham Place, to the Editor of
The
Times
in Grays Inn Road, and to the Editor of the
Daily
Express
in Fleet Street.

In each instance the envelopes were opened and the contents read and examined by private secretaries. In the case of the Prime Minister and the US Ambassador the envelopes had, as a matter of routine, been security checked for strip explosives before opening. Within the hour all five addressees had either read the document or had it read to them on scrambler phones. The Prime Minister was
finishing
a late breakfast at Chequers when his principal private secretary, Andrew Lanyard, telephoned the contents to him.

‘I’ll be at Number Ten in less than an hour,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘It may be a hoax. But inform DGSS and McGann personally – repeat personally – at once. Not a minute is to be lost. Have copies ready for them. And see that a D-notice is put on it without delay.’

‘Right, Prime Minister. That will be done.’

DGSS (the Director-General of the Security Services) was the shadowy background figure who headed Britain’s intelligence services. He was never referred to by name and few people were aware of his identity. Dugald McGann was the Assistant-Commissioner in charge of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.

The Prime Minister was in his office in Downing Street
soon after ten o’clock. Having gone through the motions of lighting a pipe, he considered the document a pale and agitated Andrew Lanyard laid before him. Immaculately IBM-typed on legal folios, it bore no indication of origin, no heading other than the single word ULTIMATUM. For these reasons the Prime Minister turned to the last page before reading it. It had been signed in black ink with a felt-tipped pen, ‘Mahmoud el Ka’ed.’ Beneath the strong, aggressive flourish appeared the name in type, beneath that the words ‘Soukour-al-Sahra’.

The Prime Minister frowned. ‘Where was it posted?’

‘In Weybridge. At the High Street post office. On
Saturday
evening.’

‘Weybridge. H’m.’ The Prime Minister fussed with a dead pipe, gave it up as a bad job, laid it on the ashtray. ‘Interesting. Have DGSS and McGann seen it?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister. They have copies. Both of the
document
and the photos.’

The Prime Minister’s calm struck Lanyard as altogether too monumental. He doubted it if would endure through the document. It was one thing to have it read to you over the phone, quite another to see it in black and white.

‘I suppose I’d better read it, Lanyard.’ The Prime Minister spoke with resignation, turned to the front page and leant forward in his chair, his mind concentrated:

The Prime Minister noted that, but for the ink-written date in the first paragraph, the document was undated. He put it down, leant back in his chair. ‘Now, let me see those photographs, Lanyard.’

Lanyard, tight-lipped, visibly shaken, handed them over. The Prime Minister shuffled through the photos, puffed at his pipe, then sat deep in thought for some time. ‘Think it’s a hoax?’

‘Emphatically not, Prime Minister. DGSS was on the phone ten minutes ago. He’s already checked with the CRS and the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire in Paris – also with the French Ministry of Defence. Lassagne, the Ministry’s nuclear weapons boss, has checked with
Aerospatiale
. The device in these photos is the Pluton warhead missing after the alleged Israeli commando raid on Beirut Port on October fifth/sixth.’

‘So the Israeli denial
was
genuine.’

‘It seems so, Prime Minister. DGSS believes the raid was carried out by Ka’ed’s SAS. So does Anton Girard of the DST.’

‘Is that belief well-founded?’

‘Yes. McGann goes along with it too.’

‘Couldn’t the photos have been taken while the warhead and detonator were in the hands of Aerospatiale?’

Lanyard shook his head, playing his trump card with a certain boyish satisfaction, just as McGann had to him not long before. ‘I think this answers your question, Prime
Minister.’ He handed over the last photograph. It showed the Pluton lying on a trestle in what looked like a crude workshop. At the top of the photograph, hands held an open newspaper, the tip of the warhead’s nose-cone piercing it. The name of the paper and date of publication could be seen quite clearly:
Al
Hayat,
October
7th,
1975.

‘That’s the Arabic language daily published in Beirut,’ explained Lanyard.

‘I know.’ The Prime Minister continued to examine the photograph. ‘Let us say it provides fairly conclusive evidence that these people had the warhead in Beirut the day after the raid on the Port. But what evidence is there that it is now in London? Presumably it’s fairly large and heavy. How did they transport it from Beirut to an ‘important area of London’? It may still be in Beirut.’