‘Yes,’ said Lasserre. ‘Would you like to see the tape?’
‘No,’ said Elleck. ‘I would not. That man is a friend of mine, a very old friend. I cannot believe this.’
‘If you look at the tape, you will believe it. The keeper of the morgue said he had been coming there for ten years. Dead Arab boys. The keeper is paid a large sum to telephone him and let him know whenever they have a new one in.’
‘He must be lying,’ said Elleck.
‘We sent Ephraim a copy of the tape, asked him to come to a meeting at L’Hermitage Hotel in La Baule. He does not know who we are, and we intend to keep it that way. With a man like Ephraim, that is the most sensible. The Mossad is not known for its inefficiency – we do not wish to have a surprise visit from any of Ephraim’s friends in the middle of the night. The report that I have had back from my courier is that Ephraim made no attempt to deny his activities. He is desperate that the news of this hideous perversion does not leak out – it would of course destroy his career, quite apart from putting him in a mental institution, at best, or a jail, at worst, for very many years.’
Elleck shook his head. ‘Ephraim is a friend, a good friend of mine.’
‘You seem to have a lot of friends in high places,’ said Lasserre. ‘You must be very selective.’
‘What do you mean by that, Claude?’ Elleck’s face flushed.
‘You know what I mean, Monty; don’t get on your high horse. You and Jimmy – you both came from nothing. You have made your ways up in the world, you have succeeded; but you have not done this by cultivating the friendships of only those people that you really like. You don’t have the time in life to do that when you are ambitious. No – the friends you have and the friends Jimmy has are only there because they are useful to you.’
‘That is a very arrogant statement,’ said Elleck, almost petulantly.
‘Arrogant, Monty, yes, but true.’
‘And the same doesn’t apply to you?’
‘Of course – if I had friends. I don’t particularly like to have just “friends.” I like to work always; I like to have employees and colleagues. Sure, I become friendly with colleagues – I am friendly with you and friendly with Jimmy – but if we did not do business – would we see each other? I doubt it very much. You do business with Ephraim, do you not? You must do – he must be your source of information on Osirak. If he was not helpful, would you still see him?’
‘He saved my life in Auschwitz in the war.’
‘The war was a long time ago, Monty. If you haven’t paid him back by now, then you probably aren’t going to.’
Elleck went red; he knew he had never paid Ephraim back and, equally, he knew he never would. He’d even ripped him off on the advance information he had on Osirak; he could have given him a cheque for half a million dollars and not felt the pinch, such was the profit he had made on the two Osirak attacks, but it wasn’t in his nature to give a penny away that he didn’t absolutely have to. He remained silent.
Lasserre helped himself to some more brandy, then passed the bottle to Culundis.
‘So if I have got this correct,’ said Elleck, ‘you intend to leak to the world that there is a Libya-Amnah plot to fill the Persian Gulf full of nuclear mines, and leave them there until the Israelis agree to withdraw from Sinai and all other occupied territories?’
Lasserre and Culundis both nodded.
‘You will then instruct General Ephraim that he is to persuade the Government of Israel to launch military offensives against both Libya and Amnah, which you expect will lead to a major international conflict, possibly bringing the world to the brink of war?’
Again the Viscomte and the Greek nodded.
‘And your reason for doing all of this is so that it will push the price of gold, of which, by then, you will have plentiful amounts, up through the roof?’
Further nodding.
‘And my role in this, presumably, is to arrange the buying and the selling of the gold?’
‘I knew you would agree, Monty,’ said Lasserre.
Later that night, Elleck took care to lock his bedroom door after he had entered it; a short while after he had climbed into bed and switched off the light, there was a soft knocking on the door. He wondered whether it was Nicole or Culundis, and debated whether to open it or not. He didn’t want to miss out on a night with the gorgeous French girl, but on the other hand he didn’t fancy putting up another fight against the Greek’s advances. The gentle knocking came again, and Elleck decided it was definitely a female’s knock. He knew also, because he was a gambling man, that he must open that door. He went over to it. ‘Who is it?’ he whispered loudly. The reply was further soft knocking. Terrified of being overheard by his host down the corridor, he opened up the door. Two arms hugged him around the chest, and pushed him backwards inside the door.
‘Oh, you wonderful, beautiful creature, I knew you would be waiting for me.’
Elleck pushed with all his might to try and stop the slow, steady, propulsion of himself, by the Greek, towards the massive bed.
16
General Ephraim had sat at his desk for a long time on the morning of the Monday that Elleck, Lasserre and Culundis had met, staring down through the smoked glass windows at the bustle of the traffic. There were three piles on his desk: a pile of memorandums, a pile of letters and a pile of sealed despatches, and they all remained untouched. He pulled open a drawer in the desk, pulled out a piece of chewing gum, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth.
He thought over and over about the Frenchman he had met in the bar of L’Hermitage Hotel in La Baule. It was a massive hotel, fronting onto a beach which was part of a vast south west-facing bay. The tide was out, and the stranger suggested a walk along the sand. There, among the stench of putrid fish and damp seaweed, stepping across a million empty clam shells and past the occasional carcass of a crab, the Frenchman had dictated his instructions to him. He hadn’t liked the Frenchman, in his fashionable pastel trousers and thin, open jacket, when they had first met, and he liked him even less during the next hour.
‘You are to return to Israel, and wait until you receive your intelligence report from Amnah concerning the arrival into the country of the nuclear mines, and the subsequent reports you will receive concerning the threat to use these mines by Amnah and Libya to extort the withdrawal from certain occupied territories by Israel.
‘You will also learn that these are not the only requests that will be made – merely the first, for the Libyans will know that they have got you over a barrel, and you will have no choice but to give in to all and every demand they make. With that information to hand,’ said the Frenchman, who had introduced himself as Arnauld Bauté, ‘your Government could not possibly treat your recommendations of immediate invasion with anything other than full support. It would be a different matter, indeed, if the mines were already in place, for then there would be a danger of them being detonated, which would cause havoc, and for which Israel would be blamed. But the advance intelligence you will receive will tell you that you have probably a few days before these mines will be despatched out in the dhows – all the more reason to act!’
‘Are the mines really going to be there?’ said Ephraim.
‘But sure they are; put there by my people.’
‘And who are your people?’
‘We are called the “Executioners of Mohammed”. We are funded by the PLO.’
‘I’ve never heard of your organization,’ said Ephraim.
‘You will hear of it soon. The whole world will hear of it soon. Very soon.’
It was an overcast day but although it was quite hot, and the schools were now on holiday for the summer, there were not many people on the beach. Ephraim stared ahead at the miles of wet sand, to the left at the battery of white hotels and apartment buildings, most in need of a lick of paint, which trailed off into the horizon, and then to the right, at the breaking waves and, beyond them, the calm, still sea. Somewhere, two and a half thousan
d miles beyond that horizon was America. It was strange, felt Ephraim, walking out here, in this vast open space, and feeling as trapped as if he had been crammed into a cupboard.
After they had parted, Ephraim had driven straight to Paris and, to his relief, Chaim Weisz, the Chief of Israeli Intelligence Operations in France, was at home. By midnight on the Saturday, he knew for sure that there was no such organization as the ‘Executioners of Mohammed’. He also knew that Arnauld Bauté’s real name was Jean-Luc Menton, and that he lived in an apartment overlooking the old German U-boat pens at St Nazaire. The information on Bauté he had been able to acquire through his foresight in not going to La Baule without someone to cover him.
He was so deep in thought, he did not notice his coffee being brought in, placed on his desk, and his secretary leaving again. His mind was on one thing and one thing only: finding out who the hell was behind all this, and breaking them apart with his bare hands. He had filing cabinets stuffed full with dossiers on terrorist organizations, but he didn’t need to open them: he could reel off pretty well every terrorist organization in the world from the top of his head by memory. He was going through them now, one by one, thinking about the way they operated, the people they used, trying to think whether the events so far matched any of their normal styles of operating. It was a difficult task; so many were unpredictable, and liable to chop and change. Menton, he knew, was his best hope. France had him under twenty-four-hour surveillance, and when offices started up for the week, at about 9.00 – an hour-and-a-half’s time, Israeli time – a full search to discover everything there was to discover about Monsieur Bauté, né Menton, and his mystery employers, would be under way.
Ephraim chewed the gum thoughtfully and slowly, then removed the ball from his mouth, held it between his index finger and thumb, drank a mouthful of coffee, swallowed it, then replaced the gum in his mouth. On Friday, the nuclear mines were due to start arriving in Umm Al Amnah; by the middle of the following week the shipment would be complete. By then, he would have made his reports, and his recommendations; if he went along with what he had been instructed to do, the invasion of Umm Al Amnah and Libya should commence approximately two weeks from today.
In many ways, he would dearly have loved the opportunity to invade Libya. That country had been a thorn in Israel’s side for many years. He believed that without Libya, Israel would be much nearer to a realistic, lasting peace than she ever was now, and somehow, with Libya lurking in the background of the Arab world, there was always a shadow cast on any future hopes. Umm Al Amnah until now had never bothered him much; he had always considered it a tin-pot nation, and too small to be of any consequence. It had connections, no doubt with Libya and with the Soviet Union, but it was a long way away from Israel, and he had never considered it as a likely threat. Israel had limited resources, which meant that the Mossad had limited resources; he would have loved to have had agents in every city in every country of the world, but it just was not possible on his budget, and with the manpower available.
During the past twelve hours, he had instructed twelve of his crack agents to drop everything and infiltrate Amnah; but he knew that with a tiny country it was not going to be easy. Umm Al Amnah was not as yet aware that there was such a thing as a tourist industry and as it had, in any event, at the present time, little to offer tourists other than high-rise buildings, factories, sand and camel dung, it was hardly surprising it was not to be found within the pages of Thomas Cook’s glossy brochures. The chance of any agent successfully infiltrating Amnah in a pork-pie hat, flowered shirt, Bermuda shorts and an Instamatic hanging around his neck were not high. Business required visas, which were readily available, but due to a bureaucratic system established by Emir Missh’s father, took nine weeks to come through. General Ephraim’s team of men were faced with the options of arrival in the harbour by boat or parachute, or across the desert by foot or camel.
During the next seventy-two hours, Amnah’s population of 17,328 was about to be swollen by twelve: five bedouins, two fishermen, three sailors, and a truck-driver and his mate delivering machine tool parts for a deepfreeze manufacturer.
To satisfy himself, he had already been to the electronics surveillance department and looked at the first minute of the tape. He hadn’t needed to look any further; he had pressed the ‘Erase’ button, run the tape through forward and backwards twice, and then checked to make sure the image was completely gone. Only then did he hand the tape over, with instructions to find out everything that could be learned from a blank RCA videotape. Ephraim suspected, not incorrectly, that it wouldn’t be much.
17
The taxi rattled its way down the Strand; Rocq sat in the back, feeling pleased with himself and happy with life. He felt very happy indeed. The only thing that marred his happiness was the knowledge that in about half an hour the alcohol would begin wearing off and, within a couple of hours, he would have an aching head, sore eyes, and probably an overwhelming feeling of depression. But right now, he was making the most of the good feeling.
His companion in the taxi, the Honourable James Rice, was already beginning to feel quite sober, although the heat of the June afternoon was making him feel weary; he was glad he hadn’t attempted to keep up with Alex Rocq’s drinking today. They had started in the bar of Langan’s Brasserie, where Rocq had downed four large vodka Martinis before they had ordered. They had a half bottle of white with their starters, of which Rocq had drunk two and a half glasses to his one; a bottle of red with their main course, of which again, Rocq had drunk most; and then brandy with their coffee – Rocq had had five to his one.
‘Lavinia okay?’ asked Rocq, suddenly remembering that they had talked nothing but business throughout their luncheon.
‘She’s very well, thanks,’ replied Rice patiently, for the sixth time. He looked at his watch a little anxiously. They had left Globalex at 12.30; it was now a quarter past four.
‘How’re the kids?’
‘They’re very well. Growing up fast. When are you going to have some?’
Rocq shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Don’t know if I feel like getting married again – stumping up forty quid a week alimony to one ex-wife, bloody bitch – don’t know that I want to risk getting stuck with paying two lots.’
Rice nodded sympathetically. ‘Still seeing that little girl you brought down that weekend – what was her name?’
‘Denise?’
Rice nodded.
Rocq thought about her with some guilt; he’d taken her out at least once a week for over a year, and had often taken her away at weekends. She was easy-going and had a lovely nature, with a pretty, homely flat just off Marylebone High Street; after the bust-up of his marriage he had used it almost as a second home. It was a refuge where he had felt cosy, safe. Denise was a girl that he enjoyed being with and she was pretty enough for him to enjoy being seen with. And yet, after he had met Amanda, Denise had simply gone from his mind. He remembered, through his alcoholic haze, that it was nearly six weeks since they had last spoken. With a strong twinge of remorse, he remembered that she had telephoned the office and left messages twice – the first about ten days after he met Amanda and the second time about two weeks later. On both occasions he had been extremely busy and had told the receptionist that he would call her back. On neither occasion did he.
‘No – not for a while,’ he said.
‘She was nice – you seemed well-suited.’
‘Think that’s my problem, Jimbo – I always want a challenge. The girl I’m taking out at the moment – I find her a challenge.’
‘In what way? She can’t stand your guts, and you’re trying to convince her otherwise?’
Rocq grinned. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘What does she do, this one?’
‘She’s an architect.’
‘Stick with her, Rocky. The way your career’s going, you’re going to need someone to support you.’ The words stung Rocq, knifing through his armour of alcohol. Rice saw the expr
ession on his face and wished he had kept his mouth shut. ‘Sorry, Rocky – no offence meant.’ And inhaled deeply.
The cab driver hooted angrily at a charabanc that was taking its load of tourists around the Aldwych too slowly for his liking. ‘Blardy fugging tourists,’ he said. ‘Blardy fugging bleeding charrybanks. Fuggin’ bleeding taking our work, that’s wot they’re doing.’ On another day, his efforts at engaging the two men in the back of his cab into stimulating intellectual conversation might have succeeded; today, the efforts didn’t even produce a grunt.
He tried a new tack: ‘88 Mincing Lane, you said?’
‘Yes,’ said Rice, leaning forward and sliding the partition window shut.
Rocq sat back in his seat and drew on his cigarette. His lunch with Rice had not been successful, and £80 was a lot of money to have stumped up for an unsuccessful lunch. Even if he put Rice down as a client, the maximum Elleck allowed for a luncheon was £40, holding the view that £20 worth of food and booze was more than ample for anyone.
Rocq had chosen Langan’s, in Mayfair, because he wanted to get Rice out of the City environment, out of the security and clannishness of the people with whom Rice was far more in harmony than himself. He had wanted to take down Rice’s guard, and he felt that taking him into unfamiliar territory was the way to do this. But it had not succeeded. He sat and recalled the conversation that had taken place as they had started into their steaks.
‘Jimbo – about this coffee business – you suggested waiting a couple of days to see how it stabilized – what do you think now?’
‘It seems to have levelled out – it bottomed yesterday at £378 a ton, climbed this morning first thing to £460 and dropped back to £421.’
‘And what do you think is going to happen next? If my information is correct, and the supplies in Brazil are badly hit, do you think the price will go up, bearing in mind what has happened?’
Rice leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘So far, what has brought about this crash is only theory. There is no proven fact, and everyone at the moment is waiting for a proven fact. All this news that hit the press last week and caused the collapse of coffee was hearsay and was the result of a leak. It all stemmed from a laboratory assistant working for a company that is about to launch a revolutionary new instant coffee on the market – they’ve produced some new method of preserving the flavour in ground coffee, and they reckon this will be the death knoll for fresh coffee. The product is coming onto the market some time next year. Well, this girl was sacked for some disagreement – she claims it was because she felt that the management were attempting to cover up this cancer discovery, and went and spilled the beans to the press. The World Health Organization claim that they were misquoted and said only that there might be a link – but nothing was positively proven. They are now conducting further tests, but they expect conclusive tests to take up to a year; however, they are expected to make an interim statement shortly, I would think certainly within the next few weeks, to try and alleviate public uncertainty.’