Eric Ambler - The Levanter

“Is that what you wish me to do, Comrade Salah?”

“If I did wish it, what would you say? Bags from Pan-American, Swissair, KLM, and Sabena, for example, twenty-five of each. Well?”

“I would say that it would be difficult. I would say that they would have to be stolen.”

“Then you would be wrong.” He was feeling better now. “Quite wrong. It required careful planning and much thought, but they were all obtained quite legally.”

“To contain the charges, I suppose.”

“Naturally. In all those crowded tourist coaches and hotels what could be more innocent than an airline flight bag waiting patiently for its owner to claim it?”

“I thought that all flight bags were searched at Lod.”

He sighed at my ignorance and simplicity. “Flight bags are searched before Israel-bound passengers board the planes. Obviously ours will not be carried by arriving passengers. They are already in the country, ready to be armed and distributed to their final destinations.”

“A most ingenious plan, Comrade Salah.” It had, at least, the merit of simplicity. I wondered if Barlev had had the wit to deduce it from my account of the test. Probably not. I wasn’t even certain that I had used the description “flight bag”. I could have just said “bag”. It had been a Pakistani bag anyway, and the Pakistani airline didn’t fly to Israel. If they had used a Swissair or El Al bag I might have cottoned on, but they hadn’t; and in any case there was nothing I could do about it now. There was no way of getting the word to Barlev, even if it had been useful to do so. What could he have done at that stage? Banning all airline flight bags wouldn’t have been a very practical proposition.

“Can you see any weaknesses?”

“None, Comrade Salah, absolutely none.” If his organization and planning were as good as he thought they were, it would be up to the Amalia Howell to inject the necessary weakness into the plan later.

“Unfortunately, not all our affairs go so well. Minor hitches occur. I was speaking to you last night about diesel engines. In that connection you can make yourself useful.”

For a moment I had an absurd vision of myself haggling with the Mercedes-Benz agency in Damascus over the price of a reconditioned fuel pump. Then he went on.

“Do you know what a Rouad coaster is?”

“Yes, Comrade Salah.”

“Good. We have the use of one of these vessels. It is used to bring in supplies from the north.”

“I see.” And I thought I did see. Barlev had said that the PAF received supplies smuggled through Turkey.

“It has a diesel engine.”

“An auxiliary engine you mean?” The Rouad coaster is a schooner, a sailing vessel.

“An engine,” he said firmly. “We cannot wait for fair winds in our work. It is with that engine that you will concern yourself.”

“This is the one with the defective fuel pump?”

“It was. We are not the fools you seem to think, Your brilliant suggestion that a new pump should be installed had been anticipated. The new pump has already been fitted. However, the engine still does not work properly.”

“What kind of engine is this, what make?”

“Sulzer.”

“Where did the new pump come from?”

“Beirut.”

“Who fitted it?”

“A local mechanic. He said he knows these engines.”

“Local where? Latakia? Rouad?”

“Hareissoun. That is where the ship is berthed.”

Hareissoun is a scruffy little fishing port just north of the Baniyas oil terminal. The chances of finding a competent diesel fitter there would be remote. I said so.

“What solution do you propose?”

“Let the vessel go to Latakia under sail. There is a man there who will do the job properly.”

“What man?”

“His name is Maghout. He is a foreman in the Chantier Naval Cayla by the South Basin.”

“Our ship must stay in Hareissoun. This man of yours must go to her there and do the work.”

“Unfortunately, he is not my man, Comrade Salah. I can’t give him orders. I could make a request to Cayla.”

“The matter is now urgent. Would they act on your request?”

“You can’t expect them to release Maghout at a moment’s notice. He’d have to drop everything to go and do a job like that. It really would be simpler to take the vessel to him.”

“That is out of the question. I have already told you so. If this Cayla will not oblige you, he will oblige u s. I have my people in Latakia, remember.”

“I remember.” They had once been going to plant bombs in Howell ships.

“All this foreman Maghout has to do is diagnose the cause of the trouble and tell the man in Hareissoun what to do. Am I right?”

“I don’t know, Comrade Salah. The local man diagnosed a faulty fuel pump. He may have been wrong. The fault could be elsewhere. Other spares may be needed.”

“Exactly. It is a problem of organization, a business matter. Go to Hareissoun tomorrow, Comrade Michael. Consult with Hadaya, the ship’s master. Consult with this local incompetent if necessary. Ask your questions, decide what is best to be done, and coordinate the work. Report progress to me tomorrow night at this time. If you decide that you need this foreman from Latakia, let Issa know earlier so that Cayla may be approached at once. You understand?”

“I am not qualified to make judgments about engines, Comrade Salah.”

“You are qualified to make use of those who can judge.” He smiled maliciously. “Imagine that it is an Agence Howell ship in Hareissoun, one of those of which you have models. Imagine that this defective engine is costing your business money. The difficulties will very soon disappear, I think Don’t you?”

“I don’t believe in magic, Comrade Salah.”

“No, but you always do your best That will be good enough.” He paused. “Mr. Hadaya, the master, will be warned to expect you tomorrow and told that you are acting for me in this matter. When you report to me, Comrade Michael, I shall expect only good news.”

Early the following morning I drove to Hareissoun.

It wasn’t an easy or pleasant drive, but I didn’t mind. Strange as it may seem, I was, in spite of everything, rather looking forward to that day. In a sense I was making a sentimental journey.

The Ile de Rouad is a port south of Latakia which used to have a small shipyard. In the latter part of the nineteenth century, this yard began building two-hundred-ton schooners and made itself something of a reputation in that part of the world. They were all wood but very sturdy, fully decked, and Bermudian rigged with two raked pole-masts and a heavy bow-sprit; useful little ships. Although no new ones have been built for years, there are still quite a few of them coasting in the Levant.

When I was a small boy the Agence Howell owned three of these Rouad schooners and my father used to make a joke about them. He wasn’t much given to making jokes about things we owned, so I have always remembered this one. It’s a bit complicated, because you have to understand the background. All ships have to have their bottoms cleaned from time to time. The ordinary small coaster is hauled out of the water on a skid-cradle so that the job can be done. At Rouad, however, they used to careen the schooners; that is, pull them over onto their sides in the water by the masts. Then, instead of scraping them clean, they would drench the exposed bottom side with kerosene, set light to it, and bum off all the barnacles and muck. My father took me once to see them do it. That was where the joke came in. He said that the Agence Howell was “burning its boats”. Not very funny, I admit, though it made me laugh at the time. The strange thing was that there were never any accidents; only the kerosene and the barnacles and the muck would burn. It must be harder to set a wooden hull alight than one would think.