Gerald Seymour - At Close Quarters

He was hellishly tired from the drive out of Tel Aviv.

"… So that is the situation, Major, concerning the Norwegian soldier and the situation concerning the Briton, Martins."

"Martins is mine."

"The case of Private Olaffson is a very delicate matter."

"I don't know what you do. While he is in the U N I F I L area we have no jurisdiction over him, and the U N I F I L command will not respond favourably to a request that he be interrogated."

The senior Shin Bet man tidied his papers together.

"This Olaffson, he drove the two Popular Front bombers to Tel Aviv?"

"Confirmed."

"He knew their mission?"

"Probably not, but he would have to have assumed that they were heading towards a terrorist target."

"Then Private Olaffson will have to discover at first hand what is a terrorist target."

Major Zvi Dan was passed the report compiled by the two agents who had tailed Olaffson to the guest house of the Kibbutz Kfar Giladi, who had sat in the bar, who had listened to the conversation between the Norwegian soldier and a member of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

He read fast. He winced.

"Martins I will deal with."

"Friend, you are a warrior of the cause of freedom."

"I only tell you what I heard."

"Repeat it for me, friend."

"He said, 'How did you know about an infiltration team moving off last night?', that was what he said."

Hendrik Olaffson spelled it out. He spoke slowly. He gave time for the traveller to write the words on a sheet of paper.

The traveller put away his paper. He took the hands of the young man and he kissed him on each cheek.

"It is worth something?"

"It is worth much," the traveller said. "We will show you our gratitude."

When he had gone, the four soldiers at the checkpoint huddled together. They talked about quantity, they talked of the monies that could be charged for the quantity of hashish that would be supplied as a matter of gratitude.

Far away across the valley, invisible amongst scrub bushes, a photographer bent over the camera on which was mounted a 2000 mm lens and carefully extracted a roll of film.

Martins had made himself a prisoner in his room, he had not drawn the curtains back. Through the centre gap he had seen the start of the day and the middle of the day and then the end of the day. It was dark now and he had abandoned his unmade bed and sat crosslegged on the floor, his back against the furthest wall from the door. He knew they would come for him.

He wore his suit trousers and his shirt and his socks, and he had not shaved. Though he had eaten nothing during the day he felt no hunger. He was cocooned in pity for himself.

When there came the knock at the door he flinched.

Not the chambermaid's inquiring tap, but the thump of a closed fist on the door panel.

He didn't reply.

He watched as the door crashed open, and as the man whose shoulder had been against it lurched into the room. The man wore a leather jacket, scuffed at the wrist and the elbows. He knew the man from somewhere, his jaded memory could not tell him from where. There was another man framed in the doorway. Slowly, Martins pushed himself upright. There were no words necessary. Martins went to his disturbed bed and bent to find his shoes. He wondered if they knew yet at Century. He wondered how many of them would be celebrating his fall from grace.

He walked to the door. As they moved into the corridor the man who wore the leather jacket laid his hand on the sleeve of Martins's shirt and he shook it away.

There was one of the men ahead of him and one behind. He walked free of them. He felt a great tiredness, a great sadness. They went out into the fresh air, onto the fire escape. Martins understood. If he had been the man in the leather jacket he would have done the same.

He was driven to the base camp at Kiryat Shmona There was a standard procedure used. He had ducked into the back seat of the car and been waved across towards the far door. He knew the door would have a locking device. The man with the leather jacket sat beside him. He thought that this was the way a traitor or a dangerous criminal or a sex offender would be dealt with. He stared straight ahead of him. He shook his head when the man in the leather jacket offered him a cigarette.

Once in the camp he was taken into a small, bare room. He sat at a table. He stared across the surface of the table at Major Zvi Dan. Two men sitting on hard chairs separated from each other by a narrow plastic-topped table. He heard the door close behind him.

Martins thought he had never stared into eyes so filled with contempt.

"Are we to be taped?"

"Of course."

"I don't think that's really appropriate."

"Mr Martins, in your position you should not presume to tell me what is appropriate."

"I should not be treated as an enemy agent." He felt the confidence slowly ebbing back to him. He sat straighter in his chair.

"That is how we view you."

"That's preposterous."

Major Zvi Dan spoke very quietly, he spoke as though he were nervous that he might lose control of his temper.

"You have behaved like an enemy agent. You have endangered lives."

"Rubbish. I was merely foolish. I drank too much."

"You endangered the lives of Holt and Noah Crane and at the very least you put their mission at risk."

"Quite ludicrous. I was drunk, men get drunk. I was indiscreet, it happens. Whatever I said would have been gobbledygook to that Scandinavian, he wouldn't have understood a word of it."

"You passed information of vital importance to the enemy."

"The enemy?" Martins snorted. "Your sense of the theatrical does you credit, Major. I was talking merely to a private soldier of the NORBAT… "

"To an agent of the enemy." There was the appearance on Major Zvi Dan's face that he thought he was talking to an idiot, a retarded creature. He spelled out each word. "A bomb exploded in the central bus station in Tel Aviv, you may remember. Holt and Crane will not have forgotten. Two terrorists were responsible.

The terrorists travelled into Israel via the Beqa'a valley in Lebanon… "

"Don't give me a yesterday's newspaper lecture."

"… in Lebanon. They were brought through the UNIFIL sector, through the security zone, across the border, hidden in United Nations transport."

"So?"

"Your private soldier drove that transport."

"God… " The breath seeped from Percy Martins.

"Your private soldier, to whom you confided the existence of an infiltration team, is an agent of the enemy."

"Christ… " Martins slumped. He felt the looseness in his bowels, a feebleness in his legs. "I don't suppose

… he didn't understand… "

"It is our belief that the information you provided him with is already en route to Damascus."

Martins said, "You cannot know that."

With great deliberation, Major Zvi Dan lifted from the floor a brown paper envelope. From the envelope he spread out on the table a series of photographs.

His finger settled on one, and he pushed it towards Martins.

Martins saw the back of the head of the UNIFIL private soldier. He saw a man leaning forward to kiss the cheek of Olaffson.

"It is how they show their gratitude," Major Zvi Dan said.

"I couldn't have had any idea," Martins said.

"You were drunk, you knew nothing." The savage reply.

"What can I do?"

"If you are not too proud to pray, you can pray. You came here in your naivete to play a game of political chess. You came here to further your career. Now all you can do is to pray for the lives of the men you have criminally endangered."

"Will you tell them in London?"

"That they sent an idiot here? Maybe they are all idiots in London, maybe they all seek to play games."