The Levanter

Chapter 5

Teresa Malandra

May 18 to June 10

The reason why Michael is so difficult to understand — especially for journalists — is that he is not one person but a committee of several. There is, for instance, the Greek money-changer with thin fingers moving unceasingly as he makes lightning calculations on an abacus; there is the brooding, sad-eyed Armenian bazaar trader who pretends to be slow-witted, but is, in fact, devious beyond belief; there is the stuffy, no-nonsense Englishman trained as an engineer; there is the affable, silk-suited young man of affairs with smile lines at the corners of wide, limpid, con man eyes; there is the mother-fixated managing director of the Agence Howell, defensive, sententious, and given to speechifying; and there is the one I particularly like, who. . but why go on? The Michael Howell committee is in permanent session, and, though the task of implementing its business decisions is generally delegated to just one of the members, the voices of the others are usually to be heard whispering in the background. Ghaled certainly detected the faint sounds of those prompting voices, but to begin with he positively identified only the engineer. About that member of the committee, at least, his judgment was correct; the Englishman’s professional pride borders on the obsessional.

In the days that followed that second meeting with Salah Ghaled there seemed to be no more enthusiastic and devoted adherent to the cause of the Palestinian Action Force than Comrade Michael. Within forty-eight hours the drawings and specifications of the fuse adapter ring had been completed and sent to the Beirut machine shop. A day later, after a telephone discussion, a price had been agreed and work on the sample ring put in hand. Meanwhile, the probable Howell shipping movements for the months of June and July had been analysed and a number of projections made. Then the possibilities of change and manipulation were explored.

It was like a mad chess problem.

On July 2 the M. V. Amalia Howell (4,000 tons, Captain Touzani) must sail, possibly though not necessarily in ballast, from Latakia bound for Alexandria. Problem: bring this sailing about in not more than three moves, none of which may be observed by your opponent (in this case your own shipping agents) or, if observed, not recognized as moves.

Michael thought about it on and off for days. In the end he found a solution requiring only two moves: first, the contrived, temporary withdrawal of the Amalia’s Deratization Exemption Certificate (required under Article 17 of the International Sanitary Regulations) which would hold her idle in port for three or more days; second, a consequential rearrangement of Howell freighter sailings which would send the Amalia, when released, to Ancona to pick up a cargo for Latakia. His eyes gleamed with pleasure as he went over the mechanics of it with me.

“Tell Issa to pass the news on,” he said finally. “No details, just the name of the ship. You can tell him, too, that the sample ring will be in our hands on Monday next. Ghaled will want to see it. Request orders. We want to appear to be cooperating one hundred percent.”

“Why do you say ‘appear’ to be?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well we are cooperating, aren’t we?”

He frowned impatiently. “What else do you suggest we do?”

“Is this adapter ring going to work?”

“Of course it’s going to work.” He was indignant for a moment, then he shrugged. “Oh, I see. You think it would be better if the ring didn’t work.”

“Don’t you think so?”

“Aren’t we out to sabotage this criminal operation of Ghaled’s, you mean? Of course we are. But how can we sabotage it when we don’t know exactly what he’s planning?”

“We know some things.”

“Bits of things. Not enough. Anyway, messing about with the adapter ring wouldn’t do any good. I considered changing the flange dimensions slightly.

Maybe that would have made a difference, but how could I be certain? I don’t know enough about ammunition to say. Anyway, he’s not going to take it on trust. He’s bound to try it out.”

We were in the villa office and he tried to change the subject then by opening the Urgent file on his desk and starting to go through it. I had already dealt with the really urgent things there and wasn’t going to be put off like that.

“Michael, I’ve been thinking,” I said.

“Yes?” His tone was a clear intimation that he wasn’t interested.

“About those confessions we signed.”

That caught him. “What about them?”

“We’re both supposed to have been in touch with the Israeli intelligence service.”

“Standard incriminatory stuff. Mandatory death sentence.”

“They gave the name of an Israeli agent in Cyprus.”

“I know. Ze’ev Barlev.”

“Well, why don’t we get in touch with him? He must exist or they wouldn’t have named him.”

Michael sat back. I had his attention. “Oh yes, Barlev exists. He was based on Nicosia.”

‘Well, then.”

“I said was. He hasn’t been in Nicosia for six months. There was a little trouble. He was blown.”

“He must have been replaced by now.”

“I daresay.”

“Famagusta could find out about the replacement.”

“You make it sound very easy, but let’s say, for the purposes of your argument, that they could find out. One of us gets in touch with him? Is that your idea?”

“We’ve already confessed to being in touch with Barlev. Why shouldn’t we really be in touch with his successor?”

“Be hanged for a fact instead of a fantasy?” The con-man was wrinkling his eyes at me now, roguish and extremely tiresome.

“I was hoping to avoid hanging,” I said tartly. “I assume you are, too. Among the other things I am hoping to avoid is any responsibility, direct or moral, for whatever atrocity this Ghaled is planning. You say we can’t go to the authorities here. In the case of Colonel Shikla and the Internal Security Service, that I accept. We know now that Ghaled has ISS sympathizers. But there are others who would listen to us. Colonel Shikla has enemies who would be glad of a chance to embarrass him.”

“And you think Shikla would not know that we were responsible? Of course he would know. And so would everyone else.”

“Yes, it would be bad for business. Poor Agence Howell.”

“That is unfair!” The managing director had suddenly emerged from the committee room. “We have been over all this a dozen times. It is not a matter of business but of our personal safety. Any action, official or unofficial, that we initiate here against Ghaled will result in action, direct action, against us. I am not talking about cargo fires and engine room explosions in company ships, but personal attacks.”

“We could demand protection.”

“Against Colonel Shikla when Ghaled has passed him our confessions and they are sitting on his desk? You know better than that, Teresa.”

“Very well. So we have a choice. We either run away or we sabotage Ghaled without his knowing it. And since you say we mustn’t run …”

“I have already accepted the policy of sabotage, providing that it can be carried out without personal risk. What more do you want?”

“Some assurance that the sabotage is going to be effective.”

“We’re going to get that by sticking our necks out with Israeli intelligence? Is that what you believe?”

“Our necks are already sticking out.”

“There is a certain difference, as I have been endeavouring to point out,” he said coldly, ‘’between the words in a false confession and the deeds you are proposing. Do you think I haven’t already considered the possibility of contact with the Israelis? Of course I have.”

“Well, then.”

“This isn’t the time.” He eyed me sullenly for a moment and then his forefinger shot out, pointing at my nose. “All right, my girl, let’s say you’re going to meet an Israeli agent tonight. It’s all been arranged cutouts, the safe house, everything. What are you going to tell him?”

“What we know.”

“Which is what? That Ghaled is planning something against them? That’ll be no news to him. That he’s got arms of a sort, rockets perhaps? No news again.”

“What about the night of July the third?”

“What about it? An anniversary day in Israel. Did you think I hadn’t looked it up? Tammuz twenty in the Hebrew calendar. Anniversary of the death of Theodor Herzl, the founder of Zionism. From Ghaled’s point of view a symbolic day on which to strike. Yes, indeed!”

“There’s going to be a ship, the Amalia, off Tel Aviv that night with some of Ghaled’s men aboard. We know that much.”

“A neutral ship outside Israeli territorial waters? What are these men of Ghaled’s going to do? Spit in the sea? But go on. You also know that five hundred electrically operated detonators are being manufactured in our battery works. How are they going to be used? Do you know? You do not. How do you think this good Israeli agent is going to respond to your tidings? I’ll tell you. He’s going to say, ‘Thank you very much, Miss Malandra, this is all very interesting and suggestive. Will you please now go back and discover what this alleged plan of Ghaled’s really is? That is, Miss Malandra, if you really want to help us as you say you do’.” He threw up his hands. “You see? You don’t yet know enough to be useful. Why then run the risk of making this dangerous contact? Why not wait until the information you have — if you can get it — makes the risk worth taking? Why take useless chances?”

I should have mentioned another member of the committee-the hectoring Grand Inquisitor.

There was nothing I could say, of course; he was right. However, I didn’t have to reply because letting off steam like that had started him thinking again. He pushed the Urgent file away from him and watched a fly that was circling the office. After a time he opened the deep drawer in his desk and took out the aerosol insecticide spray he always kept there. He shook it absently.

“Pressure,” he murmured. “We must apply pressure.”

He took the cap off the spray, waited for the fly to come around again, and then gave it a short burst.

When he was sure that the fly was doomed he returned the spray to the drawer.

“I want to speak to Elie Abouti,” he said.

That was one of the last things I had expected to hear. Abouti was the contractor who had built the electronics assembly plant. He was completely unscrupulous and had been clever enough to conceal the depths of his infamy until it was too late for us to take countermeasures. He had made a fantastic profit on the job, which, thanks to his ingenious use of substandard materials, had become a major maintenance problem almost before it had been completed. Michael had vowed vengeance to the most bloodcurdling terms. If he now wanted to talk to Abouti it could only be that the hour of vengeance was at hand. I was curious to see what form it would take, and wondered what connection it could have with the Ghaled situation.

When Abouti came on the line you would have thought that he and Michael were the best of friends. I could hear Abouti’s high voice quacking happily as they exchanged compliments, and Michael was oozing camaraderie. I waited patiently for him to come to the point, but when he did I could hardly believe my ears.

“My dear friend,” Michael said unctuously, “I am most happy to tell you that I see a chance, a good chance, of our being able to work together again.”

The quacking at the other end became slightly guarded in tone. Small wonder. Although the vengeance had been vowed privately, Abouti could not have been unaware of Michael’s feelings on the subject of the electronics plant buildings.

“I am delighted to hear it, my dear friend, delighted,” Michael was saying, and then he chuckled.

“But this time, my dear Abouti, I hope you will not take it amiss if I ask that I may be allowed a little personal share in your profit.”

The quacking immediately became more animated. A man who wants to share with you in an illegal profit to be made out of a government contract cannot be seriously ill-disposed toward you.

“Have you still got Rashti working for you?” Michael asked.

Rashti was Abouti’s overseer and as big a crook, if that were possible, as Abouti himself. He, too, had been marked down for vengeance.

“Good. Can he be made available at short notice with a survey team? Possibly next week? I ask because we may have to act quickly to secure this business without competition. Best to move in and occupy the site. There is an Italian interest involved. Yes, it will be a Ministry development contract. The Der’a area. But the foreign interest will try to exercise control unless the door is firmly closed.”

He had lost me by then. Obviously, Abouti was not going to go to the trouble and expense of a move onto government land without the usual written directive from the Ministry. I did not see how Michael could possibly get one for the car-battery project at that stage. The joint venture with the Italians had still to be approved.

The conversation ended with expressions of mutual respect and goodwill and undertakings on Michael’s part to produce the directive within a day or two.

He hung up at last and smiled spitefully at the telephone. “Hooked and loving every minute of it,” he said.

“How are you going to get the directive?”

“Somehow.”

“From Hawa?”

“Who else?” He looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Teresa. I’m afraid it means having him to dinner.”

He knew that I disliked those evenings; he disliked them himself. Like many other educated Syrians, Dr. Hawa was ambivalent on the subject of female emancipation. In theory he approved; in practice it made him uneasy. Although Michael had been allowed to meet Dr. Hawa’s wife briefly he had always known that an invitation to the villa that included her would not be accepted, so none had ever been issued. Though I naturally thought that my presence and status in the household was the stumbling block, Michael had always denied this. Hawa wasn’t a prude, he said; it was just that he was an Arab and felt more at ease on social occasions in all-male company. He also liked to drink alcohol and in that sort of privacy could do so. Being Dr. Hawa, of course, he also liked the other guests to be of subordinate status so that he could dominate the proceedings. He was most relaxed, however, in solitary tête-à-tête with Michael, who would always respond to his genial bullying with the kind of subtle impudence that Hawa seemed to find entertaining. He was the king, Michael the licensed fool.

Sometimes on these occasions I used to do what the Muslim women did in their homes; that is, listen in an adjoining room through one of the decorated grilles which had been put there originally for that purpose; but the conversation was mostly so boring, or, especially when a lot of brandy had been drunk, infuriating, that generally I went off to bed and left them to it.

This time, though, I was determined not to miss a word.

It was on the evening of the day on which we had received Ghaled’s approval of the fuse adapter ring sample, and the order had gone to the Beirut machine shop for a hundred more. It seemed to me that we had just made it possible for a hundred explosions to take place, and the thought was depressing. I desperately wanted Michael to succeed with Hawa. So far, all we had done was help Ghaled in his plan to kill a lot of people, and though our putting a survey team into the battery works wouldn’t be likely to stop him, at least it might hinder and obstruct him. It would be something. Besides, as Michael says, you never know about pressure. Just a little of it can sometimes do a lot — not perhaps directly, but by slightly changing the value of some small unknown in the equation.

The declared purpose of these evenings à deux was backgammon, to be played by two well-matched and practiced opponents; but Dr. Hawa’s real reason for coming to the villa was to pick Michael’s brains and pump him for information. Someone once said that if you want to know what is going on in Damascus you must inquire in Beirut. In a funny way it’s true, and not only of Damascus. Information is an especially valuable commodity in the Middle East, and Michael’s sources were not confined to Beirut The Agence Howell had fingers in a great many pies and representatives doing business in a great many places. Naturally, along with the credit reports, the trend assessments, and the accounts of competitors’ activities, came much news — and gossip and rumour — that was political as well as commercial in character. Sometimes Dr. Hawa would ask specific questions, but usually, as the dice clattered and the pieces clicked, he would hint vaguely at the area of current interest to him and leave Michael to do the talking.

It began like that on this evening. Dr. Hawa was curious about Iran and the latest proposals of a Soviet trade delegation. He scarcely spoke at all, giving only an occasional grant to indicate that Michael still had his attention.

From Teheran they switched to Ankara and from there to the newly independent Bahrein. It was at that point that Michael fell silent.

The next thing I heard was a short laugh from Dr. Hawa and an exclamation of disgust from Michael.

There was another laugh from Dr. Hawa. “I have never seen you make such a mistake as that before,” he crowed. “Didn’t you see your chance?”

“No, Minister, I didn’t see it.”

Michael still called Dr. Hawa “Minister”, even in his own house; it was a thing that had always irritated me. He sounded now as penitent as a schoolboy caught out by a feared master.

“You were not concentrating.”

“No, I was not. I am sorry.”

“Do not apologize. The dice were kind to you and you ignored them. They do not like such impoliteness. Take care, Michael, or I shall go home rich.”

“Yes, yes. A little more brandy, Minister?”

“Ah, you wish to dull my perceptions. Very well. But you had better drink no more.”

“The truth is, Minister, that I am not myself this evening.”

“That is evident. The digestion perhaps? The liver?”

“I am, I must confess, a little worried.”

“You, worried?” A scoffing sound. “I have yet to see this. Unless, of course, there is a new woman. That must be it. You Christians make such fools of yourselves.”

“Not a woman, Minister. But I refuse to bore you with my troubles.” Bravely this. “You are here to be amused, not to talk business.”

“True. Then let us play. Let me see the score. Ah yes, this is very good. Now watch yourself, Michael. I am in an attacking mood.”

They played in silence for a minute or two. Then Dr. Hawa said casually: “This business that worries you — does it concern any of our cooperatives?”

“Oh no.” Michael spoke quickly and then seemed to hesitate. “That is, I am not sure.”

There was the sound of a dice cup being slammed down onto the table, by Dr. Hawa presumably and in exasperation.

“It is not often, Michael, that I hear you talk foolishly.”

“What I meant was that none of the existing cooperatives is concerned, Minister. What I fear is threatened is the battery transition plan.”

“That is quibbling. What is the matter with you?”

“The battery transition plan is still only a plan, Minister.” Michael sounded desperately unhappy; the Armenian bazaar trader was wringing his hands in anguish. “Paper, nothing more. There are no firm commitments, it is not yet a living thing. The child may be stillborn.”

“The plans are already with the Minister of Finance. What is this nonsense?”

“Alas, Minister.” He really said “alas.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I did not want to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” The game was forgotten. Dr. Hawa’s voice had a rasp in it now.

“The news I have had from Beirut, Minister. We are being betrayed.”

“How betrayed? By whom?”

“It is the Italian.”

“Which Italian? One of those to Milan you call your friends?”

“No, no. This is the one in Beirut. Remember, Minister, I told you. These people in Milan have long been trying to sell to our markets here. Unsuccessfully, but they have tried. They have a selling agent to Beirut, a scorpion named Spadolini. Well, this Spadolini — his mother was a Romanian — this scorpion has learned all about our car-battery project. How has he learned? Who knows? A spy to the Milan offices perhaps. Possibly, as a concerned agent of the Italian company, he was given some advance hint. We cannot be certain. But certain it is that the scorpion is preparing to strike!”

“Strike? Speak plainly, Michael, for God’s sake.”

“Fearing to lose this little agency of his, fearing to be bypassed, recognizing the business potential of this Joint venture of ours, he has put forward the proposal that the new plant shall be located not here at Der’a, not here to Syria, but in Lebanon.”

“But how can he succeed to this? The proposal from Milan was made to us.”

The Armenian, his duty done, shuffled off with a heavy sigh, and the Greek money-changer strode in briskly to replace him.

“These are hard-faced men, Minister. A proposal commits them to nothing. Production is all they care about because production is money. This little schemer in Beirut has found something to offer them that we as yet cannot — factory space.”

“We would build.”

“This is already built. Near Tripoli. Six thousand two hundred square meters of floor space and of recent construction. It was planned for production lines of typewriters and business machines, but there were licensing difficulties with the American parent company and the plan fell through. The buildings have never been used and are going for a song. They are not ideal for lead-battery production and alterations would have to be made, but the floor space is there and waiting. In Milan they are already thinking, already tempted.”

“You know this for a fact?”

They are sending a senior manager and an engineer from Milan this week to inspect the place. I know because I have good friends in Milan. But friendship will not override self-interest. We must show them that we have more to offer than this Spadolini and that we can move faster.”

“But how?”

“That is what concerns me. We have good arguments on our side, but nothing to back them up. When their representatives arrive here and we sit down at the negotiating table they will have questions to ask. Among the first will be-when do we start to get a return on our investment, when can production begin? And, as we try to answer, we will know that in their minds there is the vision of six thousand two hundred square meters of factory floor space, unused and waiting for them, in Lebanon.”

“You said that there would have to be alterations.”

“Minor changes, Minister. Nothing. If we had work already in progress to show them it might be different. But…” He left it.

“What sort of work in progress?”

“Something to impress. Land allocated and surveyed. Bulldozers already clearing and grading. Plans on the drawing board. Evidence that we are serious.”

“You know that is impossible, Michael.”

“With respect, Minister, difficult but not impossible.”

“You Know that I cannot authorize funds for speculative use. Finance would never approve this expenditure. Once the joint venture is approved, of course. .”

“Of course. But by then it could be too late.”

There was a silence. One of them rattled dice and again there was silence.

Dr. Hawa broke it finally. “I think that you have something to propose, Michael. What is it?”

“Agence Howell could finance this preliminary work.”

“How would you get your money back? This cannot be a pilot project. You made that clear from the start. Do not tell me that you have become altruistic, Michael, for I shall not believe you.”

“I want this venture to succeed, Minister, and to succeed here, because I want the agency for its products. I am prepared to pay to secure that agency. Call it an insurance premium if you will. There is nothing altruistic about that.”

Short laugh. “I am much relieved. I would not like, after so long, to have to revise my ideas about you, Michael.”

“Never fear, Minister.”

“Then what you want from me is a directive, eh?”

“Yes, please. It should cover our occupation of three hectares of land adjoining the present battery works. The precise details of this parcel of land are set out in the supplementary memorandum I have already submitted. The directive should further authorize the Abouti Company to make a survey and carry out the preparatory work necessary for building, including the cutting of a new access road. In accordance with Agence Howell instructions of course.”

“And at Agence Howell’s expense?”

“Certainly. I cannot tell you, Minister, how much I would appreciate your help in this.”

“Help in spending your money?”

“In removing the source of anxiety.” The Armenian returned briefly to take a bow. “Minister, if this Lebanese scorpion, having injected his vile poison, had stolen this business away while I slept, I would never have been able to sleep again.”

Dr. Hawa burst out laughing.

“Minister?”

“You and your business ethic, Michael! You cannot bear to lose, can you? Winning is all that matters, not just money. After all these years I can read you like a book.”

“So easily, Minister? I must mend my ways.” I could imagine him pretending to smile away a nonexistent discomfort.

“You never will, Michael. You can’t.” He chuckled. “Well, I will look at the papers again and think about it. Come and see me tomorrow. You may bring a draft directive if that will make you sleep better tonight.”

“Thank you again, Minister. More brandy?”

After a moment or two the dice began to rattle again and the backgammon pieces to click.

When Dr. Hawa bad gone, Michael poured me a brandy and looked at the one he had been nursing himself.

“Well, so far so good,” he said.

“This empty factory near Tripoli,” I asked, “does it exist?”

“Oh yes. A white elephant. We were offered it six months ago. When the price is low enough we may buy it for a warehouse.”

“And this man Spadolini? Does he exist?”

“Of course. He has the present agency. Hard worker. Not a bad salesman. If this car-battery business had been going forward with our participation I would have taken him into the Beirut office.”

“If it had been going forward? Isn’t it?”

He ignored the question. “Abouti will need copies of the factory layout and the specifications that I brought back from Milan. The land details, too. He should have it all in the morning.”

“Are we really going to pay him for this work?”

“Pay Abouti?” He finished his brandy. “Not a penny. Let the fat thief whistle for his money.”

It is almost unheard of for Michael to refuse to pay a debt, even when he believes that the creditor has cheated him. And there had been that “if.” I knew then that he had at last decided to cut his losses, and that, in Syria anyway, the days of the Agence Howell were numbered.

Later that week the survey team moved into the dry-battery works and the land adjoining it.

“What do you think Ghaled will do?” I had asked.

“Nothing at first A few men with theodolites, rods, and measuring chains won’t disturb him much. Wait until the earth-moving starts, though. Then it’ll be different. Heavy machinery all over the place and men to stand guard on it at night! That’ll soon cramp his style.”

But Michael was wrong. The pressure began to work immediately and, while it did not change any of the factors in the equation, it was the means of converting one of the unknown ones into a known.

Michael spent most of that day out at the tile and furniture plants. He did not tell me what he was doing, but I could guess. With the end of the Agence Howell’s Syrian operations just around the corner the more goods he could ship out before the corner was reached the smaller the final write-off would be.

The call from Issa came at four thirty in the afternoon. Issa seemed to be Ghaled’s local chief of staff now as well as works manager, and his tone was peremptory.

“Where is Howell?”

“I don’t know, but I expect him back soon. I can ask him to return your call.”

“No. Give him this message. You will both report here tonight at eight o’clock.”

“Mr. Howell may have made other arrangements.”

“Then he will cancel them. You both report here at eight o’clock. That is an order.”

Michael was thoughtful when I told him.

“You read the directive carefully, Teresa. There was nothing in it about the Agence Howell paying Abouti, was there?”

“Not directly. His costs are to be charged to Green Circle. There’s no way of Issa’s knowing that isn’t the government. No way of Abouti knowing, either. Anyway they would assume it was a government expenditure because of the directive. So would Ghaled.”

“Well, perhaps it isn’t that he wants to see us about.”

But it was.

We were received by Ghaled in Michael’s office and he had a copy of the Ministry directive in front of him. We were not asked to sit down.

Ghaled waved the papers under Michael’s nose. “What do you know of this?” he demanded angrily.

“Of what, Comrade Salah? May I see?”

Ghaled threw the papers at him. Michael retrieved them from the floor and studied them solemnly.

After a moment or two he made a clucking sound.

“Well?”

“I did warn of this possibility, Comrade Salah.”

“And you were at the same time warned to prevent it. Why did you not obey?”

“Even if I had known that this directive was about to be issued, which I did not, there are limits to my powers, Comrade Salah.”

“Limits that you determine.”

“I cannot give orders to the Ministry.”

“You do not have to. The Minister listens to your advice and requests, doesn’t he? Answer me. Doesn’t he?”

“When he has asked me for advice, yes, he listens. About this directive he did not consult me.” Michael peered at it again, his lips moving as if he were having trouble in understanding the words. “It orders a survey to be made of this and the adjacent land in accordance with an earlier policy decision. Your orders, Comrade Salah, were that your headquarters here were not to be disturbed. I cannot believe that a few more men working here during the daytime will disturb you.” As he spoke he turned the page and then gave a theatrical start of surprise. “Ah yes. I see the difficulty.”

“You do, eh?”

“An access road is to be engineered.”

“That is part of the work ordered, yes. What else do you see, Comrade Michael? If you are having trouble reading it, I can tell you. The contractor is empowered to erect temporary buildings for fuel dumps and other purposes, and night-shift work is authorized. The contractor is to work in cooperation with the Der’a police, who will furnish special patrols.”

“This is very bad, Comrade Salah.” Michael looked genuinely shocked.

“It would be bad,” said Ghaled, “if any of this work were to be done. Your task is to see that it is not done, or, if it must be done, that the start of it is delayed until the end of June. There must be no inconvenience. You hear me?”

“Yes, Comrade Salah, I hear you.”

If he had left it at that the next half hour might have been less frightening, but Michael could not leave it at that. Having gone to considerable trouble and at least some expense to create a force majeure that should have driven any sane leader in Ghaled’s position onto the defensive, he was affronted by Ghaled’s cool dismissal of the threat as no more than an avoidable inconvenience. For once a committee spokesman lost his temper, and none of the rest of the members was quick enough to cover up for him.

“Unfortunately,” he went on nastily, “although I hear, I am not omnipotent, Comrade Salah. Any more than you are. The ability to hear an unrealistic order is no indication that the hearer is capable of carrying it out. I will do what I reasonably can without exciting suspicion. No less, but certainly no more.”

It was a pity that Issa had come into the room while Michael was speaking, to be a witness of this act of insubordination. Even if he had wanted to do so, Ghaled could not have ignored it with Issa there. As it was, Issa gaped, started to say something, then stopped and waited for permission to speak.

He did not get it. Ghaled was staring hard and curiously at Michael, reassessing him. The reassessment made, he looked at me.

“Do you remember the oath you swore?” he asked.

“Of course, Comrade Salah.”

“Do you believe that your employer remembers? Be careful how you answer. Your loyalty here is to me, not to him.”

“Comrade Michael has certainly remembered his oath,” I said. “He has done everything he can to carry out his assigned tasks. In fact, he has seriously neglected his own business in order to do so.”

I knew that Michael was looking at me balefully, but I kept my eyes on Ghaled.

“When did your employer last see Dr. Hawa?”

I was afraid to lie. It was always possible that Ghaled already knew the answer. “A few days ago, in the evening.”

Ghaled looked at Michael again. “And he told you nothing of this directive about which you profess to be so surprised?”

“Our meeting was a social one.” Michael shrugged. “We played backgammon, as a matter of fact. No business was discussed. In any case the issuance of this directive would not have been a subject for discussion. As I said when I first raised the question, the policy decision about this works had already been made.”

“The policy decision which you had been ordered to reverse or modify?”

“The decision which I had hoped to be able to modify. These things cannot be done by edict, not my edict anyway. It is easier to make policy decisions than to reverse or modify them. One needs time. I thought I had time. Obviously I hadn’t enough.” The committee had recovered its composure and was all lined up again behind the managing director. “As for my surprise, I have no reason to profess it. I am surprised. The explanation, presumably, is that, since the Agence Howell is not a principal in this affair, it was not thought necessary or appropriate to consult us before issuing the directive.”

Ghaled thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Pending my own inquiries, I will accept your explanation, your excuse for your failure. But” — he leaned forward — ”for your disrespect there can be no excuse.”

“No disrespect was intended, Comrade Salah. I was merely stating the situation as I saw it.”

“So you say now. I warned you before against your arrogance. I also warned you that it would be punished. Did I or didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Then having ignored my warnings you must be punished. Who are you to question orders, to decide whether or not they are realistic? We must teach you humility, Comrade Michael, the meaning of discipline. The punishment, therefore, must be one that you will remember. Do you find that reasonable and realistic?”

Michael was looking blandly impassive. I tried to, but less successfully.

“Do you?” Ghaled persisted.

“That depends on the punishment, Comrade Salah.”

“Yes. Since you have other assigned tasks to complete, an Action Force punishment, the kind that comrades Ahmad and Musa are used to inflicting for lapses in discipline, would — what is the phrase?”

“Defeat their own object, Comrade Salah?”

“Yes.” Ghaled smiled unpleasantly. “So you must not be hurt too much, comrade. Perhaps not at all if you are lucky. We shall have to see.” He looked at Issa, who had been listening avidly. “Are you ready for the demonstration?”

“Yes, Comrade Salah. All is prepared.”

“Let us go then.”

Ghaled rose and led the way from Michael’s office, along the passages to the zinc storeroom.

Waiting there was a man I had not seen before. Though neither he nor Michael said anything by way of greeting I saw an exchange of glances which said that they knew one another.

Ghaled addressed him as Comrade Taleb. He was in his thirties, tall and thin with a Nasser moustache and a very clean drip-dry shirt. He wore a tie. When he smiled, showing his teeth, two gold inlays were visible. He was standing behind Ghaled’s trestle table, which had been moved to the centre of the room.

My mind had been running sickeningly on instruments of torture, so that the two objects I saw standing on the table in front of Taleb were, though surprising, also reassuring.

The most prominent was a big clockwork music box of a kind that I had not seen since I was a small child. There had been one like it on a side table in my grandmother’s house in Rome. That one had played four or five different melodies from the operas — arias. This was slightly smaller than the one I remembered and fitted into a battered, black leather carrying case with a purple plush lining; but the box itself was much the same, an oblong casket made of highly polished mahogany with a narrow glass window in the top. Through the window you could see the big metal cylinder with the tiny pins bristling all over it and the long steel comb which sounded the notes. There were levers in front and, at the end, a brass key for winding the clockwork. A worn gold-leaf inscription just visible on the front panel said that this was La Serinette made by Gerard Frères of Paris and that the Tonotechnique Design was protected by patents.

Beside La Serinette on the table stood, incongruously, a Pakistan International Airlines plastic flight bag.

Ghaled looked with amused interest at the music box.

“Does it still play?” he asked.

“Certainly it plays, Comrade Salah.” Taleb was obviously proud of his work, whatever that was. He touched one of the levers, the cylinder revolved, and the box began to play Mozart’s Minuet in G. After two bars he switched it off.

“We must conserve the spring,” he said.

“Of course. Then let us proceed with the demonstration.”

“Yes, Comrade Salah.”

Taleb reached inside the back flap of the carrying case and pulled something out of the plush lining. It was a narrow strip of metal rather like a steel tape measure and about twenty centimetres long. He left it sticking up in the air above the box. Obviously it was not part of the original Serinette.

“That is all?”

“That is all, except for the controls, Comrade Salah. The new ones are on what was the musical change lever here. The first stop now deactivates the speed regulator. The second stop allows the cylinder to revolve freely. The third stop engages the clutch which. .”

Ghaled broke in. “Yes, comrade, we know what the third stop should do. That is what we are to test. Now, Comrade Taleb, I think that this test demonstration would be more convincing if the target were to be moving. Do you not agree?”

“”Moving or stationary, it makes no difference, Comrade Salah.”

“For me,” Ghaled said firmly, “a moving target would provide a much more satisfactory test. And since Comrade Michael has volunteered to assist us … That is correct, Comrade Michael, isn’t it? You have volunteered?”

“If you say so, Comrade Salah.”

“I say so.”

“Then I’m glad to be of assistance.”

Michael spoke easily and his apparent calmness clearly irritated Ghaled.

“Let us hope you will continue to be glad,” he snapped and pointed to the airline bag on the table. Pick that up.”

Michael reached out for the bag and his hand was about to touch it when Ghaled spoke again.

“Carefully, comrade. It is not heavy, but handle it as if it were.”

Taleb started to make a protest. “Comrade Salah, we do not know exactly — ”

“No, we do not know exactly,” said Ghaled quickly. “That is why we are making the test.”

“It really is not necessary for the target to move.”

“That is for me to decide.” He turned to Michael, who now had the bag in his hand. “Comrade, you will walk out of here slowly. When you are outside walk in the direction of number one work shed and go past it to the boundary wall. We will follow you as far as the outer door. When you reach the wall, turn and start to walk back toward us, slowly so that we can keep you in sight all the time. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“Then go. Issa, you follow him with your light so that we do not lose sight of him in the shadows. Don’t get too close. Taleb, I will give you the word.”

“Yes, Comrade Salah.”

My heart was thumping and the sweat on my face was ice-cold. I followed them out to the door.

The guards, Ahmad and Musa, had come to see what was going on. Ghaled told them to stand to one side. From the passage just behind Ghaled I could see Michael walking away across the yard with the bag and Issa stalking him with the flashlight. They might have been playing some sort of child’s game.

As he reached the corner of number one work shed Michael stumbled on an uneven patch of ground and Ghaled shouted to him to be more careful. Michael was about a hundred meters away now and nearing the perimeter wall. When he began to turn, Ghaled spoke to Taleb in the storage room behind us.

“Get ready.”

“Ready, comrade.”

“All right Now!”

From the storage room came three notes of the Minuet in G, then that sound was cut off and a whirring noise took its place, a noise that suddenly began rising in pitch to a whine.

Almost at the same moment there was a flash of light across the yard — it seemed to come from Michael’s right hand — and a muffled bang. Then the flight bag burst into flames and Michael flung it away from him.

He was obviously hurt because he was doing something to his right wrist with his left hand, tearing a scorched shirt sleeve away from the skin I know now, but that did not stop him satisfying his curiosity. The bag, still burning, had landed near the wall and Michael immediately went over to look at it.

He and Issa reached the bag at almost the same moment. Ghaled called to Taleb an order to switch off and went to join them. The whole incident had taken only a few seconds, but I noticed that, even before Ghaled’s order to switch off, the pitch of the whining noise had begun to fall.

Taleb came out of the storeroom.

“You saw it work?” he asked.

“I saw it. The bag caught fire.”

He looked across the yard. Issa was stamping out the remaining flames. Ghaled was carefully examining Michael’s wrist

“It was stupid of Mr. Howell to carry it,” said Taleb.

“You’d better tell Comrade Salah that. It was entirely his idea.”

“Oh.” He waited no longer and went out to receive the congratulations and words of praise which were no doubt due to him. From Issa they were effusive, but Ghaled’s were more perfunctory. By then he was more concerned with Michael. Ghaled had for a moment become Sir Galahad, solicitously shepherding a stricken opponent from the field of honour. With me the reaction had set in, and, though I was hating Ghaled totally, I did not find Michael’s brave smile particularly endearing. I made no attempt to return it as they approached.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

“No. Just a bit of a burn.”

“All burns are bad,” said Ghaled severely. “They easily become infected. This must be treated at once.”

You would have thought that I had proposed not treating it at all.

In the storeroom Ghaled ordered Michael to sit down and produced an elaborate first-aid kit. He then proceeded to cut away the scorched shirt sleeve with scissors.

The burn area extended about halfway up the forearm. There was reddening, but it did not look serious to me.

“First degree only,” remarked Ghaled as he examined the arm. “But painful no doubt.”

“Not as bad as it was at first.”

“It must still be treated with care. I did not realize that plastics were so flammable.”

“A lot of substances are if you raise the temperature high enough.”

“Well, I did not realize.”

It was nearly an apology. He busied himself now with pouring water from a jerry can into an enamel washbasin and stirring into it a white powder from the first-aid kit. When it had dissolved he began very gently to swab the bum with the solution.

“Did you know that I was trained as a doctor?” he asked chattily as he worked.

“No, Comrade Salah.”

“Yes, in Cairo. I have practiced as a doctor, too, in my time. And on worse wounds than this, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure of that.”

Taleb came in with Issa and stood watching. Ghaled took no notice of them until he had finished cleaning up the arm. Then he looked at Taleb and nodded toward La Serinette.

“Your masterpiece can be put away now. Comrade Issa knows where it is to be stored. It will be safe there until we conduct the long-range tests.”

“Yes, Comrade Salah.”

The music box was secured in its carrying case and taken away. I saw Michael watching the securing process out of the corner of his eye.

Ghaled had been rummaging in the first-aid box. “The treatment of burns,” he said briskly as he turned again to Michael, “has changed much in recent years. The old remedies, such as tannic acid and gentian violet, are no longer used. In this case penicillin ointment will be the answer.” He looked at me. “Have you an analgesic at home? Codeine, for example?”

“I believe so.”

“Then he may take that. But no alcohol tonight. A warm drink, tea would be suitable, and a barbiturate for sleep. That and the codeine.”

“Very well.”

I watched while he applied the ointment and then strapped on a gauze dressing. It was done neatly and without fuss. I could believe that he had once been trained.

“There,” he said finally. “Is that better?”

“Much, thank you.” Michael dutifully admired the dressing. “What was in the bag, Comrade Salah?” he asked.

“Haven’t you guessed?”

“Some of Issa’s detonators presumably.”

“Of course. With two kilos of high explosive for the detonators to work upon we would have shaken a few windows in Der’a.”

“So I imagine. But what fired the detonators? I heard nothing before they went off.”

Ghaled looked pleased. “No, you would hear nothing. It all worked well, didn’t it?” He considered the arm again. “It should feel easier tomorrow. If it does not, let Issa know. It may be necessary for me to put on a fresh dressing.”

“I’m sure it will be all right.”

“Well, if it is not, you know how to communicate with me.” He paused, and then a strange expression appeared on his lips. It was very like a simper. “I, too, like to play backgammon, Comrade Michael.”

For a moment I could not believe my ears. He was actually asking for an invitation to the villa.

Michael managed to conceal his surprise by beaming fatuously. “I am delighted to hear that, Comrade Salah.”

“And perhaps better than Dr. Hawa. Does he win or do you?”

“I am more lucky than skillful.”

“You would not rely upon luck, I think. Are you a cautious player?”

“Almost never.”

“Good. There is no sport in cautious play. We shall have a good contest. But that is for another day. Now you must go to bed and rest. You have work to do tomorrow.”

“Yes, indeed, on the directive, Comrade Salah.” Michael held up his bandaged arm and again looked at it admiringly. “No hospital could have done better. I am deeply grateful.”

Another simper. “We look after our own, Comrade Michael.”

They were both sickening.

In the car I said: “So much for pressure.”

“What do you mean?” Michael sounded surprised.

“All you get is a burned arm.”

“Nonsense. But for the directive we would not have been there tonight. We would certainly not have witnessed that demonstration. As it is, we at last know what sort of thing it is that we are up against.”

I was too disgusted to argue.

As soon as we got home Michael, in defiance of “doctor’s” orders, poured himself a large brandy. Then, instead of going to bed, he told me to get my book and take notes.

“The weapon that Ghaled intends to use against the Israelis,” he dictated, “is an explosive package consisting of two kilos of high explosive, detonated electrically by a system of remote radio control. The quantity of detonators available to him is in the hundreds. Allowing for wastage, misfires, and the use of two detonators for each package, we must still assume that a large number, fifty or more, of these charges will be placed. It also seems likely that the intention is to explode them simultaneously.”

“How?”

He was thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know much about electronics.”

That was true. It was the main reason for his dislike of the electronic assembly plant. Though it did not make much of a profit it did not lose money. What he hated about it was not knowing exactly how everything they made there worked. Worse, when he asked for explanations, they would usually be given in technical language that he only half understood; and, although he was good at framing his questions in a way that made them sound as if he knew what he was talking about, all he could do with most of the answers was to nod sagely and pretend to be satisfied.

“Who is this Taleb?” I asked.

“The foreman in charge of the Magisch stuff for the army and air force. We knew that Ghaled had an electronics man somewhere in the background. I thought it might be our Iraqi, but Taleb was always a possibility. They’re both German-trained. Tell me what happened after I left with the flight bag. What did they do with that music box?”

I told him.

“You say that the bag exploded almost as soon as the noise started?”

“Yes, but the sound went much higher afterwards.” I gave him an imitation of the whine I had heard.

“I see. Well, I may not know much about electronics, but we can be pretty sure about what’s been built into that old box of tricks.”

“Can we?”

“Isn’t it obvious? First, a high-frequency oscillator with tape antenna. Second, a small generator which can be driven at high speed and full power for a few seconds. That’s done by suddenly disconnecting the ordinary speed governor and bypassing the main gear train. A little dog-clutch would do it. Those things have hefty springs in them. Let one go all out for a moment or two and the torque would be terrific. And a moment or two is all you need. Just long enough for the oscillator signal to trip the relays.”

“The what?”

“Electronic relays wired to the detonators. There was a relay in that flight bag. I saw the remains of it afterwards. It looks like the inside of a small pocket transistor radio — or a burned-up Magisch unit component. I expect we’ll find when we go into it that there are some shortages in that department. Of course, they may not be down as relays on the stock sheets. Taleb may have had to adapt or modify something else to make it work as a relay, but that’s what they would need — a small, simple device that responds to a radio signal by closing a firing circuit.”

“I see.” I did see, dimly.

“Now put this down. Range of system is unknown, but there are some suggestive pointers. Demonstration range was only one hundred meters or so. On the other hand the relay was tripped several seconds before full transmitting power was achieved. What is more, there was a thick concrete wall between the transmitter and the relay. Effective range at full power, with some line-of-sight assistance — e.g. the transmitter operating from a ship at sea to activate relays ashore is probably to be measured in kilometres. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll check the electronic plant stock sheets in the morning for shortages. Then I’ll want a sample or samples of whatever components they’re short of. Taleb mustn’t know, of course.”

“Anything else?”

“Not for the moment. Don’t make any copies of those notes, just the top. I’ll be adding to them, I expect”

“All right Michael, about the directive…”

“Yes, we shall have to think about that But not now, my dear. Now, I think, I really will go to bed.”

“Shall I get you some codeine?”

“Is that the stuff the dentist gave me that time?”

“Yes.”

“It made me feel sick. Aspirin will do.”

When we were in bed I asked a final question.

“Michael, what are those notes for, and why do you want samples of this component?”

I hoped I knew the answer, but he did not give it for a moment Instead, he turned over so that he could rest his bandaged arm outside the sheet.

Then he said slowly: “I think we know enough to make sense now. I think it’s time we stuck our necks out.”