The Levanter

Chapter 7

Michael Howell

June 30 to July 3

I had spent a long time thinking over what I was going to tell Captain Touzani and had rehearsed it carefully. Although I never supposed that he would swallow the story whole — that would have been too much — I had hoped that he would find it politic to pretend to do so. So I did my best to make it easy for him.

It was wasted effort.

He is a barrel-shaped man with muscles like a stevedore and a big, bald head. He seems to wear a permanent and somewhat sarcastic little smile, but this is the result of a bullet through the lower jaw and the scar from the wound. When he really smiles the other side of his mouth moves and he shows his dentures.

He really smiled only once when I saw him in his cabin that morning.

He had rightly concluded that the trouble his ship had experienced in Tripoli had been contrived, but had not been able to discover who had done the contriving or why. Naturally, the failure rankled. Now, he was looking to me for the answers. Unwisely, I gave him the same ones I had given Mr. Mourad.

He shook his head. “I was there, Mr. Howell. I tell you that was a really funny business. Nobody had his hand out, nobody was saying anything, nobody knew anything. Then, suddenly, it was over. All a mistake. A mistake? With nobody having been paid?”

“Somebody was paid, Captain. You may be assured of that. There was a new cog in the machinery. It had been overlooked. Once it was greased, all was well. Let us leave it at that. These things happen.”

I should have been less casual, less impatient to get to the matter I wanted to discuss with him. He became stuffy.

“Yes, Mr. Howell, these things do happen. But now, it seems, they keep happening to this ship, and that I do not like.”

“Keep happening, Captain?”

“Mr. Mourad now informs me that this ship is to carry passengers to Alex.”

I had meant to tell Mr. Mourad to keep quiet about the passengers and leave me to break the news gently, but I had forgotten. There had been too many other things on my mind.

“That is the main reason I am here to see you, Captain. About the passengers.”

“I was wondering why I had been honoured, Mr. Howell. I had thought that perhaps it was because of Tripoli.”

“Let’s forget about Tripoli, Captain. I need your help in a rather delicate matter. It concerns these passengers Mr. Mourad has mentioned. What he did not tell you, because he doesn’t yet know, is that I will be one of them.”

He had small brown eyes. For the next few minutes they never left mine for an instant.

“That is indeed a surprise,” he said coldly, “although, of course, a very gratifying one. A voyage of inspection, I presume.”

I sighed. “Captain, I don’t make voyages of inspection, as you very well know. I said that I needed your help and I meant it.”

“I’m sorry if I offend you, Mr. Howell, but after Tripoli…”

“And I asked you to forget about Tripoli. That’s over and done with. This has absolutely nothing to do with it” His cabin was a hot-box. I mopped my forehead.

“A drink instead of that coffee, Mr. Howell. I have some beer on ice.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.”

But he still didn’t take his eyes off me, even while he was pouring the beer. I waited until he was back in his chair and then said my piece.

“Even though you don’t live in this country, you must be familiar, Captain, with the political situation. In particular you must be aware of the close but covert relationships which exist between some agencies of the government and the Palestinian liberation factions.”

He nodded.

“Those agencies are powerful and have considerable influence in high places. No ministry, no minister is wholly immune from their pressure. With its considerable involvement in government-backed co-operatives, neither is the Agence Howell immune. You follow me?”

Again he nodded.

“So then, when we are asked by a certain agency to carry four passengers on a Howell ship bound for Alex, and also to arrange that during the voyage the ship departs slightly from her normal routing, I do not instantly refuse. I think first of the consequences of refusal. I don’t have to tell you, Captain, that they would be unpleasant.”

“They dare to threaten you?”

“There is no daring involved, Captain. They can threaten with impunity, and carry out their threats, too. I told you. Not even ministers are immune.”

“Dogs.”

“But with sharp teeth. When I raise objections — as, when I tell you what is required, you may do — I am insulted. When I persist, when I tell them that no captain of mine is going to take their orders, they make a further demand. So, you have five passengers instead of four. I am supposed to give you their orders and see personally that they are carried out.”

He started to speak but I stopped him.

“No, Captain, don’t say it. There is no need. The only orders you will ever get from me are those that the representative of a ship’s owner is properly entitled to give. I might make certain requests, but that is all they would be — requests that can be granted or refused at your discretion. That is understood.”

He took a swallow of beer. “What do they want, Mr. Howell?”

I took the chart from my briefcase and spread it out before him.

“That’s what they want.”

He stared at it a long time. It was a relief to have him staring at something other than me.

I had expected an explosion of some sort, but none came. When at last he spoke it was to ask a question.

“Why six knots?”

I gave him what I thought was the safe answer. “I don’t know, Captain. I assume — only assume, because I have not been told — that there is to be a rendezvous with a vessel from the Israeli coast.”

“To take off the passengers?”

“I don’t know.”

“To take on others from the shore?”

I shrugged my lack of knowledge.

“Mr. Howell, if the intention were a rendezvous with a boat from shore, surely a position for the rendezvous would be indicated. There is nothing like that here. Instead, we are asked to steam at six knots for almost two hours.”

“Those are the orders as I was given them.”

He reached for his beer again. “Who are these passengers?”

“Palestinian fedayeen. That much is certain. The name of the leader was given as Yassin. He is said to be an important man.”

“Will these passengers be armed?”

“Probably.”

“Will they be carrying other arms — arms to be put ashore?”

“Nothing was said about that.”

There was a silence, then the brown eyes studied me again.

“You spoke of certain requests that you might make, Mr. Howell. What would they be?”

“First, that you make the course change indicated on the chart as far as the turn opposite Caesarea. Second, that, except for the slowdown to six knots, you ignore the rest of the orders and steer a course along the Israeli coast which will keep you not less than ten miles from it. No closer at any time. Third, that you do this without informing the passengers.”

“Making them miss this rendezvous you spoke of?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought you said these dogs had teeth.”

“With luck they’ll believe that the shore boat was at fault. Anyway I’ll worry about that later. Let’s just say that I don’t like being ordered about by thugs and having to impose on the loyalty of Captain Touzani.”

He thought and then nodded. “All right, Mr. Howell. I won’t refuse those requests. I can’t say that I’m happy about the third one though, not informing the passengers. If there’s a seaman among them and he knows what the original orders were, he’ll know soon enough when they aren’t carried out.”

“I don’t think any of them will be a seaman, but as a matter of interest what arms do you carry?”

“A few handguns, one rifle. The first mate has charge of the locker key.”

“Would you consider issuing the handguns to the officers or having them available on the bridge?”

“In an emergency I’d consider that, Mr. Howell. This is not another request you’re making, is it?”

“Only a suggestion, Captain.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.” He emptied his glass and then put it down carefully in the middle of the chart. “To speak plainly, Mr. Howell,” he said slowly, “I don’t think you’re telling me all you know about this business. I’m not offended. Don’t think that. I respected your father and I respect you. If you’re not being open with me now I’m prepared to believe that it’s because you think that the less I know the better off I’ll be.”

“Thank you, Captain.” It was the least I could say.

It was then that he really smiled, briefly though.

“But,” he went on, “if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Howell, when it comes to dealing with the kind of men you call thugs, it’s a mistake to let feelings get the better of you. I mean feelings like not wanting to be ordered about by people you despise. Naturally, a man has his pride and the Howells are a proud family, but if what you’re asking me to do is just to satisfy pride, I’d advise you, for your own sake, to think again.”

Arrogance was Ghaled’s word for it. Captain Touzani was politer — pride.

“Good advice, Captain,” I said. “I wish I could take it. But there’s more than pique or personal pride involved here.”

“I’m glad of that, Mr. Howell. Pride is a bad counsellor.” He fingered the scar by his mouth. “I speak from experience. Another beer?”

“Thank you. Perhaps we should talk about accommodation for these passengers, or rather the lack of it.”

“You will have my sleeping cabin.”

“That is good of you, but I don’t think I’ll be doing much sleeping. It’s these four Palestinians I’m concerned about. If possible I would like their leader, Yassin, to be given a temporary cabin of some sort amidships and have the other three forward or aft. It might become necessary to isolate them.”

“I will try to think of something, Mr. Howell.”

“Good. Now, about embarkation and sailing. What will your orders be?”

We discussed those and one or two other matters before I said good-bye to Captain Touzani.

My call on Mr. Mourad was brief.

After the coffee had been served I handed him the passenger list for the Amalia Howell.

When he saw my name on it he hawked twice into his bandanna, but made no other direct comment. Perhaps, for once, words failed him. With his “Bon voyage, Mr. Howell” when I left, he washed his hands of me.

On the evening of July the first I reported to Ghaled at the battery works. It was the last occasion on which I was to do so.

That was when I heard about the “mishap.”

Issa and Taleb were both with Ghaled when I arrived, and some sort of emergency meeting seemed to be in progress.

“But if we worked through the night, Comrade Salah,” Issa was saying, “we could make good part of the loss at least and begin delivery tomorrow. With Taleb to help me I can. .”

“No!” Ghaled cut him short decisively. “You must learn this, Comrade Issa. When we plan we make provision for things going wrong, for misfortunes and mistakes. That is what planning is for. So that when a setback occurs we can accept and absorb it. It is when hasty improvisations are made that trouble starts. Unacceptable risks are taken and a small misfortune is allowed to become the cause of major disaster.”

“But Comrade Salah. . ”

“No more argument. You can make your replacements for future use, but there will be no last-minute foolishness on this operation. That is all, comrades.”

They left. I got a weak smile from Taleb, but Issa ignored me. He looked very tired and close to tears.

Ghaled motioned me to sit down.

“A minor mishap,” he explained to me. “Two days ago, we have just heard, a hundred detonators were lost on the other side. Because he was the one who made them, poor Comrade Issa is naturally upset. What he forgets is that we made five hundred, and not merely three hundred, so that we could well afford to lose some. It is a pity, but I am not prepared to risk valuable couriers to send in replacements which would probably arrive too late for current use and are, in any case, not needed.”

“The need being governed by the number of flight bags available and the manpower to distribute them?”

I wasn’t really interested. If more detonators were not needed, that, as far as I was then concerned, seemed to be that. I could not know that what I had just heard in that room had been the sealing of my own fate.

“Exactly, Comrade Michael. You are always quick to take a point. Meanwhile I have good news for you. The schooner engine has been tested and is now in excellent running order.”

“I am glad, Comrade Salah. My own news is also favourable. Embarkation is still fixed for tomorrow at four in the afternoon. By then most of the cargo handling should have been completed. We sail early the following morning. There should be no difficulty after that in keeping to the timetable.’’

“The Tunisian is giving no trouble?”

“I will be at his elbow to see that he does as he is told. The arrangements for embarkation are typed on this paper.” I handed it to him. “The agents are Mourad and Company. We assemble at four in their office to the Rue du Port. The ship is lying at the East Quay by number seven warehouse. The agents will take us to the ship and attend to the formalities.”

“That is satisfactory.”

“There remains the question of transport to Latakia, Comrade Salah, for you and your” — I fumbled slightly — ”for you and the other comrades.”

“The front-fighters are already to our Latakia safe house waiting. I myself will join them there later tonight.”

“You have transport arranged?”

“Everything is now arranged. All you have to do now, Comrade Michael, is to report to me yourself tomorrow at this Mourad office.”

“Very well, Comrade Salah. If I may offer a suggestion?”

“Go on.”

“Neither Captain Touzani nor the Mourad office is aware of your identity.”

“What of it?”

“In that office and on board the ship we shall be among strangers. The use of a more discreet form of address might be advisable.”

“Discreet?”

“Mr. Yassin would not excite my curiosity. Comrade Salah might.”

“What are the ship’s crew? Arabs?”

“Mostly Greek Cypriots, but they speak a little coast Arabic, enough to understand.”

“Very well. From tomorrow we shall play at being civilians again. I will give the necessary orders.”

I stood up to go.

“One more task, Comrade Michael.”

“Certainly.”

“Bring a bottle of brandy with you. No, wait! Bring two bottles.”

“With pleasure, Comrade Salah.”

“We must be able to celebrate our victory.”

I won’t pretend that I did not sleep that night, but I had to take pills to make sure of doing so. If I had had any tranquillizers I would have taken those, too. I felt as if I were at school again with the threat of a beating hanging over me; no worse than that, true, but at my age it was a peculiar feeling to have.

In the morning I worked for a time with the clerk and then packed a two-night bag. That, I thought, would do me until I got to Alex — if I got to Alex. What might happen after that did not just then interest me.

I had borrowed a driver from the tile factory transport pool, who would return my car to the villa, and reached Mourad’s office in Latakia at three thirty. Mr. Mourad was out, and I found the task of dealing with the Amalia’s passengers had been delegated to his assistant. The old man clearly wanted nothing to do with us.

Ghaled arrived punctually at four. He came, sitting beside the driver, in an ancient Citröen van with the Serinette in its carrying case resting on his knees. He would let no one else touch it when he got out. He was wearing his white shirt and the tie.

The “front-fighters” were unimpressive. The senior of the trio, the one to whom Ghaled gave his orders, was, according to the passenger list, Aziz Faysal He wore a crumpled suit, brown with black stripes, and a blue Koffiyeh. The others, Hanna and Amgad, wore Koffiyehs too, but had no suits, only khaki work trousers and grubby singlets. All three were youngish men with something oddly similar about their faces and physique. I knew from the names that they couldn’t be brothers, and it took me a minute or two to identify the common factor. Consciously, or more probably unconsciously, Ghaled had chosen for his personal bodyguard younger men of his own physical type, earlier versions of himself.

In addition to the Serinette there were four pieces of baggage in the van. One of them, an old leather suitcase, belonged to Ghaled. Aziz carried that, along with a canvas hold-all of his own. I knew that there must be arms and ammunition as well as clothing in the bags, and wondered if the customs people had been squared.

They had. Mourad’s assistant took us in the office panel truck to the ship, and we weren’t stopped once. There was no customs examination. We were not even asked to show our papers.

The Amalla Howell was built in a Dutch yard in the late thirties. We bought her in 1959 and since then she has had two complete refits. Still, she does look her age. When we got out of the track on the quayside and Ghaled saw her for the first time, he stopped short and put down the Serinette.

“That is the ship?”

“Yes, Mr. Yassin.”

“But it is old and filthy. The paint is coming off. It cannot be seaworthy.”

“She is perfectly seaworthy, and the crew have been chipping off the old paint You can’t judge by outward appearances, Mr. Yassin.”

“You said that the Amalia looked like that model in your office.”

“She does.”

“Not to me.”

“Models don’t go to sea,” I said shortly and walked away. He followed after a moment.

Mourad’s assistant was waiting at the gangplank. I told him that he would not be needed any more and led the way on board.

They were still working cargo on the after well-deck but the first mate, Patsalides, had been warned of our arrival and came forward to receive us, or, rather, to greet me. He merely glanced at the rest.

“The Captain asks that you take your party to the saloon, Mr. Howell. The baggage can be left here for the time being.”

Although he could speak some Arabic he used Greek now. I translated to Ghaled.

“We will keep our baggage with us,” he announced firmly.

I could have done without that. Patsalides understood, of course, and his mouth tightened, but he glanced at me for guidance instead of responding as he would have liked to.

“That’s all right, Mr. Patsalides,” I said hastily. “I can see you’re busy. I know the way.”

The saloon was immediately below the bridge and at the end of the alleyway serving the officers’ cabins. It wasn’t much of a place, I admit; just functional.

On one side was the table where the officers took their meals, on the other were some scruffy armchairs and a recently recovered leatherette sofa. There was a door to the galley and a second door opened onto a narrow strip of covered deck. From there an iron companionway led up to the bridge. Inside, the smells of cooking oil and stale cigarette butts mingled with that of the new leatherette.

Ghaled looked about him as if he had been used to better things.

“A little different from the Howell villa,” he observed. “I see you don’t believe in pampering your officers.”

The comment irritated me. “They don’t have to be pampered, Mr. Yassin.”

I didn’t wait to see how he took the suggestion that front-fighters did have to be pampered; I went in search of the captain. I found him on the starboard wing of the bridge looking down at the quay.

“In the saloon?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Which is Mr. Yassin?”

The one in the white shirt How much have you told Mr. Patsalides, Captain?”

“That they are fedayeen and that we are to be cautious in dealing with them for the present. I could scarcely tell him less.”

“No. I am interested in their baggage, Captain. Not that strange-looking case with Yassin, I know what’s in that, but their other baggage. I’d like to know what arms they have with them.”

“So would I, Mr. Howell.”

“Do you think Patsalides could organize a discreet search? Perhaps while we are at the evening meal?”

“I think so. I have arranged for a cabin for Yassin, as you asked. The other three will be in the special compartment aft.”

There had been a time, before it became strictly illegal, when the Agence Howell had done a little business, mainly with American dealers acting for museums, in newly excavated Greco-Roman antiquities. The dealers said what they wanted; we had it shipped out of the area in which it had been found. Hence the special compartments.

“I had forgotten you had one.”

“We still find uses for it occasionally.” His expression was bland. “They will not be too uncomfortable. They can sleep on palliasses.”

“What kind of door is there on the compartment?”

“It has a clip that is very difficult to move, unless you know how, and can also be padlocked. Perhaps I should now go below and introduce myself.”

I had not been wrong in choosing Captain Touzani. It was almost a pleasure to introduce him to Ghaled.

“Mr. Salah Yassin, Captain Touzani.”

They nodded, eying one another; two very different Arabs.

“And Mr. Aziz Faysal.”

More nods. I didn’t bother with the other two.

Captain Touzani smiled expansively. “Gentlemen, you are all most welcome aboard this ship. Mr. Howell will have told you that we do not normally carry passengers, so the accommodation I can offer you is limited. However, the second officer has offered to share another cabin until we reach Alexandria. His berth is therefore available to Mr. Yassin. Mr. Howell as owner will naturally berth with me. The other gentlemen will be accommodated aft.” He pressed a bell-push. “The steward, Kyprianou, will show you where to go. Meals will be taken here. There will be separate sittings for passengers at times of which you will be told. I must ask you to observe certain rules. The bridge is strictly out of bounds to passengers at all times. You may walk anywhere on the main deck, that is the one below this.”

The steward, a dirty little man in a clean white jacket, had come through the galley door in answer to the bell.

The captain pointed Ghaled out to him. “This is Mr. Yassin, Kyprianou,” he said in Greek. “Show him and his companions to their quarters.”

Ghaled was glaring at the captain. Clearly he hadn’t liked being told what he could and could not do, but he wasn’t quite sure how to go about registering his displeasure.

Touzani looked him straight in the eye. “The weather forecasts are good, Mr. Yassin. I see no reason why we should not have a smooth and pleasant journey.”

Then he turned and went back up to the bridge.

We sailed shortly after dawn.

I had dozed fitfully on a couch in Captain Touzani’s office cabin. The results of the baggage search the previous evening had not been reassuring.

The front-fighters each had machine pistols. Ghaled had in his case, in addition to a new black suit, a Stechkin automatic in a webbing holster and a small transistor walkie-talkie set.

It was this set that worried me. When Patsalides told me about it I immediately asked if he didn’t mean a pair of walkie-talkie sets. That’s what I hoped he had meant, but he shook his head.

“No, Mr. Howell, just one.”

When he had left us Touzani looked at me curiously. “Why should you mind about this set? If he has one that only means that someone on the boat coming from the shore has the other.”

“Yes.”

“What difference does it make? You can’t use those things as direction finders, at least not effectively. A boat from the shore would be looking for our lights.”

I didn’t tell him what I was worrying about was not a boat from the shore, but Hadaya from the sea. It looked as if Ghaled intended to control and coordinate the whole operation from the Amalia.

I should have worried more about that walkie-talkie, seen the danger it really represented and so been better prepared to counter it. The trouble was that in my own mind at that moment I was quite certain that I knew what the Israelis were going to do. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part; I had been using the ship’s radio.

As soon as we had left Syrian waters that morning I had begun sending messages to Famagusta, a series of three. They could not be explicit; I had to wrap everything up in commercial jargon; but they made and remade three points.

First: that the information previously furnished had been found to be incomplete and that two ships were now involved in the transaction.

Second: that modifications to the announced routing would have to be made.

Third: that, as a consequence, the steps to be taken already discussed should be taken not later than 21:15 hours in order to be effective.

They had been difficult messages to compose and one of them read like gibberish. The ship’s radio operator had given me some odd looks. But I didn’t care what he thought. From the fact that all three messages had been acknowledged without the bewildered demands for clarification that might have been expected, I concluded, rightly, that they were getting through to Barlev, and that my mad cable from Damascus had had the desired effect of alerting him. The final acknowledgment added what I took to be a personal assurance from him. Famagusta said that they would “proceed as planned”.

To me that meant that the interception was going to be off Caesarea at 21:15 that evening. I felt that all I had to do now was wait.

Ghaled had kept to his cabin most of the day. The front-fighters preferred the deck — understandably, since the special compartment had no porthole. I stayed in the captain’s quarters aft of the bridge until the late afternoon. This was with Ghaled’s approval; I was supposed to be keeping an eye on the ship’s progress. But around about five o’clock a message came, brought by Kyprianou the steward, that I was to report to him in his cabin.

With the message Kyprianou brought additional information. “Mr. Yassin is armed,” he said dramatically.

“Oh.”

“He is wearing his pistol on a belt, sir.”

“I see.”

“Shall I tell him to take it off, sir?”

“No, Kyprianou, it is perfectly all right.”

He seemed disappointed. Touzani, who had been listening, added a further caution.

“You will pretend not to have seen the pistol. Just get on with your work in the ordinary way.” He dismissed the steward. To me he said: “When you get back, Mr. Howell, it may be as well if we have a little talk.”

I nodded and went down to see Ghaled.

He was sitting at the small cabin desk writing, and I stood in the doorway for several seconds before he turned.

“Ah, Comrade Michael. There was a small task I gave you on the day before we left.”

“Task, Comrade Salah?”

“Two bottles of brandy.”

“Oh yes. For the celebration. Would you like them now?”

“I would like one. And bring two glasses with you from the saloon.”

I had to go back up to the captain’s quarters to fetch the bottle. He watched in silence while I got it out of my bag. It was an eloquent silence. I would have preferred some spoken comment.

When I returned to Ghaled he had some papers in his hand.

“Sit down, Comrade Michael.”

As he had the only chair I sat on the bunk beside the Serinette.

“You can open the bottle? Good. Then pour two drinks and let us talk about the future. We arrive in Alexandria tomorrow at what time?”

“Early afternoon I expect, Comrade Salah, but with the course changes ahead it is difficult to say exactly.”

“My arrival will be kept secret, of course. It must not be known how I have arrived. The press conference I hold will be in Cairo.”

“Is that already organized?”

“Everything is organized.” He gave me a sheet of paper with mimeographed typing on it. “That is the preliminary statement in English which will be issued to the international news agencies in Beirut as soon as the first reports of our attack begin coming in.”

The paper was headed Palestinian Action Force Information Service and datelined Beirut, July 4. The statement began:

At approximately 22:00 hrs. yesterday July 3, troops of the Palestinian Action Force under the personal command of their leader, Salah Ghaled, launched the most devastating attack yet seen on the Zionist pseudo-state of Israel. The target selected was that citadel of Zionist expansionism, Tel Aviv. Massive bombardments by both land and sea forces of the PAF, though directed primarily at military installations in the area, are believed to have caused some civilian casualties. In a statement following the attack, PAF leader Salah Ghaled said that, while such casualties were regretted, he could not allow the presence of so-called innocent bystanders to influence PAF war policy. “While we Palestinians must still fight for justice,” he said, “no bystanders are innocent. In the Palestinian liberation movement there have been too many words and too few deeds. With this offensive the PAF, representing the new militant leadership of all Palestinian forces, begins the march to victory and ultimate justice.”

There was more of the same — Melanie Hammad’s work obviously — but I only pretended to read it.

“It is good English, Comrade Michael?” he asked anxiously. “I can read English a little but not very well.”

‘’Yes, it is to good English.” I knew that there would be one question expected of me and that I had better ask it quickly.

“It says here, Comrade Salah, that there will be a bombardment from the sea. Can that be correct?”

He smiled contentedly. That is a surprise that I have been keeping for you. Fill our glasses again.”

So then he told me about the Jeble 5 attack.

I made the appropriate sounds of delight and amazement. In a way, he had made my task a little easier, because now I did not have to maintain quite so much of a pretence with him. On the other hand, I now had more to conceal from Captain Touzani. Instead of my own surmises and deductions to keep quiet about — and they just could have been mistaken — I had confirmed information to withhold. I would have to be careful when we had our “little talk”.

The problem now was to get away from Ghaled. All he wanted to do was talk about Cairo and the reception he expected there. Last time it had been cold. This time it would be very different. He was looking forward to seeing Yasir Arafat’s face as they embraced for the photographers. He had been making notes of some of the questions the reporters would most likely ask him and preparing his replies.

I had to listen to them. He went on and on. After the third brandy I said that I must go and make arrangements for that evening.

“What arrangements?”

“The first course change will be made at eight o’clock. When I am sure that all is well I think that we should have our meal, Comrade Salah, so that we are all ready for the next change at nine fifteen off Caesarea. I imagine the Jeble 5 will be joining us soon after.”

“Yes, you have work to do. Very well, go.”

When I left he was pouring his fourth brandy.

Captain Touzani was drinking beer and not looking as though he was enjoying it.

“So,” he said, “our armed passenger is now busy getting drunk, Mr. Howell. As captain of this ship you cannot expect me to be pleased.”

“He doesn’t get very drunk. He gets nastier, but not drunk. I don’t expect you to be pleased.”

“But you have no change of plan to propose.”

“None that we haven’t already discussed.”

“I take it, then, that you want me to issue arms to the watch officers.”

“Yes. And when Yassin and the rest of the passengers go to the saloon to eat I would like the special compartment door locked. There’s nothing we can do about Yassin’s automatic, but we don’t want the others armed as well.”

“They may be already armed.”

“No. I checked. They’re on deck forward, smoking.”

“When they find the door locked they won’t like it.”

“Maybe they won’t find out.” I was still banking on the Caesarea interception.

“You mean they won’t be going to sleep tonight?” The brown eyes were watching me intently.

“I mean that I expect the situation to change in our favour, Captain.”

There was a long silence before he said: “I do hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Howell.”

“I think I do, Captain.”

When we made the first course change the sun was low in the sky. As soon as we were on the new heading I went down to the saloon and reported the fact to Ghaled. He didn’t seem very interested. He must have gone on drinking steadily after I had left him. I sat down next to Aziz and forced myself to eat. Kyprianou gave me disapproving looks; I was not conducting myself as an owner should. As soon as I reasonably could I left the saloon and went back to the bridge again.

Touzani had posted an extra man at the top of the companionway. Patsalides was on watch. They both had large revolvers stuck in their belts and were obviously self-conscious about them. They pretended not to see me.

Touzani was in his office. He carried his revolver in his right-hand trouser pocket. He had been staring out of the porthole when I came in, but now he turned.

He motioned toward the darkness with his hand, “There’s another ship out there,” he said. “She crossed astern of us a while back. Had the sunset behind her. A Syrian schooner motoring on her engine.”

I sat down but said nothing.

“She wouldn’t be the ship we’re going to rendezvous with, would she?”

“Why do you ask?”

“When we change next time we’ll be on convergent courses. I ask because she’s running without lights.”

“She can see our lights. I think you’ll find she'll stay clear.”

“No rendezvous?”

“Not with her.”

“Your orders are still the same, Mr. Howell?”

“My requests are, yes. Slow to six knots but stay ten miles offshore.”

“Very well.”

He left me and went to the wheelhouse. He was displeased with me and I didn’t blame him. I was displeased with myself. He was trusting me and I should have confided in him. But it was too late now. I had begun to watch the clock.

Nine o’clock came and went. Then it was nine fifteen. From the bridge I could hear the change being made. Patsalides rang down to the engine room for half ahead and then revolutions for six knots. The course change called for by Hadaya had been eleven degrees to starboard. Touzani ordered a change of fifteen. From that point on until he corrected again we would be moving away from the coast. After he had corrected we would be nowhere near territorial waters.

I had no idea what from a patrol boat interception would take. I presumed some form of flashing light signal — ”What ship is that?” — followed by an order to heave to. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I just stood by the porthole with my eyes glued to the darkness outside waiting for something to happen. I waited and waited.

I was still waiting when Captain Touzani returned to the cabin. He had a radio message form in his hand and he was clearly furious.

“Mr. Howell, a radio message has just been received. It is in English and for you.” He thrust it under my nose.

It was addressed: M. V. AMALIA HOWELL FOR M. HOWELL,

It read: EMERGENCY PROCEDURE. STEER 170 DEGREES REPEAT 170. YOU ARE CLEARED FOR ASHDOD.

It was signed: COAST GUARD HADERA

At least they hadn’t forgotten me. I looked up into the angry brown eyes of Captain Touzani.

“It may be addressed to you, Mr. Howell,” he said deliberately, “but I want to know what it means. I demand an explanation.”

What it meant was that the radio warnings that I had sent earlier had not been fully understood, but I could scarcely tell him that.

“May we look at the chart, Captain?”

“All right. But I still want an explanation. I still want to know why, in my ship, you are getting navigational instructions from an Israeli coast guard station, and why we are cleared for an Israeli port for which we are not bound.”

“Show me this course on the chart, please.”

We went through to the wheelhouse and he laid a ruler across the chart to show me.

“There’s one-seven-oh.”

“On that course what would be our distance from Tel Aviv when we passed it?”

“Six miles about.”

“What is our present course?”

“One-nine-two.”

“Will you please radio back to Hadera? Say, please, in my name, that we are not, repeat not, able to carry out this emergency procedure, and that we are compelled, use that word, to maintain course one-nine-two.”

“First, I want that explanation.”

“We are trying to keep out of trouble, and keep a lot of other people out of trouble as well. That’s all the explaining I can do now, Captain. Kindly send the message and mark it Urgent For Action.”

He started to argue but I cut him short.

“This is an order, Captain Touzani, and I can assure you that it is a proper order from an owner to a captain.”

“I’d like to be the judge of that.”

“You will be, but just now you’ll have to let me be the judge. Send the message please.”

I left him before he could say any more. I had to think. The coast guard message could only have been dictated by Barlev’s people in Tel Aviv and therefore was intended to have a special meaning for me. Since they had not understood my references to a second ship they were now saying one of two things. The first was that they were still unwilling to intercept the Amalia far outside territorial waters and still asking me to make things easier for them. The second. .

But I never really had time to think that one through. Something else distracted me.

The saloon door that gave on to the deck was held ajar by a catch, so that I was halfway down the companionway when I first heard it; a scratching noise and then, suddenly, very loudly, a voice.

I stopped and looked through the porthole.

Ghaled and the front-fighters were gathered around the walkie-talkie, and the voice coming out of it was Hadaya’s.

I admit that I do not like recalling what happened during the next hour, but so much has been said, left unsaid, or half-said, or insinuated, that I must.

The range of those walkie-talkie things varies. That one I would guess was effective up to just over a mile. As Hadaya was over two nautical miles away then, we could not hear him very plainly at first.

There was sudden fading and then bursts of sound like the one I had heard from outside.

But his meaning was plain enough even then, and became plainer as the distance between the two sets decreased.

Ghaled looked up angrily as I came in. “You heard that?” he demanded.

“Was that Hadaya’s voice, Comrade Salah?”

“It was. We are speaking to him on the Jeble 5. He says that we are off-course.”

You didn’t tell Ghaled he was talking nonsense, but I had the presence of mind to do the next best thing — make him suspect that he was.

“Comrade Salah, I have just come down from the bridge to tell you that the ship is now on course.”

“Now? Why not before?”

“In a car, when one takes a corner, one turns the wheel and then straightens up. It is the same at sea. But we are not in a car, or a rowboat. This is a ship and, at the moment, a slow-moving one. It takes time to turn and time to straighten up. Hadaya knows all this.”

“He also says that we are out of position.”

“With respect, Comrade Salah, that is not possible.”

There was another faint squawk from the walkie-talkie. Hadaya said something about taking bearings and getting fixes. Ghaled did not understand it and I was glad to ignore it.

“You admitted yourself,” he said accusingly, “that Hadaya is competent.”

“I did, and I am sure he is, in port. However, he must be under some strain at present and perhaps overexcited. Has he been in action as a front-fighter before, Comrade Salah?”

“No, but all he has to do is steer to the right place. He does not have to fire a shot himself.”

“He has the responsibility and is already in a position of danger. Perhaps he knows it.”

“What danger?”

“Captain Touzani sighted the Jeble 5 at sundown. She was running without lights, and on a collision course with this ship. What looks easy on the chart isn’t always so easy when one is at sea and in darkness. Even the most competent officers can become confused.”

“Hadaya can see our lights, and he says that we are out of position.”

In Latalda, Touzani had asked if there would be a seaman among the passengers on board and I had told him there would not be. But Hadaya was a seaman and with that damned walkie-talkie he was as good as on board. What was more, his voice was rapidly becoming clearer with less fading. All I could do now was try to bluff, confuse, and play for time.

“Please ask him what course we are steering, Comrade Salah.”

Ghaled pressed the transmit button and repeated the question.

A moment late the reply came back. “Amalia’s course and ours is now one-nine-two, but…”

I tried to drown the rest. “Comrade Salah, that is the course called for in your instructions.”

“Let him finish.” To Hadaya he said: “Repeat that.”

“We are on the right course but too far west.”

“How can that be?”

“After the turn to starboard Amalia delayed too long before correcting. By my dead reckoning we are at least two miles west of where we should be.”

“That is impossible,” I protested. “Captain Touzani is a skilled navigator with modern instruments at his disposal. Hadaya must be mistaken.”

Ghaled pressed the button. “Comrade Michael says that you’re mistaken. What do you say?”

“In a few minutes I should be able to take bearings on the Hadera and Tel Aviv lights marked on the chart. We will know then who is mistaken.”

“How many minutes?”

“I could send a man to a masthead now, but I would sooner take the bearings myself. Give me five minutes, please, Comrade Salah.”

“Very well.”

Ghaled looked at his watch and then broodingly at me.

“I want to speak to this Tunisian of yours.”

“On the bridge, Comrade Salah?”

“No, here. Send for him.”

I rang the bell for Kyprianou. When he appeared I said: “A message for the Captain. My compliments and would he please come down to the saloon.” I was speaking in Greek and I added: “Tell the Captain that this is a request that he should ignore and that the whole crew should be warned to expect trouble.”

He gave me a startled look and hurried out.

Ghaled turned to Aziz. “If this Tunisian has not carried out Comrade Michael’s orders, we must see that he obeys ours. Arm yourselves.”

“Yes, Comrade Salah.”

They went aft along the alleyway.

It was a bad moment for me. The people on the bridge were armed and the rest of the crew would be alerted. Ghaled was also armed, true, but the odds, I thought, were in the ship’s favour. They were not, however, in mine. So far Ghaled had appeared to trust me. We had had our cosy little drinking session in his cabin. Not even Hadaya’s awkward revelations had seemed to cast doubts on my good faith. If the ship wasn’t where she should be it was “the Tunisian” who was to blame, not Comrade Michael But at any moment now that was all likely to change. Ghaled might be ignorant on the subject of navigation, but he would know what a locked door meant. It meant that the Tunisian was being deliberately obstructive and committing hostile acts. And who was he taking his orders from? Me.

I started to talk my way out of the danger zone. “If the ship is a little out of position, Comrade Salah, that is not really very serious. The mistake can easily be rectified. Even at six knots we can make a two mile change of position well before zero hour. Hadaya is overanxious, that is all. Perhaps I am, too, now that we are really going into action. I am certainly getting forgetful I meant to bring the second bottle of brandy with me when I came down. If you will excuse me a moment, I will go back and get it.”

He glanced at his watch again. I think that he was going to let me go for the brandy, but just then Captain Touzani came into the saloon.

I know now why he came. In spite of my suggestion that he stay put, he was afraid that the message about alerting the crew meant that I was in trouble over the special compartment door. He came to help me out Very generous after the way I had treated him, but it really would have been better if he had stayed on the bridge.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Howell?” he asked.

I had no chance to reply.

“I want to see you,” snapped Ghaled.

As he said it there was a pounding of feet in the alleyway and Aziz burst in.

“Comrade Salah! We cannot arm ourselves. We are locked out of our room.” Then he saw the captain and pointed an accusing finger. “He has locked the room against us!”

Touzani smiled. “Nonsense, Mr. Faysal. That compartment is normally kept locked. I expect that the boatswain locked it without thinking when he was on his rounds. I’ll give orders to have it opened.”

“At once, please, Captain,” said Ghaled, and I saw him as he said it release the flap of his pistol holster.

“By all means, Mr. Yassin.”

Touzani had started to turn away when Hadaya’s voice suddenly came through loud and shrill over the walkie-talkie.

“Comrade Salah! Comrade Salah!”

Ghaled reached for the transmit button.

“Yes?”

“Comrade Salah, I have taken bearings on the Hadera and Tel Aviv lights. We are three miles out of position, over ten miles offshore. Ten miles! On our present course we will be completely out of range.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain. We must immediately turn to port and steer one-six-oh. Immediately, Comrade Salah!”

Ghaled stared at Touzani. “You hear that?”

Touzani stared back mulishly. “I hear a voice, Mr. Yassin. I do not know whose voice, but he is talking rubbish. Do you think I don’t know my own position?”

“I think you know your position very well. That is why you are going to obey my orders from now on.”

Hadaya’s voice came bleating in again. “Steer one-six-oh, Comrade Salah. Immediately.”

“And that’s my first order,” continued Ghaled. “You hear? Then obey.”

“I’m not running my ship aground to please you, Mr. Yassin.”

“She is no longer your ship. I have taken command. You hear?”

“I hear,” said Captain Touzani, and went for his revolver.

It was in his trouser pocket and the hammer caught in the lining. He was still trying to free it when Ghaled shot him.

The heavy bullet knocked him backward against a chair. The chair went over and he with it, sprawling on the linoleum.

Ghaled shoved the automatic into Aziz’s hand. “Up to the bridge,” he snapped. “Take charge at once. Order the new course.” He turned to me. “You go with them. Make sure the order is obeyed properly. Look at the compass yourself. Course one-six-oh. Move now!”

He went quickly along the alleyway to his cabin.

Aziz and the other two were already out on the deck and making for the bridge companionway, Aziz in the lead with the automatic. As he started up the companionway there was a sharp crack and I saw him swing around, clutching at the rail.

It was Patsalides firing down from the bridge. He had heard the shot in the saloon and was taking no chances. If the front-fighters had had their machine pistols it might have been a different story, but now they had to take cover by the companionway while the wounded Aziz sniped up at the bridge with the automatic.

I went to Captain Touzani.

Because he had half-turned when he tried to draw the revolver, Ghaled’s bullet had smashed through his left arm and into his side. The blood was spreading on his shirt but more of it seemed to be coming from his arm. With the uninjured one he was still trying to get the revolver out of his pocket.

I got it out for him, but kept hold of it.

He began swearing and tried to sit up. I told him to save his breath and lie still.

Then I went along the alleyway to Ghaled’s cabin.

He had the Serinette out of its case and was setting it up on the desk The tape antenna was already extended by the open porthole.

He heard me and turned.

“I told you to go up to the bridge.”

“Comrade Salah,” I said, “nobody can go up to the bridge.”

And then I fired at the Serinette.

I fired three shots from the revolver.

All were aimed at the music box, the Serinette.

I then went back to the saloon.

There, for a moment, I didn’t quite know what had happened. When they had gone out to attack the bridge, the front-fighters had left the saloon door wide open. Now there was a blinding blue-white light blazing through it. It was the approaching patrol boat’s searchlight, but when I realized that I paid it no more attention. Touzani was still swearing away. I told him again to save his breath. I heard the engine room telegraph and felt the vibration cease. We were stopping. I went to the walkie-talkie and pressed the transmit button.

“Hadaya, this is Howell. Do you hear me?”

“Yes. Is that a patrol boat attacking you?”

“I don’t know, but we are stopping. I have orders from Comrade Salah. The operation is cancelled You understand? The operation is cancelled. You are to jettison your deck cargo and return to base. You hear?”

“Why doesn’t Comrade Salah himself speak?”

“He is wounded. But those are his orders. Obey them immediately. You hear?”

“I hear. Is he badly wounded?”

I switched off the set without answering.

If the Jeble 5 had then headed straight for Tel Aviv she might still have been able to launch a few rockets before she herself came under fire from the patrol boat. Though I didn’t for a moment think that Hadaya was the type to go in for suicide attacks, it was possible that the front-fighters in charge of the rocket-launchers were.

It was better, I thought, for them to believe that they were still answerable to Comrade Salah.

The lieutenant who commanded the Israeli patrol boat was a sharp-eyed, thin-lipped young man with sandy hair and freckles. I met him and his boarding party on the after well-deck. He gave me a formal salute and was very stiff at first. He had been briefed.

“Captain Touzani?”

“Captain Touzani is wounded. My name is Howell.”

“Ah yes, the owner.” His English was correct and only slightly accented. “I must ask you if you have requested assistance from the navy of Israel.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Why, please?”

“We were being hijacked by four passengers. One, the one who shot at and wounded the captain, is dead. Another was himself wounded by the first mate. That man has a gun but I think that he has now fired off all his ammunition. The other two hijackers are still loose but they have no firearms.”

He seemed to relax. “You call them hijackers, sir. Did these passengers attempt to take over the vessel by force?”

They did.”

“And intimidate the captain, compelling him to steer a certain course?”

“Yes, though they didn’t succeed.”

“Whether they succeeded or not is immaterial. By committing these offenses on the open sea these men are pirates, Mr. Howell.”

“Whatever they are I’m glad to see you, Lieutenant.”

But he had already begun snapping out orders in Hebrew.

It took only a few minutes to round up the unwounded front-fighters. Though they had managed to break the padlock on the special compartment door, they were still wrestling with the clip. They submitted sullenly. Meanwhile a trained first-aid man from the patrol boat had been attending to the wounded.

When he had made his report, Patsalides and I conferred with the lieutenant on the bridge.

“The Faysal man’s wound is not serious,” he said. “However, Captain Touzani has a broken arm and at least one broken rib. The bullet is still in him. He should not be moved until we have proper medical assistance. I suggest that you put into Ashdod, where it can be waiting for him.”

“What about the prisoners?”

“A vessel of amy nation arresting pirates on the open sea, Mr. Howell, is entitled to bring them to trial in the courts of her own country.” He was reciting a learned lesson. “As they have been arrested by an Israeli ship they will go for trial in Israel.”

“Very well.”

“There is one matter about which I was to consult you, Mr. Howell, that of a second ship. We saw what looked like a fishing schooner about a mile away from you and under power, but no second ship.”

“I doubt if it’s of much interest to you now, Lieutenant. The schooner was the second ship, and I’m sure you could easily catch her if you wanted to. But she won’t ask for assistance. You’ll have to stop her and ask for her papers. She’s Syrian, but they’ll be in order. There’ll be no incriminating evidence. That’s overboard by now. I’ll tell your people all about it when I see them. By the way, you had better take the dead man with the live prisoners.”

“Very well, if you wish.”

“He’s down in the ship’s papers as Yassin, but his real name is Salah Ghaled. I’d like him off the ship.”

“Oh.” He looked nonplussed. His briefing hadn’t covered everything; but he recovered quickly and with a grin. “I think the sooner we are in Ashdod the better for everyone, Mr. Howell.”

I could not but agree.