Ultimatum by Antony Trew Read Free Book Online

Mahroutti Bros trucks out of Shed 27 and began their journey to Damascus, some 110 kilometres to the north. None of the Syrians was in uniform. They had left behind in the shed the formidable but discreetly hidden overnight guard supplied by the Lebanese Army.
    The trucks were preceded and followed by two black Citroëns. The civilians in these cars, which passers-by would not have associated with the trucks they were escorting, were security police. The Minister of Defence was not taking any more chances while the consignment was on Lebanese territory. The Citroëns would keep within reasonable distance of the trucks until the Syrian border was reached, and there would be discreet surveillance by the Syrian Air Force, overflying the Lebanon with the knowledge and consent of the government in Beirut.
     
    ‘Pernod. No water, much ice.’ The Frenchman slid his empty glass across the counter of the bar in the Hotel St George. Through the windows he could see over a wide arc of the Mediterranean. Ruffled by the wind, its cliché blue showed frills of old lace where incoming seas spilled against the shore. To the east lay the port with its array of masts and funnels. A skimmer buzzed across the harbour, leaping and bumping, its wake describing a foaming white line which faded slowly into the sea from which it had come.
    The barman poured the Pernod on to a mound of crushed ice, added a slice of lemon and pushed the glass back to the Frenchman. ‘Three twenty, m’sieu,’ he said impersonally, his eyes elsewhere in the manner of his kind. The Frenchman took a wad of Lebanese notes from his pocket, peeled off four and handed them across. Without waiting for the change he took the Pernod and walked through to the foyer. There he went to a phone booth. He lifted the instrument and the girl on the hotel switchboard answered.
    ‘Paris, France,’ he said. ‘Seven-five-zero-four- double-four .’
    ‘One moment, m’sieu.’
    He waited, arranging mentally the order of what he had to say. His thoughts were interrupted by the girl. ‘There is a delay, m’sieu. The lines are busy.’
    ‘How long?’
    ‘Thirty, perhaps forty, minutes.’
    ‘ Tiens ,’he said. ‘I’ll wait in the bar. Call me there through the barman. Please don’t page me.’
    ‘Your name and room number, m’sieu.’
    ‘Pierre Gamin,’ he said. ‘Room two-three-nine.’
     
    The delay on the Paris call was longer than expected. An hour and twenty-seven minutes elapsed before the barman put down his phone, looked across to where Pierre Gamin was sitting and nodded. ‘Your call, m’sieu. Booth seven.’
    The Frenchman went through the foyer to the booth and lifted the phone. ‘Hullo,’ he said.
    ‘Hullo, Pierre. How are you?’
    He recognized the voice of Jules Boyer, doyen of the Middle East desk in the Paris office. ‘Fine, Jules. Listen. This is urgent. Duquesne Frères et Cie, Ouvry-sur-Maine, Department of the Seine. Got it?’
    ‘Yes. We’re taping it anyway. Carry on.’
    ‘Good, Jules. They make agricultural machinery?’
    ‘Yes. Big people.’
    ‘A consignment from them for D. B. Mahroutti Bros of Beirut arrived from Marseille in the Byblos two days ago. It was off-loaded at once and taken in two of Mahroutti’s trucks to Shed 27 of this port. Mahrouttis are important distributors of agricultural machinery in the Lebanon. Head office, Beirut.’
    ‘So where’s the story?’
    ‘Listen, Jules. For God’s sake don’t interrupt.’
    ‘Mahroutti’s trucks were locked in Shed 27 for the night with their load.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘This morning’s Al Hayat has a banner headline over two columns: quote, Israeli Commando Unit attacks Beirut Port interrogation mark, unquote. Below the headline they report rumours of a seaborne raid by an Israeli commando unit on the night of fifth/sixth October. Israelis believed to havepenetrated the dock area but to have been repulsed after several had been killed.’
    ‘Have you checked the