Dead Line (13 page)

Hannah went on, ‘I’ve told them I don’t want to talk to them anymore.’ She lowered her voice. Why? thought Liz. There was no one to overhear.

‘Saul and I split up, you know. He did business throughout the Middle East, probably still does; computer systems. I couldn’t help them much because I didn’t understand the detail, but they told me that though the systems were innocent enough by themselves, they were capable of helping a country develop sophisticated counter-radar weapons.’

‘Did he deal with the enemies of Israel?’

Hannah shrugged and, looking at Sophie who was now back in the kitchen and seemed preoccupied with her
daube
, she said, ‘Saul wasn’t very choosy about his customers. He was only interested in making money.’

Liz nodded sympathetically. ‘Is that what Danny Kollek talks to you about?’

Hannah gave a sudden laugh. ‘Goodness, no. Danny’s only interested in music. Even more than in me,’ she added loudly enough for Sophie to hear. ‘Seriously, he’s just a friend. We have lunch, we go to a concert - there’s nothing professional about it at all. If anything, he’s sympathetic to the movement.’

‘The movement?’

‘The peace movement. I got involved almost as soon as I arrived in Israel. Everyone seems to think Israel is full of right-wing hawks, determined to keep the occupied territories. But it’s not that way at all. There’s plenty of dissent there. In fact, I’d say most intelligent Israelis are adamantly opposed to government policy. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t think a negotiated settlement is the only way forward. The Likud people are just nuts.’

‘And your friend Danny thinks that way, too.’

‘Absolutely. But of course his hands are tied. That’s one of the drawbacks, he says, of being at the embassy. He’s not allowed to have an opinion, really. But I can tell he’s on our side.’

‘I see,’ said Liz as politely as she could, reluctant to say that this didn’t seem a very professional way for a diplomat to behave. Could this apparently switched-on woman be so easily taken for a ride?

At this interesting point in the conversation Sophie intervened. ‘Here we go,’ she called from the kitchen, putting a large cast-iron casserole on the table. ‘All I can say, Hannah, is thank heavens you’re not kosher. I had to brown the beef in bacon fat.’

Thinking afterwards about her conversation with Hannah Gold on Sophie’s terrace, Liz concluded that Sophie had been perfectly right about Danny Kollek. To the professional eye, too many things didn’t fit, quite apart from the implausibility of the whole relationship. Charles Wetherby agreed. ‘He must be Mossad,’ he said. ‘But you say he’s not on the list - he’s undeclared to us?’

‘Well, it’s not the first time the Israelis haven’t played by the rules. Presumably his head office have asked him to keep an eye on Mrs Gold while she’s here. But there’s not enough there so far for us to complain.’

Charles looked at her. ‘What’s the matter? What are you thinking? Is this important?’

‘I’m just worried about this peace conference. There’s too much noise around it. Too many odd leads that don’t seem to take us anywhere. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to keep in touch with Sophie Margolis.’

‘Yes,’ said Charles, turning back to the papers on his desk. ‘Do. And keep me informed.’

TWENTY

Dear Peggy, thought Liz, as the younger woman entered her office clutching a thick stack of notes. She
has
been busy. Liz motioned her to take a seat.

‘All well with you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Tim still cooking up a storm?’

Peggy turned a light shade of pink, then sighed. ‘We’re onto Jamie Oliver now.’

Liz laughed, then turned to business. ‘So what have you got?’

‘I’ve been looking some more into Sami Veshara, our Lebanese food importer. He leads quite a life. There’s a girlfriend in Paris, so he’s made a couple of trips there recently. And he’s been to Lebanon three times in the last six months - nothing unusual there. But on the last occasion he flew home via Amsterdam.’

‘Is that suspicious? Maybe he couldn’t get a direct flight.’

Peggy shook her head. ‘I checked that. There were plenty of seats that day. He went to Amsterdam for a reason.’

‘And what do we think that was?’

‘It’s more what Customs and Excise think. I told you about these shipments Veshara’s been making by boat. The Excise people now think they are a cover for something else. Some other boats that don’t come into Harwich; Harrison, the officer I spoke to, has been investigating them and he thinks they drop anchor in a deserted spot further down the coast, then offload the cargo there.’

‘What does he think they’re offloading?’

‘He doesn’t know for sure, but Amsterdam suggests the obvious. Harrison’s planning to intercept one of them next time they sail. They’ve been coming out of Ostend, and he’s liaising with the port authorities there.’

‘Any idea when the next one’s going to be?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Peggy consulted a printed email she had on her lap. ‘Tomorrow night, they think.’

Liz thought for a moment. It might prove a wild-goose chase, but right now it was the only solid lead they had.

Liz was beginning to feel sick. It was high tide in the little cove, ten miles south of Harwich on the Essex coast, and though the curving bend of this stretch of shoreline made for a natural harbour, it was still fully exposed to the North Sea. It wasn’t rough but the slow swells lifting and lowering
The Clacton
, the little Customs cutter, seemed to have a worse effect on her stomach even than the violence of a storm.

‘Should be any minute now,’ said Harrison to Liz, who was the only other person on deck, besides the helmsman. Harrison’s team of half a dozen were below, drinking tea, immune to seasickness. The helmsman stiffened, though he kept the boat idling gently in the curve of the little bay, under the shadow of the cliff face that loomed directly above them. A crescent moon darted in and out of the patchy clouds that spread across the sky like fat puffballs.

Liz had driven up in the afternoon to Harwich, where she’d met Harrison and been introduced to his men. She had been kitted out with a yellow uniform parka, which was warm and cosy - and about three sizes too big. The odd look had come her way during Harrison’s briefing, but no one had asked her why she was there; perhaps they’d been told beforehand not to ask questions, or maybe they were used to unexplained visitors. Harrison himself was a model of discretion, making polite small talk over sandwiches, then excusing himself to get ready. Liz killed the wait before they embarked by reading dog-eared copies of
Hello
and the Sun, which were lying around in the canteen.

The helmsman spoke. ‘There’s a boat over there, sir,’ he said, pointing out towards the North Sea. ‘Coming this way.’

Liz looked seaward and saw a tiny light, like an illuminated pin bobbing against the horizon. The pin grew larger, and Harrison took two steps and banged loudly on the hatch door. A minute later it opened, and the six Customs men came up the stairs quickly. Liz noticed that two of them were armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines.

Looking through binoculars, Harrison spoke to the sailor at the helm. ‘Time to move. But take it easy at first.’

The pin light was now well into the cove and Liz could make out the shape of a small trawler. Almost a quarter of a mile from shore it stopped, and sat motionless in the water.

Harrison tapped Liz on the shoulder and handed his binoculars to her. ‘Have a look.’

She peered through the infra-red glasses, and could see the trawler clearly in an eerie greyish light. It was a fishing boat, with a flat-backed stern and a hoist to haul its nets up. The bow was snub-nosed, and she could read its name on the side -
The Dido
. The entire vessel couldn’t have been more than forty feet long. There was no sign of anyone on board, though the wheel house was sheltered, so whoever was steering was hidden from view.

She handed the glasses back to Harrison. ‘She’s sitting pretty low in the water, isn’t she?’

He nodded. ‘Whatever she’s carrying must be heavy. Or else there’s just a lot of it.’ He turned to the helmsman. ‘Okay, let’s move in.’

The Clacton
surged forward, and Liz felt the sting of salt spray and cold wind against her cheek. Her nausea had turned into a familiar rush of excitement. About one hundred yards short of
The Dido, The Clacton
slowed, and at a command from Harrison, a pair of spotlights positioned on her bow suddenly pierced the darkness, throwing out penetrating streams of light, illuminating the trawler against the background of night like a film set.

Harrison was ready in the bows with the loud hailer. He had just shouted, ‘This is her Majesty’s Customs and Excise,’ when the engine of the trawler erupted and the boat suddenly turned sharply and headed at speed toward the open sea.

‘Go!’ ordered Harrison, and
The Clacton
accelerated in pursuit. Liz clung on to a brass rail as the boat surged forward. But they didn’t seem to be gaining on the trawler, and she feared they would lose her once they were out in open water. Then ahead of them, heading in an intercepting line, appeared another boat.

‘Who is that?’

‘One of ours,’ Harrison reassured her. He gave a short laugh. ‘It always helps to have some back-up when the buggers cut and run.’

As the other Customs boat drew near, the trawler was forced to turn and slow down, allowing
The Clacton
to draw ahead of
The Dido
on its port side. The trawler gave a sudden burst of speed, and for a moment Liz was convinced it would cut through the converging Customs boats and get away. But a rapid sequence of flashes crossed in front of the fleeing boat, and Liz heard the sound of an automatic weapon firing.

‘Tracer bullets,’ explained Harrison. ‘That should get their attention.’

The Dido
seemed to hesitate, as if trying to make up her mind, then she slowed almost imperceptibly. As they sailed further out into the open sea, Liz realised that
The Clacton
and the other Customs boat were forming a ‘V’, which held the trawler trapped between its arms. The two then began to turn almost imperceptibly to port, perfectly in synch, keeping the trawler nestled between them, until Liz saw that they were heading back into the quieter water of the cove.

‘Keep alert,’ Harrison called out to the men on the bow. ‘They may try it again.’

Now down to idling speed,
The Dido
was covered by searchlights from both Customs boats. There was still no sign of anyone on deck. Harrison stepped to the outside rail. Lifting his hailer he called to the trawler.

‘We are armed, and will board you by force if you don’t come out. You have thirty seconds to show yourselves.’

This is like a Western, thought Liz, as they waited tensely. After about fifteen seconds, a man emerged from the wheelhouse; he was followed almost immediately by another man. They both wore black souwesters, with knee-high gumboots.

‘Stay where you are,’ Harrison commanded. ‘We’re coming aboard.’

In a moment
The Clacton
drew alongside. The two armed Customs men stood with their rifles pointed at
The Dido
, and a third man moved forward, holding a rope in his hand. Carefully judging the gap, he suddenly jumped and landed on the deck of the trawler, then moved to the bow, out of the line of any possible fire. Pulling hard, he brought
The Clacton
towards him until it bumped the trawler gently. In the stern another officer jumped onto
The Dido
and between them they brought
The Clacton
parallel.

Harrison turned to Liz. ‘You’re welcome to come aboard, but please stay behind me. You never know what they may have waiting below.’

Following Harrison, Liz jumped from the gunwale and landed lightly on
The Dido
’s deck. The other Customs boat had drawn up on the far side, and soon there were a dozen officers on board, though Liz noticed that an armed man remained on each Customs boat, covering them. Three of the Customs men on board were also carrying weapons -Glock 9 mm pistols.

The two men who stood in the glare of the spotlights were Middle Eastern in appearance. The older one was heavy-set with a thick stub of moustache. He looked to be in charge.

‘Do you speak English?’ Harrison asked him

He shrugged, feigning incomprehension. When Harrison turned to his companion, he received the same response.

There was a broad hatch on deck that clearly led below, though it was bolted shut. Harrison pointed. ‘What’s down there?’ he demanded.

The moustached man spoke for the first time. ‘Is nothing below.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. I swear.’

‘You are the only two on board?’

The man nodded.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Harrison. He gestured at the hatch. ‘Open it.’

They waited tensely while the younger man moved grudgingly across to the hatch. If there is someone below who’s armed, this guy will get the first bullet, thought Liz. The man reached down and slowly pulled back the hatch bolt, then lifted open the square hinged top, letting it fall with a loud bang on the deck. He stood back, and looked away toward the sea, with a resigned expression on his face.

Suddenly up the ladder a figure emerged - a head first, wrapped in a plain brown scarf, then a cloth coat. A woman, Liz realised, as the figure climbed the last rung and stepped out on the boat’s planks. She looked absolutely terrified.

Another figure appeared, also female, and then another and another… There were seven in all, all blinking in the bright searchlights, some shaking with fear or cold, though the sight of Liz seemed to calm them.

All of them were young. Liz was certain they were not from the Middle East -though they were dark, they had high cheekbones that were more European than Arab. Romanian, Liz guessed. Maybe Albanian.

Harrison said to them, ‘Who are you and why are you on this boat?’

Silence. Then a plump younger girl with dyed blonde hair stepped forward. ‘I speak English,’ she said. She pointed to the other women. ‘They don’t.’