secret, he said. That was why the missiles and their nuclear warheads had been described as ‘agricultural machinery’ and despatched to Beirut, a Lebanese port, instead of to Latakia, the principal port of Syria.
The French Prime Minister, who had been persuaded against his better judgement to agree to the supply of Pluton, had shaken his head emphatically. ‘Responsibility for introducing these weapons into the Middle East belongs in both moral and realistic terms to France. It did so the moment we agreed to supply. No words, no sentiments, no denials, can in any way diminish that responsibility. There is nothing to be gained by deluding ourselves. We have now to face the reality of what has happened.’
The French Cabinet discussed the realities well into the night without arriving at any particularly helpful conclusions .
8
The Leros arrived off the Piraeus well after dark on October 13th and anchored in the Bay of Athens. Next day the pilot boarded and, on a fine morning under a blue sky where feathered clouds reflected the rising sun, she entered the port and went alongside. Stevedores swarmed aboard, the hatches were opened and unloading began.
The passenger from Beirut seemed in no hurry to leave although he’d had his passport stamped by the immigration officer in the ship’s dining-saloon. Instead, he stood at the after end of the boat-deck, his leather travel-bag at his feet. Leaning on the guardrail, he could see both along the quay and, obliquely, into number 3 hold.
The cabin steward who’d looked after him passed, balancing a tray on one hand. ‘Not going ashore yet, m’sieu?’ He smiled sympathetically. The Frenchman had tipped well.
‘Waiting for a friend. He’s coming to pick me up. It’s nice loafing in the sun.’
‘You are right, m’sieu. I wish I could.’ The steward waved his free hand and disappeared down a companion ladder.
The passenger was not waiting for a friend but he was interested in the cargo being discharged from number 3 hold which he watched discreetly from the corner of his eye. It was only after a crane had hoisted the large hessian-wrapped bale from the hold and transferred it to the quay that he began to think of moving. When he’d seen the bale picked up by a fork-lift truck and carried into the transit shed, he took his bag and raincoat and went down the passenger gangway to the quay. In the shed he produced an Algerian passport at the customs barrier. The customs officer checked his appearance against the photograph, noted the name, SimonDufour, searched perfunctorily through the travel-bag and scrawled on it with white chalk. ‘Okay,’ he said nodding curtly as he handed it back.
The bearded passenger went through the exit, down the steps into the sunlight. He walked across to a line of waiting taxis. To the driver at its head he said, ‘Constitution Square,’ and opened a back door. As he climbed in he slammed it unintentionally. ‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘My mistake.’
The driver grunted something uncomplimentary, let out the clutch and the taxi moved off.
For Tel Aviv the drab, weather-stained building was old. At least thirty years old. Characterless in grey concrete, grubby, neglected and paint-blistered, it looked more. It was in a side street in the Montefiore area between the Jaffa and Shalma roads.
The ground floor windows were boarded up, the entrance doors locked and barred on the inside. Here and there graffiti competed with remnants of old posters long since eroded by sun, wind and rain. The windows of the upper floors had not been cleaned for years and behind them sun-bleached blinds shut out what little light might otherwise have penetrated.
It was only the back of the building which showed signs of occupancy. There the upper floor windows were clean, though drawn venetian blinds effectively concealed what was happening behind them. Not that anyone outside could have seen. The blank back of a red-brick building, fronting on to the
The French Prime Minister, who had been persuaded against his better judgement to agree to the supply of Pluton, had shaken his head emphatically. ‘Responsibility for introducing these weapons into the Middle East belongs in both moral and realistic terms to France. It did so the moment we agreed to supply. No words, no sentiments, no denials, can in any way diminish that responsibility. There is nothing to be gained by deluding ourselves. We have now to face the reality of what has happened.’
The French Cabinet discussed the realities well into the night without arriving at any particularly helpful conclusions .
8
The Leros arrived off the Piraeus well after dark on October 13th and anchored in the Bay of Athens. Next day the pilot boarded and, on a fine morning under a blue sky where feathered clouds reflected the rising sun, she entered the port and went alongside. Stevedores swarmed aboard, the hatches were opened and unloading began.
The passenger from Beirut seemed in no hurry to leave although he’d had his passport stamped by the immigration officer in the ship’s dining-saloon. Instead, he stood at the after end of the boat-deck, his leather travel-bag at his feet. Leaning on the guardrail, he could see both along the quay and, obliquely, into number 3 hold.
The cabin steward who’d looked after him passed, balancing a tray on one hand. ‘Not going ashore yet, m’sieu?’ He smiled sympathetically. The Frenchman had tipped well.
‘Waiting for a friend. He’s coming to pick me up. It’s nice loafing in the sun.’
‘You are right, m’sieu. I wish I could.’ The steward waved his free hand and disappeared down a companion ladder.
The passenger was not waiting for a friend but he was interested in the cargo being discharged from number 3 hold which he watched discreetly from the corner of his eye. It was only after a crane had hoisted the large hessian-wrapped bale from the hold and transferred it to the quay that he began to think of moving. When he’d seen the bale picked up by a fork-lift truck and carried into the transit shed, he took his bag and raincoat and went down the passenger gangway to the quay. In the shed he produced an Algerian passport at the customs barrier. The customs officer checked his appearance against the photograph, noted the name, SimonDufour, searched perfunctorily through the travel-bag and scrawled on it with white chalk. ‘Okay,’ he said nodding curtly as he handed it back.
The bearded passenger went through the exit, down the steps into the sunlight. He walked across to a line of waiting taxis. To the driver at its head he said, ‘Constitution Square,’ and opened a back door. As he climbed in he slammed it unintentionally. ‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘My mistake.’
The driver grunted something uncomplimentary, let out the clutch and the taxi moved off.
For Tel Aviv the drab, weather-stained building was old. At least thirty years old. Characterless in grey concrete, grubby, neglected and paint-blistered, it looked more. It was in a side street in the Montefiore area between the Jaffa and Shalma roads.
The ground floor windows were boarded up, the entrance doors locked and barred on the inside. Here and there graffiti competed with remnants of old posters long since eroded by sun, wind and rain. The windows of the upper floors had not been cleaned for years and behind them sun-bleached blinds shut out what little light might otherwise have penetrated.
It was only the back of the building which showed signs of occupancy. There the upper floor windows were clean, though drawn venetian blinds effectively concealed what was happening behind them. Not that anyone outside could have seen. The blank back of a red-brick building, fronting on to the
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