The Levanter Part 19

'What have you got for her?'

'A hundred tons or so of sc.r.a.p-iron briquettes. She will be half-empty.'

He never described a ship as being half-full; unless loaded to the gunnels she was always half-empty.

'She will also have pa.s.sengers.'

'Pa.s.sengers!'

If I said chimpanzees he could not have been more astounded.

That's right. For Alex. Four of them.'

'Paying deck pa.s.sengers?'

'Deck pa.s.sengers, of course.' As there was no pa.s.senger accommodation on the Amalia they couldn't be anything else. 'As to whether they will be paying or not, I don't know.'

He was looking at me oddly and I don't wonder. 'Mr Howell, this is a new departure.'

'As you well know, Mr Mourad, we have become steadily more involved here with government business.'

'Yes, yes.' It was a wheezed lament for the Agence Howell's lost virginity.

'And that this involvement has brought us many business advantages.'

'Many you think? I would say a few, only a few.'

'Few or many, advantages have sooner or later to be paid for.'

'Ah!' Doom-laden.

'Having received certain favours we must expect that we will sometimes be asked to repay them.'

'That is always the trouble.'

'And in ways that we ourselves cannot choose, Mr Mourad. We are not consulted, we are told, instructed.'

'By whom?'

'In this case an agency of the government of which few approve. It is a branch of the security service.'

He hawked loudly and raised his right hand to his lips. Phlegm neatly disposed of he slightly rearranged the folds of the bandanna.

'ISS you mean?' No Certain-Quarters nonsense, no beating about the bush for Mr Mourad.

'I'm afraid so.'

'Who are these pa.s.sengers?'

'I don't know yet.'

'Why must they go by ship to Alex?'

'I think we should not ask that question, Mr Mourad. It is possible that Captain Touzani may be given certain orders. There may be a rendezvous with another vessel off Haifa, something of that kind.' 'You are witting to tolerate this sort of thing?' 'It has been made plain that I have to.'

Touzani may have other views.'

'I will speak to Touzani.'

'No doubt.' He brooded for a moment. 'Your father had a somewhat similar situation to deal with in 'forty-six.'

'Oh?'

'Yes, very similar it was. He dealt with it.'

'How?'

'He knew the right man to go to in the military administration.'

'Which military administration?'

'The British of course. The French had gone. Are you too young to remember? Perhaps. Well, British or French, whoever ruled the roost, your father always knew the right man to go to and the right things to say. He would never tolerate interference. He knew whom to pay and how much, and he would always get his way. He had a high-handed way with politicos. Troubles were brushed aside.'

It might have been my mother speaking. I was tempted to point out that tunes had changed, that the 'right man' in this case was Colonel Shikla and that anyone in my position attempting to high-hand him would have to be out of his mind; but then I would have had to explain about Ghaled and other things, and frightening old Mourad would not have helped. He might have started fumbling things because he was scared. As long as he did as I told him without fuss, I didn't care if he thought me a weakling.

"I prefer to handle this in my own way, Mr Mourad.'

He floated his bandanna horizontally in a brief gesture, as though drawing a line under a column of figures. He had given his advice and it had been rejected; unwisely rejected in his opinion; but so be it.

'I shall want the names of these pa.s.sengers, Mr Howell, for Amalia's muster roll.'

'You shall have them, Mr Mourad.'

We spoke of other things for a few minutes and drank some more coffee. Then I went back to Damascus.

Teresa had had a reply from Ghaled.

'He will come tomorrow night at eight.'

'What about transport?'

'He a.s.sumes that we will pick him up in the car, I think. I said that I would let Issa know.'

'Do you mind fetching him? I want to be alone with him for a while when he gets here. When you've put the car away give us half an hour by ourselves.'

'All right.'

'Offer to pick him up at seven-thirty at the works. When you speak to Issa tell him to pa.s.s on the news also that Amalia may be docking a day early, on the twenty-sixth.'

'Is she docking early?'

'Not as far as I know. I just want him thinking that she may be. And I want the map put back on the office wall.'

'Have we still got it?'

'We must have."

The wall map I was talking about was a big one covering the Eastern Mediterranean and most of the Middle East, and had been specially drawn to display the Agence Howell organisation. All the places where we had offices and main agencies were ringed in blue, and the princ.i.p.al tracks used by Howell ships were drawn in red. It was quite an elaborate affair. I had had it taken down only because, one evening some months earlier, Dr Hawa had made a nasty crack about it. Looking at the map he had commented acidly that Syria still seemed to be part of 'the Howell empire'. Was that how I saw it? He had called me Emperor Michael once or twice after that.

So the map had been put away.

But now I had a use for it.

One of the things most clearly marked on it was the main shipping lane between Latakia and Alexandria.

I had not expected to enjoy entertaining Ghaled, but I had not been prepared for quite such a ghastly evening. It was humiliating too. Although I planned everything very carefully -and, I thought, rather artfully-I got what I wanted from him not because I was clever, but because he chose to give it.

I received him with full ceremony in the big room which opened on to a courtyard of its own. There was a fountain in the courtyard and it was very cool and pleasant.

That evening was the first time I had seen him in 'civilian' clothing; that is, without his khaki bush shirt. He had put on a white shirt for the occasion, with tie, and was carrying a tatty-looking briefcase, the kind without a handle that the French call a serviette. I a.s.sumed at first that this was a prop carried to make him look respectable in the city, but when he refused to let the servant take it, and I had had a closer look, I realised that he was using it to conceal a gun. Even on territory that could be presumed friendly he was taking no chances.

I gave him a champagne c.o.c.ktail with plenty of brandy in it which he drank thirstily as if it were water. I gave him a cigar and lit it for him. He sat back in his chair and looked around. Though he was clearly impressed he seemed perfectly at ease. That suited me. I wanted him relaxed and in as expansive a mood as possible. All the stiffness was going to be on my side. I continued to address him respectfully as comrade Salah, and fussed a little. As soon as he had finished his first c.o.c.ktail I immediately gave him another in a fresh gla.s.s. Then, I suggested that he might like to inspect the rest of the villa.

He agreed, indulgently, with a soggy little quip about viewing my 'capitalist decadence'. I invited him to bring his drink. He thus had a cigar and a drink in his hands. I thought that he was going to leave his briefcase behind; but, though he hesitated for an instant, he ended by taking it with him.

The object of the exercise, from my point of view, was to get him to the office; but I took it slowly, lingering over things that took his fancy-he was pleased to let me know that he knew a Feraghan carpet when he saw one-and drawing him into giving opinions. When, at last, I took him along the pa.s.sage leading to the office suite I murmured an apology.

'Only offices here I am afraid, comrade Salah. Nothing of interest.' I opened one half of a pair of double doors to prove it.

'Nothing of interest in comrade Howell's office?'

It was exactly the sort of reaction I had counted upon. Immediately, I opened the other door and switched on all the lights.

The map was staring him in the face. It covered practically the entire wall, a splendid ma.s.s of bright colours all bristling with little yellow and green flags.

He had started towards it, heading straight for the Latakia -Cyprus area, and what I had hoped would develop into a revealing little ill.u.s.trated chat about his plans for the Amalia Howell; he was almost within touching distance of the map, and then, maddeningly, he suddenly turned away.

He had seen the ship models.

They had been one of my father's few extravagances. This thing of his for scale models had started soon after he had bought the Pallas Howell.

Pallas was the first ship of over 1,500 tons owned by the Agence Howell. She was also the first to have a modern funnel. The narrow stove pipes of the older ships had always been painted black; but, with the acquisition of the Pallas, named after my mother, father had decided that we must have a 'company' funnel like the big lines. He had designed it himself: yellow with a black 'boot-top' and a big dark green H on the yellow ground. Below the H, and seeming from a distance to underline it, was a transliteration in Arabic characters of the name Howell.

When he saw the Pallas newly painted, he had ordered a scale model made for his office. By the time he died there were eight Howell ship models, three in his office and the rest in the boardroom, all in big gla.s.s cases on mahogany stands. They were made by a firm in England and cost a great deal of money; but my father said that they impressed visitors and were good for business. Although there may have been some truth in that, it was only an excuse really; he just liked them. And why not? They are soothing things to look at. There in the Damascus office I had three of the original eight: Pallas, Artemis and Melinda.

They fascinated Ghaled. I tried to steer him back to the map, but it was no use. He put his gla.s.s and the briefcase down on my desk and returned to the models. Then he began to ask questions.

What was this and what was that? And then; 'Which is the Amalia?'

'We haven't a model of the Amalia, comrade Salah. I can show you a picture of her if you like.'

But he was only interested in models, 'Is the Amalia like any of these?'

'Very like the Artemis. That's this one. She's a three-island ship, too.'

'Three-island?'

'Well that's what they're sometimes called. You see she has these big well-decks fore and aft. They have a comparatively low freeboard, so that when the ship is hull-down on the horizon, all you see are the bow and stern sections and the bridge superstructure sticking up. From a distance they look like three little islands.'

'And where will we be on the Amalia? Which of these windows will we see from?'

'I'm afraid there's no regular pa.s.senger accommodation on any of our ships, but there's a saloon, where the officers mess, just there. The Amalia's saloon has portholes. She's not quite the same.' I made another attempt to steer the conversation into a more useful path. 'I dare say Captain Touzani will try to make your party comfortable."

Touzani? Is he Italian?'

'Tunisian.'

'Oh.' That did not please him. Tunisia tends to be luke warm in the Palestinian cause.

'Is he loyal, this Captain Touzani?'

'If you mean will he obey orders, yes, I think he will. Providing, of course, that they do not endanger the ship.' This was more like it, I thought. 'And, naturally, providing that the orders he gets from me are clear and practical.'

'You will give him the orders personally?'

'Oh yes, comrade Salah. When I have them.' I tried to pursue the advantage. 'There is additional information that I will also have to have very soon.'

'Have to have?'

'I shall want the names of the pa.s.sengers to be carried. By law these must be entered on the ship's muster roll. That is the list of all on board when she sails.'

He decided to make a joke of it. 'I can tell you one name -Salah Ya.s.sin.'

I smiled dutifully. 'And no doubt Ahmad and Musa will be on the list too?'

'Those old men! No. They are good fighters and loyal certainly. For guard duties there are none better. But on operations we must have the younger men, the front-fighters. Why is it that this ship has two propellers and the others, not much smaller, have only one each?'

We were back to the models again. It was with difficulty that I persuaded him downstairs to dinner; and even then he kept on about ships. The different ways of measuring tonnage had to be explained. Teresa helped by asking sillier questions than his, but the going was heavy. He drank brandy.

The backgammon later was torture.

He played a reckless 'arabian' game and nothing else. He was out to slaughter me every time or die in the attempt. Mostly, he died. Backgammon is a very difficult game to lose intentionally without letting your opponent know that you are trying to lose. He sees the dice you throw. You can't keep on making gross errors. With an all-or-nothing player like' Ghaled you don't have to play even reasonably well to defeat him. You just make the conventional, flat-footed 'back' moves and nine times out of ten he defeats himself. That was what Ghaled did, though naturally he couldn't see it. It was the fault of the dice, then of my good luck, and, finally and inevitably, of my lack of imagination, of dash.

'You are too cautious. You play like a businessman.'

'You force me on to the defensive, comrade Salah.'

'You must not allow yourself to be forced. You must hit out, reply in kind.'