The 92nd Tiger (15 page)

It had been a successful trip, so far, and he was looking forward to his meeting with the gentleman who had telephoned to make an appointment with him at the Ambassador Hotel. He was so pleased with himself that he allowed the taxi driver to charge him twice the proper fare for the journey from the docks, and even added a tip.

The hall porter at the Ambassador said, yes, there was a Colonel Delmaison in the hotel. He would be found in suite sixteen, on the first floor.

Colonel Rex got up as Livingstone came in. There was a bottle of champagne in a cooler on the table, with two glasses beside it. The Colonel untwisted the wire, eased out the cork, and filled two glasses. One he handed to Livingstone. The other he took himself.

‘A salute to a successful trip,’ he said. They clinked glasses. ‘How is the unloading going?’

‘Up to schedule,’ said Livingstone. The heavy stuff, which was deck cargo, is coming off first. It’s all going straight into the transit warehouses at the airport.’

‘Excellent,’ said the Colonel. He went across to the desk, took out a flat, black brief-case and extracted from it a cheque book. ‘I promised you a personal bonus. Captain, if you arrived on time.’ He was writing a cheque as he spoke. ‘No particular sum was mentioned. I hope you will think two thousand dollars appropriate.’

‘Very generous,’ said Livingstone. There’s just one thing. Could you let me have some of it in cash?’

‘Why not? I don’t carry a great deal of cash about with me. Would five hundred dollars meet the case?’

‘Lovely. It’s not that I’m worried about taking a cheque, you understand, but as soon as the cargo’s landed I’m planning to treat myself to an evening at the Casino.’

‘The Casino du Liban,’ said the Colonel. ‘Yes. Indeed, one of the finest in the world. But I am afraid that your five hundred dollars will melt there, like the snow you can see on the mountain tops.’

‘Melt or multiply,’ said Livingstone, ‘I shall enjoy every moment of it.’ He pocketed the five one-hundred-dollar bills which the Colonel handed him, folded the cheque carefully away, finished his champagne, and took his departure.

After he had gone, Colonel Rex emptied his almost untouched glass of champagne down the basin in the bathroom. It was a drink for which he had little taste, for the cheap Lebanese variety least of all. However, the bottle would be a useful prop for other visits which he anticipated that morning. There would be visitors who might not be quite as easy to deal with as the simple Captain Livingstone. When the Colonel considered the remote chance of the cheque for fifteen hundred dollars being honoured by the Canadian bank on whom it had been drawn, and reflected on the fact that, in the financial statement which he was already preparing for his partner, Mr. Greest, the item ‘Bonus to Captain’ would feature as five thousand dollars, he was not dissatisfied with his enterprise so far.

The rest of the morning was taken up with visitors of different sorts. There was a complicated air-freight schedule to arrange. There were insurance agents to deal with. There was even an enterprising journalist from the
Journal Libre du Liban
to whom the Colonel spoke of Arab solidarity and the need for the smaller states to arm against unspecified enemies.

After an excellent luncheon in the hotel dining room the Colonel locked the door of his room, wedged a chair under the door handle, took off most of his clothes and went to sleep. He woke at dusk, shaved for the second time that day, took a shower bath, and was dressing when the room telephone rang.

It was the desk clerk.

The Colonel said, ‘Ask Mr. Sharif to wait for five minutes, please, and then show him up. And would you please tell room service to send up a bottle of whisky, some clean glasses, and some ice.’

The desk clerk said that he would see to it and the Colonel finished tying his tie. For the first time that day he seemed thoughtful.

Mr. Sharif looked like a nice little cat. He had a head of smooth white hair, a round and cheerful face, and a multiplicity of chins which descended into the folds of his wide shirt-collar. He shook hands gravely with the Colonel, moved with soft-footed grace across the room, and accepted a glass of the whisky which arrived at that moment.

When the waiter had gone, there was a moment of silence. Colonel Rex said, ‘I had not expected to see you this evening.’

‘I had not anticipated that I should have to call on you,’ said Mr. Sharif. He, like the Colonel, spoke in French.

‘Has something happened?’

‘Of that, I am not sure. My business here is to watch over your interests. I am what the Americans call a trouble-shooter.’ Mr. Sharif smiled as though at a secret joke. The way to shoot trouble is to see it coming, and to destroy it before it arrives.’

‘That sounds like good policy to me,’ said the Colonel pleasantly. ‘Do you see some cloud on the horizon?’

‘Not a cloud. A man. He arrived from Baghdad this morning. He is known to be a member of the Inner Council of the Ba’ath party.’

‘Why should he trouble us?’

‘I have an instinct in these matters. I had him followed from the airport. He went directly to the Ministry of Commerce. It was clear that he had an appointment with the Minister. He was shown straight in. The meeting lasted for about an hour. When he came out, the man returned immediately to the airport. He will, by now, be back in Baghdad.’

The Colonel considered the matter. He respected Mr. Sharif’s nose for trouble. He said, ‘The Ministry of Commerce controls Export and Import Licences?’

‘That is so.’

‘We may be imagining things.’

‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Sharif. He refused a second drink, and departed with the same inconspicuous grace.

The Colonel finished his own whisky slowly. Then he corked up the bottle, put it into his brief-case, and went out, locking the door behind him. He deposited the key with the desk clerk, and made his way through the dining room, out on to the terrace beyond, down some steps, across a courtyard and into the kitchen quarters of the hotel. A man in a white apron who was working there looked up and saw the Colonel but said nothing. The Colonel walked across the room and let himself out by a door into a side street. Ten minutes of brisk walking, through a tangle of alleys and back streets, brought him out into Hamra Street, with its pizza bars, its pin-table saloons and its glare of neon-lit advertisements. The Colonel glanced quickly to right and left, seized a half chance to dart across through the traffic, and disappeared once more into the obscurity beyond.

The apartment for which he was making had been found for him by the faithful Mr. Sharif, and met his requirements exactly. It was inconspicuous, it could be approached from six different directions, and it had all the simple comforts which the Colonel demanded.

These comforts included a little Lebanese girl called Fara.

Fara had dark brown eyes, long black hair, which she wore in a bun, and a figure which was beginning to spread a little. She swept and tidied the apartment, did the shopping, cooked and washed up such meals as the Colonel ate there, and slept with him at night. She carried out all these functions efficiently and impassively.

The Colonel sometimes wondered exactly what her status was. He paid her for board and lodging, and for other services. Terms were strictly cash, and payment in advance, but whether she kept the money for herself or passed it on to someone else was far from clear.

When he questioned Sharif on the matter, he said, ‘I think she is the owner of the whole house. Possibly of other houses in the neighbourhood.’

There must be a man behind it somewhere. She’d need a protector.’

Sharif had disagreed. He said, ‘Fara could deal with most situations herself. If trouble arose there might be a father or a brother in the background. In Lebanon family feeling is strong. But do not underrate her. She is a business woman first and last.’

On the following morning he was back in his hotel room in time for early morning coffee and croissants. It suited his plans very well that the world should suppose him to be staying at the Ambassador.

His first visitor that morning was the area manager of Gulf Air Transport Services. He was a Scotsman, and he wasted no time. He said, ‘We’ve run up against a bit of trouble. The customs officer at the airport tells me we need a special export licence before we can start loading the planes.’

‘But that’s nonsense,’ said the Colonel. The cargo is in transit. It’s in temporary bond only, in the transit warehouses.’

‘It may have come in without import licence. It won’t get out without an export permit.’

‘Why not?’

‘They require a certificate of origin.’

‘Show them the bills of lading.’

‘It’s not the country of origin they’re worried about. It’s the manufacturer. They’ve been informed that more than one of the suppliers is on the Israeli boycott list.’

‘Ah,’ said the Colonel.

The cat was out of the bag now with a vengeance.

He walked across to the window and opened it. From his balcony he could look down across the terrace, at the blue-green sea tumbling white over the rocks. He needed time to think.

‘You realise,’ he said, ‘that this is nonsense. I can produce a list of the factories or depots from which every item in that cargo was purchased.’

‘What they require is not a list but a certificate, from the company concerned, that all the items shown on the manifest as being bought from them, actually originated in their own works. There have been a number of cases lately where the boycott has been evaded by Israeli-owned factories making the sale through an associated company that was not on the list.’

‘I could get them certificates, but it would take time.’

‘How long?’

The Colonel considered the matter. The Spaniards would be the most difficult. It was even possible that they could not really produce a certificate. In any event, no one in Spain did anything today which could be put off until tomorrow. He shook his head angrily. ‘It’s Tuesday today,’ he said. The local letter of credit expires on Monday. It’s quite impossible.’

‘Could you not get the time limit extended? Fifteen days. A week even.’

‘I could try,’ said the Colonel. ‘Come back this afternoon and I’ll let you know.’

He booked a call to Hugo in Umran and spent the rest of the morning composing and despatching Telex messages to his suppliers, but he did it without conviction. The emissary from the Ba’ath had done his part too well. The dead hand of officialdom was not going to be lifted in six days.

At eleven o’clock Hugo came through. He listened to what the Colonel had to say, and said, ‘I’ll put it to Sayyed Nawaf. But I shouldn’t think there’s much hope. Things are hotting up here. The Ruler needs those arms.’

Just after midday, he came through again. He said, ‘Request refused. Absolutely and categorically.’

‘I suppose you realise what this means ?’

‘More or less.’

‘Then let me explain.’ The Colonel was speaking deliberately in order to control his anger. ‘If we cannot load those arms, and produce airway bills to the bank here next Monday, our letter of credit expires. We have purchased half a million pounds’ worth of goods for which we have paid only a deposit. If the goods lie too long in storage here, the local authorities will impound them, and tell them to defray storage charges. That will leave you and me owing the suppliers about four hundred thousand pounds, less any balance on the sale. Knowing how these customs auctions are rigged, I very much doubt whether there would be any balance. You understand the position?’

‘I understand it,’ said Hugo. ‘But even if I was able to explain it to the Ruler I doubt if it would make any difference. If you mention any possibility of delay in delivering the arms he simply doesn’t listen.’

‘Couldn’t you get it into his head that if we can’t clear the arms he’ll lose the twenty per cent deposit he
has
paid.’

‘I told him that. All he said was that if he didn’t get the stuff early in May, it would be useless to him anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t explain,’ said Hugo. ‘At least, not on this line. But he’s probably right.’

‘I see.’

‘Look, you’ve got to do something. Pull some strings.’

‘There’s only one thing that pulls strings in this part of the world,’ said the Colonel, ‘and that’s money.’

He said the same thing to Fara when he got back to his apartment that evening.

‘Who’s got all the money in Beirut?’

She said, ‘The Jannis have a great deal of money.’

‘Who are the Jannis ? And what do they do?’

‘They have the gardens. Up in Bekaa.’

‘Gardens?’

‘Hemp gardens. Indian hemp.’

‘Oh, cannabis. I see.’ The Colonel considered the matter. There would be dangers in dealing in such a market. And the operators would drive a hard bargain. But it sounded like the sort of money he wanted. He said, ‘How do I get hold of these people?’

‘I will find out.’

She was gone for an hour. The Colonel spent the whole of the hour drinking whisky and wondering if he had been a fool. When she came back she had an address scribbled on a piece of paper. She said, ‘You go to this place. You will need a taxi. It is a little way out of the town. You ask for the young Mr. Janni. You will say that you have come to arrange some insurance.’

‘Now?’

‘Now, yes.’

At the door the Colonel said, ‘You didn’t tell them I was staying here?’

Fara smiled. ‘Certainly not. If I had done so they would not have thought you were a big shot. I told them you were living at the Ambassador.’

‘You’re a sensible girl,’ said the Colonel.

He walked through half a dozen streets, doubling in his tracks, before they hailed a passing taxi and gave the driver the address. They had soon left the suburbs behind them and were climbing, through twisting streets and round hairpin bends. Here the houses were larger and more scattered, and the street lamps few and far between. They turned into a broad avenue which ran out along the flank of the mountains. The house in front of which they stopped was solid, not pretentious. A large two-storey villa, with white walls, tiled roof and a deep balcony extending round three sides.