The Blockade Runners Read online

  John Taylor addressed Gisela and David. ‘I’ve been advised that both of you need to return to Salisbury. There is a Rhodesian government aircraft at the airport here in Beira. I’ll take you out there after you’ve collected all your clobber from your beach bungalow. All I may say is that you are to leave for France. David, whether Gisela will accompany you, I’ve no idea and what is all about, I don’t know either.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Ian Hewlett, a colonel in the Rhodesian Army yet commander of the CIO, sat at the head of the table. There were a number of notable others: two men from the Rhodesian Air Force; the Minister of Trade and Industries, Lionel Butler; and a high-up official from the Rhodesian Treasury.

  ‘As you probably know, the black nationalists have decided that because the British will not consider military intervention, the Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army will initiate their own military incursions into the country. At the moment, these do not pose a serious threat. However, we believe with the support of other nations sympathetic to their cause and not forgetting the Russians and the Chinese, it’s going to escalate. We need to acquire specialised equipment to counter these terrorist incursions and this means buying weapons and aircraft from those countries that will still clandestinely assist us or alternatively deal with arms dealers. I think Air Marshal Hartley should address you.’

  He was dressed in a khaki uniform. Other than his shoulder boards and ribbons, he looked like any other enlisted personnel.

  ‘The best weapons against insurgents are helicopters. Yes, we have a few but certainly not enough. We desperately need to acquire them. The French are not against supplying us but we will have to ensure that we acquire these in a manner which will not bring them face-to-face with the UN for sanctions busting. Now, I understand that this is a tall order, with the British watching everybody’s moves.’ He looked at David. ‘Mr Tusk, I hear that British Intelligence has a special interest in you. Apparently you had an incident in Mozambique?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m just one of a few that they are watching, primarily because they associate us with sanctions busting,’ David replied.

  ‘I agree, but we require your expertise and language skills. I’ve had discussions with the French and will provide you with the names of my contacts. However, we are relying on you to get these helicopters to Rhodesia. We have one or two ideas which we will impart to you, but you may have something better.’

  ‘Personally, I believe that we would need to route any such transactions through the Middle East. All the arms dealers seem to be congregated in Lebanon. There are a number of them and provided we break the deal up, giving each a slice of the action, we just may pull it off.’

  ‘Have you anybody in mind?’ Butler asked.

  ‘Yes, from others in your CIO[1], there’s a chap by the name of Hussein Hiram in Lebanon. Said to be a discreet but unsavoury character. ʼSuppose he will never let out who the real purchasers are. He is also capable of sowing so much disinformation and creating so many red herrings that the British will never tie it together until it is too late. Also, we will have to fly these helicopters in as cargo. We dare not transport these by ship.’

  ‘Can it be done?’ The man from the treasury spoke for the first time.

  ‘I believe so, but it’ll cost.’

  ‘Well, that’s my department, not that I want to imply that you have carte blanche but I believe we have a lot of leeway,’ the Rhodesian bank executive said while smiling.

  ‘In broad terms I just want to tell you what we are after. We need to purchase twelve Aérospatiale Alouette III helicopters fitted with Turbomeca Astazou engines. In principle, we can get them, provided we pay and, of course, know how to get them here. That’s your job,’ the air marshal said.

  ‘I’m going to need assistance.’

  ‘Well, we wanted to give you Miss Mentz. I hear that you work well together as a team. However, she may be a bit of a hindrance in the Middle East. You know what the Moslems are like,’ Ian Hewlett said.

  ‘Still, I would prefer her as I’ve worked with her before. She’s a good operative.’

  ‘I know.’ It was all Ian Hewlett said. David wasn’t sure whether he should have read anything else in that remark. Did they know that the relationship had gone beyond that of business?

  ‘Mr Tusk, as the man responsible for the money, I’ve one concern. You had better make sure you’ve secured the items before you request payment to some arms dealer in the Middle East. I’d hate to pay and not receive the goods. I mean, this will involve millions,’ the treasury executive said.

  ‘I realise that.’ David’s irritation was audible. Christ! All the man did was worry about the money. Well, what about the logistics?

  ‘All right, gents, that’s it. David, you can liaise with my department with regard to your arrangements, okay?’ Ian Hewlett said, getting up from his chair.

  ‘Miss Mentz?’ David again asked.

  ‘She’s yours,’ Hewlett replied.

  David had found himself a furnished, two-bedroom apartment in the city, belonging to a Rhodesian who had taken a prolonged leave of absence from the country. The rent was reasonable and the apartment was tastefully furnished with everything he needed down to the linen and cutlery. The Rhodesian government made a handsome contribution to the rent. He had also bought himself a car, a Hillman Minx, used but in excellent condition.

  ****

  David and Gisela were leaving by air early the next morning for Johannesburg. They decided to go out to dinner and chose the Cattleman, famous in the capital for its excellent service and steaks.

  Rhodesia was no longer a tourist haven and most of the patrons were locals, not that there were many, but they had opted for an early evening and, no doubt, others would arrive later. David ordered an exquisite South African cabernet from which they now sipped, discussing their forthcoming trip. They would spend a few days in Johannesburg before leaving on a TAP flight to Lisbon.

  ‘I take it you’ll be able to rustle up two German passports. Christ, I don’t know how you do it but they’re definitely a Godsend. Have you thought who I’m going to impersonate this time?’ David asked.

  She reached over and took his hand. ‘I’ve decided that you should be an electrical engineer employed by Siemens. That company is so huge it could confuse anybody what with all their branches and departments. In particular, they are well represented in the Middle East, in Lebanon to be precise.’ She continued while smiling, ‘Your new name is Hugo Ostendorf and you are originally from Kiel. They speak High German in Schleswig-Holstein, so Kiel is appropriate. You speak a cultured German.’

  ‘How did you know that my family was originally from Kiel? My father actually went to some naval academy type school, you know, where they wear military instead of school uniforms.’

  ‘I know, it’s ridiculous, schools making soldiers out of children before they grow up. But, they can’t help it, it’s their Prussian heritage,’ she said.

  ‘And you, my sweet, what are you going as?’ he asked.

  She pondered this for a moment and then laughed. ‘As your sex slave.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t think of anything better.’

  ‘But I do that after hours, otherwise I’m Frau Dokter Gisela Hoppe from Berlin, a specialist gynæcologist. All men are afraid of gynæcologists, didn’t you know?’ She giggled, squeezing his hand.

  ‘Clever. You mention that to any Moslem and he’s bound to treat you with the greatest of respect.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  She had been staying out at her ranch. She spent as much time there as possible. Because of her prolonged absences, she employed a farm manager and his wife, letting them to graze their herd of cattle on her property rent-free, allowing her to reduce their salary. They both thought it an amicable arrangement. Nonetheless, she spent every free moment on the farm.

  ‘Are you staying with me tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ve got to go back and collect my things. Kallie will
drive me to the airport tomorrow morning where I’ll meet you. Is that okay?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be seeing quite a lot of you, won’t I?’

  Back in Johannesburg, they stayed at his apartment. Most days were spent at the bank ensuring the purchases they made during their last trip were being handled correctly. Letters of credit needed to be issued. Meanwhile, South African Import Permits needed to be obtained then and cross-referenced to ensure every document listed them, lending further authenticity if scrutinised.

  The bank provided them both with a substantial amount of American Express traveller cheques in US dollars as well as bank notes in dollars and German marks, all from the account of the Rhodesian government.

  Preparing for the trip abroad was difficult. Every item was checked before it was packed. Anything originating from South Africa or Rhodesia had to be left behind. Two days before their departure, they left his apartment in the very early hours of the morning using a hired car parked a short distance away at an overnight travel lodge. His car was left in the apartment building’s underground parking garage, hopefully creating the impression that they were still at home. He was convinced that the British had set up a surveillance team watching his movements around the clock.

  He was convinced they had evaded the British. While both were at work yesterday and their presumed surveillance was thus concentrating on the bank, others removed their luggage from the apartment and moved it to the hotel. In the early hours, they sneaked out of his apartment via delivery entrance after ascertaining it was clear. Finally, they boarded the aircraft separately and were reunited only through persuading others to swap seats.

  The plane arrived in Lisbon at ten at night. They booked separately into an airport hotel and avoided any contact. The next morning, Gisela sought out an out-of-the-way hair salon where she had her hair cut and then dyed black. She changed her makeup as well. The transformation was incredible. Replacing her Nordic look with a definite Mediterranean appearance of heavy, black eyebrows and mascara ringing the eyes, she was absolutely striking. Her pale blue eyes pierced her now slightly swarthy look, assisted by her African suntan.

  They departed on separate flights for Le Bourget Airport in Paris. Gisela booked into an obscure hotel on the Rue de Montpensier near the Louvre. Meanwhile, David decided to visit his mother at her apartment in the nearby Palais Royal. He had phoned first and when he learnt that his stepfather was in Scotland, he asked whether he could stay. She was delighted to have him.

  Maintaining the guise of a German, he took the bus from the airport to the city terminal from where he boarded the Métro to the Palais Royal station, only a few hundred yards’ walk to her apartment. His mother was overjoyed, shedding a few tears as they hugged each other, saying ‘mon fils, mon fils’ repeatedly. The apartment’s opulence amazed him. It was as if one returned to the time of Cardinal Richelieu. The doors were still fitted with a latticework of mirrors and the walls were white with a light blue border and a gilded, patterned outline painted thereon. His stepfather had acquired the furniture to go with the apartment, all Louis XIV. Even the table and bed linen was monogrammed with his stepfather’s family’s coat-of-arms.

  His mother was taken aback by his appearance.

  ‘My God, what is wrong? I thought you are a banker and now you are dressed like a Schlumpf,’ she said, reverting to her German origins.

  ‘Mother, don’t let it worry you. I chose to dress like this, there is a good reason.’

  ‘Bankers wear dark suits and waistcoats. You’re not running away from something?’

  He laughed. ‘No, no. This is by choice, nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Well, sit down. Let me get you something to eat. I’ve prepared your favourite room. You must tell me everything. How are you doing in South Africa?’ she said, leading him to the dining room where a place had already been laid next to an opened bottle of vin rouge. She spent a short while in the kitchen and then returned with a huge mushroom omelette and a baguette.

  ‘Please, you must eat.’

  He had to smile; mothers never changed, always worried whether you were eating enough even after an absence of a few years.

  She sat down at the table opposite him.

  ‘How is Diarmid?’ he asked, referring to his stepfather.

  ‘He’s fine, though still disappointed that you took off like that. He’s actually very fond of you.’

  ‘Mother, let’s not go into that. You know my reasons. Anyway, I’m now quite settled and if I don’t see him, I really don’t mind.’

  He saw the disappointment register on her face.

  ‘It’s such a pity. He could do so much for you with his connections,’ she said.

  He sighed. His mother believed that connections were essential in life. Whom you knew was most important. He wondered how she would react if she discovered what he was actually doing.

  ‘Please, I just want to stay here for a few days. Let’s leave the past behind. I’ve quite a lot to do here.’

  ‘All right, if that’s what you want. Let’s enjoy each other’s company.’ Her disappointment was apparent in her voice.

  His mother hadn’t changed. She still wore her hair short, though now streaked with grey. Her dress was typically French and she still donned a beret whenever she left the apartment to go shopping. It was winter, so whenever she went out, she wore one of those new-fangled double-lined black plastic Mackintoshes, which crackled with every movement.

  ‘Have you got a car I can use?’ he asked.

  ‘You can use the DC, nobody’s using that.’

  ‘Excellent, that’s just what I need; I won’t be travelling far, just around Paris.’

  The deux chevaux, the ‘DC’ his mother referred to, was the ideal car for driving around Paris. If anybody were to attempt to follow him, of course assuming that they found him in the first place, then following a deux chevaux in the Paris traffic could be a near-impossible task. DCs were as numerous as yellow taxi cabs in New York.

  From the apartment, he phoned Aérospatiale, asking for Monsieur Devereux. They spoke in French, David requesting a meeting. Devereux mentioned an obscure bistro near the Comédie-Française, which suited David well, not too far away. It adjoined the Palais Royal complex, certainly within walking distance, which would allow him to lose any possible tails. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the bistro, just one of many dotted all over the city. He entered and ordered a café blanc taking a seat at a small table as far away from the counter as possible. Within ten minutes, a man dressed in a dark business suit entered. He looked around, his eyes falling on David, who nodded. The man walked over and sat down, taking David’s hand in greeting. Devereux gestured the waiter over and ordered a café noir. For a few minutes, they discussed Paris, the French Algerians, and then the infamous OAS, who would awaken Parisians with a well-placed bomb to remind France of their hatred for a government who were, in their opinion, abandoning them to the Arabs and other unimportant denizens.

  Devereux withdrew a packet of foul-smelling Gauloise cigarettes from his inner pocket and proceeded to light one, staring intently at David. He exhaled, blowing smoke at the ceiling, his eyes again falling on the young man opposite him.

  ‘I have been expecting you, Monsieur. I have already started arrangements for the manufacture and delivery of the items for which you are looking. You will appreciate that this cannot be done as a single order. That would be too obvious. We have similar orders from Argentina and Indonesia. What we have done is simply increased their orders to make up your numbers. Your items are to be shipped in a disassembled form and will not be part of the final assembly line. That makes it difficult for anybody to make a count. Or let me put it this way, at least it is not blatantly obvious.’

  ‘Monsieur Devereux, we are extremely grateful. I believe it was mentioned to you that you would receive payment via Lebanon. I will be leaving Paris within the week to make suitable arrangements. Our party in Lebanon will contact you and make sure that you r
eceive payment up front.’

  ‘Who is it? Not Monsieur Hussein Hiram?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. He was the only one prepared to do this and knows how to get the items to us.’

  ‘Too true. He is the only one who gets away with it. At the moment, the British are particularly observant. I believe that they know that you wish to purchase Alouettes.’

  ‘I suppose it’s obvious, we’re already using them.’

  Devereux finished his coffee and then rose, taking David’s hand.

  ‘Well, there not much else to discuss. We will wait for Hiram. Once he pays us, we will ship as instructed. Au revoir, Monsieur.’

  David watched Devereux leave.

  The helicopters would leave the Aérospatiale factory piecemeal – two or four completely disassembled helicopters at a time, destined for the military in Lebanon. There would be no legal paperwork, the transaction untraceable. These would be loaded on a ship owned by an anonymous South African entrepreneur. In Beirut, the cargo would be re-crated and issued with new documentation to a large company which had been granted a massive contract for the construction of an international airport and hotel complex in the Comoros.

  These crates would be shipped as elevator and escalator parts. The airport had yet to be commissioned despite its being nearly finished. In the interim, cargo aircraft flew equipment and staff in from South Africa.

  The crates would be loaded on the aircraft for the return flight to South Africa, flying via Rhodesia, landing at Thornhill Air Force base, near Gwelo. David thought the plan ingenious, although it was a provisional plan and could be changed at a moment’s notice. Still, a good plan provided the British did not find out.

  Gisela had gone to see Berzack, one of France’s largest textile manufacturers. She was to meet him after her appointment. They had agreed to meet at eleven at the George V station on the Line 1 platform. David was a few minutes early and stood on the platform awaiting her arrival, knowing that she would have to come down the escalator stairs. Precisely on time, he saw her. She did not join him but stood on the platform like any other commuter waiting for the Métro. When the subway train arrived, they both stepped into the same carriage, remaining apart, no sign of recognition passing between them, both carefully checking who else stepped aboard. David was convinced that they were not followed. He doubted whether the British had tracked them down yet.