“I take it,” I said, “that this is one of the wrong size fuses you mentioned last night?”
“Yes.”
“Have you one of the right size?”
“Yes. Why?”
“When the fuse is inserted it has to be tightened, I assume, with a wrench.”
“Yes. That is done just before firing.”
“You realize that with a plain adapter ring the wrong-size fuse will only be tightened when the wrench forces it up against this disk inside the collar of the gaine? It could fracture it. Would that matter?”
“It would matter very much. There must be no forcing.”
“Then we need a flange on the ring which will allow the wrong-size fuse to penetrate only as far as the right one.”
“I do not understand.”
I reached for Teresa’s note pad and drew a sketch for him.
He nodded. “Yes, I see. But we need a hundred of these rings. This is more complicated to make.”
“Not really,” I said. “Turning the flange is easy. The difficult part is cutting the threads. But I must have the right fuse to measure for depth of penetration. It is no use trying to guess.”
“Very well.”
He went to a gray-painted wooden box which was under the bed. He had to pull the box out to raise the lid and I saw that it had Russian lettering stencilled on it. He tried, too late, to conceal the lettering. I pretended not to have seen by busying myself with the things Issa had by now brought in from the laboratory.
Meanwhile, I could draw conclusions. Although I knew nothing about ammunition, some things were obvious. The length and thickness of the gaine suggested that the projectile that contained it was a fairly hefty weapon. It wouldn’t be an artillery shell because guerrillas like the PAF did not have big guns. It seemed likely, then, that what Ghaled had was rocket-launchers from Russian sources. The friendly Russians, however, had, intentionally or through negligence, failed to deliver enough fuses to go with them. The Chinese, or persons with access to Chinese supplies, were trying to help him out.
“That is the right fuse,” he said.
It was practically the same as the wrong one. The only basic difference was in the diameter of the threaded section. I took all the measurements I needed from it and Teresa jotted the figures down as I called them out. Then I turned my attention to the wrong fuse. Ghaled watched intently as I used the gauge.
“You take each measurement twice,” he remarked.
“It’s as well to be certain.”
That is very thorough.’”
In fact, I wasn’t being particularly thorough; I couldn’t be because I hadn’t all the needed measuring tools, but it didn’t matter. I knew that these were standard metric threads and that, as long as I got the diameters and pitches exactly right, I could get the other details from a metric series table in the drawing office. I wasn’t going to explain all that, though.
“If I am not thorough,” I said, “the adapter ring will not work properly and I shall be to blame.”
Tewfiq chuckled — he was obviously delighted to have been relieved of this responsibility — but Ghaled did not answer immediately.
He watched me in silence for almost a minute before he said: “I do not think so, Comrade Michael.”
“I would not be blamed?”
“I do not think that it is fear of blame that drives you at the moment. Nor do I think that it is loyalty to our cause.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, so I pretended to be absorbed in re-counting threads and checking the figures with Teresa. Another half minute went by.
“I think that it is pride,” Ghaled continued thoughtfully. “The pride that makes it difficult for a man to permit work, any work, to be done poorly when he knows how to do it well.”
That sounded better. I put the Russian fuse down. Ghaled picked it up and weighed it in his hand as he went on.
“And you know how to do many things well, don’t you, Comrade Michael? You are a merchant as well as an engineer, a manager as well as a successful capitalist exploiter. You have so many sources of pride to inflate your conceit. No wonder you so easily become arrogant.”
He said the last word very deliberately and for a moment the heavy fuse became still in his hand. He was waiting for me to answer the charge.
“I am sorry,” I said mildly, “that you should think me arrogant, Comrade Salah. You said that you wished to make use of my knowledge and resources. I have been doing my best to comply.”
“But not without reservations. You see, your arrogance leads you into giving yourself away, Comrade Michael. For example, you concealed your prior knowledge of Tewfiq’s and Wasfi’s cover occupations. But when a moment came when you could show them to be, in your eyes, ignorant men, you did so. You could not resist the temptation.”
He got up and put the fuse back to its box under the bed before turning to me again.
“I told you last night that I had other plans for securing your wholehearted cooperation. They would have involved damage to your company’s bank balances rather than to your personal conceit. Perhaps that would have been more effective.”
I said nothing.
“Well, we can still find out if it becomes necessary. Agence Howell ships constantly use the ports of Beirut, Latakia, and Alexandria. We have cells in all those places. The cargo fires and engine room explosions we had arranged for can easily be reordered. Meanwhile, remember that you have been warned.” He sat down again at the head of the table. “How soon will the drawings of the adaptor ring be ready?”
“It will take me some time, Comrade Salah. As a draftsman I am a little out of practice. The day after tomorrow I should have it finished.”
“And how long then to make the rings?”
“Ten days to two weeks for the sample. When that is approved a week should be sufficient to produce a hundred.”
“Very well.” He looked around the table. “Comrades Tewfiq and Wasfi have their assigned tasks. They are now excused. Comrade Issa will get the print maker.” He waited until they had left the room, then opened a folder — one of my office filing folders — which was lying on the table in front of him. On top of the papers inside were Teresa’s identity card and my passport. He looked at us. “For you two, before your other duties are assigned, there are membership formalities to be completed.” He selected two papers from the folder and glanced at them before pushing them across the table to us. “Read them carefully before signing, both of you.”
What I read was this:
I, Michael Howell, a British Commonwealth citizen resident in the Democratic Socialist Republic of Syria and subject to its laws in all respects, do hereby confess, freely and of my own will, to having transgressed those laws by illegally transporting arms and explosives for the use and on the orders of the Zionist secret intelligence service.
It then became more specific. I had, with others whom I could name, conspired to blow up the house of one Hussein Mahenoud Saga’ir in the Lebanese village of Bleideh on the night of the fifteenth day of Murharram in that year. I had actually manufactured the plastic bomb which had destroyed the house of this Palestinian patriot, killing him and all his family. The name of the Zionist secret agent who had recruited me for this filthy work was Ze’ev Barlev, and I had been contacted by him during one of my frequent visits to Cyprus.
In the hands of the Syrian police such a confession would be tantamount to a death sentence — after torture to extract the names of my co-conspirators. The Lebanese police might omit the torture and commute the death sentence to life imprisonment, but that would be the best treatment I could hope for in any of the Arab League countries.
I glanced at Teresa. Her face was pale and still. I reached for her confession and read it. She had been my confederate in the murder of the Saga’ir family and also a courier for the Israeli intelligence service. Her father had been a Jew. The two confessions were more or less the same.