As a former war correspondent, Lewis Prescott may, as he says, have found it necessary to become used to horrors. I am glad that he also found it possible. I had not, at that stage, found it necessary, with the result that I was not only completely unprepared for what I saw, but also when my nose was rubbed in it, quite unable to cope. I don’t know, or care, who was really responsible for the things shown in those photographs. I thought at the time, insofar as I was able to think, that the “Zionist women” claim had to be false, and Mr. Prescott’s account suggests that I was right. Obviously Ghaled would change his story about the photographs to suit his audience.
But changing the story didn’t change the photographs. I wished I could have done what Teresa did. After one glance she just got up and moved right away, saying that she would get more coffee. She stayed away, and Ghaled took no more notice of her. But he made me sit there and look at the lot, not just once, but three times with no skipping, and all the time he watched my face.
The only defence I could think of was to take my glasses off as if to see better; he could not know that without my glasses everything blurred a bit But I had left it too late, because, having once seem what was there, I could not blur what was already clear in my mind’s eye.
“Front-fighting, Comrade Michael, front-fighting.”
He kept intoning the words as if they were an incantation. In the end I managed to break the spell I did that by straightening up suddenly, putting my glasses on, handing him back the wallet with one hand, and reaching with the other for the brandy bottle.
“Very instructive, Comrade Salah," I said as briskly as I could, and refilled his glass.
He smiled as he took the wallet I hadn’t deceived him; he knew all right that he’d shaken me.
“Let us say inspirational, Comrade Michael,” he corrected me. “You know now the kind of thing we, and you with us, have to avenge.” He dropped the wallet back into the briefcase and took something eke out. “You were asking about your orders. Clear and practical you said they must be.” He shoved a wad of paper at me. “Are those orders clear and practical enough for you?”
What he gave me was a copy of the standard British Admiralty chart number 2834. That number covers the eastern Mediterranean seacoast from Sour in the north down to El Arîsh. Tel Aviv-Yafo is about half-way up.
The cartridge paper on which it was printed was limp and grubby from much handling and it had been folded and refolded too often, but it was still readable. On it, someone had plotted, in purple ink, a course for a southbound vessel.
As far south as the Caesarea parallel the course was normal enough, about twenty miles offshore on a heading of 195 degrees in deep water. Then there was a twenty-degree swing to the east which continued as far as the hundred-fathom line. At that point the course changed again, running parallel to the coast on a 190-degree heading for about twelve miles. Just south of Tel Aviv it turned west again, rejoining the original open-sea course somewhere off Ashdod.
In the blank space above the compass rose, the plotter of the course had written out in Arabic a precise description of the change sequence and the timing of it. The description ended with this Instruction: On 190° south heading from 21.15 hrs. until 23.00 hrs. ship’s speed is on no account to exceed 6 knots.
I didn’t take all this in at once, of course, but I didn’t want to display too keen an interest. After a brief glance I refolded the chart.
“Well?” he asked.
“No difficulty, I think, Comrade Salah. The instructions seem perfectly clear to me. I am not a seaman myself but this looks like the work of a trained navigator.”
“It is.”
“If the captain has any questions, answers can be obtained, I imagine.”
“There should be no questions. Just see that the captain understands that he is to obey those orders strictly.”
“Yes, Comrade Salah. The captain will have to choose his own sailing time, however. Otherwise he cannot be in the correct position on the evening of the third. In the port of Latakia all movement of shipping is prohibited between sunset and sunrise. Embarkation should probably take place, I think, before sunset on the second of July so that departure can be very early on the third. But the captain must be consulted on these points.”
“Very well, consult him and submit your proposals. But understand this. The timings of the course changes must be strictly adhered to.”
“I understand.”
“Then I will thank you for your hospitality and ask you to drive me back. Before I cam sleep there is work to be done.”
As he spoke he leaned forward with his hand outstretched. The briefcase was still open and for a moment I thought that he wanted to take the chart back. Then I realized that he was simply reaching for his brandy glass; but the movement had made me nervous.
“If you will excuse me,” I said, “I will put these orders in my private safe.”
He shrugged. “Very well.”
I was gone several minutes because, before putting the chart in the safe, I scribbled out a copy of the sailing instructions written on it. I was afraid, you see, that he might suddenly change his mind about letting me hold on to it. The fact that I took this unnecessary precaution is a good indication of my own state of mind at the time — edgy, overanxious, reacting instead of thinking calmly, and all set to make crass errors of judgment.
They were already in the car when I went down, Teresa in the driver’s seat, Ghaled in the back. He had his door still open as if expecting me to get in beside him, so I did so.
For a time he spoke only to Teresa. He was the worst sort of back-seat driver; he told her not only which way to go; even though she obviously knew the way, but how. “Slow, this corner is dangerous. Turn here, turn here! Keep right. Now you can go faster. Are your headlights on?” Teresa kept her temper very well. Of course, she had had him earlier in the evening and so knew what to expect. Even so, her “Yes, Comrade Salahs” became quite curt. It was a relief when, on our reaching the Der’a road, he turned his attention to me.
“What experience have you with diesel engines?” he asked.
The question was so unexpected that I was off balance for a moment.
“Of using them, Comrade Salah?”
“Of maintaining and repairing them.”
And then the penny dropped, or seemed to. I remembered what Abouti had said about the little cockroach who drove a Mercedes diesel truck. They must be having trouble with the thing. It was a natural enough conclusion to jump to. How was I to know that it was the wrong conclusion and that I had jumped too hastily?
“My only experience with diesel engines,” I said, “is of what you must not do. That is to allow any untrained person, however resourceful he may be, to lay a finger on them. Diesel engines do not respond to semiskilled tinkering.”
“If it were a question of repairing a fuel injection pump?”
“Don’t try to repair it Have it replaced, and have the work done by the maker’s agent.”
“And if this is not possible?”
That puzzled me, because I was reasonably certain that there was a Mercedes agent in Damascus. Then, I thought I saw what the trouble was. The truck didn’t belong to Ghaled, he was only “borrowing” it. Even if he had the owner’s willing consent, direct dealing with the Mercedes agent might present a problem.
“You could order the replacement pump from Beirut and employ a local diesel fitter to do the work.”
This answer obviously didn’t satisfy him. “Why shouldn’t the pump be repaired?”