It was this set that worried me. When Patsalides told me about it I immediately asked if he didn’t mean a pair of walkie-talkie sets. That’s what I hoped he had meant, but he shook his head.
“No, Mr. Howell, just one.”
When he had left us Touzani looked at me curiously. “Why should you mind about this set? If he has one that only means that someone on the boat coming from the shore has the other.”
“Yes.”
“What difference does it make? You can’t use those things as direction finders, at least not effectively. A boat from the shore would be looking for our lights.”
I didn’t tell him what I was worrying about was not a boat from the shore, but Hadaya from the sea. It looked as if Ghaled intended to control and coordinate the whole operation from the Amalia.
I should have worried more about that walkie-talkie, seen the danger it really represented and so been better prepared to counter it. The trouble was that in my own mind at that moment I was quite certain that I knew what the Israelis were going to do. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part; I had been using the ship’s radio.
As soon as we had left Syrian waters that morning I had begun sending messages to Famagusta, a series of three. They could not be explicit; I had to wrap everything up in commercial jargon; but they made and remade three points.
First: that the information previously furnished had been found to be incomplete and that two ships were now involved in the transaction.
Second: that modifications to the announced routing would have to be made.
Third: that, as a consequence, the steps to be taken already discussed should be taken not later than 21:15 hours in order to be effective.
They had been difficult messages to compose and one of them read like gibberish. The ship’s radio operator had given me some odd looks. But I didn’t care what he thought. From the fact that all three messages had been acknowledged without the bewildered demands for clarification that might have been expected, I concluded, rightly, that they were getting through to Barlev, and that my mad cable from Damascus had had the desired effect of alerting him. The final acknowledgment added what I took to be a personal assurance from him. Famagusta said that they would “proceed as planned”.
To me that meant that the interception was going to be off Caesarea at 21:15 that evening. I felt that all I had to do now was wait.
Ghaled had kept to his cabin most of the day. The front-fighters preferred the deck — understandably, since the special compartment had no porthole. I stayed in the captain’s quarters aft of the bridge until the late afternoon. This was with Ghaled’s approval; I was supposed to be keeping an eye on the ship’s progress. But around about five o’clock a message came, brought by Kyprianou the steward, that I was to report to him in his cabin.
With the message Kyprianou brought additional information. “Mr. Yassin is armed,” he said dramatically.
“Oh.”
“He is wearing his pistol on a belt, sir.”
“I see.”
“Shall I tell him to take it off, sir?”
“No, Kyprianou, it is perfectly all right.”
He seemed disappointed. Touzani, who had been listening, added a further caution.
“You will pretend not to have seen the pistol. Just get on with your work in the ordinary way.” He dismissed the steward. To me he said: “When you get back, Mr. Howell, it may be as well if we have a little talk.”
I nodded and went down to see Ghaled.
He was sitting at the small cabin desk writing, and I stood in the doorway for several seconds before he turned.
“Ah, Comrade Michael. There was a small task I gave you on the day before we left.”
“Task, Comrade Salah?”
“Two bottles of brandy.”
“Oh yes. For the celebration. Would you like them now?”
“I would like one. And bring two glasses with you from the saloon.”
I had to go back up to the captain’s quarters to fetch the bottle. He watched in silence while I got it out of my bag. It was an eloquent silence. I would have preferred some spoken comment.
When I returned to Ghaled he had some papers in his hand.
“Sit down, Comrade Michael.”
As he had the only chair I sat on the bunk beside the Serinette.
“You can open the bottle? Good. Then pour two drinks and let us talk about the future. We arrive in Alexandria tomorrow at what time?”
“Early afternoon I expect, Comrade Salah, but with the course changes ahead it is difficult to say exactly.”
“My arrival will be kept secret, of course. It must not be known how I have arrived. The press conference I hold will be in Cairo.”
“Is that already organized?”
“Everything is organized.” He gave me a sheet of paper with mimeographed typing on it. “That is the preliminary statement in English which will be issued to the international news agencies in Beirut as soon as the first reports of our attack begin coming in.”
The paper was headed Palestinian Action Force Information Service and datelined Beirut, July 4. The statement began:
At approximately 22:00 hrs. yesterday July 3, troops of the Palestinian Action Force under the personal command of their leader, Salah Ghaled, launched the most devastating attack yet seen on the Zionist pseudo-state of Israel. The target selected was that citadel of Zionist expansionism, Tel Aviv. Massive bombardments by both land and sea forces of the PAF, though directed primarily at military installations in the area, are believed to have caused some civilian casualties. In a statement following the attack, PAF leader Salah Ghaled said that, while such casualties were regretted, he could not allow the presence of so-called innocent bystanders to influence PAF war policy. “While we Palestinians must still fight for justice,” he said, “no bystanders are innocent. In the Palestinian liberation movement there have been too many words and too few deeds. With this offensive the PAF, representing the new militant leadership of all Palestinian forces, begins the march to victory and ultimate justice.”
There was more of the same — Melanie Hammad’s work obviously — but I only pretended to read it.
“It is good English, Comrade Michael?” he asked anxiously. “I can read English a little but not very well.”
‘’Yes, it is to good English.” I knew that there would be one question expected of me and that I had better ask it quickly.
“It says here, Comrade Salah, that there will be a bombardment from the sea. Can that be correct?”
He smiled contentedly. That is a surprise that I have been keeping for you. Fill our glasses again.”
So then he told me about the Jeble 5 attack.
I made the appropriate sounds of delight and amazement. In a way, he had made my task a little easier, because now I did not have to maintain quite so much of a pretence with him. On the other hand, I now had more to conceal from Captain Touzani. Instead of my own surmises and deductions to keep quiet about — and they just could have been mistaken — I had confirmed information to withhold. I would have to be careful when we had our “little talk”.
The problem now was to get away from Ghaled. All he wanted to do was talk about Cairo and the reception he expected there. Last time it had been cold. This time it would be very different. He was looking forward to seeing Yasir Arafat’s face as they embraced for the photographers. He had been making notes of some of the questions the reporters would most likely ask him and preparing his replies.
I had to listen to them. He went on and on. After the third brandy I said that I must go and make arrangements for that evening.
“What arrangements?”
“The first course change will be made at eight o’clock. When I am sure that all is well I think that we should have our meal, Comrade Salah, so that we are all ready for the next change at nine fifteen off Caesarea. I imagine the Jeble 5 will be joining us soon after.”