Mirage Page 16

  Daniel stowed the binoculars and made his way down to the car deck. He was feeling well pleased with himself.

  Raquel waited impatiently, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and irrationally blaming the delay in getting off the ferry on the family in front of her because they had taken it into their heads that now was an ideal time to unpack their caravan in a search for children’s travel sickness pills. The mother dropped a bag of toys. The young man searching for a real car and who ended up helping her rescue toy ones was Daniel.

  As McNaill was fond of observing, in the espionage game Raquel was a ‘natural’. In one smooth movement she ducked her head down to deal with the problem that had suddenly arisen with the car radio. Without benefit of co-ordination from her confused brain, her frantic fingers actually succeeded in depriving the set of its volume control knob. She remained intent on the problem until the sound of the stern doors opening and the harsh scream of starter motors all around prompted her to peer cautiously over the top of the dashboard. Daniel had gone. The leading vehicles in her lane were already edging forward. She tied her headscarf in place so that it hid most of her face and put on her dark glasses.

  Five minutes later she was bumping down the loading ramp and into the bright sunlight. After a cursory check of her green card, the French customs officer waved her on. She joined the eager surge of vehicles swarming out of the marshalling yard and nearly ran into the back of the caravan as she twisted her head left and right in her search for Daniel’s Mini. And then she spotted it making a right turn on to the little bridge that linked the old town with the Bassin du Commerce.

  18

  BLACKBUSHE AIRFIELD, ENGLAND

  Lucky Nathan was becoming extremely irritated. The conducted tour of Luckair workshops was dragging on because Rodney Braden was no ordinary banker. For one thing he was too young. No more than thirty-five at a guess. For another bankers were not usually interested in the business of overhauling aircraft whereas this Braden character seemed keen to poke his nose into everything. Even worse, he had brought his own white overalls which he had climbed into before the tour started.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Braden, watching a gang of fitters stripping down an Armstrong-Siddeley Hercules engine. ‘The cylinders are just like the pots on my old Beezer. BSAs were great motorcycles, Mr Nathan. Of course, I was a junior accountant in those days and couldn’t afford a Norton.’

  Lucky made a polite noise and succeeded in persuading Braden to mount the stairs leading to his office. At the top of the catwalk, Braden insisted on spending five minutes leaning on the rail, studying the activity below on the huge shop floor as a team of riggers worked on the installation of new Rolls-Royce engines in two de Havilland Vampire fighters.

  ‘We’re rebuilding them as trainers for Argentina,’ Lucky explained in answer to Braden’s query. ‘Shall we get down to business now, Mr Braden?’

  The banker allowed himself to be steered into Lucky’s austere office. Glass panels afforded a panoramic view of the main floor and into adjoining offices where girls were pounding typewriters. The place was littered with hundreds of rolled-up drawings. Lucky was not the sort of man to tidy up for visitors even though his future and the future of his company rested on the outcome of this particular meeting.

  ‘Do you mind if my general manager sits in on this one?’ Lucky asked.

  Braden sat behind Lucky’s desk and unzipped his briefcase. ‘Not at all, Mr Nathan.’

  Lucky signalled through a window. Robbie Kinsey entered the office and shook hands with Braden. The ex-borstal boy had become a powerful, thick-set man with a bull neck, close-set eyes and about as much charm and personality as a Dobermann pinscher. He was wearing a broken nose that dated back to his petty crime-riddled youth and a grease-stained white coat that looked as if he had slept in it. Robbie was more than just a stereotype of a thug - he was a thug with a readiness to resort to violence that Lucky had often found useful. The difference between Robbie and any heavy that Lucky could have employed was that Robbie was a cut above the average thug because his years with Lucky had turned him into a first-class aircraft mechanic even though he had no formal qualifications. He managed to twist his permanent suspicious scowl into the semblance of a smile for Braden’s benefit before slouching in a chair and folding his arms in belligerent readiness to make no contribution to the meeting whatsoever. Robbie’s childhood had been punctuated by a series of encounters with forbidding magistrates all of whom had spoken in the same marbled accents as this Braden character.

  ‘First the good news,’ said Braden briskly, arranging some papers on the desk. ‘My board of directors is in favour in principle of a loan of twenty-five million dollars over six years.’

  ‘But ...’ Lucky prompted.

  ‘Being in US dollars, it will require Treasury consent, of course. But, because the money is required for financing a major export order, we don’t anticipate any problems there.’

  ‘But...’ Lucky prompted again.

  Braden smiled patronizingly. ‘We’ve put together five possible packages.’

  ‘No debentures,’ said Lucky shortly.

  Braden’s smile vanished. ‘We have to protect ourselves, Mr Nathan.’

  ‘I made that clear to your Mr Parsons,’ Lucky rasped. ‘I don’t go along with no fiddle that means you can grab my company from under my nose.’

  ‘I can understand that, Mr Nathan,’ said Braden, uncomfortably aware of Robbie’s hostile gaze. ‘But you have to be realistic. If you default—’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Lucky exploded. ‘You’ve had something like half a million quid in interest out of me over the past five years. I’ve never defaulted. I’ve always stuck to my cash flow forecasts and you’ve always had your pound of flesh on the dot.’

  Braden remained calm. He had expected this. ‘We’re not talking about a million pounds, Mr Nathan. We’re talking about ten times that amount. Twenty-five million dollars.’

  ‘On the security of fifty Hunter airframes! Hawker’s would pay that tomorrow to get their hands on them. As it is, I’ve got first refusal.’ The banker glanced down at some figures. ‘Ah yes - no doubt because you’ve allowed quarter of a million dollars for these so- called “incentive payments” to Brazilian government officials?’ ‘Bribes,’ said Lucky bluntly. ‘We have to play the game by their rules. That’s why I always score one over on the big boys when it comes to grabbing airframes.’ He jerked his head towards the workshops. ‘I shelled out fifty thousand dollars each for first refusals on those Vamps. Peanuts against the unit resale price.’ ‘We’re not querying your incentive payments, Mr Nathan. What we are querying is the value of the Brazilian Hunters as they stand.’ ‘They’re good value for money.’

  ‘Six of them are crashed frames,’ said Braden mildly.

  Not a muscle moved on Lucky’s gaunt face.

  ‘As soon as we received your proposal, we hired an extremely knowledgeable aeronautical engineer in Brasilia to report on the likely condition of the aircraft,’ Braden explained. He passed a sheaf of typewritten papers to Lucky. ‘You may have a copy of the translation. The problem as we see it is that you do not, as yet, have a firm contract from Israel to supply them with fifty reconditioned Hunters. Only this draft contract. Once you’re in possession of the airframes, they will account for ninety per cent of your assets. And in view of their condition, it will be difficult to dispose of them if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘I could unload them at cost - no problem,’ Lucky grated. ‘Unloading them at cost won’t finance the charges on the loan,’ Braden observed. ‘I think the best package from your point of view is number four. That will allow you to meet the first six payments on our loan from your reserves. After that the stage payments from Israel on your first deliveries will generate the necessary cash flow for you to meet the remainder of the repayment schedule. I suggest that when the final contract is being drafted, you negotiate a clause that gives you advance payment for the first Hunter on signature. But t
hese are details, of course. As I said earlier, my directors are in favour of the loan and we’ll let you have a letter of intent. That ought to strengthen your negotiating position.’

  ‘I’m going to need the money by the end of month,’ said Lucky. ‘No problem, Mr Nathan.’ Braden stood and unbuttoned his overalls. ‘Package four includes a clause that gives us a debenture should you default on two consecutive instalments. We only move in after four defaults. Even if that happens, we would still retain you as managing director.’

  The casual manner in which the young banker discussed the fate of Luckair infuriated Lucky. He would rather deal with corrupt government officials any day. At least they didn’t cold-bloodedly plan to grab your company from under your nose when things went wrong.

  Braden seemed to sense what Lucky was thinking. He smiled affably and left a large manilla envelope on the desk. ‘All the details are in there, Mr Nathan. I’m sure with your past record for astute dealing that everything will go very smoothly indeed. Even with your sensibly conservative forecasts, you and your company stand to make a profit of twenty-five million pounds.’

  ‘And if it goes wrong, I lose everything,’ said Lucky bitterly. Braden zipped up his briefcase and held out his hand. ‘Let’s think positively, Mr Nathan. One more point. We notice from your share register that a company based in Switzerland has a holding of twelve per cent non-voting stock in your company.’

  ‘So?’ Any mention of Jacob Wyel’s clandestine holding in Luckair always put Lucky on his guard. ‘I found a foreign backer when I first started when none of the British banks would lend me a penny. Anything wrong in that?’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Nathan,’ said Braden smoothly. ‘It’s just that over the past ten years that Swiss company has received nearly half a million pounds in dividends. We’re not concerned at the moment but if things go wrong we may require more details on the company. Names of directors and so forth. In the meantime we shall look forward to hearing from you when you’ve had a chance to study our proposals in detail.’

  19

  CHERBOURG

  The second glances that the convertible Zodiac attracted in England became uninhibited stares in a country whose car industry specialized in turning out micro-horsepowered shoeboxes on pram wheels. Raquel’s circuits of the busy Place du Theatre - the town’s miniature central square - were like the encores of a prima donna inasmuch that each lap attracted cheers and whistles from a group of youths. As her rotten luck would have it, the parking space that became available was next to Daniel’s Mini. A boy sweeping up litter made a great show of clearing the parking space with his broom and then bowing deeply as Raquel edged the Zodiac into the bay. Her neat parking earned her a round of applause. She spent a few minutes sitting in the car, pretending to read a map while rehearsing some choice words that she would be putting to McNaill when she returned the Zodiac. Eventually the youths lost interest and drifted away leaving Raquel to ponder her next move.

  She got out of the convertible, locked it, and risked a quick glance into the Mini. Daniel had left an Automobile Association France to Switzerland route map on the front passenger seat. Perhaps it was a map that he just happened to have and was making use of it. Alternatively it could be a map that he had acquired especially for this trip. If so, it suggested advance planning on Daniel’s part. Raquel had a shrewd idea that this trip of Daniel’s, although hurried, was nevertheless carefully planned. But why Switzerland? Maybe he was operating some sort of currency fiddle? Either way, she was confident that she would soon find out more, but whether or not she would be passing on information to McNaill was another matter.

  The immediate problem was the likelihood of Daniel recognizing her. Some nearby dress shops, with half their wares on pavement racks, decided her. With frequent glances at Daniel’s Mini to reassure herself that it was still there, she purchased a plain cotton dress and a pair of flat walking shoes. The owner grudgingly allowed her to change into the dress at the back of the shop. Raquel quickly pulled it on, unaware that her actions had deprived the owner of the unalienable constitutional right of all French shopkeepers to carefully gift wrap their customers’ purchases. At the adjoining shop she acquired a cheap straw hat with a wide brim and the word CHERBOURG printed on its band. It was a piece of millinery madness, stocked to satisfy the British tourists’ craving for souvenirs of incalculable bad taste which no self-respecting Frenchwoman would be seen dead in. At least it hid her face. Her final purchase was another pair of sunglasses with old-fashioned frames to match the general dowdiness of her new outfit. She caught sight of her reflection in a shop window and decided that she looked suitably awful.

  After that there was little to do but sit at a pavement cafe where she could keep the Mini under observation while drinking endless glasses of Coca-Cola. Two hours later she was suppressing burps while uncomfortably aware that two gendarmes were eyeing her suspiciously from the steps of the theatre. She was trying to make up her mind whether to move or switch to drinking coffee when she spotted Daniel making his way towards his Mini. He looked tired and his limp was worse than she had ever known it.

  The constriction in her throat at the sight of Daniel - so near and yet so unattainable - welled up into a hatred of McNaill for what he was making her do. But for her feelings of guilt and a fear of the consequences, she would’ve rushed across to Daniel, thrown her arms around him; to confess everything and beg his forgiveness.

  With a throaty roar from its straight-through exhaust, the Mini was disappearing down the narrow street towards the port by the time she had paid her bill and rushed across to the Zodiac.

  The first thing Daniel did after parking his car in the Place du Theatre was find the tourist office.

  Despite his months working for Dassault, his French was appalling. The girl listened with a pained expression and decided that, although his looks had a definite knee-weakening effect, his brutal manslaughter of her mother tongue was one of those offerings in life’s rich pageant that she had no hope of coming to terms with. She yelled for Carol. Carol was English.

  ‘I’m an Israeli,’ Daniel explained, showing Carol his passport. I’ve got a job here in Cherbourg for the next few weeks and I need somewhere to stay.’

  ‘Oh - you must be joining the Israeli team working at CMN?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Carol frowned. ‘Then surely your people fixed you up?’

  ‘There hasn’t been time. I was holidaying in London when I got a telegram telling me to report to Cherbourg. You see?’ He pointed out the Heathrow date stamp in his passport. ‘I don’t even know who’s in charge of the Israeli team.’

  ‘One moment please.’ Carol went into the rear office and had a brief conversation in rapid French with the first girl. The only words Daniel could pick out were ‘Israeli’ and ‘CMN'. Carol returned smiling. ‘Just as I thought. Giselle’s been out with nearly all the Israelis. She doesn’t know the name of their team leader but she thinks most of them live in rented houses in the Rue Dom Pedro. She should know. It’s a little residential road at the front of CMN.’ She produced a tourists’ street map and marked the Rue Dom Pedro. ‘It’s only about five minutes’ walk. They must have some spare accommodation fixed up for you.’

  Giselle chipped in with a few remarks in rapid French. Carol laughed and said: ‘Giselle reckons you’ll catch them all in the local bars at this time.’

  Daniel thanked the two girls and left clutching his street map.

  ‘I saw him first,’ said Giselle sternly when the two girls were alone. After leaving the tourist office Daniel soon discovered that Carol had an odd idea of the distance one could cover in a five-minute walk. It took him twenty minutes to reach CMN’s imposing front entrance. The huge windowless construction shed behind the offices looked oddly out of place sandwiched between neat little houses that dated back to the beginning of the century. The street was silent and there seemed to be no activity behind CMN’s chainlink fencing. He turned left down the Rue Vauban towar
ds the sea and came out on a long straight, deserted road that ran parallel to the harbour between the railway yard and CMN. There was more to see on the harbour side of the boatyard. The unfinished fast attack craft cradled outside the construction shed that Daniel had seen from the ferry looked huge and ungainly out of the water. A wide-gauge trackway led from the shed, through a pair of locked gates, and across the road. It continued across the railway lines and ended at a slipway. CMN’s moving of a boat some four hundred metres along the wide track for launching would be a noteworthy sight. A FAC that Daniel had not noticed earlier was tied up at a quayside.

  His foot was aching abominably by the time he neared the bar at the far end of the boulevard. There was a group of a dozen or so young men sitting at tables under Cinzano sunshades. They were laughing and joking. Daniel was electrified to hear a smattering of Hebrew. There was something vaguely familiar about the curly- haired young man who was staring at Daniel as he approached. The curly-haired young man stood.

  ‘Daniel! Daniel Kalen! Well I’ll be damned!’

  ‘Joe Tyssen! I don’t believe it!’

  The conversation at the table stopped as the two men shook hands warmly and clapped each other on the back.

  ‘Fellers,’ said Joe, laughingly introducing Daniel, ‘this is Daniel Kalen. His parents own a moshav near my parents. Daniel, this is my boss - Jack Cartier - chief engineer and slave driver extraordinaire.’ Cartier was the only member of the group not smiling. He shook hands in a perfunctory manner, not taking his eyes off Daniel for an instant as a seat was found for the new arrival and a Pernod pressed into his hands.

  ‘The last I heard about Daniel,’ Joe was saying, ‘was that he shot down a hundred Arab MiGs last June before getting shot down himself. Right, Daniel?’