Ultimatum Read Free Page B

pushed it across and started the engine. He followed the route he’d come by until he reached the road to the main gates. He turned into it, passed through the gates and made off into the city.
     
    There were stacks of cargo of various sorts in No. 27 – the dimly-lit shed where Colonel Rashid Dahan and his officers were talking to the two late arrivals. All wore civilian clothes. The Colonel and those who’d come in the trucks with him were dressed as workmen.
    ‘Was the journey all right, Roumi?’ he enquired.
    ‘Successful but not very comfortable. We had bad weather in the Gulf of Lyons. It made us sea-sick.’
    The Colonel smiled, showing fine white teeth. ‘All part of the day’s work for soldiers.’
    ‘We gave thanks to Allah that we were not sailors,’ said the younger of the two.
    ‘Any questions asked in the ship?’
    ‘No. The captain had been told we were Mahroutti’s representatives. That this was an important and valuable consignment. Irrigation equipment of a new type for the agricultural settlement at Bekàa. That we had been sent to supervise its handling and stowage. The rest of the crew were not interested.’
    The discussion with the late arrivals continued for some time. Eventually, having agreed with the Colonel that they would proceed independently to Damascus on the following day, they left the shed and disappeared into the darkness.
     
    The Syrian officers sat on packing cases, talking in low voices, some smoking. It was still only ten-thirty. Too early for sleep. They knew an uncomfortable night lay ahead. It was warm and the air in the transit shed was stuffy, pungent with the smell of copra, bags of which were stacked in a far corner. The only places to rest were the driving cabs of the Benz six-wheelers.
    ‘It will be a long night,’ said the Colonel, reading their thoughts. ‘We shall take it in turns to rest. I don’t think sleep will be possible.’
    ‘Except for Azhari,’ said a young officer. ‘He passes out like a light. And snores.’
    Azhari protested and there was a ripple of laughter.
    Beneath their clothes, Colonel Rashid Dahan and his men were armed with Stetchkin 9mm automatic pistols. They had been supplied to the Syrian Army by the Soviet Union.
     
    In the early hours of morning there was knocking on the doors of the transit shed. Dahan alerted his men and went to the door accompanied by Azhari. He saw by his wristwatch that the time was seventeen minutes past one.
    ‘Who is there?’ he demanded.
    ‘Abdul Hassami, Assistant Port Captain,’ came the reply. ‘I have an urgent message for Colonel Rashid Dahan.’
    The Colonel nodded to Azhari and took up a positionbeside the door. The hand he thrust into his jacket clasped the butt of the 9mm Stetchkin. In one quick motion he opened the door and shone a torch in the face of the man standing there. He was wearing the uniform of a senior port official.
    ‘I am Colonel Rashid Dahan,’ said the Colonel. ‘What is the message?’
    ‘You are wanted on the telephone, sir. Your wife is calling from Damascus.’ The port official hesitated. ‘I am sorry, Colonel, but there has been an accident. It is your son, Omar. Your wife has just returned from the hospital.’
    ‘In the name of Allah!’ The Colonel stiffened, the colour draining from his cheeks. ‘He’s …?’ he gulped. ‘He’s not dead?’
    ‘No, sir. But she says it is serious. His bicycle collided with a car.’ Hassami paused, looking sorrowfully at the Syrian. ‘Please follow me to the port office, sir.’
    The Colonel’s energy seemed to drain away, his knees felt weak and his head spun. Omar was his eldest and favourite son. Only a few weeks back the boy had celebrated his twelfth birthday. It was then the Colonel had given him the new bicycle. With an effort of will he cleared his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll come. One moment, please.’
    He hurried over to the trucks. ‘Take charge, Aramoun,’ he said. ‘There is an urgent