I t was a fishing boat again: in the darkness it seemed to have the same mid-section construction and be about the same size. Janet waited, expectantly, for the revulsion, but nothing came. This boat was cleaner, although there was still the stink of fish. The muttered challenge came as soon as Baxeter hauled her inboard from the rowboat which had ferried them from the bay near Cape Pyla. Janet guessed the mutter to be Hebrew, a language she did not understand. Baxeter’s retort was brief but sharp, in the tone of a superior to subordinates, and the challenge stopped abruptly.
“There’s shelter in the wheelhouse,” suggested Baxeter.
“No!” Janet said at once, remembering the last time. Baxeter had retreated from her, in attitude and mind: he had agreed that she should come as soon as she threatened going to the Americans, but he clearly begrudged the concession.
“It won’t be long: a mile or two,” he said.
“What then?”
“Transfer to a proper patrol boat.”
Until now Janet had not considered how they were going to reach the Lebanese mainland: it was going to be a great deal different than before. Trying to rebuild bridges between them, she said: “Now that I’ve explained what Robards told me, don’t you understand?”
“No,” rejected Baxeter. He was actually standing away from her, his gaze towards the open sea where he expected the Israeli patrol boats to be laying off.
Was it his reluctance to accept her presence? wondered Janet. Or was this a side of Baxeter she had not experienced before, the man’s ability to compartment himself, concentrating upon something or someone absolutely essential at that particular and absolute moment and able to relegate everything or everyone else of subsidiary importance? “It’s necessary that I come,” she insisted.
“You made that clear.”
There was a call, a single word in Hebrew, from the wheelhouse and Baxeter slightly changed the direction in which he was looking. Janet followed his gaze, hearing the patrol boat before she actually detected it: a throaty, heavy, bubbled sound of very powerful engines throttled back to minimal tick-over, practically a protest at the waste of such power.
The seamanship was superb. Without any obvious signals the captain of the fishing boat brought his vessel softly against the side of the matchingly maneuvered patrol boat and the two sides kissed the hanging fenders with the merest jolt.
“Step across: follow me,” ordered Baxeter.
Janet did as she was told without any stumble or uncertainty and was glad, anxious not to indicate this early that she might become an encumbrance. Despite the darkness she was immediately noticed. There was an eruption of babbled Hebrew against which Baxeter argued, and then started to shout: unseen, black-garbed figures whose faces and heads also seemed blackened shouted back, milling in front of them and gesticulating wildly. Some of the shouts were to the fishing boat that was easing away, and it at once reversed its engines. Janet guessed the instruction had been to return to take her off. The argument became a violent, yelling row, with Baxeter standing in front of her in the manner of a protector. Gradually Janet recognized a sameness in the gestures, and as she did Baxeter said to her over his shoulder: “They are insisting I talk to Tel Aviv.”
He reached protectively behind him and seized her arm to guide her towards the darker superstructure.
Once she entered the radio shack Janet understood where she was-on a very special custom-built vessel created for a very special function. Everyone wore black, one-piece boiler suits-even the zips were black-without any insignia of rank, fitted with push-back hoods that could be pulled up entirely to cover the head. There was no white light, just red, but despite the dullness Janet could make out that all the internal fittings were black, not a single item risking the reflection of any sort of light and that beyond, on the open deck, all the metal was blackened too, covered by some plastic or bitumen coating.
A fair-haired man insisted upon using the radio first, yelling into the mouthpiece as loudly as he had upon the deck, and then Baxeter snatched it away from him but spoke in more controlled tones than the other man, forceful reason against inconsiderate anger. From the transmitter came a flurry of questions and although she could not understand the language Janet was able to discern three different voices and guessed the concern would be as great in Israel as it appeared aboard this bizarre boat. First Baxeter responded, then the fair-haired man, then Baxeter again: the transmission ended with the fair-haired commando throwing down a pencil in disgust and stumping past her. Janet was near the doorway and he actually attempted to collide with her but at the last minute she went further sideways into the shack and he missed. Janet, who was pleased, hoped Baxeter had seen.
“You won?” guessed Janet.
“You can come,” agreed Baxeter. “I have to face an internal inquiry when it’s all over.”
“I’ m sorry.”
“I hope I’m not.”
The engines’ heavy bubble became within moments the roar of throttles being opened as the patrol boat unexpectedly lifted on its stern and hurtled forwards, smashing through the water. There was no warning of the acceleration and both she and Baxeter stumbled backwards: he managed to grab a support rail and then snatched out for her, stopping her falling.
“An expression of displeasure,” said Baxeter. “You’re very much resented.”
“I’m an expert at resentment,” said Janet. She had to shout to make herself heard over the engine scream.
Baxeter did not try to talk. He pulled her from the radio room out on to the deck and then through a small housing covering some steps. He went down ahead of her, calling out in advance what she guessed to be some sort of warning of their approach. There were about eight men below, in the mess area: it smelled of stale cigarette smoke and bodies too close together for too long. The men regarded them sullenly, without any greeting: the vehement radio protestor was not one of them.
Baxeter went through the mess to a bunk area further back, groped in a locker and handed her a pair of the black coveralls that were clearly the regulation dress. He said: “I think they’re the smallest.”
Janet stood looking uncertainly down at the suit. It felt like a rubberized material, tight at the wrists and ankles, and lined with a silk-like material: closer she saw that the hood was wired, with earpieces inside, so that the wearer could be linked up to a communications system.
“How do I wear it?” she asked Baxeter. “Over my own clothes?” She had on her much-worn jeans, shirt, and sneakers.
“You can try but you’ll be damned hot,” said the Israeli. “If you take them off don’t expect the courtesy of their turning their backs; it’ll be part of making you feel unwelcome.”
Janet stripped to her pants and bra, not brazenly but not embarrassed either, her back defiantly to them: the overalls were big but wearable. Baxeter changed too, facing her with seeming indifference to her taking off her clothes. Baxeter indicated a seat at the far end of the table around which the other men sat and said: “It’ll be better if you get off your feet: you can very easily become exhausted constantly bracing yourself against the pitch and roll of this thing.”
She said: “How long?”
“Not more than an hour,” assured Baxeter. “This is the fastest incursion boat we’ve got.”
“What about the American fleet?” asked Janet. “Won’t they be between us?”
“They’re further north, nearer the Turkish coast.”
“What about their radar?”
The Israeli smiled at her naivete. “There are more baffling and confusing devices aboard than most other countries, including those in the West, know we have invented.”
Janet looked along the table. “Isn’t this division a bit unnecessary?”
“Not to men like these,” said Baxeter. “They work in groups, teams that take months to train together. They think like each other, react like each other, know each other. That way they stay alive. An intrusion, like you, throws the synchronization out. Because you’re here they think they might get killed.”
“I didn’t understand,” said Janet, deflated.
“That’s why they’re not accepting you: won’t accept you.”
“What about when we get ashore?”
“You’re my responsibility,” said Baxeter.
“Your burden?” suggested Janet, trying for a more accurate word.
“You speak Hebrew?”
“No,” she said.
He smiled, briefly. “That was the word Tel Aviv used to describe you.”
There was the soft noise of muffled descent on the rubberized companionway and the fair-haired man came into view, carrying a snakes’ nest of radio links. He handed them out individually to the waiting men and then stayed by them, staring down at Baxeter and Janet. There was a curt question to which Baxeter replied with equal curtness: two of the seated men sniggered and Janet guessed Baxeter had scored with his retort because the man flushed, slightly, and tossed one of the connectors towards him. Baxeter caught it easily.
“There’s no purpose in your having a headset,” said Baxeter. “It’s minimal communication anyway, it’s in Hebrew and it’s coded. Just understand one thing. Don’t ever lose me. Don’t get separated, and don’t fall back into one of the other groups: they’ll either intentionally abandon you-or kill you.”
“You’re joking!”
“That’s their training, to kill or be killed,” insisted Baxeter. “You’re as near to being an enemy as makes no difference.”
Janet tried to subdue her shudder but couldn’t: Baxeter was connecting his radio links, intent on the hood of his uniform, and Janet did not think he’d seen her reaction. In case he had, she said: “It frightens me, this matter-of-factness.”
“It’s meant to.”
There was a perceptible reduction in engine power. Baxeter called out to the other end of the table and one of the men replied, in agreement. Baxeter said: “We’re getting close: they’ll be putting out a lot of deceptive electronics now and transferring to a much quieter engine. We’ll do the last mile by rubber dinghy.”
There was a curt, tin-voiced order over the tannoy and the men began to assemble, picking up weapons and multi-pocketed rucksacks. There were eight of them, and Janet watched fascinated as they formed up in two lines of four, one man facing another, each reaching out and touching the one opposite, checking off equipment and packs, each ensuring that the other had overlooked nothing. Synchronized teams, she remembered. Baxeter had to prepare himself alone and Janet wished she could have helped him: closer she saw all the buckles and fastenings were rubber that would make no noise under movement.
By the time they reached the deck the dinghies had been dropped overboard, six of them, trailed by short lines along the sides of the now barely moving patrol vessel. Janet made out eight men additional to those in the mess from which they’d just come. Again the entry was perfectly coordinated. Groups of four dropped without any apparent instruction in perfect order into their boats-eight commandoes to each boat-and towed off the one behind them, empty, to make room for the next entry. Janet and Baxeter were allocated the last boat: everyone else was inboard and she felt them watching for her to stumble and make a fool of herself. She hit the slatted bottom unsteadily but retained her balance and managed to sit without any need for help. She would have liked to see their disappointment, but it was too dark.
The dinghy churned away from its mother ship and Janet looked curiously to its stern, where a single coxswain hunched at the tiller. There was the foam of a wake but hardly any noise at all. She decided the engine had to be electric, so quiet was it: a line of propellers dropped straight into the water from a straight-bar assembly, and Janet was reminded of the food blender in the kitchen of her Rosslyn apartment.
She felt a demanding tug and leaned towards Baxeter. His mouth directly against her ear, he said: “When we’re ashore don’t try to talk: whatever the circumstances, don’t say anything to make a sound that will carry. If you want to communicate with me do what I’ve just done, so that we can get as close together as this. Understand?”
Janet nodded, without trying to reply even here. From the wind on her face she could tell it was cold, but she was perfectly warm otherwise inside her special suit. Her mouth was unnaturally dry and she would have liked a drink. She hadn’t used a toilet-hadn’t thought of it-before she’d left the patrol boat, and hoped there would not be the need. Ahead she could make out the lighter glow of land and habitation although they did not seem to be coming as close to the city itself as she had on the fishing boat. She turned to Baxeter to ask before remembering the injunction against unnecessary noise. She turned back, to look ahead, saying nothing.
Directly in front of her in the dinghy the commandoes were putting on night goggles: they made their faces look frog-like. Beside her Baxeter did the same. Baxeter handed her a set, which she fitted on awkwardly.
They were close enough now to hear the surf against the shore over the hardly audible pop of their engine. Beirut was definitely away to their left but so dark was it, even with the benefit of the night vision equipment, Janet found it impossible to judge how far.
Baxeter tugged at her again, indicating that she would soon have to go over the side to wade the last few yards through the water. The men began to leave the dinghy, once more in perfect unison, first port, then starboard, then port again, with scarcely a disturbance of the craft to show their departure. Baxeter prodded her and Janet edged doubtfully over the side, apprehensive of dropping into water she couldn’t see, not knowing what she would encounter underfoot. There was another shove, harder this time, which actually propelled her over the edge. She tensed for the shock of coldness but there wasn’t any because the suit was completely waterproof: nothing brushed against her in the waist-high water and hard-packed sand was even underfoot.
She stood there, knowing a surge of uncertainty, and then felt Baxeter’s hand upon her arm, guiding her towards the shore. She tried to wade like him, with slow, long strides, so that there was no sound from the water.
When they reached it the beach was deserted. Baxeter urged her forward more quickly. Janet stumbled once because the beach had patches of shingle and rock outcrops. Impatiently, Baxeter got directly ahead and felt backwards with his hands, showing her where it was safe to walk. Janet was conscious of ascending a rising slope and as it became lighter she realized they had climbed an incline to a shore-road. Ahead was the uneven outline of vehicles, three or four quite low, jeep-like, then a higher-sided lorry and more jeeps. It was a considerable convoy and Janet wondered how they had managed to get a fleet that size undetected across the border and up through Southern Lebanon.
Baxeter led her to the last jeep and they sat in it alone, apart from the driver. Baxeter was leaning forward but not too close to the driver, his head automatically bent as he whispered into the throat mike that formed part of his communications set. They moved off at staged intervals and Janet very quickly lost sight of the leading vehicles.
They traveled only briefly, not more than fifteen minutes, before pulling into a walled yard in what had to be the southernmost suburb of the city. As their jeep, the last, went through the gate, shadowy figures closed it immediately behind them. Janet squinted around the parking area, sure there were not as many vehicles now as there had been when they set out.
Groups of men were assembled in absolute silence and in marked separate units. She could make out heavier equipment she guessed had been hauled ashore in the supply dinghies: there were two long-barreled guns she thought must be rocket launchers and quite near a man was harnessed into a cumbersome tank from which a nozzle led. A flamethrower, she supposed.
They exited on foot at timed intervals, with her and Baxeter bringing up the rear. There were city sounds now: music strained through walls and windows, the occasional headlight glare of a car, people huddled in cafes they were careful to skirt, always getting past by going around and keeping the block of the building between them. At first Janet had been able to make out quite a few of the commandoes, but it became increasingly difficult and then Baxeter pulled her away from the direction they had been following up a very narrow, darkened alley, little more than a footpath between two buildings.
Janet followed dutifully, conscious once more of a slope underfoot and bending forward to climb it. Once again the devastation was all around, as it had been when she’d fled her attackers: Janet supposed they would have not have been able to move around the city with such comparative ease unless the lighting had been practically nonexistent. The chief danger of attention came from foraging dogs which barked and snarled and sniffed after them: twice windows above opened and there were Arabic shouts for the animals to be quiet. Each time Baxeter was ahead of any movement, moving her quickly into the shadows of a doorway.
She and Baxeter had been moving apparently alone for longer than Janet had expected and she wished she knew Beirut well enough to know when they actually got into the Kantari district. She should have asked to look at the maps or the photographs in Willsher’s room in Cyprus: the Americans had relaxed sufficiently in her presence and she was sure they would have allowed it. She longed to stop Baxeter, to ask him, but recognized that the question did not constitute the sort of emergency he’d stipulated.
They came to an intersection with a wider, better-lit thoroughfare and once more Baxeter pulled her into the concealment of a doorway while he edged forward to reconnoiter their crossing. It gave Janet the opportunity to look around, particularly behind her. She did so, frowning. She made out the glint of the sea and the brighter harbor area (was that the area through which she’d fled, in gut-tightening fear of being caught?) and even the faraway bright normality of East Beirut. Was Kantari on a hill? She had imagined it to be further down, in the flatter part of the city.
Baxeter was back beside her, sign-languaging an occupied cafe to the left on the main road, where it sloped back down towards the waterfront, and gesturing for her to move at once and hurriedly when he gave the signal. Janet nodded her understanding, pushing away from her concealment and going head bent, looking neither left nor right, across the road. The illumination was still comparatively low and the highway deserted but Janet walked with the feeling of scurrying beneath an inquiring spotlight, tensed for a shout of challenge. Nothing came. She was panting, more through apprehension than effort, when she reached the other side, finding her own concealing doorway. She looked back, trying to locate Baxeter but couldn’t. She checked her watch. One-thirty: thirty minutes to go before the American assault. Why had they split from the rest of the group?
Janet did not see Baxeter start out. He was suddenly in the street, moving low and very fast. Janet actually held her breath, waiting for the challenge that had not come when she crossed, but once again there was nothing. She gestured as he pushed into the alley and he halted, close against her in the doorway.
Seizing the opportunity Janet gestured him even nearer. He eased the hood away from the side of his face and she heard a staccato spurt of Hebrew from the headset. She hissed: “Why have we separated from the others!”
“Safer,” he whispered back, closing off the exchange by pulling the hood back into place.
Baxeter led off again, going to the end of the alley and then breaking to their right, running parallel with the road they had just crossed. From the camber Janet knew they were still climbing.
They made a detour around another coffeehouse from which there was thin music and the mumble of conversation and once had to pull, unmoving, into a rubble-strewn courtyard to evade a sudden gaggle of men who appeared ahead of them, walking in their direction. The group passed, unaware. Janet expected she and Baxeter to move out at once but Baxeter held her back. She thought it was to let the men get further away but then realized Baxeter was reholstering into his backpack a short hand-weapon that bulged with a fat-nosed silencer. Just innocent men, merely walking home from some late-night outing, Janet thought: it would have been murder.
He urged her on until they reached the junction at which they’d first seen the approaching men. Baxeter hesitated for a moment, orienting himself, led her about ten yards to the left and then stopped, hunkering down against a large, deserted building beside which there was a completely open space, pulling her down to his level. Across the open space there was a perfect view of the entire city, much better than when she’d first looked down, laid out for inspection in the sharp moonlight.
She indicated she wanted to speak again and he pulled aside his cowl. Janet said: “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Wait,” he said, brusquely.
The explosions split the night open, appearing to be all around her, so near and so loud that the pain seared through her ears. She was partially deafened but still able to hear the sudden roar of aircraft and then everything became fiercely white-lighter than the brightest day-as dozens of phosphorus illuminating shells burst from what seemed every point in the sky. Janet blinked against the glare, able to see everything. There was a fresh eruption of noise, of machine-gun fire and the slower-paced crack of rifles and handguns and the crump of shells: there were spurts of flame where the shells landed. All along the waterfront landing craft were spewing men ashore: they emerged firing from behind the drop-fronted ramps and several fell almost immediately. Janet recognized that the overhead roar was not that of aircraft but of helicopter gunships. They hovered all along the waterfront, continuous streams of flame coming from their Catling cannons protruding from either side.
And then Janet recognized something else.
She stared wildly around, convinced she knew the imposing government building about two hundred yards away as one she had driven past on her way to the American embassy that morning after she’d toured the harbor looking for the fishing boat that had first brought her to Beirut. Then she saw the embassy itself and knew she was right.
Furious, eyes bulging in her anger, Janet snatched and tugged and Baxeter staggered sideways, surprised. He jerked the head cover off. Because noise didn’t matter any more-had to be yelled over, in fact-he shouted: “What the hell’s going on!”
“This isn’t Kantari!” Janet shouted back. “I know this place. It’s Yarzy and that’s the American embassy. Why aren’t we in Kantari?”
“Because it was absurd and laughable, like I told you,” he said. “That is the American embassy and if anything goes wrong get the hell to it: you’ll be safe there.”
“But John…”
“… Shut up and stop being a fool!” said Baxeter. He tugged binoculars from his backpack, thrust them towards her and gestured far away, to their right. “There,” he said. “Focus there!”
Janet hesitated, then did as she was told. It took her a moment to adjust the binoculars, a moment in which there was a fresh spray of phosphorus. It was like a firework display, she thought: an obscene, killing firework display, and she had the ringside seat.
The enlargement was perfect. She could see the American commandoes spreading through the street, and other men, civilians, desperately firing at them as they retreated. The gunships moved with the advance, pouring down cannon shells: she saw one Arab practically cut in half by the concentration of fire and an already shattered building actually collapsed. And then she saw black-suited and black-helmeted men.
Janet tried to count but stopped at seven. They were all in one street, with two in a side alley, and all facing the direction from which the Americans were approaching, so that the Arabs were pincered in between. Twice groups of Arabs tried to get into the street and only then did the Israelis fire, blasting the entry and preventing them.
Janet turned beseechingly to Baxeter. “What…?”
“Just watch!”
When she looked back the Arabs had stopped trying to get into the Israeli-sealed street and were being forced further along another road to escape. Camouflaged Americans were everywhere now, entering the street itself and moving house-to-house along bordering and parallel alleys but she could no longer see any Israelis. There was an abrupt concentration of troops around one house halfway along. She watched one man’s arm move and the door was blown in and she realized he’d thrown a grenade. The house was rushed and into the street-quiet and secured now-another coordinated group moved, a stretcher between them.
And then she saw John.
He was at the doorway, supported by two American commandoes: his arms were along their shoulders and theirs were around him and he sagged between them. Janet whimpered, hearing herself make the sound, and a huge feeling of pity welled up inside her. There was an obvious indication towards the stretcher and John shook his head, trying to walk but almost at once he stumbled and allowed himself to be shakily lowered on to it. They moved off at once, the stretcher completely encircled by men with their backs to it, most literally walking backwards, forming a tight circle of protection.
“OK!” Baxeter said. “You had to be here to see him freed. And you were. Now let’s get out!”
Janet did not move, still watching the progress of the rescue squad, and Baxeter jerked her upright, pulling the binoculars from her. “I said we’ve got to get out!”
Dully, bewildered, she stumbled after him, conscious that the night was becoming black again because no more phosphorus was exploding: there was still firing from below but it was sporadic now and the gunships had stopped blasting. They appeared to be going back along exactly the same route they had climbed but at the brighter thoroughfare Baxeter halted longer than before, head lowered as he mumbled into his throat microphone. Janet had an abrupt spurt of fear as a shadow became the figure of a man and then there were others and she realized they had linked up with some of the other Israelis. At once they moved off, in their own tight circle of protection. They were practically across the street before the shout came: at once two of the Israelis stopped, turning towards the cafe. One fired a short burst and the other hurled a grenade. Baxeter was dragging her along, her hand in his, and they were in an alley before the blast of the explosion rippled up the street.
Janet stumbled along, panting, the air burning her throat, aware that as well as being pulled by Baxeter she was being pushed by another of the men, his hand in the small of her back. A dog barked, suddenly snarling in front of them and at once there was a wailing howl as it was kicked out of the way. A challenge came, from a window above, but the head jerked back from view at a spray of automatic fire that whined off the brickwork, bringing dust raining down upon them.
“Can’t keep up: got to stop,” Janet groaned.
Baxeter continued pulling and the other commando went on pushing, no one slackening their pace.
“Please!”
They ran on.
The gates of whatever yard it was in which they had hidden the vehicles were open, men guarding the entrance, and as they reached it the first emerged, the lorry, closely followed by two jeeps. Baxeter had to physically lift Janet into the back of another: she rolled sideways as she went in, laid against the hard seat, and could not raise herself. She felt Baxeter behind her, his hand protectively against her shoulder.
The convoy hurtled back along the coast road and she was jolted and thrown about, scarcely aware in her exhaustion of what was happening. Twice she heard what she thought was gunfire but her ears were so dulled by the earlier attack she wasn’t sure.
She was just able to straighten by the time they got back to where they beached. Surrendering herself completely to Baxeter’s guidance she was led back down the incline, over the shingle and briefly out into the water. He folded backwards easily into the rubber boat, leaning out and lifting her bodily in beside him.
Behind there was the crump of yet another explosion and Janet squinted back in time to see the lorry and the jeeps burst one after the other into a solid wall of flame. It was not casual destruction, she realized: they had been arranged so that they formed a solid, blazing barrier against any pursuit. As the awareness came to her Janet saw in the light of the flames the dark outlines of pursuing army vehicles moving along the coast road after them.
The dinghy started off at once. There were far more people aboard than when they had come in from the patrol boat, and when they reached it men milled around on deck, laughing and hugging and patting each other on the back: she could see four men on stretchers but there were no obvious bloodstains to show that they had been wounded in the assault. Baxeter moved into the apparent celebration. Janet stayed by the wheelhouse, ignored.
No attempt was made to bring the dinghies inboard. A number of men threw things into them as the patrol boat surged off and almost at once there were grenade bursts and the rubber boats started to settle and sink.
Janet clung on to the wheelhouse, grateful for the wind that whipped into her face, drying the perspiration that soaked her: as close as she was, she could hear a continuous radio commentary in Hebrew and see the blips against the radar screen. The heavy concentration to one side would be the American fleet, she supposed: there were other isolated markings, one directly ahead.
She was aware of someone next to her and turned to see Baxeter. “All right?” he said.
Janet shrugged, not replying, her mind at that moment blank of any thought.
“It worked,” said Baxeter.
Again Janet did not reply.
She was conscious of the obvious drop in power, knowing they had not traveled as long this time as they had ingoing from the fishing boat. And then she realized the rendezvous was not with the fishing boat but with two other patrol vessels exactly like the one on which they were already traveling. Again they came expertly together and there was a scrambled transfer, the stretcher cases going across first. Janet watched, counting. It was achieved very quickly, hardly more than minutes. There were shouted farewells and the two new vessels creamed away in convoy. Only she and Baxeter remained, aside from the crew.
“Thirteen,” she said to Baxeter, as the patrol vessel climbed back on top the water again.
“What?” said Baxeter.
“Making allowances for those ashore in your vehicles when we got there I’d guess we came back with thirteen more people than when we went in.”
“Actually,” said Baxeter, “it was twelve. And they weren’t our vehicles; they were hijacked from the Lebanese army.”