Betrayals (44 page)

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.