the bale out that night under cover of darkness. The sooner it was away from there the better.
Zeid Barakat came to him. ‘Mahmoud,’ he said. ‘I’m still not happy about the morality of this.’
Behind the dark glasses Ka’ed’s eyes narrowed, his voice hardened. ‘If you want to worry about morality, Zeid, worry about the morality of those who took our country from us.’ He put his hand on the bearded man’s shoulder. ‘Iknow how you feel, but you must get your priorities right. We are at war. We have to do things we don’t like doing. This morning we killed five Syrian officers. There are no greater supporters of an independent Palestine than the Syrians. War makes for terrible decisions.’
Barakat smiled in a restrained, humourless way. ‘You are right, Mahmoud.’ He drew a hand across his eyes. ‘It’s a mood. It will pass.’
‘You are not alone with your conscience, Zeid. There is always a struggle in our minds. We mustn’t lose our resolve in weakness and sentiment.’
The attacks on Shed 27 had taken place in the early hours of Wednesday, 6th October. Notwithstanding the efforts of the Lebanese authorities to keep the news from the media, the following morning’s edition of Beirut’s Al Hayat ran a headline: I SRAELI COMMANDO UNIT ATTACKS BEIRUT PORT ? Beneath the double column headline with its mark of interrogation appeared the report of a clash between Lebanese units and an Israeli commando force – presumably seaborne – believed to have penetrated Beirut Port during the hours of darkness on October 5th/6th. It was rumoured said the paper guardedly, that the raiders had been driven off after a number of men had been killed.
This sketchy, somewhat inaccurate account was enough to indicate that someone had talked. The Ministers of Defence and Transport were furious but the secret was out and during that day, smelling a sensational story, the media men began casting for a scent. One of them, Pierre Gamin, accredited to Le Monde ,found it and went racing down the trail.
It was after ten on the morning of Thursday, October 7th, when the yellow Leyland entered Beirut Port and proceeded to the berth where the Hellenic Mediterranean Lines’ ship Leros was lying. A vessel of medium size, she carried both passengers and cargo. The Blue Peter fluttering at her yardarm indicated that she was to sail that day. The journeywould take her home to the Piraeus via Latakia, Famagusta and Iraklion.
The driver of the Leyland backed it up against the loading platform behind the transit shed. The man accompanying him went into the office with the shipping documents. When he came back the doors of the Leyland were opened and dock labourers manhandled the big hessian-wrapped bale on to the platform where it was picked up by a fork-lift truck. The vehicle turned and purred its way back into the shed, looking like some primeval monster carrying its kill.
The man with the shipping documents climbed in next to the driver. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’ The Leyland travelled slowly down the service road between the sheds before turning left and disappearing from sight.
The fork-lift truck carried the bale through the shed to the platform on the far side where stevedores were busy with cargo slings and nets feeding the cranes. The driver put his load down, turned the fork-lift and steered it back through the shed.
The canvas labels sewn on to the bale showed that it was consigned to Dimitri Ionides & Co., 181 Pastropoulos Street, Athens, and included an injunction to ‘Stow in a Dry Place’. In due course, stevedores put slings round the bale and a crane transferred it to number 3 hold where it ended up in the Leros’ s’tween decks.
One of the passengers who boarded the ship shortly before sailing that afternoon was the bearded, scarred man.
About the time the Leyland was delivering its load in Beirut Port, a party of Syrian officers accompanied by paratroopers drove the
Zeid Barakat came to him. ‘Mahmoud,’ he said. ‘I’m still not happy about the morality of this.’
Behind the dark glasses Ka’ed’s eyes narrowed, his voice hardened. ‘If you want to worry about morality, Zeid, worry about the morality of those who took our country from us.’ He put his hand on the bearded man’s shoulder. ‘Iknow how you feel, but you must get your priorities right. We are at war. We have to do things we don’t like doing. This morning we killed five Syrian officers. There are no greater supporters of an independent Palestine than the Syrians. War makes for terrible decisions.’
Barakat smiled in a restrained, humourless way. ‘You are right, Mahmoud.’ He drew a hand across his eyes. ‘It’s a mood. It will pass.’
‘You are not alone with your conscience, Zeid. There is always a struggle in our minds. We mustn’t lose our resolve in weakness and sentiment.’
The attacks on Shed 27 had taken place in the early hours of Wednesday, 6th October. Notwithstanding the efforts of the Lebanese authorities to keep the news from the media, the following morning’s edition of Beirut’s Al Hayat ran a headline: I SRAELI COMMANDO UNIT ATTACKS BEIRUT PORT ? Beneath the double column headline with its mark of interrogation appeared the report of a clash between Lebanese units and an Israeli commando force – presumably seaborne – believed to have penetrated Beirut Port during the hours of darkness on October 5th/6th. It was rumoured said the paper guardedly, that the raiders had been driven off after a number of men had been killed.
This sketchy, somewhat inaccurate account was enough to indicate that someone had talked. The Ministers of Defence and Transport were furious but the secret was out and during that day, smelling a sensational story, the media men began casting for a scent. One of them, Pierre Gamin, accredited to Le Monde ,found it and went racing down the trail.
It was after ten on the morning of Thursday, October 7th, when the yellow Leyland entered Beirut Port and proceeded to the berth where the Hellenic Mediterranean Lines’ ship Leros was lying. A vessel of medium size, she carried both passengers and cargo. The Blue Peter fluttering at her yardarm indicated that she was to sail that day. The journeywould take her home to the Piraeus via Latakia, Famagusta and Iraklion.
The driver of the Leyland backed it up against the loading platform behind the transit shed. The man accompanying him went into the office with the shipping documents. When he came back the doors of the Leyland were opened and dock labourers manhandled the big hessian-wrapped bale on to the platform where it was picked up by a fork-lift truck. The vehicle turned and purred its way back into the shed, looking like some primeval monster carrying its kill.
The man with the shipping documents climbed in next to the driver. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’ The Leyland travelled slowly down the service road between the sheds before turning left and disappearing from sight.
The fork-lift truck carried the bale through the shed to the platform on the far side where stevedores were busy with cargo slings and nets feeding the cranes. The driver put his load down, turned the fork-lift and steered it back through the shed.
The canvas labels sewn on to the bale showed that it was consigned to Dimitri Ionides & Co., 181 Pastropoulos Street, Athens, and included an injunction to ‘Stow in a Dry Place’. In due course, stevedores put slings round the bale and a crane transferred it to number 3 hold where it ended up in the Leros’ s’tween decks.
One of the passengers who boarded the ship shortly before sailing that afternoon was the bearded, scarred man.
About the time the Leyland was delivering its load in Beirut Port, a party of Syrian officers accompanied by paratroopers drove the
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