The Dogs of War by Frederick Forsyth
In no case were the rules of the Companies Act regarding disclosure broken. Messrs. Adams, Ball, Carter, and Davies each owned 75,000 of the shares from their first purchase and 50,000 from their second. But as the number of shares now in circulation had risen from 1 million to 1.5 million, each man held less than 10 percent and was able to remain anonymous. Messrs. Edwards and Frost each owned 148,000 shares, just under the 10 percent limit.
What did not appear in public, or even to the directors, was that Sir James Manson owned 796,000 shares in Bormac, an overwhelming majority. He controlled, through Martin Thorpe, the six nonexistent shareholders who had bought so heavily. They could, through Martin Thorpe, direct the Zwingli Bank in its dealings with the company, and the bank controlled his contracted servant, Mr. Roberts. Using their proxies, the six invisible men behind the Zwingli Bank, operating through Harold Roberts, could make the company do anything they wished.
It had cost Sir James Manson £60,000 to buy the original shares, and £100,000 to buy up the bulk of the new issue of half a million. But when the shares reached the predicted £100 each, which he was sure they would do after the chance “discovery” of the Crystal Mountain in the heart of Bormac’s Zangaran franchise, he stood to make £80 million.
Mr. Roberts was a contented man when he left the Bormac offices after hearing how many shares his six Swiss-based stockholders had been allotted. He knew that when he placed the share certificates in the hands of Dr. Martin Steinhofer, there would be a handsome bonus for him. Although he was not a poor man, he was relieved to know his retirement in comfort was secured.
In Dinant, Shannon and Langarotti woke from their slumbers shortly after dark had fallen, to find Marc shaking them. Both were stretched out in the back of the empty French truck.
“Time to be going,” said the Belgian.
Shannon looked at his watch. “I thought you said before sunrise,” he grumbled.
“That’s when we go over,” said Marc. “We ought to get these trucks out of town before they become too noticeable. We can park by the roadside for the rest of the night.”
They did park, but none of the men slept anymore. Instead they smoked and played cards with the pack Vlaminck kept in the glove compartment of his truck. Sitting under the trees by the Belgian roadside in the darkness, waiting for the dawn, feeling the night air on their faces, each could almost think he was back in the African bush again, about to go into action, except for the flashing lights through the trees where cars headed south on the road to France.
As they sat through the wee small hours, tired of playing cards, too tensed to sleep, each fell back into his old habits. Tiny Marc munched the remnants of the bread and cheese his girl, Anna, had made for him. Langarotti stropped his knife blade a little sharper. Shannon gazed at the stars and whistled softly.
eighteen
There is no great technical difficulty in running an illegal consignment across the Belgian-French border in either direction, and that includes a quantity of black market arms.
Between the sea at La Panne and the junction with Luxembourg near Longwy, this border sprawls for miles, and most of it in the southeast corner is through heavily wooded hunting country. Here the border is crossed by scores of side roads and tracks through the forest, and by no means are all of them manned.
Both governments seek to establish some kind of control, using what they call douanes volantes, or flying customs. These are units of customs men who pick a track or side road at random and set up a border post. At the existing customs points, one may reasonably assume that one vehicle in ten is likely to be stopped and examined. On the unmanned roads, if the flying customs on either side happen to be sitting there for the day, every vehicle going through gets a check. One can take one’s choice.
The third alternative is to pick a road where there is definitely no customs post set up, and drive straight through. This method of running cargoes through the frontier is particularly favored by the smugglers of French champagne, who see no reason why this drink connected with mirth and gaiety should receive the attentions of the very unhumorous Belgian import duty. As a bar owner Marc Vlaminck knew about this route. It is called the champagne run.
Running south from Namur, the old fortress town of Belgium, following the line of the river Meuse, one comes first to Dinant, and from here the road runs almost due south over the border to the French town called Givet. Along this road there is a finger of French territory that juts upward into Belgium’s underbelly, and this corridor of France is surrounded on three sides by Belgian territory. It is also a hunting forest and intersected by scores of tracks and paths. The main road from Dinant to Givet has a customs post on it—in fact, one Belgian post and one French, set four hundred yards apart but in sight of each other.
Shortly before dawn, Marc got out his maps and briefed Shannon and Jean-Baptiste on what he needed to be sure of getting across the border unspotted. When both men understood exactly what was required, they set off in convoy, the Belgian truck in front, driven by Marc, the other two in the French truck, two hundred yards behind.
South from Dinant the road is fairly well built up, with a series of villages whose outskirts almost connect with each other. In the predawn darkness these hamlets were quiet and obscure. At kilometer six, south of Dinant, there is a side road leading to the right, and this Marc took. It was the last they saw of the river Meuse. For four and a half kilometers they ran through undulating country of even-sized, rounded hills, thickly wooded and covered in the lush leafage of late May. The run was parallel to the border and into the heart of hunting country. Without warning, Vlaminck swung his truck off to the left, heading again toward the frontier, and after three to four hundred yards he pulled to the side. He climbed down and walked back to the French truck.
“Make it snappy,” he said. “I don’t want to wait here for long. It’s too obvious where I’m heading for, with Ostend number plates.” He pointed down the road.
“The border is down there at one and a half kilometers exactly. I’ll give you twenty minutes while I pretend to change a tire. Then I get back to Dinant and we meet at the café.”
The Corsican nodded and let in the clutch. The drill is, if either the Belgian or French customs men have set up a flying barricade, the first vehicle stops and allows itself to be searched. Being clean, it then proceeds south to rejoin the main road, heads into Givet, turns north, and returns via the fixed customs post to Dinant. If either customs post is in operation, it cannot return back up the road within twenty minutes.
At kilometer one and a half, Shannon and Langarotti saw the Belgian post. At each side of the road a vertical steel upright had been placed, embedded in concrete. Beside the right-hand one was a small glass-and-wood booth, where the customs men could shelter while drivers passed their papers through the window. If it was occupied, there would be a red-and-white-striped pole, supported by both uprights, blocking the road. There was none.
Langarotti cruised slowly past, while Shannon scanned the booth. Not a sign. The French side was trickier. For half a kilometer the road wound between the flanks of the hills, lost to sight from the Belgian posts. Then came the French border. No posts, no booth. Just a parking area on the left, where the French customs car always parks. There was nothing there. They had been gone five minutes. Shannon gestured to the Corsican to go around two more corners but there was nothing in sight. A glimmer of light showed in the east over the trees.
“Turn her around,” snapped Shannon. “Allez.”
Langarotti pulled the truck into a tight turn, almost made it, backed up, and was off toward Belgium like a cork from a bottle of the very best champagne. From then on, time was precious. They shot past the French parking space, through the Belgian posts, and less than a mile later saw the bulk of Marc’s waiting truck. Langarotti flashed his lights, two short, one long, and Marc gunned his engine into life. A second later he was past them, racing through to France.
Jean-Baptiste turned around more lei
There were no officials there, even on the second run. South of the French parking space is a five-kilometer stretch with no turnings. Even here the French gendarmerie sometimes patrols, but there was nothing that morning. Langarotti caught up with the Belgian truck and followed it at six hundred feet. After three miles Marc turned off to the right at another parking area, and for three more miles wended his way through more back roads until he finally emerged onto a sizable main road. There was a signpost by the roadside. Shannon saw Marc Vlaminck wave his arm out of the window and point to it. The sign said GIVET in the direction from which they had come, and pointed the way they were going with the word REIMS. A muted cheer came wafting back from the truck in front.
They did the changeover on a hard concrete parking lot next to a truckers’ café just south of Soissons. The two trucks, open-doored, were backed up tight against each other, and Marc eased the five barrels from the Belgian truck to the French one. It would have taken Shannon and Langarotti together all their strength, the more so as the loaded truck was squashed on its springs, so the floors of the two vehicles were not at the same height. There was a 6-inch step-up to get into the empty truck. Marc managed it on his own, gripping each barrel at the top in huge hands and swinging it in arcs while balancing it on its lower rim.
Jean-Baptiste went to the café and returned with a breakfast of long, crisp baguette loaves, cheese, fruit, and coffee. Shannon had no knife, so they all used Marc’s. Langarotti would never use his knife for eating. He had his finer feelings. It would dishonor the knife to use it on orange peel.
Just after ten they set off again. The drill was different. The Belgian truck, being old and slow, was soon driven into a gravel pit and abandoned, the license plates and windshield sticker being taken off and thrown into a stream. The truck had originally been of French make anyway. After that, the three proceeded together. Langarotti drove. It was legally his truck. He was licensed. If stopped, he would say he was driving five barrels of lubricating oil south to his friend who owned a farm and three tractors outside Toulon. The other two were hitchhikers he had picked up.
They left the A1 autoroute, took the peripheral road around Paris, and picked up the A6 south to Lyon, Avignon, Aix, and Toulon.
Just south of Paris they saw the sign to the right pointing to Orly Airport. Shannon climbed out, and they shook hands.
“You know what to do?” he asked.
They both nodded.
“Keep her under cover and safe till you get to Toulon.”
“Don’t worry. No one will find this little baby when I’ve hidden her,” said Langarotti.
“The Toscana is due in by June first at the latest, maybe before. I’ll be with you before then. You know the rendezvous? Then good luck.”
He hefted his bag and walked away as the truck headed south. At the nearby garage he used the telephone, called a cab from the airport, and was driven there an hour later. Paying cash, he bought his single ticket to London and was home in St. John’s Wood by sundown. Of his hundred days, he had used up forty-six.
Although he sent Endean a telegram on his arrival home, it was a Sunday, and twenty-four hours went by before Endean called him at the flat. They agreed to meet on Tuesday morning.
It took him an hour to explain to Endean all that had happened since they last met. He also explained that he had used up all the money both in the cash sum he had retained in London and in the Belgian account.
“What’s the next stage?” asked Endean.
“I have to return to France within five days at the latest and supervise the loading of the first section of the cargo onto the Toscana,” said Shannon. “Everything about the shipment is legal except what’s in those oil barrels. The four separate crates of assorted uniforms and webbing should pass without any problem on board, even if examined by customs. The same goes for the nonmilitary stuff bought in Hamburg. Everything in that section is the sort of stuff a ship might normally take on as ship’s stores: distress flares, night glasses, and so on.
“The inflatable dinghies and outboard engines are for shipping to Morocco—at least, that’s what the manifest will say. Again, it’s perfectly legal. The five oil drums have to go aboard as ship’s stores. The quantity is rather excessive, but there shouldn’t be any problem despite that.”
“And if there is?” asked Endean. “If Toulon customs men examine those barrels too closely?”
“We’re busted,” said Shannon simply. “The ship impounded, unless the captain can show he hasn’t a clue what was going on. The exporter arrested. The operation wrecked.”
“Bloody expensively,” observed Endean.
“What do you expect? The guns have got to go on board somehow. The oil barrels are about the best possible way. There was always that risk involved.”
“You could have bought the submachine guns legally, through Spain,” said Endean.
“I could,” Shannon conceded, “but there would then have been a good chance the order would have been refused. The guns and the ammo together make a matching pair. That would have looked like a special order to outfit one company of men—in other words, a small operation. Madrid might have turned it down on those grounds, or examined the End User Certificate too thoroughly. I could have ordered the guns from Spain and bought the ammunition on the black. Then I would have had to smuggle the ammo on board, and it would have been a much bigger consignment. Either way, there has to be an element of smuggling, and hence of risk. So if it all goes wrong, it’ll be me and my men who go down, not you. You’re protected by a series of cutouts.”
“I still don’t like it,” snapped Endean.
“What’s the matter?” Shannon mocked. “Losing your nerve?”
“No.”
“So cool it. All you have to lose is a bit of money.”
Endean was on the verge of telling Shannon just how much he and his employer stood to lose, but thought better of it. Logic dictated that if the mercenary was going to face prison, he would be as careful as possible.
They talked finance for another hour. Shannon explained that the payment to Johann Schlinker in full, and half to Alan Baker, along with the mercenaries’ second month’s salary, the £5000 he had transferred to Genoa to fit out the Toscana, and his own traveling had emptied the Brugge account.
“Also,” he added, “I want the second half of my salary.”
“Why now?” asked Endean.
“Because the risks of arrest start next Monday, and I shall not be returning to London after that. If the ship is loaded without fuss, she sails for Brindisi while I arrange the pickup of the Yugoslav arms. After that, Valencia and the Spanish ammunition. Then we head for the target. If I’m ahead of schedule, I’d prefer to kill the extra time on the high seas rather than wait in a port. From the moment that ship has hardware on board, I want her in port as little as possible.”
Endean digested the argument. “I’ll put it to my associates,” he said.
“I want the stuff in my Swiss account before the weekend,” countered Shannon, “and the rest of the agreed budget transferred to Brugge.”
They worked out that, with Shannon’s salary paid in full, there would be £20,000 of the original money left in Switzerland. Shannon explained why he needed it all.
“From now on I need a wad of big-denomination travelers’ checks in United States dollars on me all the time. If anything goes wrong from now, it can only be of a nature where a fat bribe on the spot might sort out the problem. I want to tidy up all the remaining traces, so that, if we all get the chop, there are no clues left. Also, I may need to make cash bonuses on the spot to the ship’s crewmen to persuade them to go ahead when they find out what the job really is,
Endean agreed to report all this to “his associates” and let Shannon know.
The following day he rang back to say that both transfers of the money had been authorized and the letter instructing the Swiss bank had been sent.
Shannon reserved his ticket from London to Brussels for the following Friday, and a Saturday morning flight from Brussels to Paris to Marseilles.
He spent the night with Julie, and Thursday as well, and Thursday night. Then he packed his bags, mailed the flat keys with an explanatory letter to the agents, and left. Julie drove him to the airport in her red MGB.
“When are you coming back?” she asked him as they stood outside the “Departing Passengers Only” entrance to the customs area of Number Two Building.
“I won’t be coming back,” he said and gave her a kiss.
“Then let me come with you.”
“No.”
“You will come back. I haven’t asked where you are going, but I know it has to be dangerous. It’s not just business, not ordinary business. But you will come back. You must.”
“I won’t be coming back,” he said quietly. “Go find someone else, Julie.”
She began to sniffle. “I don’t want anybody else. I love you. You don’t love me. That’s why you’re saying you won’t see me again. You’ve got another woman—that’s what it is. You’re going to see another woman—”
“There’s no other woman,” he said, stroking her hair. An airport policeman looked discreetly away. Tears in the departure lounge are not uncommon anywhere. There would be, Shannon knew, no other woman in his arms. Just a gun, the cool, comforting caress of the blued steel against his chest in the night. She was still crying when he kissed her on the forehead and walked through into Passport Control.