Ultimatum by Antony Trew Page B

off the Bayswater Road where Najib’s sister Sandra rented a two-roomed apartment. Hamadeh, a regular visitor, had a key and knew the porter who was seldom about. They went into the apartment where Zeid got busy on the phone.
    First he rang Morrison, Dean and Fletcher’s officer in Fenchurch Street. The switchboard operator put him through to the clearing department and after some delay he got hold of the right clerk. ‘J. P. Leroux et Cie of Paris here,’ said Zeid. ‘We want you to clear a consignment of carpets ex Athens in the Student Prince. The goods are in transit shed 14, Millwall Docks. I’ll call this afternoon with the bill of lading and manifest, and arrange payment. How long will clearance take?’
    ‘A few days. We have to prepare the custom entries, process them through the Port of London Authority’s head office. You’ll receive notification from the PLA in due course that the goods are ready for collection. We can arrange for a haulier to pick them up.’
    ‘Don’t worry about the haulier. We’ll see to that,’ said Zeid. Next he dialled a Lewisham number. A man’s voice answered, ‘Speedy Removals.’
    Zeid chuckled. ‘Is that so? Zeid here.’
    ‘Oh, hullo, Zeid. I was expecting to hear from you.’
    ‘Listen, Rudi. The carpets have arrived. Transit shed 14, Millwall Docks. It’s going to take a few days to clear them.’
    There was a pause on the line. ‘Okay, Zeid. That’s fine. The voice had become suddenly husky.
    ‘You all right, Rudi?’
    ‘Of course. It’s just – you know – surprise. I’m okay.’
    ‘Fine. I’ll be in touch as soon as the goods are ready for collection. We’ll fix then when you are to pick me up. Okay?’
    ‘Sure. That’s okay.’
     
    The driver of the Bedford panel van backed it up to the loading platform behind transit shed 14 in the Millwall Dock. The black van was several years old but well kept. There was nothing unusual about it except, perhaps, the absence of the name of any firm upon it. The driver got out, went into the office and gave the foreman the J. P. Leroux et Cie’s delivery order. The foreman examined it, checked through a file, found the relevant papers, handed a receipt in triplicate to the driver. ‘Sign here,’ he said. The driver signed with a flourish ‘L. E. Jones’. The foreman looked at the signature – thought to himself, he’s no Welshman, looks more like a Pakki to me – and handed over a pass which specified the goods the driver was authorized to take out of the docks.
    He gave the other papers to the clerk at the desk behind him. ‘Take this lot, Bert.’ He turned to the driver. ‘He’ll show you where your load is.’
    The driver followed the clerk down the shed through a maze of cargo. At the far end they found the hessian-wrapped bale addressed to J. P. Leroux et Cie. A fork-lift truck arrived. The clerk said, ‘That’s it, Jim.’ The driver, a small wizened man, backed and filled until the fork was under the bale. He pulled a lever and the bale lifted clear. ‘Where’s the van, then?’
    The van driver pointed to the far end of the shed. ‘Down there. At the first loading platform.’
    The fork-lift truck led the way, the driver and clerk following. Near the end of the shed the clerk called to twomen leaning against a stack of packing cases. ‘Give us a hand, lads. Got to get this lot into a van.’ The men moved slowly, joining the cortège with reluctance. When they reached the Bedford the driver said, ‘I’ve got a roller pallet inside.’
    He slid the pallet out of the van. The fork-lift driver lowered the bale on to it. It took four of them, shoving and pushing, to get it across the tail-gate into the van.
    The driver thanked them, put chocks against the pallet rollers, closed the van doors, climbed into the driving seat and drove off.
    At the dock gates he showed the receipt and pass to the PLA policeman on duty. The policeman got him to open the van, and checked there was nothing inside