Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  “Pig,” said Azziz. His lips were already swelling, making it difficult for him to enunciate clearly.

  “We told you that at the beginning,” said Levy. “You should have believed me “

  Because it was essential to the operation the man called Rupert Underberg insisted upon a seafront room at the Bristol, with a balcony overlooking the harbour. It was here that he breakfasted off yoghurt and eggs and fruit: he couldn’t stand the continental crap. He looked beyond the squared basin, with its clutch of yachts, to where the Scheherazade rode at deep-water anchor. As he watched, the rotors of the helicopter suddenly began revolving and then the machine lifted, banked and flew off parallel with the coastline. Westwards, Underberg noted; he wondered how the occupants had entered without his being aware of it.

  It must be wonderful to be rich enough to own yachts and helicopters, he thought, returning to his breakfast; to eat like this everyday. Would his wife enjoy it? He wished she was with him, so he could have given her a chance. He had wanted so much for it to be better, during his leave. She didn’t think he understood, but he did. He would make it up to her, very soon. In a month or two she would realize that it had all been worthwhile.

  8

  Deaken emerged from his cabin unable to remember the direction from which the steward had led him the previous night. He went to his right, at once aware of the wind chop of the helicopter take-off. He found a door out onto the deck in time to see it pick up the flight path along the coast. Towards France, he decided, staring directly towards the shore and establishing his directions. Monaco was displayed before him, in pinks and yellows and ochres. The sun was already strong, silvering the water, and he had to squint to pick out the palace, with its flag showing the Prince was in residence, and then the casino. Between him and the shore, yachts squatted at their moorings like nesting seabirds. Deaken strained, trying to locate the telephone kiosk he had to use, but it was too far, merging into an obscure whitish blur.

  He heard voices and moved towards them, realizing when he got nearer that he was going to the stern of the vessel. He stopped at the rail, gazing down, isolating first the helicopter pad, with its white-ringed landing pattern. The pool was higher, on the next deck up. Three girls were in the water, giggling and laughing. A fourth was spread on her back, on a lounging chair. The three in the water were topless; the one sunbathing was completely naked.

  “If you’re joining us you’d better change.”

  The girl was barefoot, which was why he hadn’t heard her approach behind him. Her black hair was short, almost boyish. Her face was deeply tanned, without make-up. She had brown eyes, like Karen. She was wearing a bikini bottom and a diaphanous white gauze top, tied only at the neck; her nipples were dark and full.

  “I’m Carole,” she said.

  There was an accent but he couldn’t identify it.

  “Deaken,” he said. “Richard Deaken.” He felt like a schoolboy caught peeping into the girls’ dormitory.

  “When did you come aboard?”

  “Last night.”

  She nodded. “We knew there was a meeting.”

  Part of the staff, thought Deaken—harem, in fact.

  She smiled, conscious of his discomfort. “How long are you staying.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Coming down to the pool?”

  He shook his head hurriedly. “I heard voices,” he said.

  “We spend most of the day there, if you change your mind,” she said. The smile was professional. “We’d welcome the company.”

  She walked to the companionway leading down to the pool deck with a fluid, hip-swaying sensuality.

  Deaken hurried back into the interior of the ship through the door from which she had emerged, annoyed with himself for having been discovered by the girl, annoyed, even, with wasting his time ogling whores. Almost at once he recognized the alleyway along which Grearson had led him when they had boarded, and then the broad sweep down to the stateroom. At the wide double doors he hesitated, then knocked. Something was said on the other side which Deaken didn’t hear but he entered anyway. Azziz was standing as he had been the previous night. He was wearing a sports shirt and slacks.

  “I’ve sent someone for you,” said the Arab.

  “I lost my way,” said Deaken. “Where’s Grearson?”

  “Marseilles,” said Azziz. “I decided a personal visit would be better than a telephone call.”

  The helicopter, remembered Deaken. The door opened behind him. A bespectacled, dark-haired man began, “I’m afraid …” and then stopped when he saw Deaken.

  “My personal secretary, Mitri,” introduced Azziz. “If you want anything while you’re here, ask him.”

  The man nodded, but did not smile. He carried a leather writing case, with fittings on the outside to hold pens.

  “Thank you,” said Deaken.

  The Palestinian secretary looked inquiringly at Azziz, who shook his head. Mitri backed out, closing the door behind him.

  “Will you hear from Grearson before I’ve got to go ashore?” asked Deaken.

  “I hope so,” said Azziz. “If we don’t, you can say we’ve located the shipment … that we’ll do what they want.”

  “They’ll want details.”

  “So do I.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I talked to Grearson before he left. We decided we were being too subservient.”

  “We don’t have any choice.”

  “I want contact with my son,” insisted Azziz. “I want to know he’s all right.”

  “Cancel the shipment and you can have him back!”

  “I can’t do that in a day,” said Azziz. “I don’t even own the arms at the moment.”

  Deaken stared at the other man, feeling the stir of uncertainty. “You said the sale to Portugal was just a book transaction, a way round officialdom!”

  “Contracts had to be drawn up, and money seen to be exchanged, for it to remain legal,” said Azziz. “It’s not a big problem, but it can’t be resolved in a day. Surely you see that?”

  “How long?”

  “Two or three days,” shrugged the man.

  “Two or three days!” shouted Deaken. “My wife’s with those bastards.”

  “So’s my son,” said Azziz quietly.

  “Then get them out … get them both out.”

  “I’m going to.”

  Deaken accepted it was illogical to expect everything to be settled so quickly, but he hadn’t thought beyond today. “We daren’t take any chances,” he said.

  “I don’t intend to. That’s why I want to speak to my son.”

  Deaken looked at his watch; it was almost a quarter past eleven.

  “I’ve ordered the tender in the water at eleven thirty,” said Azziz.

  Deaken turned to the telephones. “He must be there by now.”

  “Over an hour ago,” agreed Azziz.

  “Why hasn’t he called?”

  “He’s got to trace the shipment. It wasn’t handled directly through Paris. They were just the vendors.”

  “I know they’ll expect more,” said Deaken again.

  “Less than twenty-four hours has elapsed,” said Azziz. “There can’t be more.”

  Deaken remained looking at the telephones, willing one to sound.

  “Here,” said Azziz.

  Deaken turned to the Arab. Azziz was holding out a small, leatherette-covered box. “What’s that?”

  “I want the conversation taped,” said Azziz. “I want to hear what’s said.”

  “Underberg said I’d be watched, all the time.”

  “This couldn’t be any danger to him.”

  It was a sensible thing to do, thought Deaken. He reached out and accepted the recorder.

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  The lawyer nodded, turning it over in his hand and locating the suction-capped receiver to stick onto the telephone.

  “You should be going,” said Azziz.

 
; “It’s not half past yet,” said Deaken. Why hadn’t the bloody American rung?

  “You shouldn’t be late.”

  Deaken moved reluctantly towards the door.

  “Don’t forget the contact,” said Azziz. “I’ll accept whatever conditions or arrangements they want, so long as I can speak to him.”

  “I’ll ask,” promised Deaken. To speak to Karen as well, he decided. The hollow, disbelieving sound of her voice when she had spoken to him in the Geneva office echoed in his head.

  Confident of at least part of the yacht, Deaken found his way easily out onto the deck. The tender was already drawn up at the bottom of the step way. He went down carefully, glancing back up towards the ship as he reached the platform. Two of the girls were looking over the rail from the pool deck; the sun was behind them, so he couldn’t see if either was the girl to whom he had spoken. One waved. Deaken got into the tender without responding.

  From the balcony of the Bristol, Underberg focused the binoculars and saw the motorboat pull away from the side of the Scheherazade. He smiled and stepped back into the shade of his room.

  In the stateroom of the yacht the telephone sounded at the time Azziz had arranged and he picked it up expectantly.

  “Sailed nearly forty-eight hours ago,” reported Grearson. “Freighter is called the Bellicose, Liberian registration, owned by a Greek company called Levcos. General cargo to Madeira, then on with our shipment.” The line was extremely clear; it was Paris, not Marseilles.

  “Any stated destination?”

  “Sailing orders are to refuel at Dakar, then onwards for contact off Benguela. Deaken gone ashore?”

  “Yes,” said Azziz. “When does the Bellicose get to Madeira?”

  “Tonight. The weather’s good so it should be there on time.”

  “Who’s the Portuguese in the middle?”

  “Hernandez Ortega,” said the American. “We’ve dealt with him before. Good man.”

  “Who’s the purchaser?”

  “An import company called Okuru Shippers, with an address in the avenue Libüration, in Lobito.”

  “How was the purchase made?”

  “They came here, to the office in Paris.”

  “Any names?”

  “Makimber,” said the lawyer. “Edward Makimber.” The lawyer hesitated. “Do you want me to go to Lisbon, to see Ortega?’’

  “No,” said Azziz at once. “What about the men we want?”

  “Paris have got some names.”

  “American or British?”

  “American,” said Grearson. “Address for one is Brussels.

  “I don’t want any Belgian Congo rubbish,” repeated Azziz.

  “I know.”

  “Check him, as you’re so close,” instructed Azziz. “And tell Paris to make a contact with this man Makimber. I want to see if there really is a deadline or whether they’d accept a delay.”

  “Deaken said they’d thought of that.”

  “Make the inquiry,” said Azziz. “And tell them to arrange a matching shipment. Do we have sufficient stock?”

  “More than sufficient,” said Grearson.

  “Fix it,” ordered Azziz.

  “It would be an easy way out,” agreed Grearson.

  “Not for some,” said Azziz, more to himself than to the other man.

  It was 11:50 when Deaken jumped ashore, before waiting for the crew to tie up. He ran up the steps, looking anxiously towards the telephones. The one in use was not the one which had been identified by Underberg. Deaken hurried into the box, thrusting the door closed behind him. He put the recorder on the ledge and depressed the suction cap against the earpiece of the telephone, tugging it gently to make sure it was attached. Eleven fifty-five, he saw. He looked around. The quayside was crowded, with yachtsmen and sightseers and flower stalls and souvenir sellers. Near the harbour office an artist had erected an easel and was painting the yachts against the background of the palace. A group had formed behind the man. No one was obviously watching him, decided Deaken. But then they wouldn’t be obvious. Although he was ready for it, tensed even, Deaken still jumped when the telephone shrilled.

  He snatched up the receiver, almost dropping it in his eagerness. “Yes?”

  “You’re on time. Good,” said a voice he recognized as that of the man who had confronted him in Geneva the previous day.

  Belatedly Deaken remembered the tape and jabbed the lever down. “How’s my wife … how’s Karen?”

  “Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “Why the recorder?”

  Deaken whirled around. There was no one in any of the other boxes. He turned in the opposite direction. He was overlooked by dozens of windows and at least three hotels; it was like being pinned out, ready for dissection, under some microscope. “We didn’t want any mistakes,” he said.

  “I’m glad you’re being careful,” said Underberg. “What about the shipment?”

  Deaken gripped his hands against the familiar patronizing voice. “Azziz has agreed,” said the lawyer.

  “That’s good, that’s very good,” said Underberg. “Where is it?”

  Deaken hesitated. “Being located,” he said.

  Now the pause was from the other end. “That doesn’t sound very sensible, Mr Deaken.”

  “It was sold through France,” said the lawyer desperately. “Shipment was arranged through Marseilles. Azziz has sent someone there this morning …” Remembering the Arab’s point, Deaken added, “We’ve only had a few hours.”

  Again the man didn’t speak immediately. Then he said, “Don’t forget why you’re involved. Don’t forget what happens to your wife depends upon your seeing that everything goes the way we want it to.”

  Deaken tugged at his collar, loosening his shirt. Sweat soaked him, running down his face and from beneath his arms, into the waistband of his trousers. He tried opening the door but the sound of the quayside was too loud so he closed it again. He could feel the sun burning through the glass. “I’m not forgetting anything,” he said. “You didn’t give us enough time.”

  “You’ll have enough time,” said Underberg. “More than enough.”

  “Azziz wants to speak to his son. And I want to speak to Karen. To make sure they’re all right,” blurted Deaken.

  “We make the stipulations,” said Underberg.

  “We’ll accept any conditions … whatever the arrangement. Let’s just speak to them. Hear their voices.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “It must be possible.”

  “I said it wasn’t.”

  “What’s happened to them?” Deaken’s fear was immediate, his voice unsteady.

  “I’ve told you, they’re all right, both of them,” said Underberg insistently. “There’s no way you can talk to them; it won’t work.”

  “Azziz can make it work.”

  “All he’s got to make work is the rerouting of the arms shipment. Make sure he does that.”

  The response came at once to Deaken, but he paused, considering it. Then he said, “You’ve made that impossible.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Underberg.

  “How can I ensure anybody is doing anything when I’m tied to these telephone calls. Give me some way to contact you.”

  Underberg laughed. “That wasn’t very clever,” he said.

  “I’m not trying to be clever,” said Deaken. “I’m trying to do what you’ve asked … to protect Karen.”

  “You know how to do that.”

  “Let us speak to them,” repeated Deaken.

  “No.”

  “Make some concession!” pleaded Deaken.

  “We’re not in the business of making concessions,” said Underberg. “We’re combatting terrorism, which Azziz feeds upon.”

  “Bastard!” said Deaken.

  “Don’t forget it,” said Underberg. “Not for a moment. Will Azziz sort everything out by tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re supposed to know.” Th
e man paused. Then he said, “I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I won’t call you tomorrow. The day after, the same box, the same time.”

  “No, wait …” started Deaken, realizing the man meant to break the contact. The line went dead.

  From behind the closed windows of his room, Underberg saw Deaken emerge disconsolately from the telephone kiosk, the recorder clutched tightly beneath his arm. It was fortunate that Deaken had protested about the difficulty of daily calls; if he hadn’t, reflected Underberg, then the idea of lengthening their contact time would have had to come from him and he hadn’t wanted that. Only another thirty minutes before the call from Mulhouse. Levy wouldn’t be as argumentative as the lawyer: Levy imagined they were working for the same thing.

  Underberg sighed contentedly. There would still be time before the plane left for him to have a leisurely lunch on the terrace. He enjoyed living well.

  On the quay below, Deaken boarded the tender. It was clearly marked as that from the Scheherazade and as it moved away from the moorings Deaken looked up at the watching faces. They all envied him, he realized. Stupid sods.

  Karen stood stiffly as Levy entered the room. He stopped inside the door and held out the packages to her.

  “Everything you asked for,” he said. “You didn’t say anything about underwear, but I bought some anyway.” He hesitated. “Pants at least,” he added. “White.”

  “Thank you.” she said. The parcels carried advertisements for shops in the rue de la Bourse, in Mulhouse. She didn’t remember that as the name of the last place through which they’d driven before turning off to the farmhouse.

  “I’ve got a message through to your husband, that you’re all right,” he said.

  Karen said nothing.

  “You are, aren’t you?” said Levy. “You weren’t really hurt?”

  There was only a small mirror, high on the washstand, so she hadn’t been able to see. “Probably just bruised,” she said. There was an ache at the bottom of her back.

  “He shouldn’t have been stupid.”

  “You said that already.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  “You did though,” she said.