Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  “His father’s doing what we want. Everything is going to be all right.”

  “You will let us free, if he does everything, won’t you?” demanded Karen in sudden fear. “You’ll let us go?”

  Levy smiled, the first time she had seen him do so. His teeth were very white and even. “Of course,” he said. “How many more times have I got to tell you I mean you no harm?”

  After what he’d done to her and to the boy, she should loathe this man, Karen knew; hate him. She wondered why she didn’t.

  9

  La Grande Place in Brussels, and the cafü in the corner, is an essential stop for tourists, a place for posing, singly and in groups, for holiday pictures. The cafe is made entirely of wood, with wooden stalls and wooden benches and an uncovered, wooden floor. It rises through several balconied sections around the central, flaring barbecue pit and is dominated by the complete figure of a stuffed horse. Alive it had been a large, proud animal; dead it gazes through opaque glass eyes onto the square with an expression of vague dismay at having become a sideshow. Almost an entire side of La Grande Place is occupied by the town hall; the exterior is intricately decorated, with criss-crossed beams and fancy brickwork, like the original model for Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house. It was not the location that Harvey Evans would have chosen for a meeting, but the demand from Paris had been for somewhere easy to find and he was sure that every taxi driver in Belgium knew of the cafe with the horse.

  The American sat in the prearranged stall, both hands around the beer glass from which he only occasionally drank. Twice he had to shake his head against his table being shared, with the explanation that he was awaiting a companion. It was always a polite refusal, because Harvey Evans was invariably polite. He was a still, quiet man, with a trained soldier’s neatness. The fair, almost white, hair was close-cropped at the sides far above his ears, and his hard, high-cheek-boned face was closely shaven, so carefully it seemed to be polished. The trousers were freshly pressed and the shoes glistened, reflecting the light from the flickering cooking area. Because he was leaning forward, the windbreaker was pulled back, so that the Rolex watch that had been the Green Beret amulet in Vietnam protruded; on the little finger of the left hand there was a heavy fraternity ring, with a red stone in the centre. Evans revolved it idly. thinking back to the telephone call from Paris. Abrupt and curt and businesslike, the voice confident. American too. So it could be something, he thought. Something worthwhile. He hoped to Christ it was. Since Libya there hadn’t been anything sensible. And Libya had been an asshole. Evans sighed. Like everything else had been an asshole, since ‘Nam. They hadn’t deserved the treatment, when they got back; none of them had. He hadn’t wanted to be regarded as a hero, although he probably qualified with the Purple Hearts and the Silver Stars and all the other junk he and the others had collected, too easily in the end, like trinkets for having saved up cardboard tops from breakfast-food packets. All he wanted was to be accepted as the soldier he had become, someone who had shown sufficient aptitude and ability for promotion to one of the youngest majors in the Berets. But he hadn’t got it; none of them had. They had gone halfway around the world and risked being maimed or crippled or killed and got back home to find themselves ostracized, treated with contempt even. As if they and not some asshole group of politicians sitting in the warmth and comfort of Washington had started the whole bloody thing and made America look as stupid and as ineffectual as it had appeared in the end. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but there was a direct analogy with the military legend: the commanders fuck it up and the poor grunts in the boondocks cop the shit.

  Evans had been studying every entrant—he had chosen the seat specifically for the purpose—and looked at Grearson more intently than he had at most others. The man was alone. Had an attitude of authority, which Evans recognized from the army. And the clothes were American, like the voice had been on the telephone. The man looked around, orienting himself, and walked directly up to the stall.

  “You’re Harvey Evans,” he said. It was not a question.

  Evans stood, aware of the immediate examination. “Yes,” he said. Grearson liked what he saw. The man was in good shape, unneglected. And no beer belly, he thought, remembering Azziz’s injunction.

  “Sorry I’m late,” apologized the lawyer. “Delay at the airport.”

  The soldier’s handshake was firm, without any ridiculous pretence at making it so.

  “I didn’t mind waiting,” said Evans. “You spoke of a job.”

  “Maybe,” said Grearson cautiously. He ordered whisky.

  “How did you get my name?”

  “Paris.”

  “That’s a city,” said Evans. “Who in Paris?”

  “People who recommended you as being very good.”

  “What sort of people?”

  “The sort who deal in weaponry.”

  They had seemed the most obvious contacts when Evans moved into Europe from the Middle East. He supposed he must have contacted about six different arms-dealing organizations.

  “Which one?”

  “That’s not important, not for the moment,” said Grearson. “I want to be sure first.”

  “Of what?”

  “Your suitability.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything about you.”

  The lawyer’s drink arrived. He put it before him untouched and Evans realized it wasn’t to drink, merely to entitle him to occupy the seat in the stall. Evans gave a clipped official recital of his career, as if he were reading from the formal documentation which still existed somewhere in Fort Bragg.

  “Why did you leave in ‘78?” Grearson fingered his spectacles.

  “I didn’t like the atmosphere,” said Evans. “Wherever I went … said who I was … I was made to feel as if I was guilty of something.”

  Grearson nodded, aware of the attitude that existed in America in the immediate aftermath of the mistaken war.

  “Why not a civilian job?”

  “Don’t have the training,” said Evans. “I’m a soldier, that’s all I’ve ever been. Ever wanted to be.”

  “What then?”

  “Heard there was opportunity in Libya. Training their people … guerrillas, too, from other countries. Spent almost two years in a camp near an oasis called Kufra …” He shook his head at the memory. “Christ, what a place!”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “Prayers to Mecca God knows how many times a day, political indoctrination sessions and stupid bastards shooting off guns and throwing grenades and believing they were immortal so it didn’t matter if they got hit.” Evans stopped. “No booze or women either. Like being a goddamned monk.”

  Grearson analysed what the other man said before speaking. “You got anything against Arabs?” he said.

  “Do you mean am I Jewish?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “So what about Arabs?”

  Evans shrugged. “Nothing wrong with Arabs,” he said. “That wasn’t what pissed me off about Libya.”

  “What did then?”

  “They’re crazy. They really do believe what their priests tell them, that Gaddafi is leading them into some sort of holy conflict, they can’t be killed.”

  “Booze important to you?”

  “Booze?” frowned the man.

  “You said there wasn’t any booze. Or women.”

  Evans smiled apologetically. “I don’t drink or whore any more than anyone else,” he said. “But I was there for two years!”

  Grearson smiled back. “What have you done since then?”

  “Nothing.”

  He had been lucky first time, Grearson decided. He pushed a sealed manila envelope across the table. “There’s $1000 retainer, with another $500 for expenses.”

  Evans picked the envelope up, felt it and put it into an inside pocket of his windbreaker. “What do you want?”

  “You formed a deep-penetration unit in Vi
etnam.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many men?”

  “It varied,” said Evans. “Usually it was six.”

  “What sort of opposition could you handle?”

  Evans smiled again, proudly this time. “A platoon or company any time,” he said. “Frequently happened, in fact. We were well trained.”

  “Could you assemble six people?”

  “How long have I got?”

  “Two or three days. And I don’t want rubbish. I want men like you, only a year or two out of the services, still trained, still fit.”

  “I could try.”

  Grearson respected the man for avoiding the overcommitment. “I’d want to meet them when they’re assembled,” said the lawyer. “If one isn’t right then the whole thing’s off.”

  “I can’t recruit unless I know what we’ve got to do.”

  “Somebody’s got something belonging to us,” said Grearson. “We want it back.”

  “So call the police,” said Evans.

  “That’s not possible, not on this occasion.”

  “What can I offer?”

  “You’ll get $2000 a week, as commander. The people you recruit get $1000. All expenses, of course. If the need arises for you to be used … if you have to go in to recover what’s ours and you do it successfully, there’ll be a $30,000 bonus for you and $20,000 for everyone else Paid in whatever currency you want, to wherever you want.”

  “So we might not actually be used?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Grearson. “But you still get the payment and expenses. And a severance bonus: $10,000 for you, $5000 for the others.”

  Evans nodded. “The terms seem fair enough,” he said. “What happens about equipment?”

  “Don’t bother about anything. Whatever you want will be provided.”

  “To be effective we’ve got to train … have some idea of what the operation will be.”

  “I can’t tell you that, not yet,” said the lawyer. “And I do recognize the difficulty. That’s why the people you get together have got to be already well trained; there won’t be time for much preparation.”

  “I don’t like that,” said Evans.

  Grearson was pleased at the professionalism. “It could be something like a surprise assault,” he said guardedly.

  “Defended?”

  “Probably. But you should have some element of surprise.”

  “How big a building?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll have plans … layouts?”

  “I hope so.”

  “But you’re not certain?”

  A waiter returned to the table inquiringly. Both men shook their heads.

  “No,” said Grearson. “There’s no certainty.”

  “How big is the object to be recovered?” said Evans. “I mean, will it be in a safe … under some sort of protection that we’ll have to blow?”

  Grearson hesitated. “It’s not an object,” he said.

  Evans did not respond for several moments. “I see,” he said.

  “My client has a permanent need for protection,” said Grearson. “Particularly so after this. If everything goes as it must, then there could be permanent employment for you. And for some of the people you recruit.”

  “What about limitations?” said Evans.

  “Limitations?”

  “When we recover …” he paused and then went on “… what it is we have to recover, are there any limitations on the force that’s got to be employed?”

  “None,” said Grearson immediately. “Absolutely none.”

  “And the authorities will not be involved?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know your name,” said Evans. “Or how to make contact.”

  “My name doesn’t matter at the moment,” said Grearson. “Let’s leave it that I am an attorney.” He passed a folded sheet of paper across the table. “There’s a name and telephone number,” he said. “They’ll have immediate contact with me. Call them when you’ve assembled your people.”

  This time Evans opened the paper, noting the Paris telephone number against the address of something called the Eklon Corporation. The second place he had approached after Libya, he remembered. A nondescript set of offices on the rue Réamur; the receptionist as haughty as only the French can be, refusing to let him get past to someone in authority. He had been sure she would have thrown his details away. Azziz, he thought in complete recollection. Adnan Azziz. He felt a burn of satisfaction. This could definitely be something worthwhile.

  “Is Mr Azziz personally inconvenienced?” said Evans.

  This man was a good choice, decided Grearson. “Someone very close to him.”

  “I understand.”

  “Understand something more,” said Grearson. “There must be absolute discretion. I don’t want any of those you recruit to know anything more than the barest minimum. It would be a risk.”

  “Of course,” said Evans. “You’ll have no need to worry.”

  “I want professionals,” insisted Grearson. “Absolute professionals. There must be no mistakes.”

  “There won’t be.”

  Grearson offered his hand and received the firm handshake in return. “Why on earth have that done to a horse?” said Grearson, looking at the rigid animal.

  “Everyone gets stuffed,” said Evans. “Jesus!” said the lawyer.

  They crowded into the room, appearing to expect him to resist, Levy in front and three others behind. Gradually Azziz was identifying them, always careful that they would be unaware of his eavesdropping on their conversation and remarks. The big, bearded man who had wanted to involve himself in the beating was Leiberwitz; the tall, saturnine man was Kahanc—he thought the given name was Sami. The squat man, bull-shouldered and bull-necked, whom Azziz had seen smirking during the beating, was Greening.

  “Do you want to undress?” said Levy.

  “No,” said Azziz. His mouth hurt to talk.

  “I don’t think he’s respectful enough,” said Leiberwitz.

  “What are you, some sort of sadist?” Levy said to him in Hebrew. In English to Azziz, Levy said, “It’s your fault we’re having to do this.”

  Azziz said nothing, aware of the conflict between the two men confronting him.

  “Lie on the bed,” said Levy.

  The Arab did as he was told. The Israeli adjusted the arms of the handcuffs as wide as they would go and, before securing them around Azziz’s ankle, he slipped his finger between the boy’s flesh and the metal, to ensure it would not chafe. Satisfied, he clicked them shut. He snapped the other armlet around the metal upright of the bed, needlessly tugging to see it was engaged.

  “Don’t try anything else that’s stupid,” warned Levy. “If you fall awkwardly from the bed you could break your ankle.”

  As Levy left the boy’s room he looked automatically towards Karen’s bedroom door. A thin ruler of light was marked out beneath it. He hesitated and then continued on down the stairs.

  Leiberwitz was waiting for him in the large room. “I won’t be treated like shit,” he said.

  “Stop behaving like it,” said Levy, unimpressed at the protest. “There’s no plan to hurt them.”

  “He’s a spoiled, supercilious little bastard.”

  “I think he’s rather brave,” said Levy.

  10

  The harbour at Funchal is protected by a huge arm, built out across almost half its width to form a protected, inner anchorage. Normally cruise liners are brought inside, to tie up along it and make their passengers run the gauntlet of its length, through the basket salesmen and wickerworkmakers and lace vendors. Tonight there were no liners in port, so the pilot took the Bellicose into the favoured place, manoeuvring her close to the cranes.

  High above, from the balcony of Reids Hotel, Underberg watched. It was a warm, still night, the lights of the Madeira capita! spread out before him like an overturned jewel box; he could hear the blur of the mooring instructions, as
far away as he was.

  Underberg turned, walking back into the hotel, sorry that he had arrived too late to sit out there in the late afternoon and go through the traditional ritual of Madeira cake and tea. It hadn’t been an easy flight, with a transfer at Lisbon, and Underberg felt tired. He wondered if it would be a wasted journey.

  It was a short ride down the hill and Underberg stopped the taxi at the seafront road, to walk the rest of the way along the harbour spur, past the cafe built into the rock face. The jetty was washed in a butter-yellow glow from the nightwork spotlights, the cranes already dipping into the Bellicose’s holds by the time Underberg arrived. He held back, perfectly concealed by the containers of some already unloaded wharf cargo. The captain, the rank designated by his cap edging, was on the wing bridge overlooking the quay, staring down at the work. His name was Erlander, Underberg knew. Forty-eight, married, two children, and a home in Strandväuagen, Stockholm.

  The freighter was not his predominant interest, so Underberg moved farther away from the water, seeking a more extensive view of the quay. He didn’t bother with the immediate bustle of stevedores beside the Bellicose, because Underberg guessed the person for whom he was looking would not be that close. Instead he concentrated on previously unshipped, stored cargo, some covered in tarpaulin and net. It was away from the working lights, black and grey outlines, jagged against the night sky. It was a long time before he detected him and when he did Underberg smiled; the man was using the cover as expertly as he was.

  Underberg moved from container to container, purposely not trying to disguise his approach, wanting the man to identify him. He was still some way away when he saw the flash of teeth.

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Edward Makimber. The voice was educated, carefully modulated.

  “Not really,” said Underberg. At Cambridge the African had anglicized his name to Kimber. Underberg guessed he wouldn’t admit to it now.

  “Do you normally keep such a close eye on the competition?” said Makimber.

  “Quite often,” said Underberg. “We’re very competitive. Do you normally worry so much about a purchase?”

  “About a purchase as important as this,” said the African.