Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  “Two per cent for the risks involved!” said Ortega.

  “You knew the risks before you entered the transaction.”

  “There’s always time for reflection … reexamination,” said Ortega.

  “I would have thought in your business … our business,” Deaken corrected, “that all the risks and examinations should be decided before commitment.”

  “Conditions change.”

  “They didn’t here: everything went exactly as planned.”

  “Oh, no,” contradicted Ortega at once. “There were difficulties in Marseilles; people got greedy. I thought at one time the whole thing might get blocked.”

  “Another two per cent,” offered Deaken. Six hundred thousand was a hell of a profit, whatever difficulties Ortega’s agent had encountered.

  Ortega’s expression was smooth with apologetic refusal. ‘It’s an onward-going thing,” he said. “These people are in contact with each other, from port to port. By the time the Bellicose got to Madeira, the customs people knew the rate had gone up.”

  “How much?”

  “Five per cent.”

  Two and a half million dollars for having his name on a piece of paper for four or five days. Bloody ridiculous. “Agreed,” said Deaken—the charade had gone on long enough. From his briefcase he took a signed but blank bankers’ order, made out against a holding account of a company named as Eklon and lodged in the Swiss Banking Corporation on Zürich’s Paradeplatz. He leaned forward against Ortega’s elaborate desk, hesitating before he filled it in.

  “What currency?” He saw Ortega was fitting documents into an envelope.

  “Swiss francs,” said the Portuguese arms dealer. “They’re always so sound.” He saw the lawyer pause and slid a calculator and computer printout of the rates, timed one hour before their meeting began, across the desk.

  Deaken made the calculations and offered it to Ortega for agreement. Ortega nodded, but he didn’t smile. This was business. Deaken filled in the amount; it was an awful lot of gold teeth, he thought.

  When he looked up Ortega was burning a taper beneath some wax, watching the blobs fall on the flap of the envelope. “What are you doing?”

  “Sealing the documentation.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” said Deaken.

  “It’s all there, I assure you.”

  Deaken retrieved the bank draft from the desk. “There can be no payment until I’m satisfied everything’s complete.” Deaken had no intention of getting all the way back to the Scheherazade to discover something was missing; there had been too much delay already.

  “I’ve already spoken to Mr Azziz,” said Ortega. It sounded like a reprimand.

  “Would you let a representative of yours pay over a million, sight unseen?”

  “No.”

  Ortega picked up an ornate paper knife, fashioned like a miniature two-edged sword, and picked away the still-plastic wax. He offered the envelope to Deaken. The lawyer opened the flap and took out four sheets of paper; two were pinned together. The manifest, Deaken realized. It was in French. Having had sufficient unoccupied time to learn the languages of Switzerland, Deaken read it easily, feeling a lawyer’s satisfaction at having tangible evidence to consider.

  There were Russian as well as American rockets, Browning machine guns listed with the AK-47 and Armalite, and entry after entry setting out the amount and calibre of the ammunition. There were four gauges of mortar, shells as well as weapons, antipersonnel and antitank mines and five separate listings for shoulder-operated missiles which Deaken assumed were to resist helicopter assault—he remembered the South Africans were fond of using helicopters in the bush.

  “Good shipment, isn’t it?” said Ortega.

  Deaken thought it was an obscene remark. “Very good,” he said.

  The second was the official bill of sale, from Ortega to Azziz, the purchase price precisely listed at 53,550,000 Swiss francs, the purchaser inscribed as Eklon Corporation. The third, also in French, was what Deaken assumed to be the End-User certificate; it seemed inadequate for all the trouble it had caused. He saw that it had been endorsed, from Ortega to Eklon.

  “There’s no bill of lading,” said Deaken.

  “What?”

  “Documentary proof that the shipment is aboard the Bellicose. There should be one, from your agent in Marseilles.”

  “I assure you everything is aboard,” said the Portuguese.

  “It’s not for me to believe you or otherwise.” Deaken gestured with the papers in his hand. “These mean nothing without the bill of lading.” Thank God he’d insisted upon the envelope being opened.

  “I can have it delivered to you when I receive it from France. Or you could return, to collect it personally.”

  More delay, thought Deaken, maybe for days. “I can collect it,” he said. “I’m returning through Marseilles.”

  “You’re very conscientious, Mr Deaken,” said Ortega.

  “I regard it as basic caution.” Deaken leaned forward, setting the draft out in front of him. The alteration took seconds.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Redating the bank authorization,” said Deaken. “It’s drawable against tomorrow’s date, not today’s.”

  Ortega’s face stiffened. “That’s offensive,” he said.

  “No,” said Deaken. “That’s properly considering the risks.” He offered the payment. For several moments Ortega looked at it without moving, then reached forward to pick it up. The attitude, which had been patronizing, was now hostile. Deaken didn’t give a damn.

  “I’ll need written authorization for your man in Marseilles. And his name and address,” said Deaken.

  Ortega’s personal notepaper was held in a small brass rack to his left. He took a sheet and scribbled an impatient message, scrawling a signature beneath it. “I had intended suggesting lunch,” he said, in a tone indicating he was no longer going to.

  “I need to get back to Marseilles as soon as possible,” said Deaken; the helicopter was scheduled to collect him from the incoming evening flight. He saw from the second envelope which Ortega gave him that the French agent was named Marcel Lerclerc and that the office was on the boulevard Notre Dame. “Thank you again,” he said, rising. Ortega remained seated.

  “I’m sure you’ll do well with Azziz,” said the Portuguese.

  “I hope to,” said Deaken heavily.

  He was back at the airport by 12:30. He started his tour of the airlines at the TAP desk but it was not until he reached Iberia that he found a fast enough routing, a direct flight to Madrid in forty-five minutes, with an immediate transfer connection to an Air France service en route from New York. He reached Marseilles at 4:15.

  The evening rush hour was beginning, so it was not until almost five that he reached Lerlerc’s office. The arms dealer’s agent was a saggy, bulging man with a closed, suspicious face. His attitude changed as soon as Deaken produced the written authorization.

  “Has there been a difficulty?” There was the slightest accent; from his colouring, Deaken guessed he was Corsican rather than French.

  “Difficulty?”

  “When he telephoned from Paris, Mr Grearson said I was to send the bill of lading there.”

  “Paris?”

  “That’s where the order came from.”

  “I know,” said Deaken. “You say Mr Grearson called from Paris?”

  “Yesterday morning,” confirmed the man. “Quite early.” Lerclerc got heavily from his chair, bent with difficulty over a safe in the corner and took out the bill of lading. “It’s in order,” he said, still defensive.

  Deaken carefully compared the manifest duplicate with the lading certificate. It took a long time because he was careful. He was conscious of Lerclerc shifting behind the desk. When he looked up Lerclerc said, “All correct?”

  “Appears to be.”

  Lerclerc visibly relaxed. “A little pastis?” he offered, seeming to think a celebration justified.

  Dea
ken nodded and Lerclerc heaved himself out of his chair. As he poured, he said, “We enjoy doing business, even subsidiary business, with your organization.”

  “So Mr Ortega made clear.” Deaken hesitated. “It’s a worthwhile intercession.”

  Lerclerc looked up sharply as he returned with the drinks, still alert for criticism. “There’s never been a difficulty from this port, ever,” he said. “We’ve always earned our five per cent. I know where to go, who to see.”

  Deaken accepted the water decanter and watched the liquid turn milky. “I’m sure you do,” he said soothingly.

  “To continued business,” toasted Lerclerc.

  Deaken drank. “So Mr Grearson wasn’t personally here yesterday?”

  The other man seemed surprised at the repeated question. ‘No,” he said. “Should he have been?”

  “I understood he was.”

  Lerclerc shook his head. “Been with Azziz long?”

  “Just started.”

  “An impressive organization.”

  From somewhere just beyond the office Deaken heard a clock strike and confirmed the time from his watch. “I’ve a pickup scheduled from the airport. I’m going to be late,” he said. “Can I use your telephone, to get a message to the pilot?”

  Lerclerc grimaced apologetically. “Bloody telephone has been out of order since this morning,” he said. “I’ve had three promises of an engineer’s call.”

  Deaken finished his drink in a heavy gulp. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately.”

  He was forty-five minutes late getting back to Marseilles airport but the helicopter pilot was still waiting obediently. The departure formalities were as easy as they had been earlier in the day and he was airborne within thirty minutes. They left on the same flightpath, directly out over the sea. To Deaken’s right the sun was setting in a defiant burst of red and scarlet, half submerged in the distant sea.

  There had already been notification from the communications room of the helicopter’s return and the two men stood at the expensive panoramic windows of the Scheherazade stateroom, gazing westwards in the half light, seeking the identification markings.

  “What did you tell Ortega?” asked Grearson.

  “That he was new to your staff; that I wanted to try him out. The agreed profit was to remain but I wanted Ortega’s assessment of how Deaken bargained up to it.”

  The American lawyer frowned. “Didn’t he find that unusual?”

  “I undertook to move the next difficult shipment through him,” said Azziz. He spotted the red and green lights of the helicopter. Almost at once they heard the wind-slapping sound and saw the black outline of the machine pass to port. They turned away from the window.

  “I’m still unsure about Deaken being unsupervised,” said Grearson.

  “Don’t be,” said the Arab dismissively. “He’s a fool. What about the second shipment?”

  “Everything ready in two or three days.”

  “Transport?”

  “Chartered from Levcos again.”

  “Anything from Makimber?”

  “Not yet,” said Grearson. “You know it’s often not easy, establishing direct contact at once.”

  The door opened and Deaken entered. Both men were struck by the new confidence, a bounce in the way he moved. Neither remembered hearing a knock at the door.

  Deaken offered Azziz an envelope. “End-User certificate, manifest, official bill of lading and purchase receipt, in the sum of 53,550,000 Swiss francs from Ortega back to you.” Deaken realized that he sounded like a schoolboy presenting an end-of-term report to his father.

  “You made a good bargain.”

  “Thank you,” said Deaken. “So now there are no more problems? You can turn the Bellicose back?”

  The Arab nodded.

  Deaken looked at him expectantly. Azziz frowned and Deaken said, “Well, why don’t you?”

  Azziz appeared momentarily surprised at the suggestion. “Of course,” he said, moving to the telephones.

  Deaken waited until the Arab was sufficiently far away from them and said to Grearson, “I thought you would have brought the bill of lading back from Marseilles.”

  Grearson looked at him intently. “Why should I have done that?”

  “I thought you went there yesterday to see the shipping agent.”

  “Paris,” corrected the American. “I wanted to find out about the original order. And what progress there was in trying to trace where they’re being held.”

  Deaken allowed himself to be deflected. “Any news?” he said.

  “Clearly we can’t let the people in Paris have the photograph to make their own comparison,” said Grearson.

  “The helicopter is going up at first light tomorrow to bring back all the brochures and information they’ve managed to assemble on holiday farms.”

  Azziz came back into the group. “We’re contacting Levcos through Athens,” he said. “The turn-about instructions will go from Piraeus.”

  “So maybe the stuff from Paris will be superfluous,” said Deaken. “I thought Grearson went to Marseilles, not Paris,” he added. He was looking directly at Azziz as he spoke.

  Azziz returned the look, his face expressionless. “Paris,” he said. “You must have misunderstood.”

  12

  Hinkier and Bartlett, who were the first Evans contacted because he knew they were in Rome and would be together, as they always were, arrived in Brussels on the morning flight, bringing Sneider with them. Sneider was drunk, at that lopsided, unprotesting stage of drunkenness. Evans shook hands with Hinkler and Bartlett; Sneider sniggered.

  “Been like it for a week,” said Hinkler, who was wide-shouldered and blond and looked more Germanic than Sneider, whose parents were immigrants to Milwaukee. “When he hasn’t been drinking he’s been getting laid.”

  “How long has he been out of Libya?” asked Evans.

  “Fortnight,” said Bartlett.

  “I guess he’s allowed,” said Evans.

  “What is it?” said Bartlett.

  “We’ll wait for the rest,” decided Evans.

  Hinkler and Bartlett both looked very fit. Despite the drunkenness, Sneider was lean and hard, his face leathered brown from the three years he had spent in the Libyan training camps.

  “Sure,” accepted Bartlett at once, accepting the soldier’s logic against unnecessary repetition. “Why don’t we get Sneider bedded down?”

  Still smiling, Sneider allowed himself to be taken to the secondary bedroom in the rue des Alexiens apartment. They only bothered to unlace and remove his boots.

  With the money he had been given for expenses, Evans had restocked the bar. He nodded towards it when they returned to the living room. Hinkler poured two brandies without asking Bartlett what he wanted. Evans took Scotch.

  “How’s it been?” asked Evans. He knew Bartlett and Hinkler had quit Libya a year before him.

  “Rough,” said Hinkler. “There was something going in Iran, training again, but it was a worse disaster than Gaddafi. Didn’t get paid for three months and they actually expected us to take notice of their damned religious crap. God keep me from religious revolutionaries.”

  “We were thinking of San Salvador when you called,” said Bartlett. “Good contracts being offered.”

  “Know anyone there?”

  Bartlett shook his head. “Supposed to be some of our guys there, but we haven’t heard any names.”

  “Where’s the recruitment?”

  “Frankfurt,” said Hinkler.

  “That’s where I found Marinetti,” said Evans.

  “Is he in with us?” asked Bartlett.

  Evans nodded. “He said he’d come.”

  “Good,” said Hinkler.

  Marinetti was the explosives expert. They had all expected to be captured by the Vietcong when a deep penetration into the Parrot’s Beak in Cambodia fouled up, in 1972, but Marinetti had covered their trail with booby traps and given them the hour they needed to be airlifted
out.

  “Anybody else?” said Bartlett.

  “Hank Melvin,” said Evans. “And Nelson Jones.”

  Hinkler and Bartlett nodded together. “Most of the old team,” remembered Hinkler.

  “All but Rodgers and Ericson,” completed Bartlett.

  Rodgers was still in Libya. Ericson was permanently in a vets’ hospital in Phoenix, both legs amputated at midthigh where he’d trodden on an antipersonnel mine in Da Nang, three months before Nixon’s peace with honour, and mentally unable even to use a wheelchair.

  Melvin was the next to arrive. The Texan telephoned from the airport and reached the rue des Alexiens fifteen minutes ahead of Marinetti. The greetings with those already there were subdued, without any theatrical boisterousness, and Evans was glad; they were still a team, he thought gratefully. Melvin had travelled from Madrid where he was negotiating a contract in Mozambique; Marinetti confirmed that until Evans’s call, he was considering the San Salvador offer.

  “It’s always goddam training,” said Melvin. “Never combat.”

  Evans had always suspected that Melvin got pleasure out of fighting, but he had never let them down.

  “They’d expected us to take our payment within the country in San Salvador,” protested Marinetti. “Can you imagine what a load of crap that would have been, toy-town paper only good for wiping your ass once you’re out of the country!”

  Because he had had to come from America, Nelson Jones was the last to arrive. The extremely tall black man came quietly but with smooth assurance into the apartment, smiling and nodding in recognition of those already assembled. Without any pretension, he and Evans greeted each other with an open-palmed, slapping handshake.

  “Hi,” said Jones generally. There was a comfortable response, a reaction to someone coming home. Jones was six foot six and completely bald.

  “Why don’t we get Sneider up?” suggested Evans.

  Hinkler and Bartlett accepted their responsibility, coming from the smaller bedroom within minutes with the third man. Sneider blinked, tried to focus, licked his dry lips, then shook his head. “Reunion,” he snorted. “Mother-fucking reunion.” He saw the drinks on the side table and moved towards them.