Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  “There is a change in routing?”

  Damn, Deaken thought again. “No,” he said. “It remains according to the original contract.”

  “I’ve been the agent for Levcos shipping for a number of years,” said Carré pompously.

  “And they are most complimentary about your efficiency and ability,” improvised Deaken. “In this particular instance they’ve decided to invest us with the responsibility. It’s no reflection upon you. No reflection at all.”

  Carré relaxed slightly. “I’ll need to know victualling and fuelling requirements,” he said.

  “Maximum,” said Deaken. This man did not know what the cargo was nor its original destination so the indication of a long, uninterrupted return passage didn’t matter.

  “I’ll put it in hand,” said Carré. “I don’t imagine you’ll want to be in port longer than necessary.”

  “No,” agreed Deaken. “As quick a turnaround as possible.”

  “What information should I give the customs authorities?” said the agent.

  He’s pushing hard, thought Deaken. “It’ll be a bonded shipment, travelling in transit.”

  Carré looked down to a duplicate of the manifest already fixed to a clipboard.

  “Machine parts,” he read. He looked up. “Machine parts were important enough for you to be sent to accompany them?”

  “Yes.”

  Carréé waited, appearing to expect Deaken to elaborate. When he didn’t, the agent said, “I’ll need to know where you’re staying, in case there’s any change in the arrival times.”

  “The Royale.”

  “There are far better hotels.” Carré frowned. “I could have recommended some.”

  “I chose it by chance,” said Deaken. “I didn’t want to trouble you more than necessary. It’s quite adequate.”

  “Is there anything else I can do to help?” He offered his card.

  “No, really,” said Deaken, accepting the square of pasteboard. “I’m most grateful to you.” He rose, extending his hand. Carré stood and shook it.

  “Anything,” assured the agent. “Just call.”

  * * *

  Had Deaken inquired from the airport, Carré would have suggested he stay at the Teranga Hotel, although after their meeting he would have considered it inconvenient. The agent allowed the lawyer ten minutes after leaving his office, standing at the window to watch him walk down the spur road back towards the waterfront. Then he dialled the number. Makimber was in his room and agreed immediately to a meeting.

  The African was waiting in the reception area when Carré arrived, pulling him at once towards the far corner of the lounge, away from the entrance. Makimber sat forward, arms against his knees, head down, looking at the floor as Carré recounted his meeting with the lawyer, only occasionally halting him with a question.

  “Did you get the impression that the destination had been changed?”

  “None,” said Carré

  The relayed message that morning from Angola about Deaken’s arrival had really made his cultivation of this man unnecessary, reflected Makimber. But he still didn’t consider it wasted: it provided confirmation and the knowledge of where the man was staying. It had been a sensible precaution, to come to Dakar. And to bring people with him, even if they were thugs. “The authority was definitely from the Eklon Corporation?”

  Carré nodded. “As full and complete charterers of the ship. I suppose they’ve the right.”

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to attempt independence at this stage, thought Makimber; at least the Angolan message indicated that the friendship was still intact. Azziz was a bastard, attempting to delay the shipment. Makimber supposed there had been a higher offer for what the Bellicose carried. He hoped the Arab would rot in hell for what he had tried to do. It was gratifying to be able to defeat him.

  “It is a problem?” asked Carré”, gauging the other man’s concern.

  “It could be.”

  “I’m glad we became friends, if I’ve helped to resolve it,” said the Senegalese.

  Makimber smiled. “I shall be properly grateful, believe me,” he said. “What time does the Bellicose arrive?”

  “Five in the morning.”

  “Maximum provisioning and fuelling?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “He was alone?”

  Carré shrugged. “I don’t know. He appeared to be.”

  “If the Bellicose arrives as scheduled and the handling starts right away, what time could the ship sail?”

  Carré turned down the corners of his mouth, making the calculation. “Around noon, I suppose.”

  It was a long time, too long. But he would have to do it. Makimber took a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it across the table to the other man. Carré accepted it, feeling its thickness between his fingers. Knowing that the Senegalese could increase its value by a third again on black-market currency dealing, Makimber said, “I told you I would be properly grateful. There’s a thousand dollars in American currency.”

  There was a moment of shocked surprise before Carré grinned in open excitement. ‘Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  “There’s more,” said Makimber. He felt like a fisherman landing a catch.

  “What must I do?”

  “Tell me everything that happens, no matter how small or insignificant it seems.”

  Carré nodded eagerly.

  “And do what I say tomorrow, while the ship’s in port. I don’t want the captain becoming suspicious … thinking anything is unusual, in fact … until he sails.”

  “What about Deaken?”

  “He’s going to miss the ship,” said Makimber.

  * * *

  Andreas Levcos was a man who had spent his life transporting the unquestioned for the questionable and grown rich from his discretion. A portly, shiny man, with oiled hair which gleamed and a silk suit which shone too, from the light shafting in from the window, he showed neither surprise nor curiosity as Grearson outlined what they wanted done. Levcos wore sunglasses, even though they were indoors, not against the glare but simply because he always wore them.

  “You want the man given a northerly course, but for the ship to continue southwards?” It was important to extract some logic from the frequent illogicality.

  “The false positions must always come from the master.”

  “What about sunrise and sunset?” said Levcos. “Surely he’ll realize what’s really happening?”

  “Once he’s at sea he’ll be trapped: it doesn’t matter,” said Grearson.

  “Doesn’t he work for you?”

  “No,” said Grearson positively.

  Levcos’s office was in Athens’s port of Piraeus. It overlooked the ferry terminals and from the window it was possible to see the hydrofoils scurrying to the Greek islands, skittering away like water insects not breaking the surface tension of a pond.

  “What’s the true destination?”

  From his briefcase Grearson took a copy of Makimber’s last cable. “Benguela,” he said. “The Bellicose is to anchor ten miles off and wait for contact on the thirteenth.” All information about the delay request and Makimber’s refusal had been erased, so Grearson offered the paper across to the Greek shipowner. “Here’s the positional fix and the recognition signal.”

  “Victory?” frowned Levcos, reading the call sign.

  “Our clients are frequently given to theatricals.”

  “Do you want me to inform our people in Dakar?”

  “Are they staff?”

  Levcos shook his head. “Agents.”

  “Then I don’t think so,” said Grearson. “Let’s restrict it to the captain.”

  “It would be best,” agreed Levcos. “And the other ship?”

  “To remain in Marseilles, until it’s necessary to cross to Algiers to coordinate with the supposed arrival there of the Bellicose.” The lawyer hesitated, coming to the most difficult part of the meeting. “And we would like t
o sail from Marseilles with some of our people aboard.”

  Grearson wondered what reaction showed in the man’s eyes, hidden behind the glasses. The face remained blank. “What for?” demanded the Greek.

  “To protect the cargo.”

  “There could be trouble?”

  “It’s possible.” The American knew Levcos was too professional to accept anything more than the basic minimum of lying.

  “I could not afford difficulties within the Mediterranean,” said Levcos.

  “It is not illegal,” insisted Grearson. “Everything being carried has a valid End-User certificate, issued to a registered dealer in Portugal. Their purpose aboard will be only to protect the cargo.” As an afterthought, he added, “And the ship, of course.”

  “This is extremely unusual,” said Levcos.

  Grearson looked momentarily towards the busy harbour, accepting that negotiations had begun. “We understand that,” he said. It was like one of the bicycle races so popular on French television, where the contestants hovered and manoeuvred, reluctant to be the forerunner.

  “A ship is a valuable property,” said Levcos.

  “Of course,” said Grearson. At the moment neither wheel was in front of the other.

  Levcos made the pretence of looking through the papers before him, as if information on the second freighter was available; Grearson was sure it wasn’t. The Greek was an accomplished rider.

  “Purchase price was $3,500,000,” said Levcos.

  Grearson estimated an exaggeration of at least $ 1,000,000. He didn’t have time to check and argue; he’d been wrong to criticize Deaken for his difficulty in confronting the telephone demands. Now he was in exactly the same position, wobbling behind. “For which I’m sure you’re insured,” he said.

  “There are exclusions,” said Levcos. “It would be a difficult claim to pursue if my assumptions are right about the problems you might encounter.’’

  “As charterers, we’re insured; our indemnity would extend to include any damage to the carrying vehicle,” Grearson sought assistance from legality.

  Levcos shook his head, a gesture of sadness perfectly rehearsed. “I don’t think we’ve met; that this conversation ever took place,” he said.

  So Levcos was absolved from any foreknowledge of what might happen, recognized Grearson. There was an intellectual stimulation in dealing with the other man. “What is it you seek, Mr Levcos?”

  “A bonded commitment,” said the Greek. “Backdated cover, personally liable against Eklon Corporation, from the date of the second charter.’’

  “In what sum?”

  Levcos smiled again, that practised expression of regret. “For the full purchase price, of course.”

  “No charterer would agree to such a commitment.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Levcos. “No normal charterer, that is.”

  He had just got a puncture, decided Grearson; it was becoming a bumpy ride. “Suppose I could provide such an undertaking.”

  “Contractually?” pressed Levcos.

  “Yes.”

  “Insurance is against misfortune.”

  The Greek could smell an advantage like a shark detecting blood in water. “Agreed,” Grearson said.

  “Which we hope will never befall us.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like there to be a fuller understanding between us,” said the shipowner.

  “About what?” The American knew it wasn’t even a race anymore.

  “Future association.”

  “I’ve already made it clear how grateful we are for your understanding,” said Grearson. “You’ll naturally be a shipper of whom we’ll think for a seaborne consignment.”

  Again there was the sad smile and Grearson decided that, of all the artificiality, that annoyed him most of all.

  “There’s often a wide gap between thoughts and application,” said Levcos.

  “What sort of contract would you seek?” said Grearson, in full retreat.

  “Three consignments,” said Levcos.

  “Two,” said Grearson.

  “Minimum of two-month charter on each.”

  Grearson sighed. “Agreed,” he said.

  This time the smile was of complete satisfaction. “I can guarantee that your man aboard the Bellicose won’t have the slightest idea what’s happening—and that the rendezvous will be kept on the thirteenth.”

  “Thank you,” said Grearson. There was little for which he had to be grateful.

  “What about this man Deaken?” said Levcos. “He’ll realize then that he’s been duped.”

  “We don’t give a damn,” said Grearson.

  Karen hadn’t purposely approached quietly, but Levy hadn’t heard her. She stood in the doorway, surprised at the slowness with which he wrote, a purposeful, careful formation of letters, with frequent stops to consider the words. Twice he scrubbed out a half-completed idea and started again. She felt consumed with love for him.

  “Azziz is going to get up later,” she said, not wanting to spy on him.

  The Israeli jumped. Instinctively he moved to cover what he was doing, then relaxed back in his chair.

  “I’m writing to Rebecca,” he said.

  “Yes.” She had guessed that was what he was doing.

  “She worries, by herself with the children.”

  “Yes,” she said again. She had no right to be jealous. “Do you miss her?”

  “I miss the children.”

  “I didn’t ask about the children. I asked about Rebecca.”

  He looked steadily at her. “Yes,” he said. “1 miss her.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t lie.”

  “You’d have known, if I’d tried.”

  “Thank you, just the same.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I think I love you too,” she said.

  Levy folded the letter with the care with which he had been writing it and sealed it in an envelope. “I’ve told her I hope to see her soon.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” he said. Then immediately, “No.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?” she said.

  “God knows.”

  19

  Deaken was resigned to another long wait, but tonight there wasn’t the frustration of the previous days. He was in a position at last to influence things; and by this time tomorrow he would be doing exactly that, aboard the Bellicose, already at sea and already heading northwards. How long to get to Algiers? It would depend upon the weather, he supposed. Carré would have had a forecast for the next two or three days at least. Damn! Deaken looked at the antiquated clock behind the bar. Seven thirty. It probably wasn’t accurate but even so Carré wouldn’t be in his office now. It would have to wait until tomorrow; the Bellicose information would be more up to date anyway.

  He watched two geckos on the wall near the clock converging upon an unsuspecting insect, with high-elbowed, sticklike legs. They pounced simultaneously, colliding with each other with annoyed, scratching sounds, and the insect escaped. Deaken was glad. The barman brought him a second pastis. The last, he decided. Something to eat and then bed. He wanted to be up before dawn, to be waiting on the quayside when the freighter came alongside. The hopeful whores were still encamped at the far end of the bar. The one for whom he had bought brandy smiled, an acknowledgement rather than a proposition, and Deaken smiled back. She was missing two teeth in the front, he saw. Three of the girls were negotiating with a couple of seamen and a third bespectacled man in a cheap, crumpled suit. Dockyard clerk, Deaken guessed. He looked back to the girls. Couldn’t be much of a living; certainly not enough to spend on dentistry. The unfulfilled smile came again, inquiringly this time and Deaken looked away, not wanting her to misunderstand.

  From where he sat Deaken could see into the eating area, a bead-curtained annexe of harbour and dock people, all chewing stolidly. None of the bar girls had bothered with an expedition, so Deaken guessed the
y were all unresponsive regulars. He didn’t want to eat there, he decided. But where? There should be good fish in a place like this; something else Carré could have recommended. Deaken settled the bill and walked out through the reception area, pausing at the top of the steps, with the lower balcony to his left. A few of the tables were occupied, the occupants curiously ill defined in the dull illumination from the overhead skein of bulbs which trailed around the outer edge like decorations on a Christmas tree long after the celebrations were over. Deaken paused at the top of the steps, staring out towards the waterfront. Far away, at the very tip of the harbour curve, there was the yellow glow of nightwork and nearer the rusting freighters he had seen earlier, the heavy blackness of their superstructure picked out with an occasional, haphazard light. Deaken gazed around for a taxi; the perimeter road was quiet and dark, sleeping.

  In the parked car on the opposite side of the road Makimber smiled and said, “No problem,” to the two men with him. There might have been if Deaken had remained in the hotel. The African hadn’t really worked out how to resolve it, apart from the luring the man away with some phoney message apparently from Carré. He was glad he hadn’t had to bother: he didn’t want to involve the Senegalese any more than he had to, although he’d decided the man should be sacrificed if necessary. As Deaken walked down the steps, the two men Makimber had positioned at separate tables deep in the gloom of the balcony waved for their bills, paid immediately and got up to follow.

  Deaken had forgotten the heat of Africa, the wraparound, blanket warmth even at night. He felt the perspiration prick out on his skin and looked around forlornly again for a taxi. He went to his right, trying to orient himself. Sea to his left, city to his right, only the continuation of the dock area immediately ahead. The cathedral and the Pasteur Institute, he thought, that’s where the cafes and restaurants would be, nearer the centre of town.

  There was a stepladder of lanes and alleys climbing from the docks to the top of the city. Deaken turned right again, sure of his direction now. This was the daytime part of the city, a place of warehouses and offices, with only the occasional surprise of a bar to break the deserted nighttime loneliness. The street lighting was careless: twice people were practically upon him before he detected their presence.