Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  Deaken tensed, concentrating his strength, then, using the ditch as another marker, he scurried away at right angles to it, bent low, stumbling and tripping over the dragging undergrowth, hands stretched out in front to protect himself if he fell. There were fresh yells from behind, seeming far away now. He heard another shot, so faint it might not have been a shot at all but the cracking of a stick underfoot.

  Where the hell were the trees? He had been sure they were close. Instead he found himself on one of those vast African plains, low, stunted scrub with the occasional isolated bush sticking up like some sort of lookout. Don’t let it be endless; please God don’t let it be endless, he thought. He was staggering, his sense of direction gone, snatched and grabbed at by the twigs and grasses and undergrowth.

  Snakes, Deaken thought, in sudden horror. There were bound to be snakes. Mambas certainly. Puff adders too. He stopped, hearing himself whimper. He thought puff adders were slow-moving, more likely to strike than to get out of his way, but he couldn’t be sure. He started off again, no longer a headlong plunge, instead scuffing slowly forward, feeling his way with his feet, hands stretched out like a blind man in unfamiliar surroundings. They were still shouting, but he had lost them.

  There was a scurrying movement to his right and he jerked to a stop. Not a snake, he decided. Too much noise. Maybe a bird, startled out of his path.

  There was no warning of the treeline. One moment Deaken was walking through scrub, the next a branch whipped across his face, slapping him backwards. He felt a fleeting sense of relief that he had found somewhere to hide. But snakes could also be in trees. Were they black or green mambas? Green, he remembered. Able to strike from overhanging branches. That’s why unladen African women often balanced a rock or brick on their heads as they walked, to provide an alternative target. Involuntarily, Deaken ducked. He couldn’t hear them shouting anymore. Just night sounds, screeches and cries, occasionally a nervejumping crash of pursued and pursuer through the bush. Sweat began to dry on him and he shivered, wondering why it seemed colder here than it had in the city. Deaken tried to crouch against the bole of a thick tree. As the panic began to subside, the pain returned, isolated at first and then taking hold of him in a solid, dull ache. His head was throbbing. Gently he began to explore with his fingers, trying to detect any cuts. He couldn’t.

  At first he didn’t recognize the grinding cough of the engine but then he realized with a surge of hope that they had started the car. He heard it pull away. He had beaten them, not bravely or cleverly, but beaten them nevertheless.

  And now he was stranded, in the middle of nowhere, and couldn’t consider leaving until the morning because he didn’t have any idea of the direction of the highway he had to find if he was to get back to Dakar. And by daylight he would only have seven hours to do that if he were to catch the Bellicose and ensure that it altered course.

  “Christ,” Deaken moaned to himself.

  Say as little as possible, remembered Carré. That was Makimber’s repeated instruction, through the long night of rehearsals for this encounter with the Bellicose’s captain. Say as little as possible, always take the lead from Erlander. If he got it right, there would be another $5000 in American currency.

  “I was told to expect someone aboard,” said Erlander.

  “The man came to my office yesterday. Told me about it,” said Carré unhelpfully. Through the porthole of the captain’s cabin he could see the bowser lines being manoeuvred to connect to the freighter’s fuel tanks. Because only a comparatively small amount was involved, they were loading stores with the ship’s derrick rather than a shore crane.

  “It’s still early,” said the captain.

  “He’s staying at the Royale,” said Carré. “I’ll send a car for him.”

  “Who is he?” inquired the captain.

  “An employee of the consignee, as I understand it,” said Carré.

  “What’s he like?”

  Carré hesitated. “He seemed pleasant enough,” he said.

  “l hope you’re right,” said Erlander. “This ship isn’t designed for passengers.”

  And wasn’t going to be put to the test, thought the Senegalese.

  21

  Grearson stood self-consciously before the telephone kiosk, aware from Deaken’s experience that the conversations were conducted under observation and wondering where the man was. Activity swirled around him, on the jetties and in the harbour, people at play in the sunshine. It increased the discomfort; for one of the few times he could recall, Grearson felt overdressed in a business suit. It wasn’t the thought of being watched, not entirely; any more than it was wearing a suit while everyone else wore the bare minimum. It was the thought of what was going to happen in a few minutes. Another negotiation, and nothing to bargain with. The lawyer knew Azziz was unimpressed by the concessions he had had to make in Greece. Azziz’s judgement—“the cost is too great”—had sounded ominous to a man who had sacrificed a corporate career to work exclusively for one employer, was fifty years old, and knew it would be a bastard trying to earn a quarter of what he pulled in now if Azziz fired him. Which he might. Grearson was frightened of losing it all, the luxury of an always available helicopter and hotel, and an airline staff on permanent, personal standby. And that wasn’t counting the other privileges, like the penthouse in New York and the yacht here in the Mediterranean. Not just the yacht. The women too. Carole was a very desirable new addition, the best there had ever been. Grearson stirred, excited by the thought of her. He had never known anyone screw like her; she was fabulous.

  Grearson entered the phone booth and fixed the recorder, gazing around again in a fresh surge of discomfort. The suit was definitely wrong in this heat. The whole thing was wrong—a stupid, melodramatic charade. He attached the recorder, ensured it was properly connected, then stared blankly at the receiver, waiting. It sounded precisely on time. Grearson depressed the record button and lifted the telephone delicately between his extended thumb and finger.

  “So you’re the other lawyer,” said the voice.

  “And you’re Underberg.”

  “Yes.”

  “Deaken’s gone to Africa, as you instructed. He’s going to make sure the ship comes back.”

  “The instructions were clear enough the first time round.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “If my people make a mistake, your boy dies,” said Underberg. “You’d better hope we’re more careful than you are.”

  “We have to talk to Tewfik,” said Grearson.

  “I’ve already been through this with Deaken.”

  “The yacht has every sort of communication device.” said the lawyer. “We can manage any sort of linkup that you want.”

  “The answer’s no,” said Underberg.

  “There won’t be any trickery,” said Grearson. “Mr Azziz just wants to hear his voice … make sure he’s okay.”

  “I’ve told you he’s okay.”

  “We want to hear it from him.”

  “Get that ship back and you can hear it soon enough.”

  “That’s going to take days,” said Grearson. “It’s been more than a week already.”

  “It would have been over by now if you’d done what you were told.”

  “We’ve admitted the mistake,” said Grearson. “Let’s start from a new base.” The American was sweating, the receiver slippery beneath his fingers. This wasn’t going any better than Greece.

  “There was only one base. You screwed it up.”

  “We want proof the boy is okay.” At least, decided Grearson, he was controlling his voice better than Deaken; he was surprised at his need for comparison.

  “I told Deaken in the last conversation the sort of proof you’d get if you didn’t follow our instructions.”

  Grearson swallowed, feeling a sudden chill, despite the ovenlike heat of the kiosk. “If Mr Azziz receives any part of his son’s body, he’ll know he’s dead,” he said. “He’ll know the negotiations are ove
r.”

  It was a desperate gamble, more desperate than he realized as he spoke the words. From the other end of the line there was a silence which seemed to go on and on. Grearson clamped his lips between his teeth, physically biting back the anxiety to know if he was still connected.

  “The first will come from the girl,” said Underberg at last.

  A concession! Grearson recognized it at once, snatching at the advantage. “We’ve no interest whatsoever in the woman,” he said. “She’s Deaken’s pressure, not ours. You can do what you like with her.”

  “You’re bluffing,” said Underberg. He was at the window gazing down at the indistinct figure enclosed in the kiosk, knowing he had been unexpectedly outmanoeuvred.

  “I’ve admitted an error on our part,” said Grearson, savouring his new-found strength. “And told you there won’t be another. We’re doing exactly what you asked and in return we want proof that the boy is all right. I repeat, as far as Mr Azziz is concerned, Tewfik will be dead the moment we receive part of his body.”

  “Do you want to put that to the test?” demanded Underberg.

  “Do you?” said Grearson.

  There was another long silence. Then Underberg said, “No telephone linkup; we won’t be tricked.”

  “Proof,” insisted Grearson.

  “When I get confirmation that the Bellicose is returning.”

  Grearson recognized the further concession. “Levcos will have a position by tonight,” he said. “So will Lloyds. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “We’ll talk about it during the next contact,” said Underberg.

  Grearson had listened several times to all the earlier recordings and detected the change in the man’s voice between the previous conversations and this one: Underberg was anxious for the first time to conclude a conversation. “When will that be?” he said.

  “Two days.”

  “Why not tomorrow?”

  “Two days,” repeated Underberg. “I want the ship more than halfway back by then.”

  “The boy’s not to be harmed,” said Grearson.

  “Make sure the ship’s on the proper course.”

  Grearson decided it was degenerating into something like a schoolboy shouting match. And he didn’t want that.

  He put the telephone down.

  The lawyer’s hand was shaking and he was soaked with sweat. He wasn’t quite sure what he had achieved. Remembering the observation, he unclipped the recorder, moved purposefully from the kiosk, and strode directly to the tender, looking neither left nor right. He retained this pose of indifference when he got aboard, remaining conspicuously in view against the midships cabin and gazing out over the stern, towards the Scheherazade. Carole, who had come ashore with him, smiled from inside the tiny cabin and Grearson smiled back. Christ, he thought, I hope I’ve got it right.

  High above, Underberg stood rigidly at the hotel window, hands white with anger gripped by his side. He had been beaten, outbluffed and outmanoeuvred. During all the rehearsals and preparation, this sort of opposition hadn’t been allowed for. A sudden nervousness shivered through him. It was fortunate he had taken such elaborate precautions.

  The boy insisted he felt well enough to exercise in the garden but he returned to the cottage within minutes, coming unsteadily to the table at which Karen was already sitting. He eased himself gratefully into a seat and Karen saw that he was shaking with the effort. The squat guard, Greening, who had escorted Tewfik remained for a few moments at the door and then went outside again.

  “You all right?” she said.

  “Just weak, that’s all.” For once there wasn’t the usual embarrassment. Instead he looked around to ensure they weren’t being overheard and then said, “And I want them to think I’m worse than I am.”

  Karen had looked with him towards the door, impatient for Levy’s return; he had said he would only be away for an hour and it had already been almost twice as long as that.

  “We’re definitely farther south,” continued Tewfik. “I can tell by the temperature and the things that are growing in the garden.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I suppose we are.” She wasn’t interested where they were, only that she could stay here and that it wouldn’t end quickly.

  “Have you heard anything … something that might give us an idea where this is?”

  “No,” said Karen. “Nothing.”

  “It’ll still be France,” he said. “They wouldn’t have risked a border crossing. And beyond central France, I guess. There’s quite a lot of pine and fir around. Have you noticed that?”

  “No,” replied Karen honestly. “I haven’t.”

  Tewfik was too involved in his own thoughts to notice her lack of interest. “I tested them today,” he said. “They don’t think there’s any risk.”

  “Risk?”

  “Of my getting away. They still think I’m ill.” He smiled at her encouragingly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t go without you.”

  22

  Deaken hadn’t rested at all. He remained nervously apprehensive at the sudden, hidden sounds around him. Towards first light, he was attacked by swarms of mosquitoes which stung so badly that he had tried to cover his face with his jacket and sat, cowering, beneath its inadequate protection.

  Dawn came at 4:50 in the morning, an almost imperceptible darkening of the tree and shrub outlines against the increasing greyness and then abruptly dissolving into glowing reds and apricots. Deaken rose to his feet, cramped and aching, shook out his jacket and carefully ran his hands over his stubbled face; his skin was lumpy and throbbing from the insect attack.

  He moved slowly out to the edge of the coppice, crouched against overhanging branches and staring down at the coarse grass and bracken underfoot. Each footstep precipitated an eruption of dust and fresh squads of flying things which buzzed angrily around him. Deaken fanned them away furiously. The chill of the night had not been melted by the morning sun, and Deaken shivered, realizing he was damp from the dew. He stopped at the treeline and stared out over the barren plain.

  There was no sign of the road.

  His coppice was like a furred wart against the smooth, unbroken face of the plain, without the slightest elevation or undulation which might have provided a vantage point to pinpoint the broken, metalled line of the highway.

  He was lost, even in daylight.

  He tried desperately to orient himself. He could pick out the tree against which he had spent the cramped night. He thought he had come upon it directly at right angles. Which meant that if he walked away from it in a straight line, he would hit the road. But what if it hadn’t been at right angles?

  “Shit!” he said aloud. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  He shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the vast emptiness. To his left, maybe not more than four hundred yards away, a dancing class of high-stepping gazelles paused in their foraging, gazing around with ear-pointed tenseness. After a moment their heads dropped back to their feeding.

  “Shit!” Deaken shouted again. This time they didn’t even look up.

  The sun appeared yellow over the rim of the horizon, but it was not high enough yet to dispel the chill in Deaken’s body. Christ, he felt awful: tired and dirty and itchy. Awful. Thirsty too. But not hungry. He didn’t feel as if he wanted to eat again. When had he last eaten? Not since the plane, bringing him here. Only yesterday—less than twenty-four hours, to be precise. It seemed much longer; why did everything seem so much longer than if actually was? He checked his watch again. Six.

  Where was this bloody road? Like a novice swimmer venturing out of his depth, Deaken moved away from the trees, halting after only a few yards; to his right, close enough to make him jump, a disturbed squabble of birds winged suddenly into the brightening sky. This time the gazelle herd scattered in their high-floating, slow-motion run. The sun was strong enough to affect the nighttime dampness now, hollows he would not normally have recognized puddling with a white gauze of mist. Deaken frowned towards the ris
ing sun, trying to gauge its strength. Metalled roads overheated in the African glare send up a miragelike shimmer; would he get the marker that way, from a shiver of heated air? No good, thought Deaken. That would take hours. High above, so high and so far away that there was no sound, a silver flicker of an aircraft trailed by with agonizing slowness. Washed and shaved and perfumed and pressed, passengers and crew would be confident, even careless, of their timetable and destination.

  All around the mist thatches were being dried out by the heat. Knowing at least the direction from which he had approached the outcrop of trees, Deaken turned a full 180 degrees, seeking the telltale quiver of air which might indicate the road. Nothing. Just the gazelle grazing again. An occasional hovering bird poised over some unseen prey. Miles and miles of flat, tobacco-coloured ground, with the occasional upthrust thumb of an anthill.

  Very soon Deaken was too hot, and made for the shelter of the trees, consumed by a bitter sense of continued impotence. He was certain Kaolack had been mentioned during the stifling car ride. A major town, he remembered from the aircraft map. If he was right about Kaolack, then the road had to be one of the main routes through the scorched and arid country, an artery in constant dawn-to-dusk use. So where were the cars and lorries and buses?

  Another fifteen minutes, Deaken decided. If there was no identifying movement by then he would take a chance and strike out directly from the coppice. It would remain a marker anyway, so if he got too far away without locating the highway, he could always return and try another route.