Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  Under an hour to go, he saw. “Hurry,” he said. “Please hurry!”

  There was more traffic as they approached the coast, most of it moving at the customary, sedate African pace, and so much coming the opposite way that overtaking was almost impossible. Several times the driver pulled out to risk head-on collision, blaring his horn, to be met by matching blasts as the oncoming vehicles had to swerve to avoid him. It was 11:45 when they reached Thiès and almost noon by the time they got through it. The petrol tank was half empty again and the driver started to indicate pulling into a station, but Deaken urged him on, willing to take the risk rather than sacrifice any more time. They got to Rufisque by 12:20, the temperature needle already halfway through the amber colouring, the heat from the engine, combined with the scorching sun, making the atmosphere in the car almost unbearable.

  They entered the outskirts of Dakar at 12:30. Deaken waved the man on in the signposted direction to the harbour, stopping only for directions to Carre’s office when they were among the dockyard warehouses. As they moved parallel to the water, Deaken strained to make out the Bellicose. There seemed to be a lot of freighters and coasters in port but none with the name he sought. Deaken had the money ready as soon as they reached Carre’s office, throwing it onto the seat beside the driver and dashing from the vehicle and up the stairs to the second floor, bursting into the agent’s office without knocking. Carre jumped at the intrusion, half rising from his seat and then settling again.

  “Where have you been?” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Deaken urgently. “Where’s the Bellicose?”

  “Sailed,” said Carre.

  Deaken’s shoulders caved and he slumped into a chair. Trying to recover, he said, “Can I get a fast cutter to overtake it and board?”

  Carré shook his head, “The pilot vessel has already come back. It’s been gone more than an hour now. It’ll have cleared our waters.”

  “Why didn’t it wait?”

  “I sent a car for you … even went to the hotel myself. No one knew where you were. There were no messages.”

  “Did anyone know I was here … inquire about me?” Deaken asked.

  Carré’s face remained expressionless. “No,” he said. “Should they have done?”

  The Senegalese had been his only contact, the only person who could have guided the attackers to him. Intent on the man’s reaction, Deaken told him what had happened the previous night and of his desperate efforts to get back to Dakar before the Bellicose sailed. Carre managed a look of incredulity but Deaken guessed it was forced.

  “We should tell the police,” said Carre. Makimber’s rehearsal had seemed to work perfectly well with the Bellicose captain so he saw no reason why it shouldn’t with this man.

  “Who notifies Athens of the sailing, you or the Bellicose?” said Deaken.

  “Both.” Carré wasn’t prepared for this question.

  “When will there be a position report?”

  “Probably in twenty-four hours.” Carre didn’t seem very sure.

  Everything would be all right if Azziz had instructed Athens. He had twenty-four hours, decided Deaken; maybe thirty-six, if he included the remainder of this day. Thirty-six hours to do what he should have done before, instead of slavishly attempting to follow the kidnap directions. He accepted the decision that Karen might die. But that would happen anyway if he didn’t act. Deaken was surprised at his detachment.

  Azziz snapped off the recording but didn’t speak. Grearson waited opposite, trying to conceal his apprehension.

  “I wanted contact,” reminded the Arab. “You didn’t get it.”

  “I got concessions.” Grearson fingered his spectacles like worry beads.

  “What if he doesn’t believe you and maims my son?”

  Azziz was a bastard, thought Grearson. When there was conciliatory acquiescence he demanded forcefulness and when there was forcefulness he wanted subservience. “You heard the tape,” insisted Grearson. “For the first time there was a balance, something from our side.”

  “But what did it achieve?”

  “Maybe proof that your son is still alive,” said Grearson, wishing he could disturb Azziz’s calmness. “It’s been more than a week now.”

  Azziz nodded. “It’s something I suppose,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Grearson’s concern subsided and he fitted the spectacles back into place.

  “Don’t you have something else to do?”

  Grearson stood up. “We’re meeting in two hours.”

  “Make sure they know what to do.”

  He wasn’t secure, decided Grearson, not secure at all. Before he left to meet the mercenaries, he would find Carole and let her know he would be back late that evening. Christ, she was exciting!

  “You did well,” said Makimber, counting out Carre’s money. “Extremely well. Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” lied Carre, wanting to give the impression that he had earned his bribe.

  “I’m positive it wasn’t,” said Makimber. “Sure you don’t know the reason for his asking you about notification of sailing?” It was the only thing they were still uncertain about.

  Carré shook his head.

  “There’s no way he could intercept the ship, now it’s sailed from here?”

  “It’s fully victualled and fuelled,” said Carre. “There’s no need to make land for at least two weeks, possibly three.”

  “What about changed sailing instructions from the owners?”

  “I’d be telexed a copy of that, automatically, from Athens. There’s been nothing.”

  “You’d tell me at once?”

  “Of course.”

  Makimber added another $5000 to the pile of notes. “You’ll find me grateful in the future,” he said.

  Carré smiled.

  “You say he seemed anxious to get away, once he knew he’d missed the ship?” repeated Makimber.

  “Extremely so. He didn’t stay more than about thirty minutes, forty-five at the outside.”

  “I wonder what he’ll do,” said Makimber, more a question to himself than the other man.

  24

  Evans arrived first from Clermont Ferrand, having accepted Grearson’s suggestion to take a villa on the outskirts of Marseilles, on the Aubagne road. The rest travelled individually and booked into separate hotels in the town, except for Hinkler and Bartlett, who went everywhere together and registered at the same hotel. The meeting with the American lawyer at the villa was the first time they had assembled as a group since Mulhouse.

  Grearson concentrated first on money. “Same terms as last time,” he said. “Payable in any currency; I presume that will be dollars.”

  There were nods all round. Marinetti said, “Last time there was a bonus.”

  “Which will apply again,” said Grearson. “Twenty thousand each upon successful conclusion.”

  “What do we have to do?” asked Sneider.

  It took Grearson almost thirty minutes to outline what Azziz wanted done. Throughout the briefing the men showed no surprise and no one interrupted. When the lawyer finished, Evans said, “Do we have the opportunity to examine the ship?”

  “Today,” said Grearson. “The captain is expecting us; I said about three.”

  “No need for any particular explosives,” said Marinetti.

  Jones stirred, stretching his long legs. “It’ll be simple enough if they’re by themselves,” he said. “What happens if they bring the boy and the woman for exchange on the spot?”

  “There’ll need to be a contingency plan,” said Grearson.

  “So we’ll have to wait until we’re sure?” said Melvin.

  “Unless it’s made clear in the exchange terms,” agreed Grearson. “They’ll imagine you’re crew, of course. You’ll be sailing from Marseilles.”

  “What if they’re watching the port?” said Hinkler.

  “They won’t be,” said Grearson. “As far as they’re concerned, the Bellicose is on its
way back from Dakar for the Algiers rendezvous.”

  “Wonder what they want the arms for?” said Bartlett.

  “It’s immaterial,” said Grearson. “We don’t intend they should have them.”

  “No idea how many there’ll be?” queried Evans.

  “None,” said Grearson.

  “Presumably they’ll be armed?” said Hinkler.

  “Presumably,” said Grearson.

  “We’ve still got some stun grenades,” said Marinetti.

  “They’re not as effective outside a confined space, but they might be useful.”

  “Remember that Mr Azziz wants an example made,” said Grearson. “He doesn’t want to be a victim of terrorism again.”

  “Not after we’re through,” promised Evans, getting to his feet. “There’s no need for us all to go to the ship. I’ll make the reconnaissance and come back to brief the rest of you here.”

  Grearson followed the former major out to the car and got in the passenger seat beside him. Evans took the car out onto the main Marseilles highway but kept in the slow lane, letting even heavy lorries pass.

  “There was a differential in the bonus last time,” said Evans, intent upon the road.

  “You get $30,000 against the others’ $20,000,” said Grearson. “I didn’t think you’d want me to set it out in front of everybody.”

  “Thank you,” said Evans. “In Brussels you spoke of other employment.”

  “Permanent protection appeal to you?”

  Evans allowed himself to shrug. “Never done it,” he said. “It’s getting more and more difficult to get proper paid soldiering.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it afterwards?”

  Evans entered the city, turning almost immediately towards the harbour. “Isn’t there a possibility they’ll anticipate your doing something like this?” said Evans.

  “As far as they’re concerned,” said Grearson, “the ship’s been at sea since this whole thing began, with no opportunity of our getting anyone aboard. It’ll be a nice surprise for them.”

  They were driving parallel to the sea now. There were several French warships in the naval section, grey and pompous at anchor, with a group of corvettes trailed one behind the other like a family of ducks. Nearer, the civil docks were crowded with vessels, from coastal fishing ships to ocean freighters.

  At the dock gates Grearson produced the Levcos authority and was directed on to a peripheral road inside the walled area. The Hydra Star was alongside a jetty, already loaded, so there was little stevedore activity around her. Grearson led the way aboard and was directed by the gangway crewman to an outer ladder to reach the bridge. The metal felt oiled and greasy to the touch and Grearson thought being a sailor in a ship like this would be a distinctly unpleasant way to earn a living. There must have been some communication from the deck because by the time the two men reached the bridge the Greek captain had emerged to greet them.

  “Nicholas Papas,” he said. The captain was younger than Grearson had expected, olive-skinned and dark-haired. Because of the heat he wore the insignia of rank on his shirt, so he could dispense with a uniform jacket.

  Grearson took the proffered hand, introduced Evans and then produced his letter from Andreas Levcos. The captain read it and said, “There’s been a lot of communication from Athens about you.” He looked at Evans. “How many men have you?”

  “Seven.”

  “Accommodation will be a problem,” said Papas. “I’ve a full crew.”

  “We’re used to difficult conditions,” said Evans.

  To Grearson Papas said, “Everything is loaded. When do we sail?”

  “Two days,” said the lawyer. “Maybe three. It depends upon the sailing conditions from Dakar to Algiers.”

  Papas led them back into his cabin. Grearson saw there were several family photographs showing a pretty, darkhaired woman and two children. The captain offered drinks but Grearson and Evans declined. Papas poured himself ouzo.

  “I am responsible for the safety of my ship,” he said.

  “We understand that,” said Grearson. He put his hand on Evans’s shoulder and felt it tense. “These people are going simply to protect a cargo.”

  “Where will I be sailing, after Algiers?”

  “I don’t know,” said Grearson.

  To Evans the Greek said, “I control this ship at all times.”

  “Naturally,” said Evans.

  “Nothing is to happen without prior consultation with me.”

  “Of course.”

  Papas studied the mercenary as if he doubted the quickness of the replies. Then he said, “Do you want to look over the ship?”

  “Please,” said Evans, politely.

  Papas took them down an inner stairway to the deck. The forward hold was still uncovered and Grearson and Evans stared down at the containers and crates.

  “Could the ship’s derrick lift them out without the need for a heavier shore crane?” asked Grearson. Although there was no intention of parting with the weaponry, he had to be prepared for any question that might arise during their telephone contact.

  “If necessary,” said Papas.

  Evans was examining the decking, expertly assessing the cover available from the raised lip of the cargo hold and the other deck fittings.

  “Just this hold?” queried Grearson.

  “There’s a small overflow in number two hold,” said Papas. “Only about six tons.”

  He led them back inside the freighter, towards the crew accommodations. The two cabins allocated for Evans’s men were small, normally only occupied by two people. “That’s all we’ve got,” said the Greek.

  “That will be all right,” said Evans.

  “How many crew do you carry?” said Grearson.

  “Twenty-five,” said Papas. “Twenty-five good men.”

  By a series of internal ladders and walkways, they got into both holds through the bulkhead doors, enabling Evans to inspect the cargo crates, and then returned to the bridge. Papas offered them drinks and again they refused. It was almost four o’clock when Grearson and Evans went back down the ladderway onto the quayside.

  Evans paused, turning back to the Hydra Star; Papas was watching them from the bridge wing.

  “He won’t be easy,” said Grearson. “And the crew is larger than I imagined it would be.”

  “Numbers aren’t a problem,” said Evans. “We can take care of ourselves.” He went over to the car. “There’s plenty of cover. Particularly down in the hold.”

  “No worries then?”

  Evans stopped with the driver’s door open and looked hard at the lawyer. “Mr Azziz will get his money’s worth,” he said.

  The garden of the house curved in a gentle arc down to a high bank. Levy scrambled up and then leaned down to help Karen. He sat with his back against a fir and she leaned against him, head on his chest. Here they were shielded from the house and their elevation gave them a panoramic view out over the distant Durance River.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Karen.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to stay here forever.”

  He kissed the top of her head. His hand was around her waist and he shifted it slightly, moving it gently against her breast. She covered his hand with hers.

  “Something should have happened and it hasn’t,” she said.

  “What?” he said, not understanding.

  “I’m late.”

  Levy stopped moving his hand against her. “How late?”

  “Two or three days” said Karen. “Which is unusual. I’m very regular.”

  “It’s probably because of all that’s happened,” he said.

  “I think I’m pregnant.”

  Levy moved her around so that he could see her face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She stretched up to kiss him. “I’m not,” she said.

  25

  Deaken, who had rehearsed everything he had to do and was trying to rest in his window seat,
stirred at the landing announcement, pushing aside the inadequate blanket to gaze out into the velvet African night.

  Home—the home he hadn’t known for so long. And which had not wanted to know him. A different arrival from the last time, he thought, deep in reflection. It had been a week after his tenth victory in as many hearings, he remembered, this time before the Human Rights Court in Strasbourg. He had already been well known—too well known for the comfort of his family—but the Strasbourg decision had been against Britain over their treatment of detainees in Ulster and made him an international media figure. Reporters had flown to South Africa with him, even an American television crew for a documentary they later called “Spokesman for the Oppressed.” He had cooperated, not through the vanity of which his father subsequently accused him, but because he saw practical benefit from it. He had changed his opinion about many things but not about publicity. It was a useful weapon—the best—against governments or regimes or ruling parties or juntas that wanted something hidden. And could be again.