Deaken’s War

14

They had already registered by the time Deaken and Grearson reached Mulhouse, arriving at the hotel on the rue Sinne singly and in pairs, with the cover story to the management that they were engineers assembling from all over France for an international conference which was due to begin within twenty-four hours across the border in Geneva. It provided a satisfactory reason for their abrupt arrival and what they expected to be an equally abrupt departure. They even paid in advance, and with cash, not credit cards. Because it was the biggest-and his by right as commanding officer-the meeting took place in Evans’s room, not technically a suite but with definite aspirations, a larger than normal bedroom with a hollowed-out annexe to the side, with chairs and a table.

Deaken watched, scrutinizing every face, as Grearson explained for the first time what was expected of them. There was no expression from any of them; no shock at the idea of kidnap, no fear or apprehension at confronting unknown opposition or unfamiliar terrain. They didn’t even look human. They could almost have been created from some firm flesh-coloured material that would be hard and metallic to the touch, not something that could be bruised or broken.

Grearson showed the Polaroid photograph and the holiday brochure to Evans. The man made no effort to take it. Grearson shifted impatiently.

“We agreed on terms,” said Evans, setting out the priorities.

From one of the two briefcases he carried with him Grearson took sealed envelopes; only Evans’ was addressed. He distributed them among the relaxed, composed soldiers who accepted the money as their right, without thanks. Each man opened his envelope and carefully counted the notes. Evans offered Grearson a sheet of paper and said, “Expenses so far.”

The American scanned the list, dug into his briefcase then called each man by name, handing over the money. There was a visible relaxation when the transaction was concluded. Evans took the photograph and brochure, spreading them out upon the bed for comparison. The others crowded round.

“Better than nothing,” said Marinetti. “But all it gives us is the internal layout.”

“We’ll need a reconnaissance,” agreed Evans.

“I saw a sports shop two blocks up,” said Bartlett. “Camping, stuff like that.”

“Fine,” said Evans. “You go.”

Deaken sat silently in his chair, feeling superfluous to the discussion. Karen’s life depended on these few men, and he could only watch.

“Any weapons you want will have to come from Paris,” warned Grearson. “I’d like to know what they are now.”

It was Marinetti who spoke again. “Doors front and back,” he said, pointing to the markings on the brochure. “I’ll want to blow them simultaneously, outside lock and the hinges as well, in case there are inside bolts.” He looked up to Grearson. “Plastique,” he said. “I don’t care what sort. Detonators, obviously. And lead wires. A lot of wire, because I’ll want to link back and front charges to go at the same time.”

Grearson made neat, careful notations with a gold propelling pencil. Deaken had to concede that the American was handling himself with admirable professionalism and was as cool in this bizarre encounter as the mercenaries.

“Don’t like that curve in the stairway,” said Jones, sizing up the houseplan. “Be a bastard if they have time to get into position.”

“Stun grenades,” said Evans. He looked at Grearson. “We’ll want the percussion type, developed particularly by Israel: it’s better to cause everyone a little discomfort, even the boy and the woman, than for anyone to get really hurt. But we’ll need earplugs.”

“The Uzi is neat,” said Melvin to Evans.

The organizer nodded. “Uzi automatic weapons,” he instructed Grearson. “They’re Israeli, too. The best.”

“We’ll need something different for the stand-back,” said Hinkler. He was looking at the door, anxious for Bartlett to return from the sports shop.

“One sniper’s rifle,” Evans stipulated. “Make doesn’t matter, although a Mannlicher or an Ingrams would be good. It must have an image intensifier because we’ll be going in during darkness and need a night-sight.”

“Glasses too,” said Jones. “Infrared.”

Evans looked to see that Grearson was writing it down. “Dark coveralls,” he said. “Black if possible; certainly no leopard suits. Woollen berets. And night-black for our faces.”

Deaken wondered if there would be any humorous reference to Jones’s natural advantage. There wasn’t.

“And a closed van,” continued Evans. “To go and come back in.”

Grearson looked up. “That all?”

“Ordinary grenades?” suggested Melvin.

“We want to bring people out alive,” said Evans.

“What about a stretcher, if the boy or the woman gets hurt?” said Hinkler.

Deaken winced, and immediately composed himself, embarrassed at revealing any emotion in front of such an impassive group.

Evans shook his head. “No time,” he said. “If there’s injury, we’ll field-carry them away.” He looked to Grearson. “You making arrangements for any medical needs?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

There was a staccato knock at the door. Hinkler moved hurriedly to admit Bartlett. The mercenary arranged his purchases upon the bed: an orange rucksack with a back frame, a yellow anorak, hiking boots, thick socks, and a red hat with a nodding bobble on the end.

“Great,” said Evans.

Bartlett stuffed a pillow into the rucksack to give it some convincing bulk, and quickly changed into the hiker’s gear.

“Bright, isn’t it?” said Grearson.

“Of course it is,” said Evans. “People never suspect things that are too obvious.” To Bartlett he said “Why not go take a hike?”

Bartlett moved steadily along the lane, adjusting his trained march to the heavy-heeled plod of a tired walker. He had both hands tucked into the support straps of the rucksack and, with head bent, appeared uninterested in his surroundings. The details were, in fact, being recorded in his memory with the accuracy of a movie camera. There was plenty of available concealment-high banks, higher than a man in places, even Jones-topped by hedges which, in the main, were thick and concealing. Confident that he was completely hidden, Bartlett stopped at a gap, and gazed in at the house. Fifty yards of garden, exposed for most of the way unless they could use the cover of that bisecting hedge. Door locked thick and heavy, which he would have to warn Marinetti about. Covered windows, blind against the coming night. From one of the three clustered chimneys a thin curl of white smoke formed like a question mark. Bartlett was alert to everything about him and heard the trundling farm cart long before its occupants were aware of him. There were four of them, spread-eagled along the edges of an open-sided carrier, with beets piled in the middle. It was being pulled by a tractor, the driver of which wore a collar and tie, as if he were proud of the day’s harvest and wanted to dress properly for it. Bartlett stood aside and as the cart passed one of the men smiled and said, “Ca va?”

Bartlett waved back. It was instinctive caution to shield his face although he was sure that all they would remember would be the colour of his outfit which would be discarded in an hour. He plodded on, looking in at the gate with only the sort of curiosity that a casual passerby might show. There could have been a light at one of the upper rooms, but perhaps it was a trick of the sun penetrating some unseen window at the rear. The lane rose almost immediately beyond the farmhouse boundary, and Bartlett bent into the incline, assessing the distance with each step, wanting to distance himself from any possible observation from the house. Without looking round, he suddenly cut sideways to his left, scrambling up the bank and plunging into the coppice. He sped on until he was deep in the small wood, before turning left again to bring himself out overlooking the house. Before it was visible, he took off the brightly coloured clothing and stacked it against the bole of a tree. Squirming forward on his elbows and knees, he reached the coppice edge. The vantage point gave him a view of both the side and the rear of the farmhouse. The rear door was thick, like the one in front-another reminder for Marinetti. There were no vehicles visible, but there were plenty of outbuildings and barns in which it would have been an elementary precaution to conceal them. As he watched, a man emerged from the back door, strode to the middle of the yard and looked around as if checking for anyone watching. Bartlett didn’t move, knowing he was completely concealed. Appearing satisfied, the man went into one of the barns, to emerge almost immediately. He stopped in almost the same place in the yard for another, then reentered the house.

Bartlett wriggled himself backwards until he had penetrated the treeline and then rose to his feet, brushing away the leaf mould. He returned to the discarded clothing, dressed, and regained the lane in minutes. He descended back towards the village, with the same tired, stiff-kneed walk he had adopted when he passed the house the first time. On this occasion he didn’t bother to look in at the gate, seemingly uninterested in something he had already looked at.

It was past seven by the time he got back to Mulhouse.

“What’s it look like?” demanded Evans at once.

“Well chosen: vision on every side,” reported Bartlett. “If we don’t surprise them, we could be cut to pieces.”

“Shit,” said Jones.

It was 1:40 A.M. when the closed van arrived from Paris. It was obviously impractical to bring the contents into the hotel, so Evans went out to inspect them in the vehicle. He only bothered to take Marinetti with him to check the explosives. The two men returned within half an hour.

“Good” said Evans to Grearson. “Everything we wanted. The Uzis are brand new, still with the original grease.” To the assembled soldiers he said, looking at his watch, “I’ve got two ten.” There was a simultaneous reaction as they synchronized their watches. “Thirty minutes to Rixheim,” continued the man. “Black up and dress on the way. We’ll hit the farmhouse at three.”

In unison they moved towards the door. Involuntarily Deaken said, “Be careful.”

They all looked at him disbelievingly. Melvin said, “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Edward Makimber emerged from the Teranga Hotel onto the Place de 1’Union, staring around him at the familiar activity of an African township at night. Dakar didn’t really resemble an African town, he corrected himself: the French influence was too strong, with its mathematically careful highways and large buildings. He set out towards the waterfront, wanting to orient himself even though it was late and the office of the men he wanted to see would be closed. Perhaps coming here would turn out to be overly cautious, as it had been in Madeira. But he was determined not to take any risk. Which was why the others were flying in the following day, from Angola. Makimber didn’t like dealing with such people. But sometimes they were necessary. Just like revolution was necessary, if you wanted freedom.

For a long time Carole lay awake and then finally got up and went out on deck. Despite the lateness, the harbour and the town beyond was still bright with light, cars fireflying along the Corniche and the lower roads. She leaned against the deck rail, and thought about a distracted and seemingly lost man called Richard Deaken. He was obviously vulnerable and she felt sorry for him. Which, she recognized, wasn’t professional at all. She would have to be careful.