Deaken’s War

17

Deaken recognized that the contact had become routine, almost like leaving home at a regular time to catch the regular train to the regular nine-to-five job. He didn’t even glance at the approaching shoreline, a commuter and therefore bored with the landscape, but back over the stern of the tender, seeing the wake cream behind it. And then the figure at the rail of the retreating yacht. It was Carole, he knew; he had seen her as he descended the steps but pretended not to. And she hadn’t called out either, to attract his attention. Her apparent interest in him had to be strictly professional, like the solicitous secretary and the solicitous stewards. And why did it matter anyway? For her attitude to be important to him under the present circumstances would be grotesque, unthinkable. So why was he looking back to catch a glimpse of her?

In no time they were among the outer yachts, able because of their draught to get in close. All about him there was the creak and tinkle of mooring ropes and stanchions and fantails occupied by people relaxing and laughing and drinking or eating. Safe people. Secure and untroubled. Lucky people.

The alarm flared the moment Deaken set foot on the jetty and saw the designated telephone box was occupied: by a woman, too old for the shorts and the sagging halter top, eyes cavernous from too much mascara, cheeks ablaze with rouge, lips wounded by scarlet lipstick. He checked his watch: five minutes-time enough. Enormous sunglasses, like screens on stilts, were collapsed alongside her purse, which gaped open at the coin pouch for her to stuff more money into the box. She laughed, turning as she did so. Her teeth were white and even and precise, a graded monument to mathematical dentistry. Her brow wrinkled at his hovering presence and she looked pointedly at the unoccupied booths. Then she turned, hunching her shoulders against him. Her back was deeply tanned, wrinkled by overexposure to too much sun. Two minutes left. Hag, Deaken thought. Ugly bloody hag. He looked worriedly about him, knowing that he was being observed and hoping that Underberg could see what was happening and allow him some leeway. Jesus, why didn’t she hurry! From a yacht against the harbour wall there was a burst of laughter followed by shrieks of alarm as a drunken man teetered theatrically, grabbing a stern stanchion to prevent himself falling into the water. Christ, how he hated them, with their comfort and complacency and their wealth! At once his rational mind cut through the panic. That was a ridiculous thought; infantile. They had every right to their money and their privilege, to laugh and drink and flirt and do what they wanted. His anger wasn’t at them. The woman had put down the receiver. Deaken thrust forward before she had time to get out.

“There were other kiosks…” she began, but Deaken pushed past her. “Bastard,” she muttered: her Australian accent made the oath sound more effective. Deaken pulled the door shut. “Bastard,” came the muffled repetition through the glass. He kept his back to her. Five past twelve. Please, dear God, don’t make me wait another four hours, he thought. The booth reeked of the woman, of her body, of suntan oil and a heavy, cloying perfume. Under the glare of the midday sun the trapped air felt sticky and unpleasant. He put the recorder on the tiny support and realized he had begun to read the English translation of the dialling instructions for overseas calls. He stopped, annoyed with himself and not knowing why. Ten past. He looked out of the kiosk. The woman was stumping away along the walkway on top of one of the embracing arms of the harbour, her fat buttocks wobbling with every gallumphing footstep. Bloody hag, he thought again.

The telephone rang. Deaken looked disbelievingly at it and then grabbed the instrument to his ear.

“I’m glad you waited,” said the voice.

I’m glad you did, thought Deaken. He remembered the recorder, squeezing the suction cap into place. “Didn’t have much choice,” he said.

“I told you what would happen to your wife if you weren’t careful about what Azziz did,” said Underberg. “You let him raise an army.”

“I didn’t know,” lied Deaken.

“You were supposed to know. Just as you were supposed to know everything he plans to do.”

Deaken felt sick, deep in his stomach. “What else?”

“Two days ago you told me about the Bellicose… lied to me about it…”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Do you know what Lloyds of London is, Mr Deaken?” Without waiting for the lawyer to reply, Underberg said, “It’s the most efficient maritime brokerage and insurance firm throughout the world. Part of that efficiency involves knowing the position of ships insured by them. You told me the Bellicose had been turned aroun… gave me timings. I’d already checked with Lloyds. When you told me the freighter was heading northwards it was still going south, down the coast of Africa. It still is, as a matter of fact. Lloyds don’t make mistakes in their plotting. They can’t afford to-any more than you can. The ship has never been turned.”

Azziz was a bastard, thought Deaken. A stupid, lying bastard. “He said…” started Deaken but Underberg cut him off, impatient with the excuses. “I told you not to believe what he said… I told you to make sure that everything was done exactly as I wanted it, otherwise your wife would suffer.”

“Where is she now?”

Underberg laughed. “Miles away from where your Action Men did their number,” he said. “I had them out within two hours of realizing you were lying about the ship changing course. 1 guessed you’d found out where they were… and were playing for time.”

So that was how it happened, thought Deaken. He said, “Is she all right?”

“Did you get her watch? And Azziz’s tie?”

“I asked you if she was all right?”

“For the moment,” said Underberg. “But only for the moment. I want you to understand, and more importantly I want Azziz to understand, that I’m becoming more and more irritated by what’s happening. If that ship isn’t turned back and directed exactly how I want it to be, then next time you and he will get a more unpleasant reminder of what we can do to them. Would you want your wife to lose a finger. Mr Deaken? Or an ear?”

“Wait!” said Deaken desperately. “Don’t do that. There’s no need to do anything like that. I promise you from now on everything will be done exactly as you want it. Don’t…” Deaken’s mind blocked at the thought.

“Then this time get it right,” said Underberg.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Make sure this tedious lying stops,” said Underberg. “On Saturday the Bellicose docks at Dakar. I want you to be there in person. I want you to board and I want you to be responsible for messages back to the Levcos offices in Greece, giving the precise longitudinal and latitudinal fix. And if I don’t think it’s right and Lloyds don’t think it’s right, or if the slightest thing happens to make me suspicious… to make me think you intend using your private army again, then your wife loses a finger. And the boy a finger. Then an ear. That’s the price, Mr Deaken. A piece of their bodies for every mistake you make. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” said Deaken dully. “I understand.”

“Is that recorder working properly?”

“Yes,” said Deaken.

“Good. Because I want Azziz to get the proper message. I want him to hear everything I’ve said. And to believe it.”

“Where do you want the freighter to go?”

“With the position, give Levcos the speed, so I can estimate your arrival back in the Mediterranean. Make a refuelling stop in Algiers. You’ll be told what to do then in a cable addressed to you on the ship.”

Whatever he tried to do he remained a puppet, controlled by the twists and jerks of this man’s fingers, thought Deaken. “All right,” he said.

“No more attempts to be clever.”

“There won’t be.”

“Your wife’s too attractive.”

Deaken felt the sickness rise and swallowed against it. “Don’t hurt her,” he pleaded again.

“Whether she or the boy gets hurt depends upon you and Azziz. Don’t forget that for a moment.”

“1 won’t.”

“Position and speed,” insisted the man.

“Yes,” said the lawyer.

“And warn Azziz against trying to trace the contact calls to the Levcos office-they’ll be from a public box, so he’ll be wasting his time.”

“What about this contact?” said Deaken. “Azziz has got a man, Grearson. He could maintain it.”

There was a hesitation from the other end of the telephone. “The same time,” agreed Underberg. “Every other day.”

Deaken felt relief that the link wasn’t being severed. “Every other day,” he repeated as if Underberg would need the confirmation.

“No more stupidity,” said Underberg. “Don’t make your wife suffer.”

Deaken maintained his control with difficulty while they listened to the recording but, as Grearson leaned forward to stop the tape, he could restrain himself no longer. “You idiotic bastard!” he shouted at Azziz.

The attack seemed to take both the other men by surprise. Azziz recovered first. “No one speaks to me…”

“I do,” interrupted Deaken. “It’s my wife you’re putting at risk. And your son. What the hell sort of man are you, willing to risk his child like that? Are you mad? Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

Azziz’s face was composed like a mask, but on either cheek tiny patches of white pinched his features. “Having located the farmhouse, we had to take our chance,” he said. His voice was flat, expressionless.

“We didn’t know about the farmhouse when I went ashore to tell him about the boat,” said Deaken furiously. “When you promised me it had been turned back. It was a lie and you knew it.”

Deaken walked over to Azziz. “We can’t take any more chances,” he said, his voice calmer. “I don’t want to be here on this fucking yacht. I don’t want your hospitality. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I want to be home in Geneva. With my wife. Safely.” Deaken stopped breathlessly. “I think you’re a stupid bastard.”

“I think you’re forgetting yourself,” said Grearson, coming to his employer’s defence.

“I’m not forgetting anything,” said Deaken. “I’m not forgetting the lies or what it might cost Karen.” He indicated the silent tape-recorder. “And I’m particularly not forgetting that if you hadn’t behaved like such bloody fools and kept that ship going, they wouldn’t have become suspicious and cleared the farmhouse. We’d have them both back by now. Most of all I can’t forget that.”

“It was a mistake,” said Azziz in rare confession.

“it’s the last one we’re allowed,” said Deaken.

The boy lay limp with exhaustion against the pillows, but the constant sheen of perspiration had gone so Karen assumed the fever was over. Tewfik forced himself to reach out for the flannel and then the towel, reluctant to be washed by her. Gratefully Karen surrendered them.

“How are you feeling?” she said.

“Not very strong,” he said, slumping against the support and handing back the washing things. “What’s been wrong with me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I ache,” said Azziz. “I ache all over.”

“You’ve not eaten anything for a long time,” said Karen. “I’ll bring you something.”

“Thank you,” said Azziz. “For what you’ve done, I mean. I know how you’ve looked after me. I appreciate it.”

He hadn’t been aware of her reluctance any more than the others had, realized Karen thankfully. “That’s all right,” she said.

“Why did we have to move?”

“Your father discovered the first place.” She wondered if Richard had been involved. It hadn’t occurred to her until now; very little about Richard had occurred to her in the last few days. And she didn’t feel any remorse.

Tewfik smiled wanly. “I knew he would,” said the boy proudly “They’ll be sorry for what they’ve done “

“Yes,” she said uncomfortably.

“They’re bastards, aren’t they?” demanded the boy.

This time her hesitation was longer. “Bastards,” she agreed at last, knowing she had to.

The response from Africa to their request for a delivery delay arrived thirty minutes after Deaken had left the stateroom. The call was routed through Paris and for better reception Grearson went up to the communications room. It was a short conversation.

“Makimber says no,” reported the American lawyer as he reentered the stateroom. “It seems Underberg is right: Makimber insists they’re necessary for a specific date. It’s got to be the contracted time.”

“That’s a pity,” said Azziz. His anger at the confrontation with Deaken had gone-anger was wasteful and Azziz never wasted anything.

Grearson appeared surprised at the calm reaction. “So we give Deaken all the authority he wants to turn the ship back?”

Azziz didn’t reply at once. Then he said, “How about the second shipment?”

“Ready for loading.”

The Arab smiled. “What does Underberg want?”

“The Bellicose turned back.”

“A ship apparently turned back,” Azziz said. “What if a vessel looking like the Bellicose and loaded like the Bellicose made the Algeria rendezvous?”

“It won’t work,” said Grearson. “The instructions are that Deaken sails with the Bellicose and reports its position, with independent checks from Lloyds.”

“And where do you suppose he’ll get the position readings?”

“From the navigating officers and the captain.”

“Exactly,” said Azziz. “At first light tomorrow we get rid of the damned Deaken for good. I want you to go to Athens… see the Levcos people and make whatever deal is necessary. I want the Bellicose to sail from Dakar out of sight of land but to continue southwards. But I want calculations given to Deaken showing that it’s travelling in the opposite direction. And those are the ones I want the ship and Levcos to transmit to Lloyds.”

“But surely even he can work out where the sun comes up,” said Grearson. “He’ll know he’s going the wrong way.”

“So what?” said Azziz. “There’s nothing he can do. He’ll have to go along with it. You’re doing the negotiations now, without any involvement from that fool. We’ll agree to an exchange. We’ll agree on times and places and whatever else they want. When we get Tewfik, they can have the ship and its contents.”

“Just like that?” said Grearson doubtfully.

“No,” said Azziz, smiling again at his lawyer’s surprise. “Not quite. Your excellent soldiers will be on board. If I submit once to terrorism, then it will never stop-that’s a worthwhile lesson to be learned from the Israelis.”

“What about the woman?” asked Grearson as an afterthought.

“I couldn’t care less what happens to her,” said Azziz. “Any more than I care what happens to Deaken.”

The sun disappeared finally, and reluctantly Underberg moved in from the balcony of the Monaco hotel. He was sure they would move quickly after the threat to hurt the boy and the woman. He would have to warn Makimber, to give him time to get to Dakar and prevent Deaken getting aboard the Bellicose. He would have to remember an appropriate time to remind the African of a favour owed.