Deaken’s War

18

Everything was arranged with the customary efficiency of Azziz’s organization: the helicopter connection to the airport, courteous airline officials on standby to escort Deaken to the waiting aircraft, stewards in readiness to show him to his seat. It was a direct flight with no transfer connections and Deaken arrived in the Senegalese capital just after midday. The heat took his breath away, the first reminder of a return to Africa. At once there were others. The forgotten sweet-sour odour; flies which thrive in it; lethargic people accustomed to the sun-slowed pace; colours, seemingly bleached, yellows and ochres, the white of the airport building harsh in comparison.

The airport taxi was a dilapidated Renault, with missing handles and sagging door linings, the dashboard and mirror surrounds a bazaar of dangling amulets and rosaries, as if its very survival depended upon the will of God. The legacy of the city’s importance during the French occupation of Africa continued as they entered Dakar. The wide, straight streets were still policed by mottle-trunked plane trees, attendants to the set-back villas, two- and sometimes three-storey, shuttered and square and imposing, monuments to vanished imperial power. Only occasionally were the sculpted, patterned gardens still tended; elsewhere was the tangle of neglect.

Deaken chose a hotel near the harbour, still with almost twenty-four hours before the Bellicose was due to dock, but wanting to be as near as possible. It was terraced, between ground-floor shops and offices above, with wooden fronting verandahs on the first and second floors and wooden steps leading up to the entrance. The street-level verandah had high-backed wicker chairs, glass-topped tables and yellow ashtrays recommending Pernod. Geckos, glued to the walls like ornaments, would suddenly dart at the speed of a blink in pursuit of insects.

Deaken took a room at the front in order to keep the harbour in sight. It was French-built, like everything else, with docks and stiff-fingered jetties and long sheds bracketing the wharves. Beyond, the huge fan of water was flat and polished, cupped in the protective grasp of Cape Verde and Goree Island. Cargo ships and freighters, rusting and middle-aged like cargo ships and freighters always are, were tethered to their berths beneath high-necked, peering cranes. Anchored off were two oil tankers heavy in the water, like logs with straying branches. A working place, thought Deaken: no sparkling, burnished yachts with tinkling rigging and back decks full of topless sunbathers and laughing holidaymakers. After the last few days it was like retreating through the looking glass into the real world.

Deaken was impatient to establish contact with the agent to whom he had letters of introduction and authority, but he knew there would be no work going on at this, the hottest part of the day. To pass the time he descended to the ground floor and located, to the right of the reception area, a zinc-topped bar with stools and beyond it sets of tables with curve-backed chairs. There were five, three of which were occupied. There were more yellow ashtrays which prompted Deaken to order pastis. Remembering he was in Africa, he mixed it with mineral water, refusing the grubby carafe that was offered to him. The Pernod here was weak and already watered. At the far end of the bar, where it abutted the wall, was a gaggle of black whores. They stirred at his arrival and one detached herself from the group, smiling as she sidled towards him. Deaken raised his hand and shook his head. He thought the girl seemed almost grateful to go back to her lunchtime gathering. He wondered what Carole was doing.

He tried to hurry the question from his mind. The idea of Carole was intrusive and distracting: she had no place in his thoughts. He supposed, when everything was over, that he would see Azziz again briefly. But he would not be trapped on board the yacht, not like before. So he wouldn’t be seeing her again. Ever. Good, he thought. Very good. That was as it should be. He was still ashamed at how he had felt. Nervous too. There was only room for one thought with no distraction. Karen was all that mattered. Karen and how they were going to start again.

“Dejeuner?” inquired the barman hopefully. Even he made the effort to maintain a French ambience, the muchstained shirt originally white, the black trousers threadbare, and a money pouch at the belt. The pouch was flat and empty.

“Non, merci,” said Deaken. It was going to be a long wait. Not just until the Bellicose arrived but afterwards, days, he guessed, going back up around the fat chest of Africa and into the Mediterranean. And not over even then. There would be Underberg’s instructions to comply with. More delay.

He took a second Pernod, conscious of the barmen’s flat pouch and leaving a larger tip than before. The girl, encouraged by her friends, made a second desultory attempt. He didn’t see her approach, so she had her arm through his and was inquiring in lisping French if he was lonely before he could make the second refusal. He sent her back with a brandy, unsure why he had made the gesture; she would probably despise him for it. There was laughter from along the bar. She raised the glass and he raised his in return. Behind the bar the waiter remained blank-faced and unimpressed.

Deaken telephoned for directions and to ensure that the agent was back at work and then emerged out onto the harbour-fronting boulevard. The place had that sticky-eyed; just awake feeling. A stretching taxi driver took him along the curve of the sea and then briefly away from the waterfront, into one of the roads that radiated from it like spokes. There was a fleeting impression of deja-vu and then Deaken remembered Ortega’s office in Lisbon. Only four days earlier, he thought. Or was it five? It seemed a lifetime.

The Levcos agent was a man named Henri Carre, a mulatto who had clung to his French parentage. He was a thin, fine-featured man with a high forehead of which he appeared constantly aware, running his hand persistently across it and up into his crinkled hair. One wall of the man’s office was occupied by an erasable plasticized chart inscribed with the names of the ships for which he was responsible, sectioned so that it showed the departure port, stops en route and estimated time of arrival at Dakar. Deaken saw that the Bellicose was scheduled to arrive at dawn on Saturday and that the panel allowed for possible delay was blank. Carre studied Deaken’s letter of authority and then, revealing the bureaucratic caution bred into people who had been colonized, asked to see Deakens passport. Dutifully the lawyer produced it. Carre placed it beside the letter, apparently to compare the name, and then looked up, nodding with satisfaction.

“It is an honour for me to meet you,” he said, in stiffly formalized French.

“I am sorry for the intrusion.” Deaken was equally polite.

“I’m asked to give you every help,” said Carre, pointing to the letter of authority.

“The arrival is still scheduled for Saturday?”

The Senegalese nodded.

“What berth?”

The man made a vague gesture towards the harbour. From the window it was just possible to see a wedge of water. “Undecided yet,” he said. As if imagining he were being checked out by a carrier, he added quickly, “It will be a good berth, one of the best.”

“I’m sure,” said Deaken. “What’s the period in port?”

“Just revictualling, fuelling if necessary,” said Carre.

Deaken said, “I’m taking passage aboard.”

Carre frowned. “It’s a freighter,” he said.

“There’ll be some sort of accommodation,” said Deaken. It hadn’t occurred to him until now; it didn’t matter.

“Do you want me to radio the ship?” asked Carre”, eager to show his efficiency.

Deaken shook his head. “All that’s being done from Athens,” he said. “They’ll be expecting me when they dock.”

“There’s no problem, I hope?” Carre was unable to withhold the question any longer.

“None.”

“It’s never happened before.”

Deaken was concerned at the man’s curiosity. Carre had his local position to protect, people in authority to appease. His inquisitiveness could get the bloody cargo impounded. Quickly he said, “It’s an important shipment; it was thought best for me to be personally aboard for the last stage of the voyage.”

“You’ve the ongoing orders then?” said Carre.

Damn, thought Deaken. He said, “They’re being sent separately from Athens.”

“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 Carre 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.”

Carre 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 Carre. “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.”

Carre 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.”

Carree 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.” Carre 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. Carre stood and shook it.

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

Had Deaken inquired from the airport, Carre 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 Carre 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 Carre 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 Carre

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?”

Carre 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 Carre”, 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?”

Carre 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?”

Carre 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. Carre 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 Carre 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.”

Carre 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 to 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.”