Deaken’s War

23

Deaken chose a Peugeot with the best bodywork and least tattered upholstery, hoping that the engine would be in matching condition. The taxi driver was a mulatto, so there was a bridge with French. Fighting against the impatience and despair that swept through him when the man told him how far they were from Dakar, Deaken still insisted the car be checked at a service station for oil and water, and to fill the petrol tanks. Having escaped once from the wilderness, he didn’t want to be trapped there again.

The Kaolack market was at its busiest, the streets crowded with unhurried people and obstructing animals. The driver forced his way through with his hand constantly on the horn. It took ten minutes to clear the township, but the car was moving easily with no sound of strain from the engine, and Deaken felt a prick of hope. They actually accelerated on the gradient from the town, and by the time they had reached the played-out ribbon of the Dakar road, the speedometer was flickering at 130 kilometres.

Deaken anxiously scanned the dashboard, ensuring that all the temperatures and levels were reading properly. Between the driver’s hands the steering column jarred from imbalanced wheels, but it did not seem to worry him.

Deaken eased back against the sticky upholstery, recognizing the surrounding countryside and then what he believed to be the tree outcrop where he had hidden. Freed from the stomach-tightening anxiety and with nothing to do except sit, Deaken examined the events of the previous night. It certainly hadn’t been a simple backstreet mugging. There had been no attempt at robbery, not until those last few moments when they hauled him from the car. Bwana mkubwa, he remembered. Who was the big man they had kept talking about? Underberg possibly, but Underberg wouldn’t have attempted to keep him off the Bellicose. It was Underberg’s idea that he sail, to ensure the freighter’s return. Azziz then? No. There was no logic in that, because Azziz wanted him aboard as well. And he had seen the thugs Azziz employed. Evans and his trained mercenaries wouldn’t have allowed such an amateur, panic-ridden escape. Had Azziz ordered him stopped, he would have been stopped. So it was another unanswered question, to be filed away with all the rest.

The plain ended at last, the landscape becoming stubbled with isolated trees and then thicker vegetation. Occasionally there were villages, clusters of mud-walled huts with corrugated metal roofs set out along the highway, staffed by scattering chickens and round-eyed, pot-bellied children. Deaken noticed that the fuel was already half gone and that the water-temperature gauge was twitching up towards the amber-coloured danger area. He gestured towards it and the driver nodded. “Diourbel in fifteen kilometres,” he promised.

Halfway, guessed Deaken, maybe slightly less. Sixty miles then. He checked his watch again. Could he hope to do sixty miles in an hour and ten minutes?

“How’s the road, beyond Diourbel?” he demanded.

“Good,” said the driver, shrugging in what appeared to be immediate contradiction.

Deaken realized the man didn’t know. “Noon,” he said. “I must be in Dakar by noon.”

“No problem.”

But there was, Deaken knew. No road in Africa, certainly not this part of Africa, was good enough to allow the sort of speed necessary to cover sixty or more miles in just over an hour, even if the overstrained, overheated engine could maintain a good average. The idea came abruptly to Deaken, his first reaction one of excitement, quickly followed by that of annoyance because it was so obvious and hadn’t occurred to him earlier in Kaolack. When the taxi pulled into the service station, he leaped out before they came to a halt, and ran into the office, Carre’s card in his hand, shouting in French for the telephone. A surprised attendant pointed to his right where the instrument was clamped to the wall. Deaken obtained the price of the call to the capital from the operator and then asked him to wait while he dashed to the cashier for change. He pumped the money in, repeated Carre’s number and then stood, shuffling his feet with growing frustration, while the ringing tone purred out at him. Through the cracked window out on the forecourt he saw the driver make sure that the fuel cap was fully tightened and then look inquiringly into the office. The tone purred on with no reply. Angrily Deaken slammed down the receiver and ran from the building without bothering to reclaim his unused coins. It was as difficult getting through Diourbel as it had been to leave Kaolack and Deaken was unable to sit still, impatiently tapping his hands against the front seat. He should have tried to call from Kaolack, he thought in bitter selfrecrimination. Obvious, downright bloody obvious and it hadn’t occurred to him until it was too late!

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 Thies 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?”

Carre 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.

Carre’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.” Carre 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.

Carre 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.

Carre 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.