Deaken’s War

31

The package was brought aboard on the evening mail run from the harbour master’s office, the two photographs protected by hard cardboard and carefully sealed. Grearson unwrapped them and laid them before his employer. The boy was holding the newspaper, staring straight at the camera; the woman was looking to one side, obviously distracted by something or someone. From the drawer of one of the large bureaux Azziz took out the first ransom picture, putting it next to the new ones for comparison. He leaned forward as if caught by something, groping into the drawer for a magnifying glass and adjusting it over the prints.

“He’s thinner,” said Azziz. “And they’ve beaten him.” He offered the lawyer the glass. “Look,” he said. “There’s bruising on his face.”

“It’s very faint,” said Grearson. “It might be some fault in the printing.”

“Beaten,” insisted Azziz. “The pigs have kept him short of food and beaten him.”

“But at least we know he’s alive,” said Grearson. He indicated the copy of Nice Matin. “And close.”

“Not close enough,” said Azziz. He brought the photographs together like a man collecting playing cards. “The navigating officer had made the calculations,” he said. “According to the supposed speed of the Bellicose, it should be just north of Casablanca. That’s about a day and a half from Algiers.”

“Time for the Hydra Star to sail?” said Grearson.

Azziz nodded. “Are Evans and his people ready?”

“Absolutely.”

“Evans knows to expect a message off Algiers?”

“Yes,” said Grearson. “There’s no radio-telephone communication, so it will have to be by cable. There’s no way they will be able to know it isn’t Deaken replying.”

Azziz looked at the collection of tapes. “On your next contact we should get the handover instructions then?”

“Right.”

“I want you to be the one who collects him,” said Azziz. “Personally.”

Grearson hesitated and then said, “Of course.”

“You’ll need someone to act as a liaison,” said Azziz suddenly. “There can’t be any response from the men on the boat until we’ve got the boy back.”

“Evans would be the obvious candidate,” said Grearson.

Azziz shook his head. “There needs to be a command on the boat. Take one of the others.”

“I’ll arrange it,” said Grearson.

Azziz looked down at the most recent pictures showing the fading traces of his son’s beating, then up at the lawyer. “I want them hurt,” he said quietly. “Make sure Evans understands that. They’ve hurt my son and now I want them hurt in return.”

They were all assembled at the villa on the Aubagne road when the lawyer arrived. He took the photographs, wanting them all to know what the boy looked like if the handover was made anywhere near the supposed weapons’ exchange. Evans studied them first, then passed them round to the assembled group.

“Do you think they’re marks of a beating?” asked Grearson.

“Could be,” said Evans.

“Mr. Azziz wants retribution.”

“Sure,” said Evans. “You’ve already made that clear.”

“There was to be half payment in advance,” reminded Marinetti, forever practical.

Grearson unclipped the briefcase and passed around the envelopes. To Marinetti he said, “There’ll be little need for any expert explosive use?”

“It wouldn’t seem so,” said Evans.

“So I’ll have Marinetti as the liaison,” decided the lawyer. “He can come back with me to the yacht and be with me when we exchange the boy.”

Marinetti smiled around at the others. “I’ll be thinking of you guys cramped up in that shitty old barge,” he said.

“Getting the boy back safely is the most important part of the operation,” said Grearson.

The smile was wiped from Marinetti’s face. “We’ll get him back,” he said.

Evans stood, a signal for the rest. As they started to file from the room Grearson said, “Good luck.”

“Luck hasn’t got anything to do with it,” said Evans.

The photographs had to be developed, so it was not until evening that they were brought to the Hotel Negresco. By then there had already been protracted telephone conversations with Muller, in Pretoria, about the location of the kidnap house and of the second arms-carrying freighter. Aware of Deaken’s concern, Swart let him examine them first. Deaken stared down at Karen, blinking the mistiness from his eyes. Neither picture was perfectly in focus and each was obscured by the blurred foliage in the immediate foreground of the shubbery through which they were taken. Karen didn’t look as Deaken had expected her to. He had anticipated that the strain of captivity would show; that she would look as rigid-faced as the boy. Instead she appeared relaxed, almost carefree.

He looked up at Swart, white-faced, and said, “The promise was to help me get her out.”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet!”

Swart nodded towards the telephone. “My instructions are to find out a little more first… we don’t understand enough.”

The difference of interest, remembered Deaken. “Fuck understanding enough,” he said. “We know where she is… where they both are. Let’s get them out.”

“No.”

“I don’t need you,” said Deaken.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Swart. “You can’t do anything by yourself. You’d be killed… and get your wife and the boy killed as well.”

“Help me, then!”

“We will,” said Swart. “But not yet. We know she’s all right… that they’re both all right. Wait.”

“How the hell can you expect me to wait?”

Swart looked at the photographs of his own family. “No,” he said distantly. “How can I expect you to?”

Deaken was about to speak when the telephone rang. It was a short conversation. As he replaced the receiver, Swart said, “The ship has sailed from Marseilles. Some men went aboard at the last moment. And then it sailed. Half an hour ago.”