Deaken’s War

32

They maintained the separation of Rixheim, Levy taking his meals with Karen and the boy, while everyone else ate in the kitchen. That night Azziz said he felt too unwell to eat, so it was just the two of them at dinner, a subdued, awkward meal, with long silences between them.

“What is it?” said Karen at last. She pushed her plate away, revolving her wine glass between her hands.

“1 hope he isn’t going to become ill again,” said the Israeli.

“I don’t think he is.” Karen hadn’t told him about her escape conversation with Azziz. If the boy got away it would upset whatever it was they were planning, possibly extend the time she could be with the man she loved.

He looked at her curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“I looked in,” she said. “There’s no fever.” She paused then and said, “It’s not just the boy. is it?”

“No,” he admitted.

“What then?”

“There was some other discussion today, apart from the row. Everything is almost ready.” He couldn’t look at her.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. We’ve got to be ready for tomorrow.”

She felt sick and a weakness seemed to permeate her body, numbing her legs. “What’s going to happen?”

“The weapons we’re getting from Azziz are on a boat. It’ll be here very soon now. When we get the shipment, the boy is to be returned to his father.”

“What about me?”

“Both of you,” said Levy. He reached out to grasp her hand.

“What are we going to do?”

He didn’t answer. She took her hand away. “Tell me what we’re going to do.”

“I don’t know,” he said, empty-voiced and still not looking at her.

“Do you want me?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“But you want Rebecca as well?”

He humped his shoulders, a gesture of helplessness. “It’s more than that,” he said. “There’s the protest about the settlements. There’s got to be the protest.”

“But it’s Rebecca as well, isn’t it?” she persisted. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Shit! Why’s it got to be like this?”

“I don’t want to go back to Richard,” she said. “It’s not his child; it’s yours. I won’t go back to him.” Karen knew she was being irrational, ridiculous. But everything that happened to her was irrational and ridiculous. She refused to be shaken awake from the dream.

“I don’t want you to go back to Richard.”

“So tell me the alternative.”

“There’s no way we can stay together, not immediately anyway.”

She snatched at the straw. “Not immediately?”

“You didn’t think I was going to abandon you, did you?”

Karen was near to tears. “Something like that,” she said.

He raised his hand to caress her cheek. “Fool,” he said softly.

She bit at his fingers, enjoying his touch. “I love you so much,” she said.

“I don’t know how, not yet,” he said. “Or how long it will take. But it won’t end tomorrow or the next day. I’ll make something work.”

Karen smiled. Whatever it was he decided, however difficult, she would go along with it. She was consumed by him, indifferent to anything or anyone else.

Four hundred yards from where Karen sat, her husband drove slowly by the house, straining through the darkness to make out its shape, managing only to locate the tiny squares of light at various windows.

“There’s no purpose in everyone losing sleep,” decided Swart. “The observation will be in shifts; the rest of us can try to get some rest in Sisteron.”

“All right,” said Deaken. He screwed around in the seat for a final look. Soon, my darling, he thought, very soon now.

The maps and the blackboard were still in place, but only Deaken’s father was in the room with Muller. The intelligence chief tapped his pointer against the map and said, “The Bellicose seems to have stopped off Benguela: the last reconnaissance report says she’s turned back upon herself and is steaming in circles.”

“Waiting for contact?”

“That’s what it seems like.”

“There’s to be a final meeting, but the consensus in the cabinet is for a preemptive strike-an interception at sea.”

“I know,” said Muller.

“Nothing more from Europe?”

“Not since the other freighter sailed.”

“The timing is important, isn’t it?” said Piet Deaken. “If we have to intercept the Bellicose in advance of any exchange in Europe, my daughter-in-law could be killed.”

“Yes,” admitted Muller.

The old man turned away from the dais, looking out over the South African capital. “My vote is for interception,” he said.

The South African intelligence service had established their electronic eavesdropping headquarters at Ondangua, as near to the Angolan border as possible, with equipment sufficiently sophisticated and powerful to intercept all commercial wavelengths, as well as dial searches for clandestine transmissions. Edward Makimber’s contact with the Bellicose was on a normal commercial link, giving them perfect reception.

“Victory,” muttered Muller when the coded message was brought to him. He looked up, shaking his head at the theatricality. There was going to be a victory, but not the sort they imagined.

Evans knocked politely at the door, looking through the glass for Papas’s nod of agreement before going out onto the bridge. The captain of the Hydra Star stood in front of the helmsman, close to the radar screen. “We should be approaching Algiers soon after dawn,” he said.

“And then we wait,” said Evans.

“I control this ship at all times,” said the captain firmly.

“You made that clear from the start.”

“I’m making it clear again, so there’ll be no misunderstandings.”

“There won’t be.”

“I know what sort of men you are,” said Papas. “Know what you do. I’m not having my ship endangered, no matter what instructions I get from Athens.”

Evans hoped Papas wasn’t going to become a nuisance.