Deaken’s War

36

Deaken decided he had been stupid to believe their promises. They’d never intended to help him. They just wanted to use him, like every other bastard had wanted to use him since the whole thing began. No one gave a damn about Karen. Not Azziz or Grearson or his father or Muller or Swart. No one. Bastards, all of them. He didn’t need them; didn’t need any fucking one of them.

Despite the burning anger, Deaken still moved carefully along the road, sure that once Swart noticed his absence from the hotel he would try to intercept, to prevent any interference with their plan of campaign. Bugger them.

There was only one thing that mattered, that had ever mattered. Getting Karen back. He had much to apologize to her for, he knew. The ridiculous, unnecessary delays-days when he should have acted instead of letting other people take control.

He walked, alert to the slightest danger, twice jumping sideways and concealing himself behind the bordering hedge to avoid being spotted by any passing car. On the third occasion a whole cavalcade roared by and when Deaken risked a glance it was too late to confirm whether it was the South Africans looking for him.

He wished he had a gun; but he didn’t imagine any of the people he had seen issued with them would have been careless enough to leave one lying around. But then he didn’t know how to use a gun. He didn’t know anything about safety catches and cocking mechanisms or automatic firing. So how was he going to get her away? Deaken was forced to accept that he didn’t know. Just that somehow he would.

The ground dipped and then rose again to provide a vantage point from which to observe the hollow where the house lay. Trees obscured it up to the roofline. The road and the distant knoll from which he knew the South Africans kept observation were completely hidden; but Deaken realized that by cutting away from the road he would be able to make his approach without being visible to anyone. And the gathering darkness would help too.

He hurried, stumbling through the grass, anxious now that he was so close, and slowing only when he got to the ditch and the hedge towering above it. He had to move with the utmost care now, not to make any noise. He didn’t risk jumping, slithering instead down one side and then clawing up the other. He was glad the ditch bottom was clean and summer-dried.

Wincing against the sudden snap of a twig beneath his feet, he parted the foliage. Fear stabbed into him when he realized the driveway was empty of lorries. Then he saw the solitary car, and the pendulum swung: if they were moving her, they would be more likely to use the car than the lorries. The lorries had to be for the guns.

He was at the side of the house, the drive and the road beyond to his left, the house almost immediately in front, the rear and the outbuildings to his right. He moved sideways, following the hedge, conscious as he moved that the garden curved to provide even greater concealment from the house. The bank rose again and had it not been so dark Deaken guessed the view of the surrounding countryside would have been impressive. The hedge was sparse here and he had no difficulty pushing through. Deaken bent against the slope of the hill, not wanting to drop noisily downwards into any unseen dip; lights in an upstairs room guided him through the gloom of the garden. His toe stubbed against the edge of the patio at the rear of the house and he slowed further, edging his feet forward, tensed against any noisy collision. At the house he pressed his ear against a darkened downstairs window, listening for sounds. Everything seemed quiet, deserted.

A double door was alongside. Deaken pressed against it to lessen any sound, then cautiously turned the handle. There was the faintest sound, the creak of wooden frames parting from wooden surrounds, and then the door gave.

The Russian looked regretfully around the luxury room at the Bristol Hotel and then for the last time out over the harbour, towards the glittering outline of the Scheherazade. He left abruptly, carrying his own luggage down into the foyer. He paid his bill and went through the ritual of assuring the receptionist that he had enjoyed his stay and would come again, wishing it were true. On the front he paused, savouring the warm, scented, nighttime air, and then got into the rented car for the journey along the Corniche. He had purposely left three hours before his flight, wanting to enjoy the drive. He was looking forward to going home.