Deaken’s War

3

Richard Deaken sat hunched forward over the desk, staring fixedly at the other man. He was sick with anger and impotence, the feeling of nausea churning through him, sour in his mouth. He was aware, too, of something else. He was frightened.

“Where is she?”

“Not in Geneva.”

“Bastard!”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Underberg. “I give you my word she won’t be harmed… or bothered in any way.”

“What good is your word?”

“It’s all you’ve got.”

“Why?” pleaded Deaken desperately. “Why me? If you’ve got the boy, why not deal with Azziz direct?”

Underberg shook his head. “It wouldn’t work half as well. It’s been carefully planned.”

Deaken looked away from the patronizing, self-satisfied man. Think; he had to think! Like the trained lawyer he had once been; still was. Christ, he was frightened!

“It won’t work,” Deaken said. He took up one of his sharpened pencils, tracing squares on the paper in front of him as he arranged his argument. “Let’s say I get through to Azziz. And let’s say he believes me and diverts the shipment. So what? He’ll have met the demands, he gets his son back and then all he’s got to do is assemble another shipment. You said yourself he’s the biggest there is; he’s got the resources.”

Underberg laughed. “But that’s precisely why you’re involved. Why we’ve got your wife.”

Deaken thought how he would like to smash his fist into that face, not just once but over and over again.

“A second shipment doesn’t matter,” Underberg said. “I’ve already told you the SWAPO buildup is underway for an assault in July. Once it’s stopped, there won’t be time for Azziz to arrange another. But he’ll try something, he’s the sort of man who has to. Which is why you’re so essential. We need someone in the middle. Someone who can report every move. We don’t want to negotiate in the dark.”

The emotion surged through Deaken, making him shake; his legs were tightly together, feet braced against the floor, his hands pressed against the desk top.

“It would be natural for you to try and hit me,” anticipated Underberg, in his even, unmoved voice. “I’d feel the same way myself, if I were you. But don’t try it-I’d knock the shit out of you.”

Deaken’s eyes flooded at his own helplessness. “Don’t hurt her,” he begged. “Please don’t hurt her.”

“I’ve already promised you that.”

Deaken pushed his hand across his face. Where was the cohesion to his thoughts, the logic that had made him best of his year at Rand University? “How do we keep in touch? Where do I go?”

Underberg reached into his inside pocket. “There’s an air ticket to Nice. The evening flight,” he said. “Azziz is in Monte Carlo…” From an opposite pocket the man extracted an envelope. “Money,” he said. “We know you haven’t got any and you’ll need it…” The third item was a single sheet of paper. “Telephone numbers,” listed Underberg. “The first is a public kiosk on the quayside at Monte Carlo, the Quai des Etats-Unis. The second is of the Bristol Hotel. If you haven’t been to Monte Carlo before, it’s on the boulevard Albert.”

“There’s got to be more than that!” protested Deaken.

Underberg shook his head. “Contact will always come from us, never from you. Be by that quayside kiosk at noon every day. If it’s engaged for any protracted length of time, or broken for some reason, then go to the Bristol at four the same afternoon and we’ll call you there-nothing will ever go wrong with the telephone system of a hotel like the Bristol.”

It made them absolutely secure, Deaken realized. “I want to know something,” he said.

“What?”

“Does my father know anything about this?”

“Nothing,” insisted Underberg. “And there must be no contact between you-we’d know, if there were. You’ll be watched, all the time. You won’t know, but we’ll always be around.”

“When will I get Karen back?”

“When we’re satisfied.”

“You control me as long as she’s safe,” said Deaken. “If anything happens to her, your pressure goes…” He stopped, unsure of the threat. Then he said, “If anything does happen to her, I’ll hunt you down. Wherever and however, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“Of course you will,” said Underberg calmly.

Karen Deaken walked apprehensively into the farmhouse, staring about her warily. Her hair was straggled and she had been crying. She looked crumpled and small beside the huge-bellied, bearded man who had brought her from Switzerland, through the same unhindered crossing at Basel. At once Levy crossed the room towards her.

“You mustn’t be frightened,” he said soothingly. “Everything is going to work out all right. I promise.”

“Fear never hurt anybody,” said the bearded man, whose name was Solomon Leiberwitz.

“Stop it!” Levy said to him. To Karen he said, “Don’t worry.”

She looked at him. He smiled. She responded, nervously, then realized what she was doing and straightened her face. “What do you want?”

Levy gestured towards the bench alongside the fireplace where Tewfik Azziz sat. “For the moment,” he said, “just for you to sit next to him, over there.”

“What for?”

“We want to take your photograph,” said the Israeli. “Together.”