Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“Could you assemble six people?”

“How long have I got?”

“Two or three days. And I don’t want rubbish. I want men like you, only a year or two out of the services, still trained, still fit.”

“I could try.”

Grearson respected the man for avoiding the overcommitment. “I’d want to meet them when they’re assembled,” said the lawyer. “If one isn’t right then the whole thing’s off.”

“I can’t recruit unless I know what we’ve got to do.”

“Somebody’s got something belonging to us,” said Grearson. “We want it back.”

“So call the police,” said Evans.

“That’s not possible, not on this occasion.”

“What can I offer?”

“You’ll get $2000 a week, as commander. The people you recruit get $1000. All expenses, of course. If the need arises for you to be used

… if you have to go in to recover what’s ours and you do it successfully, there’ll be a $30,000 bonus for you and $20,000 for everyone else Paid in whatever currency you want, to wherever you want.”

“So we might not actually be used?”

“Not necessarily,” said Grearson. “But you still get the payment and expenses. And a severance bonus: $10,000 for you, $5000 for the others.”

Evans nodded. “The terms seem fair enough,” he said. “What happens about equipment?”

“Don’t bother about anything. Whatever you want will be provided.”

“To be effective we’ve got to train… have some idea of what the operation will be.”

“I can’t tell you that, not yet,” said the lawyer. “And I do recognize the difficulty. That’s why the people you get together have got to be already well trained; there won’t be time for much preparation.”

“I don’t like that,” said Evans.

Grearson was pleased at the professionalism. “It could be something like a surprise assault,” he said guardedly.

“Defended?”

“Probably. But you should have some element of surprise.”

“How big a building?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll have plans… layouts?”

“I hope so.”

“But you’re not certain?”

A waiter returned to the table inquiringly. Both men shook their heads.

“No,” said Grearson. “There’s no certainty.”

“How big is the object to be recovered?” said Evans. “I mean, will it be in a safe… under some sort of protection that we’ll have to blow?”

Grearson hesitated. “It’s not an object,” he said.

Evans did not respond for several moments. “I see,” he said.

“My client has a permanent need for protection,” said Grearson. “Particularly so after this. If everything goes as it must, then there could be permanent employment for you. And for some of the people you recruit.”

“What about limitations?” said Evans.

“Limitations?”

“When we recover…” he paused and then went on “… what it is we have to recover, are there any limitations on the force that’s got to be employed?”

“None,” said Grearson immediately. “Absolutely none.”

“And the authorities will not be involved?”

“No.”

“I don’t know your name,” said Evans. “Or how to make contact.”

“My name doesn’t matter at the moment,” said Grearson. “Let’s leave it that I am an attorney.” He passed a folded sheet of paper across the table. “There’s a name and telephone number,” he said. “They’ll have immediate contact with me. Call them when you’ve assembled your people.”

This time Evans opened the paper, noting the Paris telephone number against the address of something called the Eklon Corporation. The second place he had approached after Libya, he remembered. A nondescript set of offices on the rue Reamur; the receptionist as haughty as only the French can be, refusing to let him get past to someone in authority. He had been sure she would have thrown his details away. Azziz, he thought in complete recollection. Adnan Azziz. He felt a burn of satisfaction. This could definitely be something worthwhile.

“Is Mr Azziz personally inconvenienced?” said Evans.

This man was a good choice, decided Grearson. “Someone very close to him.”

“I understand.”

“Understand something more,” said Grearson. “There must be absolute discretion. I don’t want any of those you recruit to know anything more than the barest minimum. It would be a risk.”

“Of course,” said Evans. “You’ll have no need to worry.”

“I want professionals,” insisted Grearson. “Absolute professionals. There must be no mistakes.”

“There won’t be.”

Grearson offered his hand and received the firm handshake in return. “Why on earth have that done to a horse?” said Grearson, looking at the rigid animal.

“Everyone gets stuffed,” said Evans. “Jesus!” said the lawyer.

They crowded into the room, appearing to expect him to resist, Levy in front and three others behind. Gradually Azziz was identifying them, always careful that they would be unaware of his eavesdropping on their conversation and remarks. The big, bearded man who had wanted to involve himself in the beating was Leiberwitz; the tall, saturnine man was Kahanc-he thought the given name was Sami. The squat man, bull-shouldered and bull-necked, whom Azziz had seen smirking during the beating, was Greening.

“Do you want to undress?” said Levy.

“No,” said Azziz. His mouth hurt to talk.

“I don’t think he’s respectful enough,” said Leiberwitz.

“What are you, some sort of sadist?” Levy said to him in Hebrew. In English to Azziz, Levy said, “It’s your fault we’re having to do this.”

Azziz said nothing, aware of the conflict between the two men confronting him.

“Lie on the bed,” said Levy.

The Arab did as he was told. The Israeli adjusted the arms of the handcuffs as wide as they would go and, before securing them around Azziz’s ankle, he slipped his finger between the boy’s flesh and the metal, to ensure it would not chafe. Satisfied, he clicked them shut. He snapped the other armlet around the metal upright of the bed, needlessly tugging to see it was engaged.

“Don’t try anything else that’s stupid,” warned Levy. “If you fall awkwardly from the bed you could break your ankle.”

As Levy left the boy’s room he looked automatically towards Karen’s bedroom door. A thin ruler of light was marked out beneath it. He hesitated and then continued on down the stairs.

Leiberwitz was waiting for him in the large room. “I won’t be treated like shit,” he said.

“Stop behaving like it,” said Levy, unimpressed at the protest. “There’s no plan to hurt them.”

“He’s a spoiled, supercilious little bastard.”

“I think he’s rather brave,” said Levy.

The harbour at Funchal is protected by a huge arm, built out across almost half its width to form a protected, inner anchorage. Normally cruise liners are brought inside, to tie up along it and make their passengers run the gauntlet of its length, through the basket salesmen and wickerworkmakers and lace vendors. Tonight there were no liners in port, so the pilot took the Bellicose into the favoured place, manoeuvring her close to the cranes.

High above, from the balcony of Reids Hotel, Underberg watched. It was a warm, still night, the lights of the Madeira capita! spread out before him like an overturned jewel box; he could hear the blur of the mooring instructions, as far away as he was.

Underberg turned, walking back into the hotel, sorry that he had arrived too late to sit out there in the late afternoon and go through the traditional ritual of Madeira cake and tea. It hadn’t been an easy flight, with a transfer at Lisbon, and Underberg felt tired. He wondered if it would be a wasted journey.