Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

It was a short ride down the hill and Underberg stopped the taxi at the seafront road, to walk the rest of the way along the harbour spur, past the cafe built into the rock face. The jetty was washed in a butter-yellow glow from the nightwork spotlights, the cranes already dipping into the Bellicose’s holds by the time Underberg arrived. He held back, perfectly concealed by the containers of some already unloaded wharf cargo. The captain, the rank designated by his cap edging, was on the wing bridge overlooking the quay, staring down at the work. His name was Erlander, Underberg knew. Forty-eight, married, two children, and a home in Strandvauagen, Stockholm.

The freighter was not his predominant interest, so Underberg moved farther away from the water, seeking a more extensive view of the quay. He didn’t bother with the immediate bustle of stevedores beside the Bellicose, because Underberg guessed the person for whom he was looking would not be that close. Instead he concentrated on previously unshipped, stored cargo, some covered in tarpaulin and net. It was away from the working lights, black and grey outlines, jagged against the night sky. It was a long time before he detected him and when he did Underberg smiled; the man was using the cover as expertly as he was.

Underberg moved from container to container, purposely not trying to disguise his approach, wanting the man to identify him. He was still some way away when he saw the flash of teeth.

“Surprise, surprise,” said Edward Makimber. The voice was educated, carefully modulated.

“Not really,” said Underberg. At Cambridge the African had anglicized his name to Kimber. Underberg guessed he wouldn’t admit to it now.

“Do you normally keep such a close eye on the competition?” said Makimber.

“Quite often,” said Underberg. “We’re very competitive. Do you normally worry so much about a purchase?”

“About a purchase as important as this,” said the African.

“Azziz has a good reputation, hasn’t he?”

“Just general caution,” said Makimber.

“We could still help.”

“We’re grateful for everything you’ve done so far. It’s important, if we’re going to get independence, for it to be exactly that, independence.”

Archetypal intellectual revolutionary, thought Underberg. Makimber could probably quote verbatim whole chunks of Marx and Engels and Lenin; maybe, if he wasn’t trying to be fashionable, even Stalin.

“It’s good to know we remain friends.”

“We always made it clear there was no question of endangering our relationship.”

“It’s still a good assurance,” said Underberg.

“It won’t take long,” said Makimber, gesturing towards the unloading. “Port office has it scheduled to sail at six.”

“Are you going back to Angola?”

“Benguela by tomorrow night. And if that’s not possible, then in through Lobito.”

The quayside encounter had unsettled Makimber and he decided not to disclose his intention of checking the shipment through Dakar, just as he was ensuring its untroubled passage here in Madeira. It was a precaution; just as it had been a precaution to take photographs and attempt to create a file on Underberg. When Namibia was independent a proper intelligence system would be set up, not oppressive or brutal like all the others seemed to be. Just protective, to ensure there would be no danger to the properly and democratically elected government. “I’ve told you how important this is,” he said. “With what the ship is carrying we’re going to wake the world up to what those South African bastards are doing in our country.”

Underberg wondered idly if Makimber already had his victory speech drafted; it would be full of rhetoric and artistic inference, he guessed. They always were, from this sort of man. Makimber would expect some reference to be made, he supposed. “We’d like to attend the celebrations,” he said.

“You’ll be honoured guests,” said Makimber. “We don’t forget our friends.”

Now it was Underberg who motioned towards the freighter. “You did there.”

Makimber wearily shook his head at the other man’s tenacity. “That conversation goes round in circles,” he said. “No hard feelings?”

“Of course not.”

Makimber paused uncertainly. Then he said, “Will you and your people be there?”

“I don’t know,” said Underberg. “Angola certainly.”

“It might be better if you weren’t.”

It was late when the Alouette brought Grearson back to the yacht. Deaken and Azziz had already played the tape recording through twice and the Palestinian secretary. Mitri, made a transcript while the three men ate. They dined properly this time, in the saloon, with laced linen and crystal. Deaken wondered if the women he had seen earlier in the day would join them, but the heavy mahogany table was only set for three places. It was a superb meal, salmon mousse and then duck. What would Karen be eating? thought Deaken. He pushed his plate aside, barely touched.

“I hope Ortega isn’t going to be difficult,” said Grearson, setting out on the path he had rehearsed with Azziz at a private meeting before they had joined Deaken in, the dining room.

“Ortega?” queried Deaken.

“Hernandez Ortega,” explained the lawyer. “The Portuguese intermediary.”

“It’s a book transaction, an arrangement?” Deaken said to Azziz, immediately alarmed.

“Yes,” said the Arab.

“So where’s the problem?”

“A price had been already agreed for the repurchase,” said Grearson. “But I haven’t been able to contact Ortega all day. I think he wants more.”

“How much more?” demanded Deaken.

“We won’t know until we get hold of him.”

“So the shipment isn’t yours!”

“That’s why I was late back,” said Grearson. “I spent the afternoon trying to trace Ortega down in Lisbon. He wasn’t available.”

“Purposely avoiding you?” queried Azziz.

“I think so-it’s a tedious negotiating ploy.”

Deaken looked sharply between the two men. To the Arab he said, “You don’t seem very concerned.”

“Of course I’m concerned.”

“You heard the tape,” pressed Deaken. “They’re impatient.”

“Whatever Ortega wants, I’ll pay. You know that,” said Azziz.

“But when?”

“We’ve got forty-eight hours,” reminded Azziz. “It’ll be resolved by then.”

“Everything?” pressed Deaken.

“My son isn’t going to die, Mr Deaken,” said the Arab. “Neither is your wife.”

Mitri came soft-footed into the dining saloon, halting just inside the door. He carried the recorder in one hand and in the other the transcript and several copies.

“The stateroom,” decided Azziz, rising from the table.

The two lawyers stood with him and filed behind the Arab into the adjoining room. They took their copies from the secretary and each read, in silence, for several minutes. Grearson finished first. He was nearest the recorder. He pressed the play button, listening to the two voices with his head bent over the typescript, as if he were checking its accuracy.

“Bad,” judged Grearson, when the tape stopped. He snapped off the machine and stared at Deaken. “You handled it very badly.”

“How else could I have handled it?” said Deaken, immediately knowing a dip in his new-found confidence.

“You were told not to be subservient.”

“I had nothing to argue with, no pressure.”

“It should have been handled better,” insisted Grearson.

“What would you have done?”

“Not pleaded… not shown any desperation,” said the American at once.

“I am desperate. They’ve had my wife for two days now.”

“You won’t get her back by showing your weakness.”