Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“Where’s the strength, for Christ’s sake?”

“Arguing between ourselves is stupid,” said Azziz. To Deaken he said, “I think you could have been more forceful. I recognize the difficulty, but there should have been more force.”

“What have you achieved?” fought back Deaken. “We’re no closer now to meeting their demands than we were twenty-four hours ago. You don’t even own the bloody stuff they want stopped. And what about trying to locate wherever it is they’re being held… what’s been done about that?”

“I’ve briefed Paris,” said Grearson.

“So they’ve had a whole day. What have they found out?”

“We haven’t heard.”

“Haven’t you called them?” said Deaken, outraged.

“There’s no point in arguing,” repeated Azziz.

“I agree I didn’t get anywhere,” conceded Deaken. “I wasn’t in a position to. But you tell me precisely what you’ve achieved? You’re doing the bare minimum and trying to look busy flying around in helicopters. If you couldn’t get Ortega to a telephone, why didn’t you go personally to Lisbon? You had the facilities.”

“You’re right,” said Azziz. “Coming back here was an error of judgement.”

“Why don’t I do what he should have done today?” said Deaken. “Let me go, with your full authority.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Grearson stiffly.

“I want to know the stuff is back,” said Deaken. “I want to get that whole bloody thing over.”

Azziz nodded. “Why not?” he said. “If you want involvement, then you can have it.”

“I said I don’t think that’s necessary,” protested Grearson.

“It’s decided,” said Azziz.

As if on cue there was a sound at the door, which immediately opened. At first, because she was dressed, Deaken didn’t recognize the girl who had surprised him that morning on deck, staring down at the swimming pool. Carole was wearing white again, a plain white sheath with just a diamond pin on the right shoulder. The other girls waited complacently behind her.

“You said ten,” Carole said to Azziz.

“Quite right.” To Deaken Azziz said, “We’re going ashore, to the casino. Why not join us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Deaken.

“Suit yourself,” said Azziz.

“Would you like me to stay?” Carole asked him directly.

Deaken felt himself colouring. “No,” he said.

She pouted, an expression of professional disappointment. “Sure?”

“Positive.”

At the top of the steps leading into the tender, Grearson said to Azziz, “It went the way you wanted. But I’m still not sure it’s a good idea letting him see Ortega.”

“We’ll call Lisbon before he gets there.”

“There’s a limit to what we can tell Ortega.”

“We can tell him enough to make it sound convincing,” said Azziz. “And it’ll get the damned man out of my way. He irritates me.”

From below, one of the girls called something up to them but neither heard. Azziz waved. “You sure about this mercenary fellow?”

“He impressed me,” said the lawyer. “Let’s hope he impresses me,” said Azziz. Grearson looked down into the waiting tender. “I like the dark one,” he said.

“Carole?”

“If that’s her name.” “Then she’s yours,” said the Arab.

In Brussels Harvey Evans replaced the telephone after almost eight hours of continuous use; because of the time difference, he had left America until last. If they kept their promises and flew in the following day, he had a unit. Not precisely the one he wanted but men he had worked with before and whose capabilities he knew. Evans stretched the cramp from his shoulders, dropped two cubes of ice into the Scotch and then stood at his apartment window, looking out over the rue des Alexiens. Evans believed in instinct and his instinct told him that this was going to be something good, damned good. He took a deep swallow of his drink. It had taken long enough.

Deaken felt satisfied, physically to be doing something. Apart from the brief, thirty-minute excursion to the quay-side telephone, he had been aboard the yacht for two days, and until the helicopter lifted him off and whirled away, just off land, he hadn’t realized how claustrophobic he had found it.

Beneath him the coastline of the Riviera unrolled, as if on display for his benefit. It was early, just after six, and the Corniche was quiet, just an occasional car and once, near Antibes, what appeared to be an almost unmoving procession of three lorries, the large, trailer-drawing camions with chimneys just behind the cab spouting out black exhaust. The helicopter was low enough for him to make out the inscription on the sides; two road haulage, from different companies, and a chemical container. They seemed intrusive, like a blemish on a pretty face. Out to sea a tanker made its way eastward. Two yachts were moving in the same direction, both under sail, wakes zigzagged behind them as they tacked to catch the wind. It seemed early for such effort.

Through the headset Deaken heard the pilot pick up instructions from Marseilles flight control. Almost at once he took the machine farther out from the land and then swung it to starboard, bringing them in directly from the sea. Deaken had expected to be put down in a separate section but realized as the helicopter made its final descent that he was only a hundred yards from an airliner. A group of people stood waiting, shielding themselves from the machine’s downdraft. Deaken got out, ducking low, the rotor blades still clopping above his head. There was an airline representative, a customs official and an immigration officer. The deference was obvious. The formalities were cursory and within minutes Deaken was being led to the waiting aircraft. He was conscious of other passengers already aboard, staring through the windows at his arrival. The first officer was waiting at the top of the steps, leading him immediately into the first-class section with the invitation, once they had taken off, to join them at any time on the flight deck. As Deaken fastened his safety belt, the steward came alongside with the drinks trolley.

“I don’t drink at seven thirty in the morning,” refused Deaken.

“Anything you want, just call, Mr Deaken,” said the man.

They even knew his name, thought Deaken. So this was power. He wanted to despise it but couldn’t. He was flattered by it, he admitted to himself. Excited too. He ate a solicitously served breakfast and then, for politeness rather than because he wanted to, went onto the flight deck for the transit landing in Madrid. It enabled him to inquire about timing. They were on schedule, the captain told him: Lisbon arrival was 10:20.

They were ten minutes early and he was ushered off first. Deaken had travelled only with a briefcase, so there was no luggage reclaim delay and he went through customs unchecked. The arrangement with Azziz before Deaken had left the Scheherazade was to telephone Ortega’s office to learn the result of the Arab’s contact while he was en route. If Ortega was there, an appointment would have been arranged; if not, his secretary would pass on an alternative location. The response was quick when he dialled the number, the language conveniently moving into English when he identified himself. Mr Ortega was expecting him at eleven.

After the frustration of the previous forty-eight hours, it was proving remarkably easy, thought Deaken; almost too easy. He hoped it was not a bad omen.

He actually enjoyed the drive from the airport, locating the silver thread of the Tagus River looping out to the Atlantic as the taxi topped one of the enclosing hills of Lisbon. He had never been to the Portuguese capital. It had the slightly declining, faded atmosphere of a once great and important place shunted aside by circumstance, like a dowager of a lost fortune forced to wear the patched clothes of a previous age. Deaken liked it. He thought it was a nicely packaged, easily manageable city, with a lot of churches and black-shawled women, and statues of warriors on horseback looking into the distance for something to capture.