Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

Ortega’s office was in an area of tightly packed streets, on the rua da Assunc, ao. After the opulence of the past two days. Deaken had expected it to be an impressive place, perhaps occupying an entire building, and to be at least as imposing as the smoked-glass, ground-floor suites which he hurried past every day on his way to the garret on the avenue Pictet de Rochemont in Geneva. It wasn’t. A second-floor warren of rooms was reached by a not particularly clean set of stairs, to a waiting area, a secretary’s annexe leading to Ortega’s sanctum at the end of a small corridor. The carpeting began here, dramatically improving in quality beyond Ortega’s door. There was a large desk, elaborately carved and brass inlaid, leather furniture, including a matching couch, and a side table supporting the model of a propeller-driven aircraft which Deaken couldn’t identify. One wall was occupied by a map of the world and another dominated by the photograph of a man in a grey lounge suit and a lapel full of medals.

Ortega stood but didn’t come forward to greet his visitor. The Portuguese was a small, dapper man; the white summer suit immaculate, the pink silk pocket handkerchief complementing the pink silk tie. He smiled when they shook hands and Deaken saw both the man’s eye-teeth were gold. It was a peculiar affectation-a rich vampire, thought Deaken.

“You’ll be with Grearson’s department?” said Ortega.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Deaken.

Ortega gestured Deaken to a chair in front of the desk and seated himself. Instead of increasing his stature, which Deaken guessed was the intention, the size of the desk made Ortega look more diminutive.

“There were no difficulties with the shipment leaving France?” Ortega raised an immaculate eyebrow.

“So I understand,” said Deaken. The man was presenting his references.

“Or at Madeira.”

Deaken concealed his lack of knowledge. “Sailed satisfactorily?”

“Five thirty this morning,” said Ortega. “As I knew it would; I’ve never had trouble there.”

“Mr Azziz is grateful; he asked me to tell you that.” He hadn’t but Deaken had never found flattery a drawback.

Ortega smiled his gold-tipped smile.

“It’s an important cargo,” he said, still bargaining.

“Aren’t they all?” said Deaken. For the first time he was on something like an even footing, although he hadn’t known about Madeira and wondered what else there was to learn.

“Africa’s a good market,” said Ortega. “More money available there than in South America and they’re prepared to spend it, for the right material.”

“My involvement usually begins after the deals have been struck,” lured Deaken. “And, as you said, I’m new.”

“Big enough for country agencies to get involved,” said Ortega, adopting the lecturer’s pose towards which Deaken had hoped he would move. “Great Britain is in there. France. So’s America. Russia is particularly active: once there’s a big sale, then there’s dependence for spares and ammunition and the purchaser becomes a client state.”

“With national agencies involved, it must make it all the more difficult for independents,” said Deaken.

“That’s where Azziz has the advantage over the rest of us,” said Ortega. “He’s independent but he’s understood to have Saudi Arabian backing, real or otherwise-he’s got the best of both worlds.”

And appears to enjoy it, thought Deaken. He wondered if Carole had slept with Azziz the previous night, and felt immediately irritated by himself. Why should it matter to him? “There should be no difficulty after Madeira,” he continued, still searching.

Ortega looked down at the papers in front of him again.

“Dakar by Saturday,” he said. The smile flashed again. “But then that’s nothing to do with me, is it?”

“As I said, Mr Azziz is extremely grateful.”

“Which is why you’re here.”

“A percentage was agreed, I believe?” said Deaken. Although there was no limit, he didn’t want to concede any more than he had to. Azziz had accused him of panic the previous day. Did Azziz’s opinion matter, any more than his bedmate? Why the hell couldn’t he dispel the inferiority complex?

“Two per cent for the risks involved!” said Ortega.

“You knew the risks before you entered the transaction.”

“There’s always time for reflection… reexamination,” said Ortega.

“I would have thought in your business… our business,” Deaken corrected, “that all the risks and examinations should be decided before commitment.”

“Conditions change.”

“They didn’t here: everything went exactly as planned.”

“Oh, no,” contradicted Ortega at once. “There were difficulties in Marseilles; people got greedy. I thought at one time the whole thing might get blocked.”

“Another two per cent,” offered Deaken. Six hundred thousand was a hell of a profit, whatever difficulties Ortega’s agent had encountered.

Ortega’s expression was smooth with apologetic refusal. ‘It’s an onward-going thing,” he said. “These people are in contact with each other, from port to port. By the time the Bellicose got to Madeira, the customs people knew the rate had gone up.”

“How much?”

“Five per cent.”

Two and a half million dollars for having his name on a piece of paper for four or five days. Bloody ridiculous. “Agreed,” said Deaken-the charade had gone on long enough. From his briefcase he took a signed but blank bankers’ order, made out against a holding account of a company named as Eklon and lodged in the Swiss Banking Corporation on Zurich’s Paradeplatz. He leaned forward against Ortega’s elaborate desk, hesitating before he filled it in.

“What currency?” He saw Ortega was fitting documents into an envelope.

“Swiss francs,” said the Portuguese arms dealer. “They’re always so sound.” He saw the lawyer pause and slid a calculator and computer printout of the rates, timed one hour before their meeting began, across the desk.

Deaken made the calculations and offered it to Ortega for agreement. Ortega nodded, but he didn’t smile. This was business. Deaken filled in the amount; it was an awful lot of gold teeth, he thought.

When he looked up Ortega was burning a taper beneath some wax, watching the blobs fall on the flap of the envelope. “What are you doing?”

“Sealing the documentation.”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” said Deaken.

“It’s all there, I assure you.”

Deaken retrieved the bank draft from the desk. “There can be no payment until I’m satisfied everything’s complete.” Deaken had no intention of getting all the way back to the Scheherazade to discover something was missing; there had been too much delay already.

“I’ve already spoken to Mr Azziz,” said Ortega. It sounded like a reprimand.

“Would you let a representative of yours pay over a million, sight unseen?”

“No.”

Ortega picked up an ornate paper knife, fashioned like a miniature two-edged sword, and picked away the still-plastic wax. He offered the envelope to Deaken. The lawyer opened the flap and took out four sheets of paper; two were pinned together. The manifest, Deaken realized. It was in French. Having had sufficient unoccupied time to learn the languages of Switzerland, Deaken read it easily, feeling a lawyer’s satisfaction at having tangible evidence to consider.

There were Russian as well as American rockets, Browning machine guns listed with the AK-47 and Armalite, and entry after entry setting out the amount and calibre of the ammunition. There were four gauges of mortar, shells as well as weapons, antipersonnel and antitank mines and five separate listings for shoulder-operated missiles which Deaken assumed were to resist helicopter assault-he remembered the South Africans were fond of using helicopters in the bush.