Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“Good shipment, isn’t it?” said Ortega.

Deaken thought it was an obscene remark. “Very good,” he said.

The second was the official bill of sale, from Ortega to Azziz, the purchase price precisely listed at 53,550,000 Swiss francs, the purchaser inscribed as Eklon Corporation. The third, also in French, was what Deaken assumed to be the End-User certificate; it seemed inadequate for all the trouble it had caused. He saw that it had been endorsed, from Ortega to Eklon.

“There’s no bill of lading,” said Deaken.

“What?”

“Documentary proof that the shipment is aboard the Bellicose. There should be one, from your agent in Marseilles.”

“I assure you everything is aboard,” said the Portuguese.

“It’s not for me to believe you or otherwise.” Deaken gestured with the papers in his hand. “These mean nothing without the bill of lading.” Thank God he’d insisted upon the envelope being opened.

“I can have it delivered to you when I receive it from France. Or you could return, to collect it personally.”

More delay, thought Deaken, maybe for days. “I can collect it,” he said. “I’m returning through Marseilles.”

“You’re very conscientious, Mr Deaken,” said Ortega.

“I regard it as basic caution.” Deaken leaned forward, setting the draft out in front of him. The alteration took seconds.

“What are you doing?”

“Redating the bank authorization,” said Deaken. “It’s drawable against tomorrow’s date, not today’s.”

Ortega’s face stiffened. “That’s offensive,” he said.

“No,” said Deaken. “That’s properly considering the risks.” He offered the payment. For several moments Ortega looked at it without moving, then reached forward to pick it up. The attitude, which had been patronizing, was now hostile. Deaken didn’t give a damn.

“I’ll need written authorization for your man in Marseilles. And his name and address,” said Deaken.

Ortega’s personal notepaper was held in a small brass rack to his left. He took a sheet and scribbled an impatient message, scrawling a signature beneath it. “I had intended suggesting lunch,” he said, in a tone indicating he was no longer going to.

“I need to get back to Marseilles as soon as possible,” said Deaken; the helicopter was scheduled to collect him from the incoming evening flight. He saw from the second envelope which Ortega gave him that the French agent was named Marcel Lerclerc and that the office was on the boulevard Notre Dame. “Thank you again,” he said, rising. Ortega remained seated.

“I’m sure you’ll do well with Azziz,” said the Portuguese.

“I hope to,” said Deaken heavily.

He was back at the airport by 12:30. He started his tour of the airlines at the TAP desk but it was not until he reached Iberia that he found a fast enough routing, a direct flight to Madrid in forty-five minutes, with an immediate transfer connection to an Air France service en route from New York. He reached Marseilles at 4:15.

The evening rush hour was beginning, so it was not until almost five that he reached Lerlerc’s office. The arms dealer’s agent was a saggy, bulging man with a closed, suspicious face. His attitude changed as soon as Deaken produced the written authorization.

“Has there been a difficulty?” There was the slightest accent; from his colouring, Deaken guessed he was Corsican rather than French.

“Difficulty?”

“When he telephoned from Paris, Mr Grearson said I was to send the bill of lading there.”

“Paris?”

“That’s where the order came from.”

“I know,” said Deaken. “You say Mr Grearson called from Paris?”

“Yesterday morning,” confirmed the man. “Quite early.” Lerclerc got heavily from his chair, bent with difficulty over a safe in the corner and took out the bill of lading. “It’s in order,” he said, still defensive.

Deaken carefully compared the manifest duplicate with the lading certificate. It took a long time because he was careful. He was conscious of Lerclerc shifting behind the desk. When he looked up Lerclerc said, “All correct?”

“Appears to be.”

Lerclerc visibly relaxed. “A little pastis?” he offered, seeming to think a celebration justified.

Deaken nodded and Lerclerc heaved himself out of his chair. As he poured, he said, “We enjoy doing business, even subsidiary business, with your organization.”

“So Mr Ortega made clear.” Deaken hesitated. “It’s a worthwhile intercession.”

Lerclerc looked up sharply as he returned with the drinks, still alert for criticism. “There’s never been a difficulty from this port, ever,” he said. “We’ve always earned our five per cent. I know where to go, who to see.”

Deaken accepted the water decanter and watched the liquid turn milky. “I’m sure you do,” he said soothingly.

“To continued business,” toasted Lerclerc.

Deaken drank. “So Mr Grearson wasn’t personally here yesterday?”

The other man seemed surprised at the repeated question. ‘No,” he said. “Should he have been?”

“I understood he was.”

Lerclerc shook his head. “Been with Azziz long?”

“Just started.”

“An impressive organization.”

From somewhere just beyond the office Deaken heard a clock strike and confirmed the time from his watch. “I’ve a pickup scheduled from the airport. I’m going to be late,” he said. “Can I use your telephone, to get a message to the pilot?”

Lerclerc grimaced apologetically. “Bloody telephone has been out of order since this morning,” he said. “I’ve had three promises of an engineer’s call.”

Deaken finished his drink in a heavy gulp. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately.”

He was forty-five minutes late getting back to Marseilles airport but the helicopter pilot was still waiting obediently. The departure formalities were as easy as they had been earlier in the day and he was airborne within thirty minutes. They left on the same flightpath, directly out over the sea. To Deaken’s right the sun was setting in a defiant burst of red and scarlet, half submerged in the distant sea.

There had already been notification from the communications room of the helicopter’s return and the two men stood at the expensive panoramic windows of the Scheherazade stateroom, gazing westwards in the half light, seeking the identification markings.

“What did you tell Ortega?” asked Grearson.

“That he was new to your staff; that I wanted to try him out. The agreed profit was to remain but I wanted Ortega’s assessment of how Deaken bargained up to it.”

The American lawyer frowned. “Didn’t he find that unusual?”

“I undertook to move the next difficult shipment through him,” said Azziz. He spotted the red and green lights of the helicopter. Almost at once they heard the wind-slapping sound and saw the black outline of the machine pass to port. They turned away from the window.

“I’m still unsure about Deaken being unsupervised,” said Grearson.

“Don’t be,” said the Arab dismissively. “He’s a fool. What about the second shipment?”

“Everything ready in two or three days.”

“Transport?”

“Chartered from Levcos again.”

“Anything from Makimber?”

“Not yet,” said Grearson. “You know it’s often not easy, establishing direct contact at once.”

The door opened and Deaken entered. Both men were struck by the new confidence, a bounce in the way he moved. Neither remembered hearing a knock at the door.

Deaken offered Azziz an envelope. “End-User certificate, manifest, official bill of lading and purchase receipt, in the sum of 53,550,000 Swiss francs from Ortega back to you.” Deaken realized that he sounded like a schoolboy presenting an end-of-term report to his father.