Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“Seemed like it,” said Evans. “It was left vague.”

Bartlett looked around the room at the assembled men. “Isn’t this a little heavy?”

“They don’t seem to think so.”

“Where is it? What have we got to do?” said Marinetti, always the practical one.

“I don’t know yet,” confessed Evans. “I had to gather a group together, then report back.”

“And we get paid, even if we’re not used?” queried Jones, reverting to the financial details.

“In advance,” confirmed Evans

“Sure this is straight?” demanded Hinkler.

“Positive.”

“How?” demanded Bartlett at once.

“I know who it is.”

The seven men gazed at him, waiting.

“It’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Evans.

One by one they nodded, accepting the refusal. Evans felt a stir of satisfaction that they still trusted him as a commanding officer.

“What about materials?” said Marinetti.

“All being provided.”

“Until we know what it is, we won’t know what we want,” he pointed out objectively.

“It’ll be available, whatever we want. Anything.”

“How can you be sure?” said Sneider; the effort of concentration was obvious but he was achieving it.

“I’m sure,” said Evans.

“Opposition?” said Jones.

“Unknown, as yet.”

“It’s a lot of money for going around with our pants around our ankles,” judged Hinkler.

“No one’s going in bare-assed,” assured Evans. “There was a preliminary meeting and I was asked to assemble a force. Which I’ve done. Now I get back and we go on from there.”

“You think it’s Europe?” persisted Marinetti.

“I said I’m not sure,” said Evans. He would be offending their professionalism, he knew.

“Europe’s dangerous,” said Melvin, entering the discussion. “They’re too well organized here.”

“You get your money for coming,” said Evans. “And your expenses. If you don’t like it, when it’s set out, then you can back away.”

“Seems fair enough to me,” said Hinkler. Bartlett nodded in immediate agreement.

“Been a long flight,” said Jones. “I might as well hang around to see what the score is.”

“Any currency I want, wherever I want it?” queried Marinetti, cautious to the last.

“In advance,” assured Evans.

“Then I’m in.”

“Me too,” said Melvin.

They all looked at Sneider. “That leaves you,” said Evans.

Sneider smiled, a straight expression for the first time since he had entered the apartment. “Be a pity to break up a winning team,” he said.

Deaken was impatient to leave the yacht. The uncertainties and doubts of the previous evening had been washed away by his awareness that they had met Underberg’s demands and that he would soon be with Karen again. He was on deck before the tender was lowered from its davits, tapping his hand irritably against his leg as the boat was manoeuvred into the water and then reversed against the stepway. Deaken was waiting on the platform when it came alongside. There was a shout from the deck, and he waved up to one of the girls.

The tender was halfway across the harbour when he heard the Scheherazade helicopter returning. He hadn’t realized that it had left the yacht.

There was a tug of nervousness just before he landed, increasing as he climbed the harbour steps. It disappeared the moment he saw that the designated kiosk was empty. The day was close and muggy, and Deaken left the door open to make the most of what little air there was. He positioned the recorder and fixed the listening attachment, staring around him when he finished. It really was beautiful, he thought, properly noticing the harbour and Monaco rising in wedding-cake tiers behind for the first time. Spectacular in fact. Just the place to bring Karen. There would be cheap-enough hotels away from the front. That was all they would need, a clean, comfortable pension where he could comfort her and convince her that the nightmare was over and that she didn’t have to worry anymore. Just sleep and food and to lie in the sun; not even sex if she didn’t want it. Everything at her pace, as she dictated it.

Deaken had turned back inside the box and closed the door against the noise of the harbour when the telephone sounded. There was no nervousness when he lifted the receiver this time, nor forgetfulness in starting the recording.

“Everything’s resolved,” he announced, as soon as he heard Underberg’s voice.

“Tell me how,” said Underberg, the voice as patronizing as always.

He had once longed to pulp that arrogant, supercilious face, remembered Deaken. It seemed a juvenile reaction now; all that mattered was getting Karen back.

Succinctly Deaken identified the freighter and gave under Underberg’s detailed questioning, the itemized contents of its cargo. He set out its routing and the brief Madeira docking and insisted, in reply to the repeated question, “It’s already been turned back.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“What time?”

“Eight,” said Deaken. He should have known more positively. “About eight.”

“Good,” said Underberg. “Very good.”

“What about Karen? And the boy?”

“I’ll need better proof than this,” said Underberg. “And turning the boat around is only half of what I want.”

Deaken’s euphoria burst, like an overinflated balloon. “Only half?”

“You surely didn’t think we intended letting those arms go to waste, did you? There’s another destination for them.”

“Where?”

“All in good time,” said Underberg.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Deaken dully.

“It’ll take at least three days, maybe four, for the freighter to get back,” said Underberg. “We’ll make it another forty-eight hours.”

“No, wait!” said Deaken urgently. “How is she? How’s Karen?” As an afterthought, he added, “And the boy?”

“Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “We’re keeping our side of the bargain.”

“And we’re keeping ours,” said Deaken hurriedly.

“Then everything is going to work out fine, isn’t it?” Underberg replaced the receiver. He was at the window, binoculars in hand, when Deaken emerged from the kiosk. Underberg decided he believed the lawyer. Which meant Azziz and Grearson were deceiving the man, as he had expected them to do. He moved away from the window overlooking the harbour, impatient for the call from Levy.

The package had been delivered to the stateroom before the shore-bound tender drew alongside the harbour edge. It contained a list of twenty possible holiday farms, only eight with illustrations. The one at Rixheim was the fifth they came to; the large communal room was considered a feature and was prominently displayed, with two separate colour photographs in the brochure. Azziz and Grearson sat side by side, comparing them to the Polaroid picture showing Deaken’s wife and the boy. The sideboard was identical, even to the matching plates and kitchenware and the manner in which it was arranged. The fireplace with its intricate apparatus of cogs and chains was better shown in the brochure. The bench upon which the couple were sitting had been dragged from one side, they could see.

“For once he wasn’t foolish,” said Grearson.

“It was a good idea,” said the Arab. He added: “I’m glad we took the precautions we did.”

Immediately Grearson picked up a telephone and was connected at once to Paris. It was a brief conversation.

“The major, Evans, has made contact,” he said. “He’s got a unit ready.”

“Good,” said Azziz.

Karen was aware of his concern as soon as Levy came into her bedroom.