Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“We have some men,” said Grearson. “They’re already flying to Strasbourg. I made contact with them an hour ago while you were ashore.”

“What’s wrong with the police?”

“How long do you think that would take?” Azziz spoke dismissively. “Days of dreary explanations, then time to assemble their antiterrorist squads. I want my son back now. Like I thought you wanted your wife back.”

“Of course I want her back,” said Deaken angrily. “But what if anything goes wrong?”

“It won’t,” said Grearson.

Now that the opportunity had come to take the sort of action he had wanted ever since Karen’s kidnap, Deaken felt a curious reluctance to act. He was still frightened, he realized. “What about the negotiations with Underberg?”

Grearson laughed contemptuously. “You heard what he said. All in good time. We’re not going to get them back through any negotiation, any payment… You surely didn’t think we intended letting those arms go to waste, did you?” he quoted again. “They haven’t made all their demands yet, it could be weeks before we even get into the position of negotiating.”

Deaken couldn’t dispute the logic. “What have you arranged?” he said.

“The nearest town of any size to Rixheim is Mulhouse,” said Grearson. “There’s a hotel there called the Parc. That’s the assembly point.”

“For whom?”

“I’m flying up.”

“I want to come too,” said Deaken.

“I expected you to,” said Grearson, with weary resignation.

Karen wanted another bath, but she was reluctant to ask permission of anyone except Levy. Instead she got up, naked, from the bed, filled the basin with cold water and washed herself down, gasping at the water’s chill. But inside she felt a burning warmth, a completeness she hadn’t known for a long time. If ever. She frowned at the qualification, once more refusing the comparison, refusing to consider what she had done and what was happening to her. Only three days ago, or was it four, she had accused Richard of running. Now it was her turn.

Karen was fastening her buttons when the bedroom door burst open. Levy stood there, flushed.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

They had already registered by the time Deaken and Grearson reached Mulhouse, arriving at the hotel on the rue Sinne singly and in pairs, with the cover story to the management that they were engineers assembling from all over France for an international conference which was due to begin within twenty-four hours across the border in Geneva. It provided a satisfactory reason for their abrupt arrival and what they expected to be an equally abrupt departure. They even paid in advance, and with cash, not credit cards. Because it was the biggest-and his by right as commanding officer-the meeting took place in Evans’s room, not technically a suite but with definite aspirations, a larger than normal bedroom with a hollowed-out annexe to the side, with chairs and a table.

Deaken watched, scrutinizing every face, as Grearson explained for the first time what was expected of them. There was no expression from any of them; no shock at the idea of kidnap, no fear or apprehension at confronting unknown opposition or unfamiliar terrain. They didn’t even look human. They could almost have been created from some firm flesh-coloured material that would be hard and metallic to the touch, not something that could be bruised or broken.

Grearson showed the Polaroid photograph and the holiday brochure to Evans. The man made no effort to take it. Grearson shifted impatiently.

“We agreed on terms,” said Evans, setting out the priorities.

From one of the two briefcases he carried with him Grearson took sealed envelopes; only Evans’ was addressed. He distributed them among the relaxed, composed soldiers who accepted the money as their right, without thanks. Each man opened his envelope and carefully counted the notes. Evans offered Grearson a sheet of paper and said, “Expenses so far.”

The American scanned the list, dug into his briefcase then called each man by name, handing over the money. There was a visible relaxation when the transaction was concluded. Evans took the photograph and brochure, spreading them out upon the bed for comparison. The others crowded round.

“Better than nothing,” said Marinetti. “But all it gives us is the internal layout.”

“We’ll need a reconnaissance,” agreed Evans.

“I saw a sports shop two blocks up,” said Bartlett. “Camping, stuff like that.”

“Fine,” said Evans. “You go.”

Deaken sat silently in his chair, feeling superfluous to the discussion. Karen’s life depended on these few men, and he could only watch.

“Any weapons you want will have to come from Paris,” warned Grearson. “I’d like to know what they are now.”

It was Marinetti who spoke again. “Doors front and back,” he said, pointing to the markings on the brochure. “I’ll want to blow them simultaneously, outside lock and the hinges as well, in case there are inside bolts.” He looked up to Grearson. “Plastique,” he said. “I don’t care what sort. Detonators, obviously. And lead wires. A lot of wire, because I’ll want to link back and front charges to go at the same time.”

Grearson made neat, careful notations with a gold propelling pencil. Deaken had to concede that the American was handling himself with admirable professionalism and was as cool in this bizarre encounter as the mercenaries.

“Don’t like that curve in the stairway,” said Jones, sizing up the houseplan. “Be a bastard if they have time to get into position.”

“Stun grenades,” said Evans. He looked at Grearson. “We’ll want the percussion type, developed particularly by Israel: it’s better to cause everyone a little discomfort, even the boy and the woman, than for anyone to get really hurt. But we’ll need earplugs.”

“The Uzi is neat,” said Melvin to Evans.

The organizer nodded. “Uzi automatic weapons,” he instructed Grearson. “They’re Israeli, too. The best.”

“We’ll need something different for the stand-back,” said Hinkler. He was looking at the door, anxious for Bartlett to return from the sports shop.

“One sniper’s rifle,” Evans stipulated. “Make doesn’t matter, although a Mannlicher or an Ingrams would be good. It must have an image intensifier because we’ll be going in during darkness and need a night-sight.”

“Glasses too,” said Jones. “Infrared.”

Evans looked to see that Grearson was writing it down. “Dark coveralls,” he said. “Black if possible; certainly no leopard suits. Woollen berets. And night-black for our faces.”

Deaken wondered if there would be any humorous reference to Jones’s natural advantage. There wasn’t.

“And a closed van,” continued Evans. “To go and come back in.”

Grearson looked up. “That all?”

“Ordinary grenades?” suggested Melvin.

“We want to bring people out alive,” said Evans.

“What about a stretcher, if the boy or the woman gets hurt?” said Hinkler.

Deaken winced, and immediately composed himself, embarrassed at revealing any emotion in front of such an impassive group.

Evans shook his head. “No time,” he said. “If there’s injury, we’ll field-carry them away.” He looked to Grearson. “You making arrangements for any medical needs?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

There was a staccato knock at the door. Hinkler moved hurriedly to admit Bartlett. The mercenary arranged his purchases upon the bed: an orange rucksack with a back frame, a yellow anorak, hiking boots, thick socks, and a red hat with a nodding bobble on the end.

“Great,” said Evans.