Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“What can we do about it?” said Morris Habel, the last member of the group.

“Plenty,” said Leiberwitz.

Deaken had been so sure that he was going to get Karen back: he had rehearsed what he was going to say, how he was going to care for her. Now he felt numbed and emptied.

“It was absolutely clean,” said Evans, pouring himself a Scotch. There was no shake to his hand, no indication that he laid his life on the line an hour earlier.

“Maybe…” began Deaken, and then stopped, looking at the tie that Evans had taken from his pocket and was offering to Grearson.

“Yes,” said the older lawyer at once. “That’s the Ecole Gagner colours.”

“The boy’s name’s inside,” said Evans. He turned to Deaken. “What about this?”

Nervously, like a man fearing contact with something contaminated, Deaken took the watch. He felt his heart thump wildly and his throat constrict, so that he found it difficult to speak immediately. Then he said, “Yes, that’s Karen’s watch.”

“So they left in a hurry?” said Grearson.

Evans shook his head. “Everything had been tidied, beds made. The whole house. The tie was carefully laid across one bed, the watch in the middle of another.”

“You were meant to find it,” said Grearson.

Evans sipped his whisky. “That’s the way it looked to me.”

“Bastards!” said Deaken.

“Certainly seem sure of themselves,” said Evans.

“How the hell could they have known?” said Grearson.

“Maybe they figured you’d work it out exactly as you did. They know the resources you’ve got, after all.” The American poured himself another drink; the job was over and he was relaxing. He offered the bottle to the two lawyers. Both shook their heads.

“Where are the others?” said Grearson.

“Away,” said Evans, returning to his seat. “By midday tomorrow the inquiries into what happened at the farmhouse will have reached here. We don’t want them to find a vanload of weaponry.”

“Where are they?” said Grearson.

“Clermont Ferrand.”

“Why there?”

“I’d been there before,” said Evans. “Knew there was a hotel called Foch. We needed a contact point.” The man paused. “We did what we were engaged to do.”

“I know,” said Grearson. “The terms stand.”

“Dollars,” said Evans. “Everyone wants to be paid in cash. American.”

“Could you come back with us to Monte Carlo?”

“Of course.”

Anger flickered through Deaken. They could have been discussing a property deal or buying a car; anything but the botched attempt to recover a woman-his wife!-who was enduring God knows what sort of horror. But the anger seeped away as quickly as it had come. What good would it have done to shout and to rage?

As if aware of Deaken’s thoughts, Evans turned to him and said, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Thank you, for what you tried to do,” said Deaken. Now he was behaving as rationally as them.

“Yes,” said Grearson, rather as an afterthought. “Thank you. Mr Azziz will be grateful.”

“Do you want me to disband?” said Evans.

There was a moment’s hesitation. “No,” said Grearson. “Not yet. Hang on awhile.”

Deaken frowned. “Surely you don’t think there’ll be another opportunity?”

“At this moment,” said Grearson, “I don’t know what to think.”

It took Underberg longer than expected to reach the cottage hidden away in the hills behind Sisteron: he misjudged the holiday traffic and the difficulty of overtaking on the narrow, twisting roads as he climbed up from the coast. Underberg decided the farmhouse assault had been useful because it confirmed his prediction that the Arab would fight. And he doubted that Azziz would capitulate after one failure. Azziz was a proud man, used to unchallenged success; he would be furious at what was happening and at his helplessness to do anything about it.

Levy hurried from the house to meet him, as soon as Underberg turned off the rutted track into the villa. The Israeli was grave-faced.

“Have you heard the newscasts?” he demanded the moment Underberg opened the door.

“Of course,” said Underberg. “And seen the television pictures.”

“A trained assault force, they said. Soldiers, a trained force of soldiers.”

“It’s hardly surprising, is it?” said Underberg. “Considering what Azziz does for a living.”

“We never considered having to fight trained soldiers.”

“You didn’t have to,” reminded Underberg. “I got you out in good time.”

Levy grimaced.

“And don’t you intend confronting trained soldiers as soon as you’ve got the necessary weapons’?” said Underberg.

“That’s different,” said Levy. “Then we’ll be ready…”

“You make it sound like some biblical confrontation, lining up on either side of a valley.”

“In a way that’s how we regard it.”

Christ, they were stupid, thought Underberg. His carefully prepared role allowed him to give a warning. “Don’t,” said Underberg. “You should know better than to expect our people to fight by the rules. The Israelis fight to win-they’ve got to.”

“We’ll be ready when the time comes,” repeated Levy, but without conviction. “It was just that we didn’t expect the other business.”

“I don’t know how they discovered the place,” said Underberg. “But they’ll never find us here. Even I got lost.”

Levy smiled grimly.

“Where are they?” said Underberg.

“I did what you said, locked them in their bedrooms. Both are on the other side of the house.”

“I know Azziz is trying to cheat on us,” said Underberg.

“How?”

“I know,” insisted Underberg. “I’m going to give him one more warning… to make sure he does what we want. If he doesn’t, we’ll have to convince him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Send him some evidence that’s a little more tangible than a photograph.”

“No!” said Levy at once.

The rejection surprised Underberg. “What do you mean, no?”

“We’re not butchers. The plan was always that they wouldn’t be hurt if we could help it.”

“Are you prepared to give up your settlement?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“You can’t fight without guns.”

“I won’t consider cutting off an ear or a finger. It’s repellent. We’re not animals.”

Underberg looked beyond Levy to the cottage. “There are others who are less squeamish.”

“No,” said Levy, although he knew Underberg was right. “They’ll fight, like I’ll fight. But they won’t torture.”

“Like you, I hope it won’t come to that.”

As they walked towards the house, Underberg said, “How’s the boy’s chill today?”

“He doesn’t seem any worse.” He paused. “Or better, for that matter. I’d still like to get some sort of medical attention.”

“You know that’s quite impossible,” said Underberg. “Let the woman look after him.”

“She’s doing what she can, but she’s not a doctor.”

Underberg stopped at the door. “Do you want to risk another commando assault?” he said.

Levy swallowed. “I suppose not.”

“Then the boy stays as he is.” Underberg went into the house. The Israelis were grouped in the main room, like children awaiting the arrival of a headmaster whose fierceness they had been warned about in advance. Underberg reflected it was fortunate they would never get the chance to mount their ridiculous protest in Israel; they would be annihilated in a matter of hours.

“Everything is going to be fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

There was an observation room immediately above the larger stateroom where Azziz had listened impassively to every detail of the abortive rescue attempt. Immediately after the meeting broke up, Deaken wandered up there. Padded seats ran in a half-circle below the windows. There was one low, glass-topped table and the inevitable bar. The bar was closed but Deaken didn’t want a drink. He stood to starboard, looking out towards Monte Carlo, trying to isolate the blank glimmer of windows in the buildings over half a mile away, wondering if behind one of them was the bastard who kept taunting him in that condescending, mocking voice. Far below he heard the growl of the tender and then saw the craft emerge from the shadow of the yacht; Grearson and Evans were standing side by side, each holding on to the cabin roof, apparently two relaxed guests going ashore from a millionaire’s yacht. He supposed that within two hours Evans would be driving northwards to Clermont Ferrand with an attache case packed with dollar bills. The overwhelming sense of helplessness gripped him once more. Nearly another twenty-four hours before the next tenuous contact. Jesus, he had to do something more!