Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

He turned at the sound of the door opening. Carole was wearing scuff shoes, very short shorts, and a white cotton shirt tied at the waist.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Can I come in?”

“Why not?”

Her smile faltered momentarily. She came and stood next to him at the window, staring out towards the diminishing launch. “The girls were hoping the guy you came with was going to stay. He looked evil!”

“I think he is,” said Deaken mildly. She was close enough for him to he aware of her light, almost imperceptible, perfume. He was also conscious of her gaze but she didn’t ask the question he expected. Instead she said, “Everyone’s down by the pool.”

“They usually are.”

“Why are you always so shitty?”

“I didn’t know I was.”

There was another sad smile. Wearily she said, “Don’t sit in judgement on me. We all use what we’ve got, the best we can. I’ve got a body which 1 know how to use. And I’m good to look at.”

“Yes,” he said.

She made a so-what gesture. “And because 1 know you can hardly stop yourself asking, I’ll tell you. I got myself into the best house in Paris, one where I choose. I haven’t been doing it for long and I don’t intend going on for much longer. I’m not going to become a raddled old whore, doing ten-franc tricks in back alleys.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me.” She was wearing a light grey eye make-up that he didn’t remember from their last meeting. And a more definite lipstick.

“Why not relax?” she said.

“I’m not here to relax.”

“We could just talk.”

“I’m not sure that it would stop there.”

“That’s up to you.”

This was absurd, thought Deaken. What the hell was he doing, talking like this to a whore?

“No.”

Carole walked to the door. “If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

Three hundred miles to the northwest, in the bedroom of a large cottage set among the encircling green hills of Sisteron, Karen hurriedly stood up as the key moved in the lock.

“What was that all about downstairs?” she asked.

“A visitor,” Levy said.

“I thought it might have been…” She hesitated. “I’m glad,” she said. “Insane, isn’t it?”

Deaken recognized that the contact had become routine, almost like leaving home at a regular time to catch the regular train to the regular nine-to-five job. He didn’t even glance at the approaching shoreline, a commuter and therefore bored with the landscape, but back over the stern of the tender, seeing the wake cream behind it. And then the figure at the rail of the retreating yacht. It was Carole, he knew; he had seen her as he descended the steps but pretended not to. And she hadn’t called out either, to attract his attention. Her apparent interest in him had to be strictly professional, like the solicitous secretary and the solicitous stewards. And why did it matter anyway? For her attitude to be important to him under the present circumstances would be grotesque, unthinkable. So why was he looking back to catch a glimpse of her?

In no time they were among the outer yachts, able because of their draught to get in close. All about him there was the creak and tinkle of mooring ropes and stanchions and fantails occupied by people relaxing and laughing and drinking or eating. Safe people. Secure and untroubled. Lucky people.

The alarm flared the moment Deaken set foot on the jetty and saw the designated telephone box was occupied: by a woman, too old for the shorts and the sagging halter top, eyes cavernous from too much mascara, cheeks ablaze with rouge, lips wounded by scarlet lipstick. He checked his watch: five minutes-time enough. Enormous sunglasses, like screens on stilts, were collapsed alongside her purse, which gaped open at the coin pouch for her to stuff more money into the box. She laughed, turning as she did so. Her teeth were white and even and precise, a graded monument to mathematical dentistry. Her brow wrinkled at his hovering presence and she looked pointedly at the unoccupied booths. Then she turned, hunching her shoulders against him. Her back was deeply tanned, wrinkled by overexposure to too much sun. Two minutes left. Hag, Deaken thought. Ugly bloody hag. He looked worriedly about him, knowing that he was being observed and hoping that Underberg could see what was happening and allow him some leeway. Jesus, why didn’t she hurry! From a yacht against the harbour wall there was a burst of laughter followed by shrieks of alarm as a drunken man teetered theatrically, grabbing a stern stanchion to prevent himself falling into the water. Christ, how he hated them, with their comfort and complacency and their wealth! At once his rational mind cut through the panic. That was a ridiculous thought; infantile. They had every right to their money and their privilege, to laugh and drink and flirt and do what they wanted. His anger wasn’t at them. The woman had put down the receiver. Deaken thrust forward before she had time to get out.

“There were other kiosks…” she began, but Deaken pushed past her. “Bastard,” she muttered: her Australian accent made the oath sound more effective. Deaken pulled the door shut. “Bastard,” came the muffled repetition through the glass. He kept his back to her. Five past twelve. Please, dear God, don’t make me wait another four hours, he thought. The booth reeked of the woman, of her body, of suntan oil and a heavy, cloying perfume. Under the glare of the midday sun the trapped air felt sticky and unpleasant. He put the recorder on the tiny support and realized he had begun to read the English translation of the dialling instructions for overseas calls. He stopped, annoyed with himself and not knowing why. Ten past. He looked out of the kiosk. The woman was stumping away along the walkway on top of one of the embracing arms of the harbour, her fat buttocks wobbling with every gallumphing footstep. Bloody hag, he thought again.

The telephone rang. Deaken looked disbelievingly at it and then grabbed the instrument to his ear.

“I’m glad you waited,” said the voice.

I’m glad you did, thought Deaken. He remembered the recorder, squeezing the suction cap into place. “Didn’t have much choice,” he said.

“I told you what would happen to your wife if you weren’t careful about what Azziz did,” said Underberg. “You let him raise an army.”

“I didn’t know,” lied Deaken.

“You were supposed to know. Just as you were supposed to know everything he plans to do.”

Deaken felt sick, deep in his stomach. “What else?”

“Two days ago you told me about the Bellicose… lied to me about it…”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Do you know what Lloyds of London is, Mr Deaken?” Without waiting for the lawyer to reply, Underberg said, “It’s the most efficient maritime brokerage and insurance firm throughout the world. Part of that efficiency involves knowing the position of ships insured by them. You told me the Bellicose had been turned aroun… gave me timings. I’d already checked with Lloyds. When you told me the freighter was heading northwards it was still going south, down the coast of Africa. It still is, as a matter of fact. Lloyds don’t make mistakes in their plotting. They can’t afford to-any more than you can. The ship has never been turned.”

Azziz was a bastard, thought Deaken. A stupid, lying bastard. “He said…” started Deaken but Underberg cut him off, impatient with the excuses. “I told you not to believe what he said… I told you to make sure that everything was done exactly as I wanted it, otherwise your wife would suffer.”

“Where is she now?”

Underberg laughed. “Miles away from where your Action Men did their number,” he said. “I had them out within two hours of realizing you were lying about the ship changing course. 1 guessed you’d found out where they were… and were playing for time.”