Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

So that was how it happened, thought Deaken. He said, “Is she all right?”

“Did you get her watch? And Azziz’s tie?”

“I asked you if she was all right?”

“For the moment,” said Underberg. “But only for the moment. I want you to understand, and more importantly I want Azziz to understand, that I’m becoming more and more irritated by what’s happening. If that ship isn’t turned back and directed exactly how I want it to be, then next time you and he will get a more unpleasant reminder of what we can do to them. Would you want your wife to lose a finger. Mr Deaken? Or an ear?”

“Wait!” said Deaken desperately. “Don’t do that. There’s no need to do anything like that. I promise you from now on everything will be done exactly as you want it. Don’t…” Deaken’s mind blocked at the thought.

“Then this time get it right,” said Underberg.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Make sure this tedious lying stops,” said Underberg. “On Saturday the Bellicose docks at Dakar. I want you to be there in person. I want you to board and I want you to be responsible for messages back to the Levcos offices in Greece, giving the precise longitudinal and latitudinal fix. And if I don’t think it’s right and Lloyds don’t think it’s right, or if the slightest thing happens to make me suspicious… to make me think you intend using your private army again, then your wife loses a finger. And the boy a finger. Then an ear. That’s the price, Mr Deaken. A piece of their bodies for every mistake you make. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” said Deaken dully. “I understand.”

“Is that recorder working properly?”

“Yes,” said Deaken.

“Good. Because I want Azziz to get the proper message. I want him to hear everything I’ve said. And to believe it.”

“Where do you want the freighter to go?”

“With the position, give Levcos the speed, so I can estimate your arrival back in the Mediterranean. Make a refuelling stop in Algiers. You’ll be told what to do then in a cable addressed to you on the ship.”

Whatever he tried to do he remained a puppet, controlled by the twists and jerks of this man’s fingers, thought Deaken. “All right,” he said.

“No more attempts to be clever.”

“There won’t be.”

“Your wife’s too attractive.”

Deaken felt the sickness rise and swallowed against it. “Don’t hurt her,” he pleaded again.

“Whether she or the boy gets hurt depends upon you and Azziz. Don’t forget that for a moment.”

“1 won’t.”

“Position and speed,” insisted the man.

“Yes,” said the lawyer.

“And warn Azziz against trying to trace the contact calls to the Levcos office-they’ll be from a public box, so he’ll be wasting his time.”

“What about this contact?” said Deaken. “Azziz has got a man, Grearson. He could maintain it.”

There was a hesitation from the other end of the telephone. “The same time,” agreed Underberg. “Every other day.”

Deaken felt relief that the link wasn’t being severed. “Every other day,” he repeated as if Underberg would need the confirmation.

“No more stupidity,” said Underberg. “Don’t make your wife suffer.”

Deaken maintained his control with difficulty while they listened to the recording but, as Grearson leaned forward to stop the tape, he could restrain himself no longer. “You idiotic bastard!” he shouted at Azziz.

The attack seemed to take both the other men by surprise. Azziz recovered first. “No one speaks to me…”

“I do,” interrupted Deaken. “It’s my wife you’re putting at risk. And your son. What the hell sort of man are you, willing to risk his child like that? Are you mad? Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

Azziz’s face was composed like a mask, but on either cheek tiny patches of white pinched his features. “Having located the farmhouse, we had to take our chance,” he said. His voice was flat, expressionless.

“We didn’t know about the farmhouse when I went ashore to tell him about the boat,” said Deaken furiously. “When you promised me it had been turned back. It was a lie and you knew it.”

Deaken walked over to Azziz. “We can’t take any more chances,” he said, his voice calmer. “I don’t want to be here on this fucking yacht. I don’t want your hospitality. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I want to be home in Geneva. With my wife. Safely.” Deaken stopped breathlessly. “I think you’re a stupid bastard.”

“I think you’re forgetting yourself,” said Grearson, coming to his employer’s defence.

“I’m not forgetting anything,” said Deaken. “I’m not forgetting the lies or what it might cost Karen.” He indicated the silent tape-recorder. “And I’m particularly not forgetting that if you hadn’t behaved like such bloody fools and kept that ship going, they wouldn’t have become suspicious and cleared the farmhouse. We’d have them both back by now. Most of all I can’t forget that.”

“It was a mistake,” said Azziz in rare confession.

“it’s the last one we’re allowed,” said Deaken.

The boy lay limp with exhaustion against the pillows, but the constant sheen of perspiration had gone so Karen assumed the fever was over. Tewfik forced himself to reach out for the flannel and then the towel, reluctant to be washed by her. Gratefully Karen surrendered them.

“How are you feeling?” she said.

“Not very strong,” he said, slumping against the support and handing back the washing things. “What’s been wrong with me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I ache,” said Azziz. “I ache all over.”

“You’ve not eaten anything for a long time,” said Karen. “I’ll bring you something.”

“Thank you,” said Azziz. “For what you’ve done, I mean. I know how you’ve looked after me. I appreciate it.”

He hadn’t been aware of her reluctance any more than the others had, realized Karen thankfully. “That’s all right,” she said.

“Why did we have to move?”

“Your father discovered the first place.” She wondered if Richard had been involved. It hadn’t occurred to her until now; very little about Richard had occurred to her in the last few days. And she didn’t feel any remorse.

Tewfik smiled wanly. “I knew he would,” said the boy proudly “They’ll be sorry for what they’ve done “

“Yes,” she said uncomfortably.

“They’re bastards, aren’t they?” demanded the boy.

This time her hesitation was longer. “Bastards,” she agreed at last, knowing she had to.

The response from Africa to their request for a delivery delay arrived thirty minutes after Deaken had left the stateroom. The call was routed through Paris and for better reception Grearson went up to the communications room. It was a short conversation.

“Makimber says no,” reported the American lawyer as he reentered the stateroom. “It seems Underberg is right: Makimber insists they’re necessary for a specific date. It’s got to be the contracted time.”

“That’s a pity,” said Azziz. His anger at the confrontation with Deaken had gone-anger was wasteful and Azziz never wasted anything.

Grearson appeared surprised at the calm reaction. “So we give Deaken all the authority he wants to turn the ship back?”

Azziz didn’t reply at once. Then he said, “How about the second shipment?”

“Ready for loading.”

The Arab smiled. “What does Underberg want?”

“The Bellicose turned back.”

“A ship apparently turned back,” Azziz said. “What if a vessel looking like the Bellicose and loaded like the Bellicose made the Algeria rendezvous?”

“It won’t work,” said Grearson. “The instructions are that Deaken sails with the Bellicose and reports its position, with independent checks from Lloyds.”