Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“You want the man given a northerly course, but for the ship to continue southwards?” It was important to extract some logic from the frequent illogicality.

“The false positions must always come from the master.”

“What about sunrise and sunset?” said Levcos. “Surely he’ll realize what’s really happening?”

“Once he’s at sea he’ll be trapped: it doesn’t matter,” said Grearson.

“Doesn’t he work for you?”

“No,” said Grearson positively.

Levcos’s office was in Athens’s port of Piraeus. It overlooked the ferry terminals and from the window it was possible to see the hydrofoils scurrying to the Greek islands, skittering away like water insects not breaking the surface tension of a pond.

“What’s the true destination?”

From his briefcase Grearson took a copy of Makimber’s last cable. “Benguela,” he said. “The Bellicose is to anchor ten miles off and wait for contact on the thirteenth.” All information about the delay request and Makimber’s refusal had been erased, so Grearson offered the paper across to the Greek shipowner. “Here’s the positional fix and the recognition signal.”

“Victory?” frowned Levcos, reading the call sign.

“Our clients are frequently given to theatricals.”

“Do you want me to inform our people in Dakar?”

“Are they staff?”

Levcos shook his head. “Agents.”

“Then I don’t think so,” said Grearson. “Let’s restrict it to the captain.”

“It would be best,” agreed Levcos. “And the other ship?”

“To remain in Marseilles, until it’s necessary to cross to Algiers to coordinate with the supposed arrival there of the Bellicose.” The lawyer hesitated, coming to the most difficult part of the meeting. “And we would like to sail from Marseilles with some of our people aboard.”

Grearson wondered what reaction showed in the man’s eyes, hidden behind the glasses. The face remained blank. “What for?” demanded the Greek.

“To protect the cargo.”

“There could be trouble?”

“It’s possible.” The American knew Levcos was too professional to accept anything more than the basic minimum of lying.

“I could not afford difficulties within the Mediterranean,” said Levcos.

“It is not illegal,” insisted Grearson. “Everything being carried has a valid End-User certificate, issued to a registered dealer in Portugal. Their purpose aboard will be only to protect the cargo.” As an afterthought, he added, “And the ship, of course.”

“This is extremely unusual,” said Levcos.

Grearson looked momentarily towards the busy harbour, accepting that negotiations had begun. “We understand that,” he said. It was like one of the bicycle races so popular on French television, where the contestants hovered and manoeuvred, reluctant to be the forerunner.

“A ship is a valuable property,” said Levcos.

“Of course,” said Grearson. At the moment neither wheel was in front of the other.

Levcos made the pretence of looking through the papers before him, as if information on the second freighter was available; Grearson was sure it wasn’t. The Greek was an accomplished rider.

“Purchase price was $3,500,000,” said Levcos.

Grearson estimated an exaggeration of at least $ 1,000,000. He didn’t have time to check and argue; he’d been wrong to criticize Deaken for his difficulty in confronting the telephone demands. Now he was in exactly the same position, wobbling behind. “For which I’m sure you’re insured,” he said.

“There are exclusions,” said Levcos. “It would be a difficult claim to pursue if my assumptions are right about the problems you might encounter.’’

“As charterers, we’re insured; our indemnity would extend to include any damage to the carrying vehicle,” Grearson sought assistance from legality.

Levcos shook his head, a gesture of sadness perfectly rehearsed. “I don’t think we’ve met; that this conversation ever took place,” he said.

So Levcos was absolved from any foreknowledge of what might happen, recognized Grearson. There was an intellectual stimulation in dealing with the other man. “What is it you seek, Mr Levcos?”

“A bonded commitment,” said the Greek. “Backdated cover, personally liable against Eklon Corporation, from the date of the second charter.’’

“In what sum?”

Levcos smiled again, that practised expression of regret. “For the full purchase price, of course.”

“No charterer would agree to such a commitment.”

“Of course not,” agreed Levcos. “No normal charterer, that is.”

He had just got a puncture, decided Grearson; it was becoming a bumpy ride. “Suppose I could provide such an undertaking.”

“Contractually?” pressed Levcos.

“Yes.”

“Insurance is against misfortune.”

The Greek could smell an advantage like a shark detecting blood in water. “Agreed,” Grearson said.

“Which we hope will never befall us.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like there to be a fuller understanding between us,” said the shipowner.

“About what?” The American knew it wasn’t even a race anymore.

“Future association.”

“I’ve already made it clear how grateful we are for your understanding,” said Grearson. “You’ll naturally be a shipper of whom we’ll think for a seaborne consignment.”

Again there was the sad smile and Grearson decided that, of all the artificiality, that annoyed him most of all.

“There’s often a wide gap between thoughts and application,” said Levcos.

“What sort of contract would you seek?” said Grearson, in full retreat.

“Three consignments,” said Levcos.

“Two,” said Grearson.

“Minimum of two-month charter on each.”

Grearson sighed. “Agreed,” he said.

This time the smile was of complete satisfaction. “I can guarantee that your man aboard the Bellicose won’t have the slightest idea what’s happening-and that the rendezvous will be kept on the thirteenth.”

“Thank you,” said Grearson. There was little for which he had to be grateful.

“What about this man Deaken?” said Levcos. “He’ll realize then that he’s been duped.”

“We don’t give a damn,” said Grearson.

Karen hadn’t purposely approached quietly, but Levy hadn’t heard her. She stood in the doorway, surprised at the slowness with which he wrote, a purposeful, careful formation of letters, with frequent stops to consider the words. Twice he scrubbed out a half-completed idea and started again. She felt consumed with love for him.

“Azziz is going to get up later,” she said, not wanting to spy on him.

The Israeli jumped. Instinctively he moved to cover what he was doing, then relaxed back in his chair.

“I’m writing to Rebecca,” he said.

“Yes.” She had guessed that was what he was doing.

“She worries, by herself with the children.”

“Yes,” she said again. She had no right to be jealous. “Do you miss her?”

“I miss the children.”

“I didn’t ask about the children. I asked about Rebecca.”

He looked steadily at her. “Yes,” he said. “1 miss her.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lie.”

“You’d have known, if I’d tried.”

“Thank you, just the same.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I think I love you too,” she said.

Levy folded the letter with the care with which he had been writing it and sealed it in an envelope. “I’ve told her I hope to see her soon.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he said. Then immediately, “No.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” she said.

“God knows.”