Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“Checking that a yacht owned by a man called Adnan Azziz, who has a son in a Swiss school, was in harbour at Monte Carlo,” elaborated Muller. “That there was an unexplained and so far unsolved assault upon a holiday villa near a small French town called Rixheim. And that a freighter named the Bellicose, owned by the Levcos shipping company, sailed from Marseilles over a week ago and made a call within the last two days at Dakar.”

Deaken experienced the sensation of being in a lift that suddenly descends faster than expected.

“Thank you,” he said, soft-voiced. “For believing me… for bothering to make the inquiries.”

“It wasn’t altruism,” said Muller. “We’ve an interest in stopping major campaigns in Namibia.” He hesitated. “Which remains a problem.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Deaken’s father.

Muller looked at Swart. The stocky man cleared his throat and said, “According to what you told me last night, Azziz has ordered the Bellicose to return for a rendezvous off Algiers.”

The falling sensation hit Deaken again, but this time it was a result of fear-fear and blinding anger. “Don’t say the bastard has-!”

“Lloyds report a northerly course,” said Swart. “The last report put the freighter forty miles off the Mauritanian coast, making twelve knots in a medium swell.”

Deaken frowned at the man. “So he is doing what he said?”

“We’ve long-range reconnaissance aircraft,” interrupted Muller. “We ordered a check, initially little more than a precaution. At dawn this morning a freighter, later identified from aerial photographs to be the Bellicose, was proceeding southwards towards Angola.”

There was a protracted silence in the room. Deaken’s father broke it. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“Only if there are two ships,” said the security chief. “And we know there aren’t. That’s why we delayed this meeting. We overflew the Mauritanian position two hours ago-a supposed Air Force training flight to the Azores. We’ve swept the area. There are ships certainly. But none of them is the Bellicose. ”

“So Underberg…” said Deaken, beginning to understand, “or whoever he is will think we’re keeping to the arrangement,” he said. “He is getting his information from Lloyds.”

It made sense of what had happened in Dakar. Azziz was the bwana mkubwa, the big man who had wanted to keep him off the Bellicose, so that he wouldn’t discover that a change of course was never intended for the freighter.

“I understand your reaction,” said Muller. “Of more concern to us is that whoever bought all the weaponry appears to be getting delivery as planned.”

“It has to be SWAPO surely?” said Deaken.

“That’s the obvious conclusion,” said Muller. “But there are still too many uncertainties about this business.”

He looked at Swart again. The man took from Muller’s desk two photographs and showed them to Deaken. “Do you recognize either of these two men?”

They were official pictures, both men staring directly and self-consciously at the camera. “No” said Deaken. “I’ve never seen either of them before.”

“I’m glad,” said Muller.

“Who are they?” said Deaken.

“Marius Underberg and Jan Underberg,” said the Director.

“So who’s the man I saw in Geneva?”

“Will you do something for us?” asked Muller.

“Of course,” said Deaken. As he spoke, he realized the final irony. He was cooperating, even seeking the assistance, of an organization which he had criticized and fought all his life. But there was no choice. “What do you want?” he said.

“For you to work with our artists. Identikit and photofit specialists, We need a picture of the man you met in Geneva.”

Two men were waiting in the office next door, one with paper pinned across an artist’s drawing board, the other standing at a table before assorted boxes. Deaken worked first with the photofit expert, picking his way through the containers holding every feature of the human face, from basic outline to warts, moles and strawberry birthmarks. Deaken worked with total concentration, occasionally closing his eyes mentally to picture again the smug, selfassured countenance that had confronted him over his cheap office desk in Switzerland. It took a long time and at the end he ached with the effort.

“It’s as good as I can get it,” he said.

“Then let me improve it,” said the artist.

While the photograph was being taken off the composite image, Deaken went over the photofit features with which he was not completely satisfied. He remained at the man’s shoulder while he worked, with fine-haired brushes and then an air brush, tinting and paring until at last Deaken was staring down at the man who called himself Underberg. The retouched version was photographed again and then the three of them went back to the Director’s office.

“Comparisons?” asked Muller.

“Begun from the original photofit,” said the man who had created it. “This version is put through a physiognomy computer.”

Deaken looked curiously between the intelligence director and his technicians. “So what happens now?” he said.

“More checking,” said Muller.

It took ten minutes. A third, white-coated man came in with a folder and handed it to Muller. The Director detached a snapshot-size photograph and handed it to Deaken. “Is this the man?” he said.

It was clearly a photograph that had been taken without the subject’s knowledge. It showed him striding down a wide highway, bordered by modern buildings, and from the number of blacks Deaken guessed it was somewhere in Africa.

“Who is he?” said Deaken.

“His name is Vladimir Suslev,” replied Muller.

Mitri brought the message from the radio room, padding respectfully into the stateroom and handing it to Azziz. The Arab read it, his face clouding. He studied it a second time to ensure that he had properly understood. Then he looked up to Grearson and said, “It’s from Levcos. They’ve had a signal from the Bellicose that Deaken didn’t board in Dakar.”

“What!”

“He apparently made contact with the agent there the day before the docking. But that was the last they saw of him.”

“So where the hell is he?”

“God knows.”

“What about the messages?”

“They’re being sent as arranged. They were never dependent upon Deaken’s presence anyway.”

“If he tries something on his own, he could ruin everything.” Grearson brought his fist down hard on the chair arm.

“Your people in Marseilles-Evans and the others-they know Deaken, don’t they?” asked Azziz.

“Sure,” said Grearson.

“If they see him, poking around the docks… doing anything… I want him killed.”

It was a long, frustrating discussion, with frequent cul-de-sacs from which none of them could find an exit. It had long since grown dark, and Pretoria was still and quiet. The Director’s office was littered with debris of long occupation, discarded coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches.

“Why should Vladimir Suslev, whom we know to have acted as a military adviser to Angola and again with SWAPO guerrillas in Namibia, represent himself as South African? Why should he kidnap a Saudi Arabian arms dealer’s son-and the wife of a South African of some notoriety-and stipulate the ransom to be the rerouting of an arms shipment for an organization which the Soviet Union supports against us?” demanded Muller.

It was the recurring question, the maypole around which they had all danced until the strings had become tangled.

“And what the hell is Azziz doing?” said Deaken.

“That at least we may be able to find out,” said Muller.