Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

“I’ll have people with me?” said Deaken

Muller indicated Swart. “He’ll be in charge. There will be as many men as are needed. We’ll get your wife back.”

It took a couple of hours to make all the arrangements and assemble an immediate advance group to join Deaken and Swart. When the time came to leave, his father asked if he could drive him to the airport at Johannesburg.

“If the guerrillas are planning an offensive in July, the government have got a lot to thank you for.”

“Will you tell mother what happened?” said Deaken, unsure why it was so important for him to impress her.

“Of course,” said the older man. “As far as I’m allowed to.” He smiled ruefully.

“I’d like her to know.”

The man stretched across the car, putting his hand upon his son’s arm. “Come back,” he said.

“I will,” promised Deaken.

“And bring Karen.”

“Yes,” said Deaken after a pause. “I’ll bring Karen.”

Eight men flew from South Africa with Deaken and Swart, in two separate aircraft. Two more went directly to Paris to the South African embassy to collect the weapons that had been shipped over in the diplomatic bag to bypass customs interference. There were contingency plans for more men to follow if Swart decided it was necessary. The first priority was to locate the Russian and, even before the conference in Muller’s office had ended, everyone had recognized the problem facing them in Monte Carlo and the risk of Deaken’s accidental recognition. They chose Nice, taking a series of rooms in the Hotel Negresco; Swart’s suite overlooked the Promenade des Anglais, and it was here the group assembled early on the first morning.

Deaken sat beside Swart but took no part in the briefing, admiring the military precision with which the security man deployed his men, dispatching six to Monte Carlo but reserving two for Marseilles, the departure port of the Bellicose. Despite the speed with which they had left South Africa, Deaken saw Swart had managed to bring a family photograph with him: a woman, as small and stocky as her husband, and two children, a boy and a girl, both fair-haired, smiling into the camera from what appeared to be a picnic scene. It disclosed a personal side of a man whom Deaken had regarded as a hardened professional.

As the men filed from the room Swart said, “And now we wait.”

“And think,” added Deaken.

“About what?”

“The Lloyds reports give the speed of what’s supposed to be the Bellicose sailing back?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s a simple calculation to work out when it should arrive off Algiers.”

“But we know it isn’t going to,” said Swart. “How can Suslev contact a ship that isn’t going to be there?”

Another dead end, thought Deaken.

“I’d like to know what we’re working against,” said Swart.

Deaken looked up sharply. For these unexpected new allies it was a matter of vital security to discover Russia’s part in the arms shipment and if possible to prevent a major battle in a disputed area. For him it was simply a matter of getting Karen back.

The telephone sounded insistently. Swart lapsed into Afrikaans as soon as the caller identified himself, smiling at Deaken. As he replaced the receiver, he said, “Why is it that so often the most complex problem is really the most simple?”

“What’s happened?” said Deaken.

“One of the people I sent to Marseilles did the obvious thing as soon as he arrived there and checked the ships in port. There’s a Levcos-owned freighter named the Hydra Star, loaded and waiting sailing instructions.”

“So that’s how Azziz is going to do it!”

Swart held up his hand. “It looks promising,” he said. “But it could also be a coincidence-Levcos is a big company, with lots of ships. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

“You don’t have to,” said Deaken.

Deaken made good time along the coast road and arrived in Marseilles before midday. He parked the car and approached the boulevard Notre Dame on foot, deciding against telephoning ahead in case Marcel Lerclerc checked either with Ortega or with Grearson direct. The confidence he had felt in the Nice hotel room had evaporated slightly during the drive. There was no certainty that Azziz would have obtained his End-User certificate through Portugal and Ortega again. And if he hadn’t, then the encounter with Lerclerc was going to be ridiculous; worse, it would be suspicious, practically guaranteeing that Lerclerc would check back and that Azziz would come to know about it. It was still worth the risk, though.

Outside the office of the arms dealer’s shipping agent Deaken hesitated, rehearsing his strategy in his head, and then pushed his way through the narrow door and along the cluttered, dirty passage. When he entered the office, Lerclerc looked up without recognition, his face as closed and suspicious as on their first encounter.

“I’ve come without an appointment-forgive me,” said Deaken. When the man didn’t move, Deaken added, “The last shipment, remember? Mr Azziz?”

The huge man heaved himself upwards, extending his hand. “Good to see you again, good to see you,” he said, overeffusive to compensate for his earlier reserve. Almost at once the smile faltered. “No problem this time, is there?”

Deaken pretended to cough, putting his hand to his face to cover any expression of satisfaction. “None at all,” he said. “I was passing on my way back to the yacht and it seemed like a good idea to call to see if everything was all right this end.”

“Pastis?”

“Thank you.”

With his back to Deaken, Lerclerc said, “1 told you last time things don’t go wrong here. The certificate has been accepted, as I advised Mr Grearson, and the export licence has been issued.” He turned back and gave Deaken his glass. They drank. “All we’re waiting for now is the sailing instructions from you,” said Lerclerc.

“It will be a day or two.” Having taken one chance, Deaken decided upon another. “There might be some additions. Could they be added onto the export agreement?”

Lerclerc made a doubtful rocking gesture with his hand. “Might be a chance of something small,” he said. “Nothing big.”

“There’s room though, isn’t there?”

“For a tank at least,” agreed Lerclerc.

“I’ve been away for almost a week,” said Deaken. “Have you sent on the bill of lading?”

Lerclerc nodded and then said, “Do you want to check the duplicate?”

It was going almost too well, thought Deaken exultantly. “To remind myself,” he accepted.

The other man took a folder from a filing cabinet and handed it to him. Beneath a copy of the latest manifest was a duplicate of the Bellicose shipment. They were identical.

“Everything okay?” said Lerclerc.

Deaken nodded. “I think I’ll advise against trying to add to the shipment.”

“It might be best.” The agent paused. “Having got the clearance, I don’t like the stuff hanging around on the docks too long.”

“We’ll move it very soon,” said Deaken. He decided he would be straining his luck if he hung around much longer. As he stood to leave, Lerclerc beamed and said, “Things seem to be very satisfactory all round.”

“Very,” said Deaken.

As he walked back along the boulevard Notre Dame he suddenly thought back to his initial visit, after the bargaining with Ortega in Lisbon. He had argued Ortega into a commission of 5 per cent. Which was the figure Lerclerc had stipulated when he had arrived within hours, a figure the agent couldn’t have learned from Lisbon because Lerclerc’s telephone hadn’t been working. So the Lisbon visit had been a setup, a ruse to get him out of the way, just as the attack in Dakar had been arranged to get him out of the way, permanently this time, after another fool’s errand. Only this time he wasn’t the fool.