Brian Freemantle - Deaken’s War

Grearson snapped off the recording of that morning’s interchange from the quayside telephone and said, “He seems satisfied that the Bellicose is on its way back.”

Azziz nodded.

“And we’re going to get a picture showing that Tewfik is all right.” Grearson wanted to make sure his employer was in no doubt about his successful negotiation.

“I’m grateful to you,” said Azziz. “You’ve handled everything extremely well.”

Ashore, the patient South African search team reached the Bristol Hotel which had been given to Deaken as a backup contact point. From the head porter, whom they tipped 100 francs, Suslev was identified as the guest in the harbour-front room on the sixth floor. He was registered as R. Underberg. They omitted to make a note of the supposed passport number, which was a considerable mistake.

At one stage the intention had been for the conference to be chaired by the Prime Minister and to include responsible ministers from the cabinet, but it was finally decided to restrict it to service chiefs and their respective intelligence heads, for a fuller report to be compiled before positive and direct government involvement.

Muller conducted it, from a raised dais in the conference room of the Skinner Street building. Easels and blackboards were arranged behind him to accommodate the maps and photographs available; the centrepiece was a detailed chart of the west coast of Angola, Namibia and South Africa, marked with a model of a ship and a dotted line showing the progress of the Bellicose. Against the line, at timed and dated intervals, were positions obtained from the aerial reconnaissance. The last inscription was three hours earlier and the naval chief-of-staff, an admiral named Hertzog, said, “What’s the latest position?”

Muller looked instinctively at his watch. “As of half an hour ago, forty miles off Luanda.” He used a pointer, indicating the distances between timings. “From these we’ve been able to make an estimate of the speed: she seems to be making about eight knots.”

“Still heading south?” queried the army chief, Brigadier General Althorpe.

“Still heading south,” confirmed Muller.

“What’s the information from Namibia?” said Althorpe. He hesitated, looking at his own intelligence officer. “We’ve isolated reports but no indication of any concerted mobilization.”

“I ordered the highest priority the moment the risk seemed genuine,” said Muller. “There’s certainly indication of assembly at Tses, Gibeon and Maltahohe. A lot of movement farther north, in the Caprivi Strip, too.”

“We’re not limiting reconnaissance to the ocean,” said the Air Force chief, a man named Youngblood. “Within twenty-four hours I hope to have some definite information.”

After his meeting with Lerclerc, Deaken had itemized everything he could remember from the cargo manifest of the Bellicose. Muller had duplicated it and made a copy available to everyone in the room. Hertzog raised his sheet and said, “There’s too much here for any seaborne unloading; it’ll have to dock.”

“Benguela is the most obvious place, if she doesn’t turn east towards Luanda,” said Muller. “There’s Mocamedes, but that’s far too close to our border. I don’t think they’d risk it.”

Althorpe gestured towards the enlarged map. “There are thousands of inlets and bays.”

Now Muller lifted his copy of the cargo list. “Even if the ship’s derrick was capable of offloading them, the freighter’s draught would keep her offshore. She’d need to be alongside.”

Youngblood looked sideways, towards the army contingent. “Any indication of a Soviet buildup?”

Althorpe nodded for his intelligence chief to reply. He was a thin man named Harper, whose Adam’s apple bobbed nervously up and down when he spoke. “It’s always difficult to estimate. As you know, Moscow usually avoids direct involvement by working through Cubans or East Germans. We don’t estimate they’ve more than a hundred Soviet personnel on the ground.”

Youngblood turned to Muller. “Do you agree?”

Muller hesitated, not wanting to contradict a colleague. “About a hundred military advisers,” he said. “But I think in Angola and probably Namibia too, there are more straight intelligence operatives who aren’t bothering with any sort of advisory cover.”

“What about Suslev?”

The photograph located after Deaken’s photofit re-creation had been enlarged and occupied almost all of one blackboard. Muller said, “We don’t know a lot. The indications are that he isn’t KGB but an officer in the military division of Russian intelligence, the GRU. Certainly a long-serving officer. Positively identified in Angola in 1978 and then 1980, when this photograph was taken. No sightings for over a year and then a brief appearance, about four or five months ago. After that, nothing.”

“Anything yet from Europe?” demanded Hertzog.

Muller shook his head. “They haven’t had a lot of time. Swart’s a good man, one of the best in my service. And he’s got a good team.”

“I’m concerned about the involvement of Deaken,” said Youngblood. “Not a good history.”

“I’m quite aware of it,” said Muller. “He’s not acting as a provocateur. I’m sure. So’s his father.”

“Who’s been named today as Minister for Interior,” reminded Althorpe. “It’s a delicate situation.”

“Which I’m also aware of,” assured Muller. “And so are the people I’ve got with him in France. Swart has got two briefs. The first is to find out what the hell the Russians are doing. The second is to avoid any embarrassment that might affect a member of our government. Our involvement with Deaken will be kept to the minimum.”

“Seems to me that the apple splits almost perfectly in half,” said Hertzog. “The freighter is one problem. Europe another.”

“I don’t want that weaponry ashore.” said Althorpe positively. He patted the list on the table before him. “If there is mobilization and if this stuff is distributed, then we’ll have the biggest conflict yet on our hands. Maybe not just one battle; probably several. Which means more international attention and more UN criticism.”

“There’d be a damned sight more international attention if I intercept it at sea,” said Hertzog. “The Bellicose is miles out of our territorial waters. It would be piracy.”

“Who’s going to know about it?” demanded Althorpe. “Are the arms suppliers going to protest and be shown to have been starting a war? Or the shippers, to have been carrying the weapons to it? And any SWAPO publicity isn’t going to worry us.”

“That’s not going to be our decision,” pointed out Muller. “That’s a political conclusion, which is why we’re having this meeting today. We’ve all got to make recommendation.”

“Prevention is always better than cure,” insisted Althorpe. “Mine is that it should be stopped.”

“Mine too,” concurred Youngblood. “With the advantage we’ve got, we’d be mad to let one round of ammunition ashore.”

“What about Europe?” said Hertzog. “I don’t think we can be definite about anything until we know what’s happening there.”

“True,” agreed Muller. “But I think we should make contingency plans.”

“Mine are already in operation,” said Hertzog. “We’ve sailed.”

Vladimir Suslev emerged onto Monaco’s boulevard Albert and on the comer bought a copy of that day’s Nice Matin, glancing idly at the headlines as he walked to the car.

The Russian drove slowly along the coast road, going eastwards initially, before branching up on the inland road that would give him his route to Sisteron. From the latest report from Lloyds and from Levcos in Athens, the Bellicose was supposed to be making twelve knots. Which meant Algiers in two days; three at the outside if the weather worsened. And that was unlikely; he had taken the trouble to get the long-range weather forecast. Suslev smiled, settling himself back into the seat; three days and it would all be over. He would be on his way back to Moscow for the promotion and the honours he had been promised. And which he had earned.