Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  “No!” Evans spoke softly.

  Sneider hesitated, then halted without looking around. “What?” he said.

  “No.”

  The man turned, angling his head to focus upon Evans. “I want a drink.”

  “I said no.”

  There was a sense of anticipation in the room, the feeling of spectators witnessing arm wrestling between two evenly matched men. Evans hadn’t wanted to put the other man into this position and moved to get him out of it. “We’re working,” he said. “It’s a job and we’re all here. It’s time for briefing.” It was an exaggeration but it allowed Sneider his escape. Another victory with honour, thought Evans; sometimes it was difficult for him to remember he didn’t have the inherent authority of the American military to back every command.

  Sneider nodded, moving away from the drinks. “Good to be aboard,” he said.

  Evans realized the man was still not completely sober. Because they were what they were—and because it was all he really knew about—Evans set out the financial details of the contract, intent upon their reaction. Even Sneider looked impressed.

  “To do what?” asked Jones.

  “Get somebody back,” said Evans.

  “Kidnap?” queried Hinkler.

  “Seemed like it,” said Evans. “It was left vague.”

  Bartlett looked around the room at the assembled men. “Isn’t this a little heavy?”

  “They don’t seem to think so.”

  “Where is it? What have we got to do?” said Marinetti, always the practical one.

  “I don’t know yet,” confessed Evans. “I had to gather a group together, then report back.”

  “And we get paid, even if we’re not used?” queried Jones, reverting to the financial details.

  “In advance,” confirmed Evans

  “Sure this is straight?” demanded Hinkler.

  “Positive.”

  “How?” demanded Bartlett at once.

  “I know who it is.”

  The seven men gazed at him, waiting.

  “It’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Evans.

  One by one they nodded, accepting the refusal. Evans felt a stir of satisfaction that they still trusted him as a commanding officer.

  “What about materials?” said Marinetti.

  “All being provided.”

  “Until we know what it is, we won’t know what we want,” he pointed out objectively.

  “It’ll be available, whatever we want. Anything.”

  “How can you be sure?” said Sneider; the effort of concentration was obvious but he was achieving it.

  “I’m sure,” said Evans.

  “Opposition?” said Jones.

  “Unknown, as yet.”

  “It’s a lot of money for going around with our pants around our ankles,” judged Hinkler.

  “No one’s going in bare-assed,” assured Evans. “There was a preliminary meeting and I was asked to assemble a force. Which I’ve done. Now I get back and we go on from there.”

  “You think it’s Europe?” persisted Marinetti.

  “I said I’m not sure,” said Evans. He would be offending their professionalism, he knew.

  “Europe’s dangerous,” said Melvin, entering the discussion. “They’re too well organized here.”

  “You get your money for coming,” said Evans. “And your expenses. If you don’t like it, when it’s set out, then you can back away.”

  “Seems fair enough to me,” said Hinkler. Bartlett nodded in immediate agreement.

  “Been a long flight,” said Jones. “I might as well hang around to see what the score is.”

  “Any currency I want, wherever I want it?” queried Marinetti, cautious to the last.

  “In advance,” assured Evans.

  “Then I’m in.”

  “Me too,” said Melvin.

  They all looked at Sneider. “That leaves you,” said Evans.

  Sneider smiled, a straight expression for the first time since he had entered the apartment. “Be a pity to break up a winning team,” he said.

  Deaken was impatient to leave the yacht. The uncertainties and doubts of the previous evening had been washed away by his awareness that they had met Underberg’s demands and that he would soon be with Karen again. He was on deck before the tender was lowered from its davits, tapping his hand irritably against his leg as the boat was manoeuvred into the water and then reversed against the stepway. Deaken was waiting on the platform when it came alongside. There was a shout from the deck, and he waved up to one of the girls.

  The tender was halfway across the harbour when he heard the Scheherazade helicopter returning. He hadn’t realized that it had left the yacht.

  There was a tug of nervousness just before he landed, increasing as he climbed the harbour steps. It disappeared the moment he saw that the designated kiosk was empty. The day was close and muggy, and Deaken left the door open to make the most of what little air there was. He positioned the recorder and fixed the listening attachment, staring around him when he finished. It really was beautiful, he thought, properly noticing the harbour and Monaco rising in wedding-cake tiers behind for the first time. Spectacular in fact. Just the place to bring Karen. There would be cheap-enough hotels away from the front. That was all they would need, a clean, comfortable pension where he could comfort her and convince her that the nightmare was over and that she didn’t have to worry anymore. Just sleep and food and to lie in the sun; not even sex if she didn’t want it. Everything at her pace, as she dictated it.

  Deaken had turned back inside the box and closed the door against the noise of the harbour when the telephone sounded. There was no nervousness when he lifted the receiver this time, nor forgetfulness in starting the recording.

  “Everything’s resolved,” he announced, as soon as he heard Underberg’s voice.

  “Tell me how,” said Underberg, the voice as patronizing as always.

  He had once longed to pulp that arrogant, supercilious face, remembered Deaken. It seemed a juvenile reaction now; all that mattered was getting Karen back.

  Succinctly Deaken identified the freighter and gave under Underberg’s detailed questioning, the itemized contents of its cargo. He set out its routing and the brief Madeira docking and insisted, in reply to the repeated question, “It’s already been turned back.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight,” said Deaken. He should have known more positively. “About eight.”

  “Good,” said Underberg. “Very good.”

  “What about Karen? And the boy?”

  “I’ll need better proof than this,” said Underberg. “And turning the boat around is only half of what I want.”

  Deaken’s euphoria burst, like an overinflated balloon. “Only half?”

  “You surely didn’t think we intended letting those arms go to waste, did you? There’s another destination for them.”

  “Where?”

  “All in good time,” said Underberg.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Deaken dully.

  “It’ll take at least three days, maybe four, for the freighter to get back,” said Underberg. “We’ll make it another forty-eight hours.”

  “No, wait!” said Deaken urgently. “How is she? How’s Karen?” As an afterthought, he added, “And the boy?”

  “Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “We’re keeping our side of the bargain.”

  “And we’re keeping ours,” said Deaken hurriedly.

  “Then everything is going to work out fine, isn’t it?” Underberg replaced the receiver. He was at the window, binoculars in hand, when Deaken emerged from the kiosk. Underberg decided he believed the lawyer. Which meant Azziz and Grearson were deceiving the man, as he had expected them to do. He moved away from the window overlooking the harbour, impatient for the call from Levy.

  * * *

  The package had been delivered to the stateroom before t
he shore-bound tender drew alongside the harbour edge. It contained a list of twenty possible holiday farms, only eight with illustrations. The one at Rixheim was the fifth they came to; the large communal room was considered a feature and was prominently displayed, with two separate colour photographs in the brochure. Azziz and Grearson sat side by side, comparing them to the Polaroid picture showing Deaken’s wife and the boy. The sideboard was identical, even to the matching plates and kitchenware and the manner in which it was arranged. The fireplace with its intricate apparatus of cogs and chains was better shown in the brochure. The bench upon which the couple were sitting had been dragged from one side, they could see.

  “For once he wasn’t foolish,” said Grearson.

  “It was a good idea,” said the Arab. He added: “I’m glad we took the precautions we did.”

  Immediately Grearson picked up a telephone and was connected at once to Paris. It was a brief conversation.

  “The major, Evans, has made contact,” he said. “He’s got a unit ready.”

  “Good,” said Azziz.

  13

  Karen was aware of his concern as soon as Levy came into her bedroom.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “The boy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She waited, wanting a small victory. After a moment he said, “Can you help?”

  Because of the permanently closed shutters in her room she had grown accustomed to the darkness. As she followed the Israeli along the corridor she realized it was still only half light. The carefully made resolution about winding her watch had been forgotten and it had stopped at one o’clock; she didn’t know whether that had been day or night.

  Two men were already in Azziz’s room. Greening was uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. Leiberwitz turned at their entry and said, “He’s shamming. There’s nothing wrong.”

  Karen pushed past him. The boy stared up at her, dull-eyed but aware of what was going on around him. The bruising had developed so that his cheeks and lips were black, fading at the edge into a yellow colour, as if they had been treated with iodine. He was greased in perspiration, hair lank and sticking to his forehead. His bedding was damp from his body and the room was pungent with his smell; periodically, almost at timed intervals, he shuddered convulsively, as if he were cold. Karen reached out hesitantly, touching his wet forehead.

  “He’s not shamming,” she said to Leiberwitz.

  “Who asked you?” demanded the bearded man belligerently.

  “He did,” she said, indicating Levy. What would she have done if it had been her child? A simple answer: get a doctor.

  “We can’t leave him like this,” she said to Levy.

  “It’s probably only flu.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No doctor,” he insisted. “You do something.”

  “I don’t know what to do!” she protested. Illness repelled her, made her feel nervous and unclean. Her father had been killed outright in a traffic accident when she was ten, the injuries too severe for anyone to view the body, and by the time her mother became ill she had already left Pretoria and was in her second year at the London School of Economics. None of the family had realized how quick it would be; by the time she got back to South Africa, her mother was dead. It had been her younger sister who had coped with the blanket baths and the bedpans. Secretly—a secret she kept even from Richard because she was ashamed of it—she was glad she had got back too late.

  “It’s only a fever.” Levy was adamant.

  “Cold water then,” she said doubtfully. Greening went to get it. “Get his clothes off. And fresh bedding.”

  She stood back while Levy and Leiberwitz took off Azziz’s stinking clothing. The boy put up a feeble resistance and they left him with his underpants. They rolled him back and forth to clear the bed-covering and replaced it with some linen from the bottom of the wardrobe. The man who brought the water came with a towel and Karen attempted to dry Azziz’s perspiration, trying to prevent her fingers actually coming into contact with the boy’s skin, but at the same time making sure no one else noticed her squeamishness. She discarded one towel and demanded another, using it to wipe Azziz after she had sponged him with cold water. When she was wiping his face their eyes held briefly, and the boy managed a half-smile. The perspiration broke out afresh the moment she cleaned him.

  “I think he should be covered,” she said uncertainly. “Sweat it out.”

  Greening returned almost at once with more blankets; as soon as they were put on him, Azziz attempted to thrust them away.

  “And water,” Karen said. “He should have a lot of liquid.” She was grateful it was Greening who lifted Azziz’s head and held the cup to the boy’s mouth.

  Karen pulled back from the bed, wanting to get away as soon as possible.

  “Thank you,” said Levy.

  “I still think he should see a doctor.”

  “No.”

  “What happens if he dies?”

  “He won’t die. It’s a chill, nothing else.”

  “A little while ago you thought it was flu.” She looked around the room. “I want a bath,” she said.

  Levy led her to the bathroom and entered ahead of her, taking the key from inside the lock; there was still a pushbolt, which secured it from the inside.

  “I shall be right outside the door,” he said. “If I hear the bolt go across, I’ll break it down.”

  She noticed that the small window was unbarred, even lifted, to let in about three inches of early morning light. The drop to the ground would be about twelve feet, she guessed, maybe a little more. She said nothing, staring at Levy and waiting for him to go back into the corridor.

  “Right outside,” he said, as if fearing she hadn’t understood.

  Karen needed to use the toilet but didn’t want Levy to hear. She started to run the bath, turning the taps full so that the water splashed loudly into it. The heating worked by an ancient mechanism that operated the gas jets automatically when the hot-water tap was turned. It exploded into life, frightening her. Everything was loud and echoing and she was sure Levy wouldn’t hear a thing. Afterwards she crouched at the window, not opening it farther in case he heard the sash creak; it was like looking through a letter box.

  The window overlooked the front of the house and the lane beyond. Their exercise area was to the left; dew still whitened the grass and hung in droplets from the summer spiders’ webs which skeined the bisecting hedge. By straining, she could pick out the fields and the sloping hill beyond where she had seen the labourers working. Already it was touched by the first warm fingers of sun and pockets of mist were forming, like uncertain smoke. Fairy fires, she thought; that’s how she would describe it to her babies when they grew old enough to want stories. She often thought of phrases and simple little plots. When the time came she wanted them to be her stories, not somebody else’s.

  Beyond the bordering hedge the lane ran straight and black, still shadowed by the clustered hills. She strained again, in the other direction this time, trying to see some neighbouring houses or farms; there were a lot of thickhaired trees and, as she watched, a clock bell struck, unexpectedly counting off a quarter-hour. She couldn’t see the tower but it hadn’t sounded far away.

  “You all right?” Levy’s voice made her jump.

  “Fine,” she said.

  She undressed and got into the bath, consciously making plenty of noise. She stood to soap herself completely, welcoming the feel of the water after so many days. It was not until she sat down that she looked sideways and saw the empty keyhole practically level with the edge of the bath. He wouldn’t, she thought at once. And immediately questioned her certainty. Why not? What justification did she have for investing him with any sort of decent feeling? But she still didn’t think he would have looked. She was careful to dry herself standing to the side, where she would not be visible through the tiny opening, regretting that she had no per
fume or cologne. Until that moment she hadn’t realized something else that had been taken from her, the right to be feminine.

  She released the water and cleaned the bath and at the door paused for a moment, reluctant to leave. Briefly, for a few minutes at least, she had been able to do whatever she liked; it was something approaching a moment of freedom.

  Levy was waiting immediately outside.

  “Your face is all shiny and pink,” he said.

  The remark disconcerted her, confused her. “I enjoyed the bath,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “The boy’s sleeping. The fever’s still the same, but he’s sleeping.”

  “Good.”

  Neither appeared to know what to do.

  “We might as well have breakfast,” he said.

  “All right.”

  Initially they ate without speaking, Levy attentive to her needs and passing the coffee pot and the basket of croissants towards her without being asked. Once, as he offered her some butter, their hands touched and he smiled apologetically.

  “This seems to be going on forever,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not terrorists, are you?” said Karen in sudden challenge.

  “We know what we’re doing,” said Levy defensively.

  Karen shook her head. “I was reading politics in London, at the School of Economics, when my mother died. I went to South Africa for the funeral and never bothered to go back and complete the course because I’d met Richard. He was a friend of the family and already involved in politics—radical politics, for South Africa. He appeared in court for a lot of people, not just there but elsewhere. So I met plenty …” She stopped, knowing that she had made her point clumsily. “You’re not like them at all—none of you.”

  “We’re not trying to be like anyone.”

  “So what are you?”

  “Jews. Doing what Jews have always done. Fighting to survive.”

  Karen knew a sudden surge of pity. She had encountered terrorists; too many, because although she thought she shared many of their views, she had rarely liked or trusted the people who expressed them. She was also familiar with the men who confronted them: riot police, armoured units, and elite, trained squads, with dogs and gas, and plastic and rubber bullets, and water cannon. This gentle-eyed, crinkle-haired man who worried about breakfast civilities wouldn’t stand a chance. He had slapped her, certainly, knocked her down, although that had been more of an accidental trip. And beaten the boy. But that hadn’t been the ruthless unthinking cruelty she had known other people capable of; that had been sudden, flaring anger. And nerves. She corrected the thought. More nerves than anger, far more. Poor bugger, she thought.