Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  It was several moments before Levy replied. Then he said, “He’s not sure, but it was a possibility.”

  Now it was Karen who remained silent, reminded of what was actually happening to her, that it would have to end; that there was a time limit. “Love me again,” she said huskily. “Quickly, love me again.”

  They were trying to conceal the nervousness they had all felt at the abrupt departure, but two empty wine bottles were evidence of the general unease.

  “Our leader finds a different way to relax,” said Leiberwitz.

  “Maybe he’s gone to bed,” said Kahane loyally.

  “He has!” said Leiberwitz. “With the whore.”

  “He’s stupid to get involved,” said the smallest man of the group. Mordechai Sela was thin and bespectacled, a schoolmaster like Levy.

  “He’s treating us like shit,” complained Greening. “Tête-à-tête meals which we’re expected to serve, like bloody underlings.”

  “It’s not causing any problem, is it?” said Kahane.

  “Not if he’s just screwing her,” said the fifth man, Levi Katz.

  “What does that mean?” said Greening.

  “What happens if he becomes fond of her?”

  “Rebecca’s my cousin,” said Leiberwitz. “I’m expected to sit by while a man married to my cousin is rutting upstairs with some gentile whore.”

  “What can we do about it?” said Morris Habel, the last member of the group.

  “Plenty,” said Leiberwitz.

  16

  Deaken had been so sure that he was going to get Karen back: he had rehearsed what he was going to say, how he was going to care for her. Now he felt numbed and emptied.

  “It was absolutely clean,” said Evans, pouring himself a Scotch. There was no shake to his hand, no indication that he laid his life on the line an hour earlier.

  “Maybe …” began Deaken, and then stopped, looking at the tie that Evans had taken from his pocket and was offering to Grearson.

  “Yes,” said the older lawyer at once. “That’s the Ecole Gagner colours.”

  “The boy’s name’s inside,” said Evans. He turned to Deaken. “What about this?”

  Nervously, like a man fearing contact with something contaminated, Deaken took the watch. He felt his heart thump wildly and his throat constrict, so that he found it difficult to speak immediately. Then he said, “Yes, that’s Karen’s watch.”

  “So they left in a hurry?” said Grearson.

  Evans shook his head. “Everything had been tidied, beds made. The whole house. The tie was carefully laid across one bed, the watch in the middle of another.”

  “You were meant to find it,” said Grearson.

  Evans sipped his whisky. “That’s the way it looked to me.”

  “Bastards!” said Deaken.

  “Certainly seem sure of themselves,” said Evans.

  “How the hell could they have known?” said Grearson.

  “Maybe they figured you’d work it out exactly as you did. They know the resources you’ve got, after all.” The American poured himself another drink; the job was over and he was relaxing. He offered the bottle to the two lawyers. Both shook their heads.

  “Where are the others?” said Grearson.

  “Away,” said Evans, returning to his seat. “By midday tomorrow the inquiries into what happened at the farmhouse will have reached here. We don’t want them to find a vanload of weaponry.”

  “Where are they?” said Grearson.

  “Clermont Ferrand.”

  “Why there?”

  “I’d been there before,” said Evans. “Knew there was a hotel called Foch. We needed a contact point.” The man paused. “We did what we were engaged to do.”

  “I know,” said Grearson. “The terms stand.”

  “Dollars,” said Evans. “Everyone wants to be paid in cash. American.”

  “Could you come back with us to Monte Carlo?”

  “Of course.”

  Anger flickered through Deaken. They could have been discussing a property deal or buying a car; anything but the botched attempt to recover a woman—his wife!—who was enduring God knows what sort of horror. But the anger seeped away as quickly as it had come. What good would it have done to shout and to rage?

  As if aware of Deaken’s thoughts, Evans turned to him and said, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Thank you, for what you tried to do,” said Deaken. Now he was behaving as rationally as them.

  “Yes,” said Grearson, rather as an afterthought. “Thank you. Mr Azziz will be grateful.”

  “Do you want me to disband?” said Evans.

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “No,” said Grearson. “Not yet. Hang on awhile.”

  Deaken frowned. “Surely you don’t think there’ll be another opportunity?”

  “At this moment,” said Grearson, “I don’t know what to think.”

  It took Underberg longer than expected to reach the cottage hidden away in the hills behind Sisteron: he misjudged the holiday traffic and the difficulty of overtaking on the narrow, twisting roads as he climbed up from the coast. Underberg decided the farmhouse assault had been useful because it confirmed his prediction that the Arab would fight. And he doubted that Azziz would capitulate after one failure. Azziz was a proud man, used to unchallenged success; he would be furious at what was happening and at his helplessness to do anything about it.

  Levy hurried from the house to meet him, as soon as Underberg turned off the rutted track into the villa. The Israeli was grave-faced.

  “Have you heard the newscasts?” he demanded the moment Underberg opened the door.

  “Of course,” said Underberg. “And seen the television pictures.”

  “A trained assault force, they said. Soldiers, a trained force of soldiers.”

  “It’s hardly surprising, is it?” said Underberg. “Considering what Azziz does for a living.”

  “We never considered having to fight trained soldiers.”

  “You didn’t have to,” reminded Underberg. “I got you out in good time.”

  Levy grimaced.

  “And don’t you intend confronting trained soldiers as soon as you’ve got the necessary weapons’?” said Underberg.

  “That’s different,” said Levy. “Then we’ll be ready …”

  “You make it sound like some biblical confrontation, lining up on either side of a valley.”

  “In a way that’s how we regard it.”

  Christ, they were stupid, thought Underberg. His carefully prepared role allowed him to give a warning. “Don’t,” said Underberg. “You should know better than to expect our people to fight by the rules. The Israelis fight to win—they’ve got to.”

  “We’ll be ready when the time comes,” repeated Levy, but without conviction. “It was just that we didn’t expect the other business.”

  “I don’t know how they discovered the place,” said Underberg. “But they’ll never find us here. Even I got lost.”

  Levy smiled grimly.

  “Where are they?” said Underberg.

  “I did what you said, locked them in their bedrooms. Both are on the other side of the house.”

  “I know Azziz is trying to cheat on us,” said Underberg.

  “How?”

  “I know,” insisted Underberg. “I’m going to give him one more warning … to make sure he does what we want. If he doesn’t, we’ll have to convince him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Send him some evidence that’s a little more tangible than a photograph.”

  “No!” said Levy at once.

  The rejection surprised Underberg. “What do you mean, no?”

  “We’re not butchers. The plan was always that they wouldn’t be hurt if we could help it.”

  “Are you prepared to give up your settlement?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “You can’t fight without guns.”

  “I won’t con
sider cutting off an ear or a finger. It’s repellent. We’re not animals.”

  Underberg looked beyond Levy to the cottage. “There are others who are less squeamish.”

  “No,” said Levy, although he knew Underberg was right. “They’ll fight, like I’ll fight. But they won’t torture.”

  “Like you, I hope it won’t come to that.”

  As they walked towards the house, Underberg said, “How’s the boy’s chill today?”

  “He doesn’t seem any worse.” He paused. “Or better, for that matter. I’d still like to get some sort of medical attention.”

  “You know that’s quite impossible,” said Underberg. “Let the woman look after him.”

  “She’s doing what she can, but she’s not a doctor.”

  Underberg stopped at the door. “Do you want to risk another commando assault?” he said.

  Levy swallowed. “I suppose not.”

  “Then the boy stays as he is.” Underberg went into the house. The Israelis were grouped in the main room, like children awaiting the arrival of a headmaster whose fierceness they had been warned about in advance. Underberg reflected it was fortunate they would never get the chance to mount their ridiculous protest in Israel; they would be annihilated in a matter of hours.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

  * * *

  There was an observation room immediately above the larger stateroom where Azziz had listened impassively to every detail of the abortive rescue attempt. Immediately after the meeting broke up, Deaken wandered up there. Padded seats ran in a half-circle below the windows. There was one low, glass-topped table and the inevitable bar. The bar was closed but Deaken didn’t want a drink. He stood to starboard, looking out towards Monte Carlo, trying to isolate the blank glimmer of windows in the buildings over half a mile away, wondering if behind one of them was the bastard who kept taunting him in that condescending, mocking voice. Far below he heard the growl of the tender and then saw the craft emerge from the shadow of the yacht; Grearson and Evans were standing side by side, each holding on to the cabin roof, apparently two relaxed guests going ashore from a millionaire’s yacht. He supposed that within two hours Evans would be driving northwards to Clermont Ferrand with an attaché case packed with dollar bills. The overwhelming sense of helplessness gripped him once more. Nearly another twenty-four hours before the next tenuous contact. Jesus, he had to do something more!

  He turned at the sound of the door opening. Carole was wearing scuff shoes, very short shorts, and a white cotton shirt tied at the waist.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Why not?”

  Her smile faltered momentarily. She came and stood next to him at the window, staring out towards the diminishing launch. “The girls were hoping the guy you came with was going to stay. He looked evil!”

  “I think he is,” said Deaken mildly. She was close enough for him to he aware of her light, almost imperceptible, perfume. He was also conscious of her gaze but she didn’t ask the question he expected. Instead she said, “Everyone’s down by the pool.”

  “They usually are.”

  “Why are you always so shitty?”

  “I didn’t know I was.”

  There was another sad smile. Wearily she said, “Don’t sit in judgement on me. We all use what we’ve got, the best we can. I’ve got a body which 1 know how to use. And I’m good to look at.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She made a so-what gesture. “And because 1 know you can hardly stop yourself asking, I’ll tell you. I got myself into the best house in Paris, one where I choose. I haven’t been doing it for long and I don’t intend going on for much longer. I’m not going to become a raddled old whore, doing ten-franc tricks in back alleys.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me.” She was wearing a light grey eye make-up that he didn’t remember from their last meeting. And a more definite lipstick.

  “Why not relax?” she said.

  “I’m not here to relax.”

  “We could just talk.”

  “I’m not sure that it would stop there.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  This was absurd, thought Deaken. What the hell was he doing, talking like this to a whore?

  “No.”

  Carole walked to the door. “If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

  Three hundred miles to the northwest, in the bedroom of a large cottage set among the encircling green hills of Sisteron, Karen hurriedly stood up as the key moved in the lock.

  “What was that all about downstairs?” she asked.

  “A visitor,” Levy said.

  “I thought it might have been …” She hesitated. “I’m glad,” she said. “Insane, isn’t it?”

  17

  Deaken recognized that the contact had become routine, almost like leaving home at a regular time to catch the regular train to the regular nine-to-five job. He didn’t even glance at the approaching shoreline, a commuter and therefore bored with the landscape, but back over the stern of the tender, seeing the wake cream behind it. And then the figure at the rail of the retreating yacht. It was Carole, he knew; he had seen her as he descended the steps but pretended not to. And she hadn’t called out either, to attract his attention. Her apparent interest in him had to be strictly professional, like the solicitous secretary and the solicitous stewards. And why did it matter anyway? For her attitude to be important to him under the present circumstances would be grotesque, unthinkable. So why was he looking back to catch a glimpse of her?

  In no time they were among the outer yachts, able because of their draught to get in close. All about him there was the creak and tinkle of mooring ropes and stanchions and fantails occupied by people relaxing and laughing and drinking or eating. Safe people. Secure and untroubled. Lucky people.

  The alarm flared the moment Deaken set foot on the jetty and saw the designated telephone box was occupied: by a woman, too old for the shorts and the sagging halter top, eyes cavernous from too much mascara, cheeks ablaze with rouge, lips wounded by scarlet lipstick. He checked his watch: five minutes-time enough. Enormous sunglasses, like screens on stilts, were collapsed alongside her purse, which gaped open at the coin pouch for her to stuff more money into the box. She laughed, turning as she did so. Her teeth were white and even and precise, a graded monument to mathematical dentistry. Her brow wrinkled at his hovering presence and she looked pointedly at the unoccupied booths. Then she turned, hunching her shoulders against him. Her back was deeply tanned, wrinkled by overexposure to too much sun. Two minutes left. Hag, Deaken thought. Ugly bloody hag. He looked worriedly about him, knowing that he was being observed and hoping that Underberg could see what was happening and allow him some leeway. Jesus, why didn’t she hurry! From a yacht against the harbour wall there was a burst of laughter followed by shrieks of alarm as a drunken man teetered theatrically, grabbing a stern stanchion to prevent himself falling into the water. Christ, how he hated them, with their comfort and complacency and their wealth! At once his rational mind cut through the panic. That was a ridiculous thought; infantile. They had every right to their money and their privilege, to laugh and drink and flirt and do what they wanted. His anger wasn’t at them. The woman had put down the receiver. Deaken thrust forward before she had time to get out.

  “There were other kiosks …” she began, but Deaken pushed past her. “Bastard,” she muttered: her Australian accent made the oath sound more effective. Deaken pulled the door shut. “Bastard,” came the muffled repetition through the glass. He kept his back to her. Five past twelve. Please, dear God, don’t make me wait another four hours, he thought. The booth reeked of the woman, of her body, of suntan oil and a heavy, cloying perfume. Under the glare of the midday sun the trapped air felt sticky and unpleasant. He put the recorder on the tiny support and realized he had begun to read the English translation of the dialling i
nstructions for overseas calls. He stopped, annoyed with himself and not knowing why. Ten past. He looked out of the kiosk. The woman was stumping away along the walkway on top of one of the embracing arms of the harbour, her fat buttocks wobbling with every gallumphing footstep. Bloody hag, he thought again.

  The telephone rang. Deaken looked disbelievingly at it and then grabbed the instrument to his ear.

  “I’m glad you waited,” said the voice.

  I’m glad you did, thought Deaken. He remembered the recorder, squeezing the suction cap into place. “Didn’t have much choice,” he said.

  “I told you what would happen to your wife if you weren’t careful about what Azziz did,” said Underberg. “You let him raise an army.”

  “I didn’t know,” lied Deaken.

  “You were supposed to know. Just as you were supposed to know everything he plans to do.”

  Deaken felt sick, deep in his stomach. “What else?”

  “Two days ago you told me about the Bellicose … lied to me about it …”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “Do you know what Lloyds of London is, Mr Deaken?” Without waiting for the lawyer to reply, Underberg said, “It’s the most efficient maritime brokerage and insurance firm throughout the world. Part of that efficiency involves knowing the position of ships insured by them. You told me the Bellicose had been turned aroun … gave me timings. I’d already checked with Lloyds. When you told me the freighter was heading northwards it was still going south, down the coast of Africa. It still is, as a matter of fact. Lloyds don’t make mistakes in their plotting. They can’t afford to—any more than you can. The ship has never been turned.”

  Azziz was a bastard, thought Deaken. A stupid, lying bastard. “He said …” started Deaken but Underberg cut him off, impatient with the excuses. “I told you not to believe what he said … I told you to make sure that everything was done exactly as I wanted it, otherwise your wife would suffer.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Underberg laughed. “Miles away from where your Action Men did their number,” he said. “I had them out within two hours of realizing you were lying about the ship changing course. 1 guessed you’d found out where they were … and were playing for time.”