Deaken's War

by Brian Freemantle

  There was the sound of the undercarriage groaning down, a sparkle of the spread-out lights of Johannesburg once more and then the snatch of the landing. As the aircraft waited for direction towards the disembarkation finger, stewards and stewardesses made their final tour, offering immigration forms to holders of non-South African passports. Deaken refused, wondering what his status was. Not prohibited. If that had been the case, his passport would have been withdrawn. But certainly listed. Entered in the central indexes and computer banks and in the immigration records at ports and airports along with the subversives, the doubtfuls and those who should be detained or questioned or just refused entry. Underberg had been right in his threat that the Department of National Security would know the moment he tried to contact his father. Which made his plan all the more desperate but the only one that had a chance of keeping Karen alive.

  Deaken squeezed into the disembarkation queue and funnelled out into the airport building, immediately alert for the signs. The line for South African nationals was long but moving more quickly than the others through the immigration checks. The officer at the desk was young and blond and fresh-faced, smiling and polite. When he reached him, Deaken thrust his passport across the desk and said, “My name is Richard Deaken.”

  He indicated the large, loose-leafed book on his left and said, “You’ll find me listed in your check register. My father is Piet Deaken. I would like you to call a senior officer. It’s very urgent.”

  The young face clouded and the immigration officer swallowed, a pleasant shift of duty suddenly a problem. The interest rippled from the attentive family immediately behind Deaken and travelled all down the line.

  The man at the desk looked from Deaken to his picture, back again and then shuffled through the book alongside him. His finger stopped a third of the way down the page.

  “I told you it would be there,” said Deaken. Despite his anxiety, he was curious what the listing read.

  The officer waved the rest of the queue towards an adjacent desk, apologetically indicated the register and then Deaken to his suddenly overburdened colleague as he lifted the desk phone.

  “It’s urgent,” repeated Deaken.

  “I heard you,” said the young man officiously.

  The conversation was brief, in mumbled Afrikaans, and Deaken wondered if the man speaking it believed he wouldn’t understand. But he quickly learned that his register listing was “subversive.” To the right of the arrival hall was what appeared to be an insubstantial, temporary wall made from plasterboard or some processed material. It was from here, through an unmarked door, that the senior immigration official appeared. He wore a darker uniform than the desk officer, with shoulder crowns of superior rank and a peaked cap firmly in place. He was a small, fat man, with pink cheeks and pudgy hands. With obvious irritation he looked at Deaken’s passport, then checked the register.

  “What do you want?” he said at last.

  “To speak with you. Privately,” said Deaken. Before the man could respond, the lawyer added, “It’s a matter of security.”

  The pink face broke into a frown. “Come with me,” he said. Deaken followed, aware of the junior officer falling into step slightly behind him. Every face in the waiting queue was turned towards him.

  The office appeared as temporary as its outer wall, furnished with only the basic necessities—desk, filing cabinet, two phones, and a picture of the Prime Minister. The officer in charge kept his hat on when he sat down. He didn’t invite Deaken to sit but he did so anyway.

  “I want to contact my father,” he said. “Inform him that I am here on a matter of some urgency and that I want to see him immediately. Tonight. And that I want a senior official of the Department of National Security to be present.”

  By the door the junior officer shuffled his feet. “Is that all?” said his superior, attempting sarcasm.

  “You know who I am,” said Deaken. “Who my father is. Please do as I ask.”

  “You talked about security,” said the man.

  He was going to be obstructive, thought Deaken. He said, “It is. Of vital security. Far beyond the jurisdiction or control of this department.”

  “That is for me to decide.”

  “No,” said Deaken firmly. “It is for me. I want to see my father and an official from security.… If you obstruct me or refuse to help, and expel me without the opportunity of seeing someone higher in authority, then this country is going to be involved in an incident of international proportions, as embarrassing as any that has happened in the past. And I shall ensure that your identity is fully disclosed as the officer who took it upon himself to interfere.” Deaken was aware how pompous he sounded but he marked the man as a bully who would respond most quickly to bullying.

  The man glanced over at the junior officer, and Deaken knew he regretted now bringing him into the room. “1 don’t think you’re in a position to dictate what I shall and shall not do,” he said to Deaken.

  The opening was ideal. “That’s for you to decide, of course,” agreed the lawyer. “Just make sure you don’t get it wrong.”

  There was a burst of Afrikaans to the young man at the door, ordering Deaken to be taken to a detention room. “Thank you for doing what I ask,” said Deaken, also in Afrikaans.

  The younger immigration man was unsure how to treat him now. He gestured for Deaken to precede him, but hurried to open the door for him. They walked smartly down a narrow corridor to a smaller office with no furniture except for a desk and a chair. The only light came from an overhead lamp, recessed flat into the ceiling. Deaken tried to remember how many annexes and cells he had visited just like this, to talk to beaten and bruised detainees. He gave up. There had been too many. He sat down at the table, feeling the undersize seat stop halfway along his thighs, as they always seemed to do, for maximum discomfort and disorientation. Nothing had changed, he thought.

  “I’ve been away a long time,” he said to the young officer, who remained with his eyes fixed over Deaken’s head at some point upon the blank wall.

  To the northeast, in the South African capital of Pretoria, Piet Deaken emerged from the premier’s private suite of offices in the government building, stopping for a moment in the corridor. He had suspected the reason for the summons after the late-night cabinet meeting. Hoped and prayed for it, after all the rumours and discreet approaches. But the confirmation still numbed him, the excitement making his legs feel weak. He put his hand out against the wall, a tall, angular man of muted greys, his white hair tightly clipped high against his scalp. He was going to be Minister of the Interior! One of the most important portfolios in the entire government; perhaps the most important, in a country with the internal misalignments that South Africa had. Which meant trust, absolute trust, not just from the other members of the cabinet and the party, but from the backers, the blurred-image businessmen and sponsors who had such power. More, even, than trust. Full acceptance by them. So the embarrassments of the past were forgotten, finally and properly determined to be neither his fault nor capable of correction. And there was a deeper meaning. It meant that Interior Minister needn’t be the only government office available to him. He could still get the premiership that had once been denied him because of Richard. Hannah would be pleased. And proud. His wife had waited a long time for this.

  He heard the footsteps and pushed himself away from the wall, smiling as he recognized his private secretary. He wanted to break the news but knew he couldn’t, not before the official announcement the following day. Piet Deaken had nothing to learn about discretion.

  “A telephone call,” said the man. “From the airport at Johannesburg. Your wife told them they could reach you here.”

  When Deaken picked up the telephone in his office he felt his brief elation draining away; it was as if a hand had plunged deep into his stomach, a cold, cruel hand, and was wrenching at his innards.

  “I do not have a son called Richard Deaken,” said the old man, rigid-voiced.

  At
the other end the immigration man winced at the pedantic disclaimer. “I called the security headquarters in Skinner Street when I couldn’t get you immediately. They’ve already got a deputy director on the way.”

  So he couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t block it out, thought the older man.

  “Sir?” said the official at the airport, uncertain at the silence.

  “I’m still here,” said the politician. For how long? he wondered.

  Around the pool there had been a lot of talk about Grearson and Carole knew from the girls who had been on the yacht before her arrival that he was always a flop, a grunting, mechanical man who had to be coaxed and praised and encouraged and with whom it was always over practically before it started. But Carole was superbly accomplished, completely concealing any reaction but the one he wanted.

  “That was fantastic—you’re amazing,” she said.

  “It’s always fantastic with you,” said Grearson, reassured that he had pleased her. He was breathing heavily.

  “What’s happened to that man who was here?” she said. “Deaken?”

  “He wasn’t necessary anymore,” said Grearson, who liked to boast to her.

  “Is he coming back?”

  “No.”

  Carole had detected Deaken’s attraction to her even though he had done his best to conceal it. She wondered if he would have succumbed if there had been more time. She looked at the hump beside her in the darkness; it would have been a bloody sight more exciting than this had just been.

  “I thought we were going to be cruising,” she complained. “We’ve been stuck here for days.”

  “We’ll get away soon,” promised Grearson. “Just as soon as Mr Azziz’s son gets aboard.”

  “When’s that going to be?”

  “Only a day or two now.”

  “Just the boy or will there be a bigger party?” she asked hopefully.

  “Just us,” said Grearson. He kissed her clumsily. “You don’t want anybody else, do you?”

  “You know the answer to that,” she said. Christ, how she wished it could soon be over.

  26

  Deaken hoped his father would be the first to arrive so that immediate pressure could be imposed upon the security service, but it didn’t happen that way and he knew he was going to have to be very cautious, to prevent any message getting through to Underberg in Monaco.

  The security official was as short and squat as the senior immigration man, but it was a muscled body, not an overindulged one. He came stern-faced into the room, the immigration man behind him, stopping at the doorway to look Deaken over. He was in plain clothes, without any insignia of rank.

  “You wanted to see me?” The accent was thickly Afrikaans.

  “I wanted to see somebody from security.”

  “My name is Swart.”

  “You know my name. And who 1 am,” said Deaken.

  “So what do you want?”

  “So far I only know your name,” said Deaken.

  The man reached inside his jacket pocket and showed Deaken his identification wallet. There was a photograph and the shield of the security service that Deaken remembered so well, imprinted above the name. The rank of colonel! Higher than he had expected; the man could be a deputy even. Certainly with sufficient authority to have contacted Underberg before coming here.

  “Satisfied?” demanded Swart.

  Deaken attacked at once. “You’ve got my wife. If anything happens to her, I guarantee it won’t just be the publicity. I’ll see that my father takes your whole fucking service apart!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Swart, amazed.

  “I asked to see my father,” said Deaken. He realized gratefully that his voice didn’t show his anxiety.

  “He’s coming,” said the fat man.

  Swart lowered himself into the one chair.

  “If it weren’t for who you are,” he said, “your record … and your father … you’d have been seen by one of the airport staff. As it is, I have driven all the way from Pretoria and I’m beginning to think I’ve wasted my time. I want to know now … right now … what you’re doing here. And not in gibberish. In words I can understand.”

  The arrival of Deaken’s father saved him. There was movement from the doorway, and he looked up to see the tall, upright old man. Five years, he thought; nearer six. The final screaming row in the study of the Parkstown mansion, the accusations of disgracing the family, of being disowned, took on a Victorian, almost humorous, unreality. Except that it had been painfully real. Deaken smiled, wanting to reach out and touch his father, make now the apologies he had never been able to make before, but realized that would be as inappropriate as the smile. Piet Deaken came hesitantly into the room, looking not to his son but to the other men in the room for guidance. Swart stood up smartly, the demeanour of respect obvious, introducing himself and offering his hand. The old man took it with indifference, looking fully at his son for the first time. His appearance in the doorway had been misleading, Deaken decided. The initial impression had been that his father was upright and forceful as ever, but it wasn’t so: there was a bend to his body, an uncertainty, like a once strong tree under pressure from a sudden wind.

  “Why have you come back?” he said. The voice, like the stance, was hesitant.

  “For help,” said Deaken simply.

  The ingenuous honesty of the reply surprised his father. He blinked, looking to Swart again, then back to his son.

  “I want to save Karen’s life.”

  “What!”

  To Swart Deaken said, looking at the immigration officials, “I’m happy for them to stay if you are.”

  The colonel’s reaction was immediate, a head jerk of dismissal.

  Deaken realized he had penetrated the barriers his father had erected but Swart was still regarding him doubtfully. Politely he offered the chair to his father, preferring to stand, as he had stood a hundred times in a hundred courts, to make his case. Except that this case was the most important of his life. He started from the morning in the Geneva apartment, not referring to the argument with Karen but mentioning the arrangement to meet during the day, because he considered the timing important. And then of the encounter with Underberg, Karen’s frightened telephone call, the photograph with Azziz and his meeting aboard the Scheherazade with the boy’s millionaire father. Deaken had always prided himself on his ability to read the expression on the juries’ or judges’ faces. His father sat frowning, uncertain; Swart’s expression was one of bewilderment, deepening when Deaken concluded with the attack in Dakar.

  The old man responded first. “Do you know anything about this?” he said to Swart.

  “There have been rumours of some campaign underway in Namibia, but nothing definite.”

  “1 mean about my daughter-in-law?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” insisted Swart.

  “What about Underberg then?” said Deaken.

  There was a wall-mounted telephone near the door. Swart went to it, standing with his back to them and speaking quietly, so that neither could hear the conversation. When he hung up, Swart said simply, “Our service is in no way involved.”

  “Have 1 your word?”

  “I’ve spoken to the Director,” said Swart. He looked at Deaken. “He said the suggestion was as preposterous as the story.”

  “What about the name?” demanded Deaken.

  “There are two men named Underberg in the service,” agreed Swart. “Marius Underberg in central records. Jan Underberg is in the transport section.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Piet Deaken.

  There was a pause and then Swart said, “Perhaps, sir, your son is unwell?”

  As he had when he planned his first escape, Tewfik Azziz waited until the house quieted and he was sure that everyone was asleep. Carefully he got out of the bed and for thirty minutes practised every noiseless exercise that he could recall from the gymnastic and calisthenic instruction at the Ecole Gagner, wanting to te
st his strength as fully as possible. He ached at the end but knew that it was from the exertion, not from any lingering effect of the illness. So he was fit again; fit enough to get away. He got back into bed, cupping his hands behind his head and staring up towards the ceiling. It had been instinctive to promise the woman that he wouldn’t go without her. No, not instinctive: politeness. Automatic, polite gratitude, for what she had done for him when he had been ill. By himself, he stood a chance. They would never make it together. He felt a flicker of guilt. But he had nothing to feel guilty about. It was him they wanted, not her. She was just a pawn. They wouldn’t harm her, if he got away. He was sure they wouldn’t …

  There had been no argument from Swart about letting the father stand guarantor for his son, but during the drive from Johannesburg to Pretoria there wasn’t the reconciliation that Deaken had imagined in the detention room. Instead his father retreated behind the usual barriers, deep in his own thoughts.

  Deaken was thoroughly confused. If the South African security service was not involved, then Karen was in no immediate danger from his being in the country. And the rerouting instructions for the Bellicose had been sent independently. So for the next four or five days Underberg—or whatever his name was—would receive information that was going to keep her safe. But who was holding Karen and Azziz? It was a maze. Deaken had turned the first corner and all he could see was another blank and impenetrable wall.

  As they approached the Parkstown suburb, Deaken looked out at the jacaranda trees which were black against the night sky. In the morning they would be showing violet and purple; Deaken wondered if the arbour in the grounds of the house would be as spectacular as he remembered it.

  When they telephoned from Johannesburg airport, Deaken’s mother was in bed. They arrived to find her fully dressed, carefully made up and immaculately coiffed, waiting for them in the larger of the garden drawing rooms, the one which overlooked the tennis court and the stepped terraces.