“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.
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.
29
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 Maltahöhe. 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 Moçâmedes, 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.
And for which his wife had suffered. He knew that was how she regarded it, from his leave in Moscow. It would take a long time for them to reestablish the relationship they once had had. But he would do it, he determined; she was so beautiful, so loyal. Maybe he had been wrong expecting her to make the sacrifice for his career. He didn’t think she would feel that way for long when she saw what it meant for them.
The route was crowded, as he had found it the first time, but today he drove without impatience, actually admiring the scenery. It was prettier than anything around Moscow; even the hills in springtime, after the snow went. He had heard that Sochi, on the Black Sea, had a climate like this. Perhaps he would be permitted to go there as part of the reward. She would enjoy that.
Levy was expecting him, coming from the house as soon as he saw the car.
“We’ll talk afterwards,” said Suslev.
“All right,” said the Israeli. “Why the newspaper?”
“It proves the date.”
“I’m glad it’s being done this way.”
“I decided it was better,” said the Russian easily. He remained in the car, hunched down in his seat, as Karen and Azziz were brought out into the garden at the side of the house and posed with the copy of Nice Matin held before them. Levy took two Polaroid pictures, plucking them one after the other from the camera and watching them develop.
The South Africans had a more elaborate camera, with a telescopic lens, and they managed four exposures before the driver, frightened of discovery, said, “OK, that’s enough,” and drove on.
30
There was a communal table, as there had been in the farmhouse at Rixheim, and the Israelis gathered around it for the final briefing from the man they knew as Underberg.
“Everything is going as planned,” he said. “It’s going to be a perfect operation.”
There were smiles and nods of satisfaction. Leiberwitz said, “How soon?”
“Two days, three at the outside,” said the Russian. “That’s why I wanted this meeting. We’ve got to move to the next stage now.”
“Getting the stuff into Israel?” said Levy.
Suslev nodded. “Which normally would be impossible,” he said. “But I’ve found a way.”
There were more smiles.
“I’m calculating that the freighter will get back on the thirteenth; the excuse for returning, officially, will be engine trouble,” he said. “All its documentation is in order so there’ll be no need for customs examination. I’ve hired two lorries. The ship’s crane is sufficient to offload what we want. I want it put into the lorries, to convey the impression that we’re going to try to move the stuff by road.”
“How is it going to be moved?” asked Greening.
“I’ve chartered a smaller freighter,” said Suslev. “The Marriv. It’s docking on the twelfth. We just use the lorries as carriers to transfer from one vessel to another and then sail up the Mediterranean to Haifa. I’m calculating five days for the voyage, but it’s not important because there will be contact ashore. In the customs department at Haifa there’s a friend, Hanan Cohen—his parents were among the first to be thrown out of Hammit. Now they’ve no business, no home, just some paltry compensation. When he hears the Marriv is approaching, he’ll arrange to be on duty. Everything will get straight in.”
“Do we all sail?” asked Levy.
Suslev nodded. “It’s the obvious way to get back,” he said. “When you disembark in Haifa, I’ll be waiting.”
“It sounds remarkably simple,” said Kahane admiringly.
“It is,” said Suslev with a grin. “Like I said, it’s going to be a perfect operation.”
“How about the exchange, the boy and the woman?” said Levy, immediately aware of the con
centrated attention upon himself.
“Nothing can go wrong here either,” said Suslev. Succinctly he explained how the return was to be made, in a way to protect all of them, conscious as he talked of the tension forming among the men.
“That entrusts everything to Levy,” complained Leiberwitz.
The Russian frowned. “Levy’s in command; that was the arrangement we made before we left Israel.”
“I don’t think he should be any longer,” said Leiberwitz, making an open challenge.
There was no place in any contingency plan for these people to argue among themselves and Suslev felt a spurt of uncertainty. “Why not?” he said.
“I don’t think he’s impartial any more,” said Leiberwitz.
“Nothing is going to endanger our mission,” said Levy. “We’ll get the weapons as we intended—and we’ll stage the protest as we intended.”
“What about the woman?” demanded Leiberwitz.
Suslev saw Levy flush, and began to understand.
“You’ve heard the arrangements,” said Levy tightly. “She’s returned, like the boy.”
“Why shouldn’t she be?” said Suslev to Leiberwitz.
The huge man sneered towards Levy and said, “I’m not sure he’ll be able to part with her.”
Suslev made a quick assessment and decided that the situation didn’t present a danger to his plans—as a distraction for them, it could even work to his advantage.
“Well?” He looked questioningly at Levy.
“It needn’t concern anyone in this room,” came the reply. “It’s not going to cause any problems.”
“Was it wise?” Suslev said, feeling he should be seen to take some position.
“I don’t have to account to you or anybody else,” said Levy, tight-lipped.
“What about your wife?” said Leiberwitz.
“That’s my business,” snapped Levy. The flush had gone; now the man was pale with anger.
The Russian looked round him trying to gauge the feeling of the other men. To Levy he said, “Do I have your promise this won’t end stupidly?”
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