naked.
“If you’re joining us you’d better change.”
The girl was barefoot, which was why he hadn’t heard her approach behind him. Her black hair was short, almost boyish. Her face was deeply tanned, without make-up. She had brown eyes, like Karen. She was wearing a bikini bottom and a diaphanous white gauze top, tied only at the neck; her nipples were dark and full.
“I’m Carole,” she said.
There was an accent but he couldn’t identify it.
“Deaken,” he said. “Richard Deaken.” He felt like a schoolboy caught peeping into the girls’ dormitory.
“When did you come aboard?”
“Last night.”
She nodded. “We knew there was a meeting.”
Part of the staff, thought Deaken-harem, in fact.
She smiled, conscious of his discomfort. “How long are you staying.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Coming down to the pool?”
He shook his head hurriedly. “I heard voices,” he said.
“We spend most of the day there, if you change your mind,” she said. The smile was professional. “We’d welcome the company.”
She walked to the companionway leading down to the pool deck with a fluid, hip-swaying sensuality.
Deaken hurried back into the interior of the ship through the door from which she had emerged, annoyed with himself for having been discovered by the girl, annoyed, even, with wasting his time ogling whores. Almost at once he recognized the alleyway along which Grearson had led him when they had boarded, and then the broad sweep down to the stateroom. At the wide double doors he hesitated, then knocked. Something was said on the other side which Deaken didn’t hear but he entered anyway. Azziz was standing as he had been the previous night. He was wearing a sports shirt and slacks.
“I’ve sent someone for you,” said the Arab.
“I lost my way,” said Deaken. “Where’s Grearson?”
“Marseilles,” said Azziz. “I decided a personal visit would be better than a telephone call.”
The helicopter, remembered Deaken. The door opened behind him. A bespectacled, dark-haired man began, “I’m afraid…” and then stopped when he saw Deaken.
“My personal secretary, Mitri,” introduced Azziz. “If you want anything while you’re here, ask him.”
The man nodded, but did not smile. He carried a leather writing case, with fittings on the outside to hold pens.
“Thank you,” said Deaken.
The Palestinian secretary looked inquiringly at Azziz, who shook his head. Mitri backed out, closing the door behind him.
“Will you hear from Grearson before I’ve got to go ashore?” asked Deaken.
“I hope so,” said Azziz. “If we don’t, you can say we’ve located the shipment… that we’ll do what they want.”
“They’ll want details.”
“So do I.”
“What does that mean?”
“I talked to Grearson before he left. We decided we were being too subservient.”
“We don’t have any choice.”
“I want contact with my son,” insisted Azziz. “I want to know he’s all right.”
“Cancel the shipment and you can have him back!”
“I can’t do that in a day,” said Azziz. “I don’t even own the arms at the moment.”
Deaken stared at the other man, feeling the stir of uncertainty. “You said the sale to Portugal was just a book transaction, a way round officialdom!”
“Contracts had to be drawn up, and money seen to be exchanged, for it to remain legal,” said Azziz. “It’s not a big problem, but it can’t be resolved in a day. Surely you see that?”
“How long?”
“Two or three days,” shrugged the man.
“Two or three days!” shouted Deaken. “My wife’s with those bastards.”
“So’s my son,” said Azziz quietly.
“Then get them out… get them both out.”
“I’m going to.”
Deaken accepted it was illogical to expect everything to be settled so quickly, but he hadn’t thought beyond today. “We daren’t take any chances,” he said.
“I don’t intend to. That’s why I want to speak to my son.”
Deaken looked at his watch; it was almost a quarter past eleven.
“I’ve ordered the tender in the water at eleven thirty,” said Azziz.
Deaken turned to the telephones. “He must be there by now.”
“Over an hour ago,” agreed Azziz.
“Why hasn’t he called?”
“He’s got to trace the shipment. It wasn’t handled directly through Paris. They were just the vendors.”
“I know they’ll expect more,” said Deaken again.
“Less than twenty-four hours has elapsed,” said Azziz. “There can’t be more.”
Deaken remained looking at the telephones, willing one to sound.
“Here,” said Azziz.
Deaken turned to the Arab. Azziz was holding out a small, leatherette-covered box. “What’s that?”
“I want the conversation taped,” said Azziz. “I want to hear what’s said.”
“Underberg said I’d be watched, all the time.”
“This couldn’t be any danger to him.”
It was a sensible thing to do, thought Deaken. He reached out and accepted the recorder.
“Do you know how to use it?”
The lawyer nodded, turning it over in his hand and locating the suction-capped receiver to stick onto the telephone.
“You should be going,” said Azziz.
“It’s not half past yet,” said Deaken. Why hadn’t the bloody American rung?
“You shouldn’t be late.”
Deaken moved reluctantly towards the door.
“Don’t forget the contact,” said Azziz. “I’ll accept whatever conditions or arrangements they want, so long as I can speak to him.”
“I’ll ask,” promised Deaken. To speak to Karen as well, he decided. The hollow, disbelieving sound of her voice when she had spoken to him in the Geneva office echoed in his head.
Confident of at least part of the yacht, Deaken found his way easily out onto the deck. The tender was already drawn up at the bottom of the step way. He went down carefully, glancing back up towards the ship as he reached the platform. Two of the girls were looking over the rail from the pool deck; the sun was behind them, so he couldn’t see if either was the girl to whom he had spoken. One waved. Deaken got into the tender without responding.
From the balcony of the Bristol, Underberg focused the binoculars and saw the motorboat pull away from the side of the Scheherazade. He smiled and stepped back into the shade of his room.
In the stateroom of the yacht the telephone sounded at the time Azziz had arranged and he picked it up expectantly.
“Sailed nearly forty-eight hours ago,” reported Grearson. “Freighter is called the Bellicose, Liberian registration, owned by a Greek company called Levcos. General cargo to Madeira, then on with our shipment.” The line was extremely clear; it was Paris, not Marseilles.
“Any stated destination?”
