“Sailing orders are to refuel at Dakar, then onwards for contact off Benguela. Deaken gone ashore?”
“Yes,” said Azziz. “When does the Bellicose get to Madeira?”
“Tonight. The weather’s good so it should be there on time.”
“Who’s the Portuguese in the middle?”
“Hernandez Ortega,” said the American. “We’ve dealt with him before. Good man.”
“Who’s the purchaser?”
“An import company called Okuru Shippers, with an address in the avenue Liburation, in Lobito.”
“How was the purchase made?”
“They came here, to the office in Paris.”
“Any names?”
“Makimber,” said the lawyer. “Edward Makimber.” The lawyer hesitated. “Do you want me to go to Lisbon, to see Ortega?’’
“No,” said Azziz at once. “What about the men we want?”
“Paris have got some names.”
“American or British?”
“American,” said Grearson. “Address for one is Brussels.
“I don’t want any Belgian Congo rubbish,” repeated Azziz.
“I know.”
“Check him, as you’re so close,” instructed Azziz. “And tell Paris to make a contact with this man Makimber. I want to see if there really is a deadline or whether they’d accept a delay.”
“Deaken said they’d thought of that.”
“Make the inquiry,” said Azziz. “And tell them to arrange a matching shipment. Do we have sufficient stock?”
“More than sufficient,” said Grearson.
“Fix it,” ordered Azziz.
“It would be an easy way out,” agreed Grearson.
“Not for some,” said Azziz, more to himself than to the other man.
It was 11:50 when Deaken jumped ashore, before waiting for the crew to tie up. He ran up the steps, looking anxiously towards the telephones. The one in use was not the one which had been identified by Underberg. Deaken hurried into the box, thrusting the door closed behind him. He put the recorder on the ledge and depressed the suction cap against the earpiece of the telephone, tugging it gently to make sure it was attached. Eleven fifty-five, he saw. He looked around. The quayside was crowded, with yachtsmen and sightseers and flower stalls and souvenir sellers. Near the harbour office an artist had erected an easel and was painting the yachts against the background of the palace. A group had formed behind the man. No one was obviously watching him, decided Deaken. But then they wouldn’t be obvious. Although he was ready for it, tensed even, Deaken still jumped when the telephone shrilled.
He snatched up the receiver, almost dropping it in his eagerness. “Yes?”
“You’re on time. Good,” said a voice he recognized as that of the man who had confronted him in Geneva the previous day.
Belatedly Deaken remembered the tape and jabbed the lever down. “How’s my wife… how’s Karen?”
“Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “Why the recorder?”
Deaken whirled around. There was no one in any of the other boxes. He turned in the opposite direction. He was overlooked by dozens of windows and at least three hotels; it was like being pinned out, ready for dissection, under some microscope. “We didn’t want any mistakes,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re being careful,” said Underberg. “What about the shipment?”
Deaken gripped his hands against the familiar patronizing voice. “Azziz has agreed,” said the lawyer.
“That’s good, that’s very good,” said Underberg. “Where is it?”
Deaken hesitated. “Being located,” he said.
Now the pause was from the other end. “That doesn’t sound very sensible, Mr Deaken.”
“It was sold through France,” said the lawyer desperately. “Shipment was arranged through Marseilles. Azziz has sent someone there this morning…” Remembering the Arab’s point, Deaken added, “We’ve only had a few hours.”
Again the man didn’t speak immediately. Then he said, “Don’t forget why you’re involved. Don’t forget what happens to your wife depends upon your seeing that everything goes the way we want it to.”
Deaken tugged at his collar, loosening his shirt. Sweat soaked him, running down his face and from beneath his arms, into the waistband of his trousers. He tried opening the door but the sound of the quayside was too loud so he closed it again. He could feel the sun burning through the glass. “I’m not forgetting anything,” he said. “You didn’t give us enough time.”
“You’ll have enough time,” said Underberg. “More than enough.”
“Azziz wants to speak to his son. And I want to speak to Karen. To make sure they’re all right,” blurted Deaken.
“We make the stipulations,” said Underberg.
“We’ll accept any conditions… whatever the arrangement. Let’s just speak to them. Hear their voices.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It must be possible.”
“I said it wasn’t.”
“What’s happened to them?” Deaken’s fear was immediate, his voice unsteady.
“I’ve told you, they’re all right, both of them,” said Underberg insistently. “There’s no way you can talk to them; it won’t work.”
“Azziz can make it work.”
“All he’s got to make work is the rerouting of the arms shipment. Make sure he does that.”
The response came at once to Deaken, but he paused, considering it. Then he said, “You’ve made that impossible.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Underberg.
“How can I ensure anybody is doing anything when I’m tied to these telephone calls. Give me some way to contact you.”
Underberg laughed. “That wasn’t very clever,” he said.
“I’m not trying to be clever,” said Deaken. “I’m trying to do what you’ve asked… to protect Karen.”
“You know how to do that.”
“Let us speak to them,” repeated Deaken.
“No.”
“Make some concession!” pleaded Deaken.
“We’re not in the business of making concessions,” said Underberg. “We’re combatting terrorism, which Azziz feeds upon.”
“Bastard!” said Deaken.
“Don’t forget it,” said Underberg. “Not for a moment. Will Azziz sort everything out by tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re supposed to know.” The man paused. Then he said, “I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I won’t call you tomorrow. The day after, the same box, the same time.”
“No, wait…” started Deaken, realizing the man meant to break the contact. The line went dead.
From behind the closed windows of his room, Underberg saw Deaken emerge disconsolately from the telephone kiosk, the recorder clutched tightly beneath his arm. It was fortunate that Deaken had protested about the difficulty of daily calls; if he hadn’t, reflected Underberg, then the idea of lengthening their contact time would have had to come from him and he hadn’t wanted that. Only another thirty minutes before the call from Mulhouse. Levy wouldn’t be as argumentative as the lawyer: Levy imagined they were working for the same thing.
Underberg sighed contentedly. There would still be time before the plane left for him to have a leisurely lunch on the terrace. He enjoyed living well.
On the quay below, Deaken boarded the tender. It was clearly marked as that from the Scheherazade and as
