Grearson offered his hand and received the firm handshake in return. “Why on earth have that done to a horse?” said Grearson, looking at the rigid animal.
“Everyone gets stuffed,” said Evans. “Jesus!” said the lawyer.
They crowded into the room, appearing to expect him to resist, Levy in front and three others behind. Gradually Azziz was identifying them, always careful that they would be unaware of his eavesdropping on their conversation and remarks. The big, bearded man who had wanted to involve himself in the beating was Leiberwitz; the tall, saturnine man was Kahanc-he thought the given name was Sami. The squat man, bull-shouldered and bull-necked, whom Azziz had seen smirking during the beating, was Greening.
“Do you want to undress?” said Levy.
“No,” said Azziz. His mouth hurt to talk.
“I don’t think he’s respectful enough,” said Leiberwitz.
“What are you, some sort of sadist?” Levy said to him in Hebrew. In English to Azziz, Levy said, “It’s your fault we’re having to do this.”
Azziz said nothing, aware of the conflict between the two men confronting him.
“Lie on the bed,” said Levy.
The Arab did as he was told. The Israeli adjusted the arms of the handcuffs as wide as they would go and, before securing them around Azziz’s ankle, he slipped his finger between the boy’s flesh and the metal, to ensure it would not chafe. Satisfied, he clicked them shut. He snapped the other armlet around the metal upright of the bed, needlessly tugging to see it was engaged.
“Don’t try anything else that’s stupid,” warned Levy. “If you fall awkwardly from the bed you could break your ankle.”
As Levy left the boy’s room he looked automatically towards Karen’s bedroom door. A thin ruler of light was marked out beneath it. He hesitated and then continued on down the stairs.
Leiberwitz was waiting for him in the large room. “I won’t be treated like shit,” he said.
“Stop behaving like it,” said Levy, unimpressed at the protest. “There’s no plan to hurt them.”
“He’s a spoiled, supercilious little bastard.”
“I think he’s rather brave,” said Levy.
10
The harbour at Funchal is protected by a huge arm, built out across almost half its width to form a protected, inner anchorage. Normally cruise liners are brought inside, to tie up along it and make their passengers run the gauntlet of its length, through the basket salesmen and wickerworkmakers and lace vendors. Tonight there were no liners in port, so the pilot took the Bellicose into the favoured place, manoeuvring her close to the cranes.
High above, from the balcony of Reids Hotel, Underberg watched. It was a warm, still night, the lights of the Madeira capita! spread out before him like an overturned jewel box; he could hear the blur of the mooring instructions, as far away as he was.
Underberg turned, walking back into the hotel, sorry that he had arrived too late to sit out there in the late afternoon and go through the traditional ritual of Madeira cake and tea. It hadn’t been an easy flight, with a transfer at Lisbon, and Underberg felt tired. He wondered if it would be a wasted journey.
It was a short ride down the hill and Underberg stopped the taxi at the seafront road, to walk the rest of the way along the harbour spur, past the cafe built into the rock face. The jetty was washed in a butter-yellow glow from the nightwork spotlights, the cranes already dipping into the Bellicose’s holds by the time Underberg arrived. He held back, perfectly concealed by the containers of some already unloaded wharf cargo. The captain, the rank designated by his cap edging, was on the wing bridge overlooking the quay, staring down at the work. His name was Erlander, Underberg knew. Forty-eight, married, two children, and a home in Strandvauagen, Stockholm.
The freighter was not his predominant interest, so Underberg moved farther away from the water, seeking a more extensive view of the quay. He didn’t bother with the immediate bustle of stevedores beside the Bellicose, because Underberg guessed the person for whom he was looking would not be that close. Instead he concentrated on previously unshipped, stored cargo, some covered in tarpaulin and net. It was away from the working lights, black and grey outlines, jagged against the night sky. It was a long time before he detected him and when he did Underberg smiled; the man was using the cover as expertly as he was.
Underberg moved from container to container, purposely not trying to disguise his approach, wanting the man to identify him. He was still some way away when he saw the flash of teeth.
“Surprise, surprise,” said Edward Makimber. The voice was educated, carefully modulated.
“Not really,” said Underberg. At Cambridge the African had anglicized his name to Kimber. Underberg guessed he wouldn’t admit to it now.
“Do you normally keep such a close eye on the competition?” said Makimber.
“Quite often,” said Underberg. “We’re very competitive. Do you normally worry so much about a purchase?”
“About a purchase as important as this,” said the African.
“Azziz has a good reputation, hasn’t he?”
“Just general caution,” said Makimber.
“We could still help.”
“We’re grateful for everything you’ve done so far. It’s important, if we’re going to get independence, for it to be exactly that, independence.”
Archetypal intellectual revolutionary, thought Underberg. Makimber could probably quote verbatim whole chunks of Marx and Engels and Lenin; maybe, if he wasn’t trying to be fashionable, even Stalin.
“It’s good to know we remain friends.”
“We always made it clear there was no question of endangering our relationship.”
“It’s still a good assurance,” said Underberg.
“It won’t take long,” said Makimber, gesturing towards the unloading. “Port office has it scheduled to sail at six.”
“Are you going back to Angola?”
“Benguela by tomorrow night. And if that’s not possible, then in through Lobito.”
The quayside encounter had unsettled Makimber and he decided not to disclose his intention of checking the shipment through Dakar, just as he was ensuring its untroubled passage here in Madeira. It was a precaution; just as it had been a precaution to take photographs and attempt to create a file on Underberg. When Namibia was independent a proper intelligence system would be set up, not oppressive or brutal like all the others seemed to be. Just protective, to ensure there would be no danger to the properly and democratically elected government. “I’ve told you how important this is,” he said. “With what the ship is carrying we’re going to wake the world up to what those South African bastards are doing in our country.”
Underberg wondered idly if Makimber already had his victory speech drafted; it would be full of rhetoric and artistic inference, he guessed. They always were, from this sort of man. Makimber would expect some reference to be made, he supposed. “We’d like to attend the celebrations,” he said.
“You’ll be honoured guests,” said Makimber. “We don’t forget our friends.”
Now it was Underberg who motioned towards the freighter. “You did there.”
Makimber wearily shook his head at the other man’s tenacity. “That conversation goes round in circles,” he said. “No hard feelings?”
“Of course not.”
Makimber paused uncertainly. Then he said, “Will you and your people be there?”
“I don’t know,” said Underberg. “Angola certainly.”
“It might be better if you weren’t.”
It was late when the Alouette brought Grearson back to the yacht. Deaken and Azziz had already played the tape recording through twice and the Palestinian secretary. Mitri, made a transcript while the three men ate. They dined properly this time, in the saloon, with laced linen and crystal. Deaken wondered if the women he had seen earlier in the day would join them, but the heavy mahogany table was only set for three places. It was a superb
