“Yes,” said the American.
“Tell his father to wait until he’s contacted. And then cooperate. If he tries anything, with the authorities or any people like you, we’ll kill the boy. You got that?”
“Yes,” said Williams again.
A fifth man appeared in the doorway with a gunlike object in his hand. None of the three men recognized it as an immunization compressor which injects without the necessity of a needle. There was a hiss as the man fired against the necks of the American and the driver and into the hand of the second Arab. Unconsciousness was almost immediate.
“They’re not hurt,” said the curly-haired man to the boy.
Azziz looked fearlessly across the car at him. “Get this gun away from my head,” he said. “It hurts.”
The man nodded and the pressure was relaxed.
“You won’t be harmed,” said the man. “Not if you do what you’re told. You’re going to get out of this car and be taken to another. If you try to attract any attention, we’ll shoot your legs away. You won’t die, but you’ll be crippled for life. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Azziz.
“All right,” said the man. “Now get out.”
The boy got out of the car, fully aware for the first time of the number of men who had crowded around the vehicle, shielding what was happening from anyone else who might have entered the car park.
“You’re idiots,” said Azziz. “Do you have any idea what sort of man my father is?”
“We know exactly what he is,” said the man. “That’s why we’ve got you.”
The Liberian-registered and appropriately named Bellicose, a freighter of 25,000 tons, sailed from Genoa in ballast, making easy passage with the coast of Italy and France always in sight until it reached Marseilles. Captain Sven Erlander let his first officer go ashore to arrange the loading, while he completed the official record from the rough log. He was still working on it when Raoul Edmunson entered the cabin.
“Going well,” said the first officer. “Plenty of stevedores, too.”
“Anything awkward?” asked the captain.
Edmunson hesitated. “I always think arms shipments are awkward,” he said. “I don’t like them.”
“Neither do I,” agreed Erlander. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It’s all crated,” said the first officer. “And the general cargo is already loaded.”
“Good,” said Erlander as he completed the log. The last entry recorded was the visible passing of Monte Carlo, where the Scheherazade was expectantly at anchor. The helicopter pad was still empty.
2
Like cigarette odour or the smell of garlic on the breath, the overnight argument was still there, a barrier neither was prepared to cross. Richard Deaken moved politely but unspeaking about the kitchen and Karen manoeuvred with equal good manners and matching silence in the opposite direction, in a dance that neither enjoyed nor properly knew the steps. She set the table, as she always did. And he put the brioches in the basket and then laid the bread alongside; it was always his job to go to the baker just off the boulevard Jacques Dalcrose for morning bread. Just as it was to brew the coffee. He concentrated more than was necessary upon the filter. He heard her sigh. Deaken removed the filter and the coffee residue with elaborate caution, almost as if it might explode, and then carried the pot to the table. He put it between them, without offering to pour for her. She reached forward impatiently, splashing some into her cup so that it spilled into the saucer. Deaken realized it was childish not to have done it for her. Karen used a tissue to clean the saucer and then turned it between her fingers into a tiny brown ball. Deaken carefully ensured he finished pouring well before the rim of his own cup, so there was no spill; he should have bought a newspaper on the way back from the baker, to create a physical division between them.
“This is fucking ridiculous.”
“Yes,” he said. She wasn’t referring specifically to this morning but to many before. And nights. And days. And weekends. Things had been going badly for a long time.
“I mean-why?”
“1 don’t know. It’s ridiculous, like you said.”
“Do you still love me?”
“You know I do.”
“Then why?” she pleaded again.
“Ridiculous,” he repeated. They were still dancing, more intricately now.
“It needn’t be.”
Deaken regarded their arguments like some juvenile game of Scrabble, a limited number of words arranged before them to create into a pattern of familiar sentences or phrases.
“We can’t afford a baby,” he said-the most familiar phrase of all.
Karen crumbled a brioche between her fingers, until it became a scattered pile of crumbs and dough. “We can’t even afford this fucking bun!” she said.
“You know I’m right.”
“Shall I tell you something…?” She raised her hand way above her head, so that bread debris rained down between them. “I’m fed up to here… I’m utterly and absolutely pissed off… with this bloody affectation.”
“You don’t have to swear.”
“I’ll swear as much as I fucking well like!”
She seized her coffee cup with both hands, making a barrier between them. He thought she was beautiful, even though she had only scraped a comb through the blonde hair and coloured her lips. Anger flushed her face; she looked young and innocent and flustered. He wanted to reach out and touch her. He didn’t.
“It’s not an affectation,” he insisted. He didn’t want to argue any more with her.
“Then tell me what it is!”
“We’ve been through it all before.”
“Richard Deaken, on the run again.”
“I’m not running away,” he said. “I work here in Geneva because I want to… because I think it might have a future for me. And because to have stayed in South Africa was impossible. You know that.”
“You don’t work here,” she persisted. “You go into that dingy bloody office and make chains out of paperclips all day. Why the hell maintain all this crap about being a lawyer for the underdog? We’re the only underdogs in the entire country. The Swiss are too bloody expert at making money.”
“Maybe I should try to join a firm,” he conceded. Deaken wondered how long it would take other trained lawyers to recognize his problem, if he did join a group of partners: to realize that his trial nerve had gone, so that he couldn’t remember the construction of a brief or the points of defence or prosecution or seize, as he had once been able to seize, the mistakes and errors of the other side and turn them to his advantage.
“You’d better, before it’s too late,” she said. “There’s no point in having an international law degree and the reputation you have, unless you use it.”
Deaken started eating a brioche, not because he wanted it but because he needed something to do. It was difficult to swallow. He should have sought psychiatric help before now; before it had become so bad that he didn’t think he could ever again appear in open court, and had tried to bury himself in the anonymity of civil ligitation.
“Would you need money to buy into a firm?”
“Almost certainly.”
“We haven’t got any.”
“Sometimes they’ll let you pay it off from salaries and fees, once you’ve joined.”
She reached across the table for his hand, an impulsive gesture. “I don’t mean to bitch,” she said.
“I know.”
“I do love you. I know how good and successful you could be… It just seems letting everything drift like this is such a waste.”
She never accused him of failing her, even during their fiercest arguments, but he believed she felt that he
