every road, although they were cautious never to exceed it and risk interception by the police. The bodyguards had been under observation for two months, but their body weight was still only an estimate; the reduced Oblivon inoculation had been carefully measured against that body weight, but there was always the possibility they would recover earlier than the scheduled hour. And that they would ignore the instructions and raise an official alarm, sealing off the country.
They chose Basel.
As the Citroen joined the queue of vehicles edging into France, the curly-haired man arranged an anorak across his lap, covering the Magnum he wedged against Azziz’s knee
“We’ll be watching you, not just from both sides but from the front as well,” warned the man. “The slightest mistake when we come to the check and I’ll blow your leg off.”
It was the height of the holiday season and the busiest time of the day, when the customs officials were under the greatest pressure to keep the tourist flow moving in both directions. The passport checks were cursory.
“Very good,” said the man, as the car picked up speed and began to descend into France. “I’m glad your people did what they were told.”
“Take the gun away,” said Azziz. It was an order, not a request.
The man did.
“Where are we going?” asked the boy.
“Not much farther.”
“My father will pay, you know. Whatever you ask for, he’ll pay.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The tension lifted from the men in the vehicle now that the border had been crossed. The driver still kept within the speed limit.
They went through St Louis and then, almost at once, Huningue. Mulhouse was already being signposted but they turned off the main road to Rixheim.
Three of the men, keeping Azziz between them, got out at the farmhouse. The driver kept the engine running, using the gate entrance to make his turn and go back towards the main road.
It was a square, three-storey, yellow-brick building, with white shutters freshly painted and strapped back alongside each set of windows. It was no longer a farm. The surrounding fields were rented to a neighbouring farmer and the main house given over to holiday rentals; a boule set was neatly arranged at one end of the gravel drive and the immaculately clipped lawns through which they walked were set with a garden table and chairs and a canopied swing seat. Everything was new and white-painted; the canopy and seats were striped bright green. The thick oak door led immediately into the main communal room. It occupied almost half the ground floor and was dominated by a huge open fireplace at one end; racks and spits of a curing system were still in place. There were vases of flowers on the central table and on the large open dresser and sideboard. As they entered, a man emerged from what was clearly the adjoining kitchen. He nodded towards them but said nothing.
Azziz stood by the central table, looking around him curiously. He was a black-haired, deeply brown-eyed boy, tall and athletically slim; already his father’s London staff were inquiring about stabling facilities for his polo ponies in the Cambridge area. He held himself disdainfully erect.
“What now?” he said.
“We wait,” said the only man who ever spoke.
“You talked in Arabic at the airport.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not an Arab.”
“No.”
Momentarily Azziz’s demeanour faltered. “Israeli?”
“Zionist.”
Seeing the boy’s alarm, the man added, “You won’t be harmed, providing your father does as we ask.”
“How are you called?”
“Shimeon,” said the man. “Shimeon Levy.”
“A good enough pseudonym,” said the boy.
“It’s my given name,” said Levy. “I’m not afraid of people knowing it: they will soon enough.”
Captain Erlander returned from the port office by eleven. Edmunson was aft, on the gangway deck, supervising the loading, and the captain turned away from the bridge approach, going towards the stern.
“How is it?” he said.
“Another six tons,” said the first officer.
“An hour then?”
“Give me two, just in case there’s a holdup.”
“Three-o’clock castoff,” decided Erlander. “The forecast is good so we can clear the Strait by midnight.”
Erlander saw the other man frown and smiled at the doubt. “Dawn then,” he said. “I want to get rid of this cargo as soon as I can.”
There was a workers’ cafe in the docks and from one of its windows a man had patiently watched the loading. He was dressed in overalls, like other customers, but appeared uncomfortable with his dress and his surroundings. He was an African. His name was Edward Makimber.
3
Richard Deaken sat hunched forward over the desk, staring fixedly at the other man. He was sick with anger and impotence, the feeling of nausea churning through him, sour in his mouth. He was aware, too, of something else. He was frightened.
“Where is she?”
“Not in Geneva.”
“Bastard!”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Underberg. “I give you my word she won’t be harmed… or bothered in any way.”
“What good is your word?”
“It’s all you’ve got.”
“Why?” pleaded Deaken desperately. “Why me? If you’ve got the boy, why not deal with Azziz direct?”
Underberg shook his head. “It wouldn’t work half as well. It’s been carefully planned.”
Deaken looked away from the patronizing, self-satisfied man. Think; he had to think! Like the trained lawyer he had once been; still was. Christ, he was frightened!
“It won’t work,” Deaken said. He took up one of his sharpened pencils, tracing squares on the paper in front of him as he arranged his argument. “Let’s say I get through to Azziz. And let’s say he believes me and diverts the shipment. So what? He’ll have met the demands, he gets his son back and then all he’s got to do is assemble another shipment. You said yourself he’s the biggest there is; he’s got the resources.”
Underberg laughed. “But that’s precisely why you’re involved. Why we’ve got your wife.”
Deaken thought how he would like to smash his fist into that face, not just once but over and over again.
“A second shipment doesn’t matter,” Underberg said. “I’ve already told you the SWAPO buildup is underway for an assault in July. Once it’s stopped, there won’t be time for Azziz to arrange another. But he’ll try something, he’s the sort of man who has to. Which is why you’re so essential. We need someone in the middle. Someone who can report every move. We don’t want to negotiate in the dark.”
The emotion surged through Deaken, making him shake; his legs were tightly together, feet braced against the floor, his hands pressed against the desk top.
“It would be natural for you to try and hit me,” anticipated Underberg, in his even, unmoved voice. “I’d feel the same way myself, if I were you. But don’t try it-I’d knock the shit out of you.”
Deaken’s eyes flooded at his own helplessness. “Don’t hurt her,” he begged. “Please don’t hurt her.”
“I’ve already promised you that.”
