“Oh, no,” contradicted Ortega at once. “There were difficulties in Marseilles; people got greedy. I thought at one time the whole thing might get blocked.”
“Another two per cent,” offered Deaken. Six hundred thousand was a hell of a profit, whatever difficulties Ortega’s agent had encountered.
Ortega’s expression was smooth with apologetic refusal. ‘It’s an onward-going thing,” he said. “These people are in contact with each other, from port to port. By the time the Bellicose got to Madeira, the customs people knew the rate had gone up.”
“How much?”
“Five per cent.”
Two and a half million dollars for having his name on a piece of paper for four or five days. Bloody ridiculous. “Agreed,” said Deaken-the charade had gone on long enough. From his briefcase he took a signed but blank bankers’ order, made out against a holding account of a company named as Eklon and lodged in the Swiss Banking Corporation on Zurich’s Paradeplatz. He leaned forward against Ortega’s elaborate desk, hesitating before he filled it in.
“What currency?” He saw Ortega was fitting documents into an envelope.
“Swiss francs,” said the Portuguese arms dealer. “They’re always so sound.” He saw the lawyer pause and slid a calculator and computer printout of the rates, timed one hour before their meeting began, across the desk.
Deaken made the calculations and offered it to Ortega for agreement. Ortega nodded, but he didn’t smile. This was business. Deaken filled in the amount; it was an awful lot of gold teeth, he thought.
When he looked up Ortega was burning a taper beneath some wax, watching the blobs fall on the flap of the envelope. “What are you doing?”
“Sealing the documentation.”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” said Deaken.
“It’s all there, I assure you.”
Deaken retrieved the bank draft from the desk. “There can be no payment until I’m satisfied everything’s complete.” Deaken had no intention of getting all the way back to the Scheherazade to discover something was missing; there had been too much delay already.
“I’ve already spoken to Mr Azziz,” said Ortega. It sounded like a reprimand.
“Would you let a representative of yours pay over a million, sight unseen?”
“No.”
Ortega picked up an ornate paper knife, fashioned like a miniature two-edged sword, and picked away the still-plastic wax. He offered the envelope to Deaken. The lawyer opened the flap and took out four sheets of paper; two were pinned together. The manifest, Deaken realized. It was in French. Having had sufficient unoccupied time to learn the languages of Switzerland, Deaken read it easily, feeling a lawyer’s satisfaction at having tangible evidence to consider.
There were Russian as well as American rockets, Browning machine guns listed with the AK-47 and Armalite, and entry after entry setting out the amount and calibre of the ammunition. There were four gauges of mortar, shells as well as weapons, antipersonnel and antitank mines and five separate listings for shoulder-operated missiles which Deaken assumed were to resist helicopter assault-he remembered the South Africans were fond of using helicopters in the bush.
“Good shipment, isn’t it?” said Ortega.
Deaken thought it was an obscene remark. “Very good,” he said.
The second was the official bill of sale, from Ortega to Azziz, the purchase price precisely listed at 53,550,000 Swiss francs, the purchaser inscribed as Eklon Corporation. The third, also in French, was what Deaken assumed to be the End-User certificate; it seemed inadequate for all the trouble it had caused. He saw that it had been endorsed, from Ortega to Eklon.
“There’s no bill of lading,” said Deaken.
“What?”
“Documentary proof that the shipment is aboard the Bellicose. There should be one, from your agent in Marseilles.”
“I assure you everything is aboard,” said the Portuguese.
“It’s not for me to believe you or otherwise.” Deaken gestured with the papers in his hand. “These mean nothing without the bill of lading.” Thank God he’d insisted upon the envelope being opened.
“I can have it delivered to you when I receive it from France. Or you could return, to collect it personally.”
More delay, thought Deaken, maybe for days. “I can collect it,” he said. “I’m returning through Marseilles.”
“You’re very conscientious, Mr Deaken,” said Ortega.
“I regard it as basic caution.” Deaken leaned forward, setting the draft out in front of him. The alteration took seconds.
“What are you doing?”
“Redating the bank authorization,” said Deaken. “It’s drawable against tomorrow’s date, not today’s.”
Ortega’s face stiffened. “That’s offensive,” he said.
“No,” said Deaken. “That’s properly considering the risks.” He offered the payment. For several moments Ortega looked at it without moving, then reached forward to pick it up. The attitude, which had been patronizing, was now hostile. Deaken didn’t give a damn.
“I’ll need written authorization for your man in Marseilles. And his name and address,” said Deaken.
Ortega’s personal notepaper was held in a small brass rack to his left. He took a sheet and scribbled an impatient message, scrawling a signature beneath it. “I had intended suggesting lunch,” he said, in a tone indicating he was no longer going to.
“I need to get back to Marseilles as soon as possible,” said Deaken; the helicopter was scheduled to collect him from the incoming evening flight. He saw from the second envelope which Ortega gave him that the French agent was named Marcel Lerclerc and that the office was on the boulevard Notre Dame. “Thank you again,” he said, rising. Ortega remained seated.
“I’m sure you’ll do well with Azziz,” said the Portuguese.
“I hope to,” said Deaken heavily.
He was back at the airport by 12:30. He started his tour of the airlines at the TAP desk but it was not until he reached Iberia that he found a fast enough routing, a direct flight to Madrid in forty-five minutes, with an immediate transfer connection to an Air France service en route from New York. He reached Marseilles at 4:15.
The evening rush hour was beginning, so it was not until almost five that he reached Lerlerc’s office. The arms dealer’s agent was a saggy, bulging man with a closed, suspicious face. His attitude changed as soon as Deaken produced the written authorization.
“Has there been a difficulty?” There was the slightest accent; from his colouring, Deaken guessed he was Corsican rather than French.
“Difficulty?”
“When he telephoned from Paris, Mr Grearson said I was to send the bill of lading there.”
“Paris?”
“That’s where the order came from.”
“I know,” said Deaken. “You say Mr Grearson called from Paris?”
“Yesterday morning,” confirmed the man. “Quite early.” Lerclerc got heavily from his chair, bent with difficulty over a safe in the corner and took out the bill of lading. “It’s in order,” he said, still defensive.
Deaken carefully compared the manifest duplicate with the lading certificate. It took a long time because he was careful. He was conscious of Lerclerc shifting behind the desk. When he looked up Lerclerc said, “All correct?”
“Appears to be.”
Lerclerc visibly relaxed. “A little pastis?” he offered, seeming to think a celebration justified.
Deaken nodded and Lerclerc heaved himself out of his chair. As he poured, he said, “We enjoy doing business, even subsidiary business, with your organization.”
