“Where’s the recruitment?”
“Frankfurt,” said Hinkler.
“That’s where I found Marinetti,” said Evans.
“Is he in with us?” asked Bartlett.
Evans nodded. “He said he’d come.”
“Good,” said Hinkler.
Marinetti was the explosives expert. They had all expected to be captured by the Vietcong when a deep penetration into the Parrot’s Beak in Cambodia fouled up, in 1972, but Marinetti had covered their trail with booby traps and given them the hour they needed to be airlifted out.
“Anybody else?” said Bartlett.
“Hank Melvin,” said Evans. “And Nelson Jones.”
Hinkler and Bartlett nodded together. “Most of the old team,” remembered Hinkler.
“All but Rodgers and Ericson,” completed Bartlett.
Rodgers was still in Libya. Ericson was permanently in a vets’ hospital in Phoenix, both legs amputated at midthigh where he’d trodden on an antipersonnel mine in Da Nang, three months before Nixon’s peace with honour, and mentally unable even to use a wheelchair.
Melvin was the next to arrive. The Texan telephoned from the airport and reached the rue des Alexiens fifteen minutes ahead of Marinetti. The greetings with those already there were subdued, without any theatrical boisterousness, and Evans was glad; they were still a team, he thought gratefully. Melvin had travelled from Madrid where he was negotiating a contract in Mozambique; Marinetti confirmed that until Evans’s call, he was considering the San Salvador offer.
“It’s always goddam training,” said Melvin. “Never combat.”
Evans had always suspected that Melvin got pleasure out of fighting, but he had never let them down.
“They’d expected us to take our payment within the country in San Salvador,” protested Marinetti. “Can you imagine what a load of crap that would have been, toy-town paper only good for wiping your ass once you’re out of the country!”
Because he had had to come from America, Nelson Jones was the last to arrive. The extremely tall black man came quietly but with smooth assurance into the apartment, smiling and nodding in recognition of those already assembled. Without any pretension, he and Evans greeted each other with an open-palmed, slapping handshake.
“Hi,” said Jones generally. There was a comfortable response, a reaction to someone coming home. Jones was six foot six and completely bald.
“Why don’t we get Sneider up?” suggested Evans.
Hinkler and Bartlett accepted their responsibility, coming from the smaller bedroom within minutes with the third man. Sneider blinked, tried to focus, licked his dry lips, then shook his head. “Reunion,” he snorted. “Mother- fucking reunion.” He saw the drinks on the side table and moved towards them.
“No!” Evans spoke softly.
Sneider hesitated, then halted without looking around. “What?” he said.
“No.”
The man turned, angling his head to focus upon Evans. “I want a drink.”
“I said no.”
There was a sense of anticipation in the room, the feeling of spectators witnessing arm wrestling between two evenly matched men. Evans hadn’t wanted to put the other man into this position and moved to get him out of it. “We’re working,” he said. “It’s a job and we’re all here. It’s time for briefing.” It was an exaggeration but it allowed Sneider his escape. Another victory with honour, thought Evans; sometimes it was difficult for him to remember he didn’t have the inherent authority of the American military to back every command.
Sneider nodded, moving away from the drinks. “Good to be aboard,” he said.
Evans realized the man was still not completely sober. Because they were what they were-and because it was all he really knew about-Evans set out the financial details of the contract, intent upon their reaction. Even Sneider looked impressed.
“To do what?” asked Jones.
“Get somebody back,” said Evans.
“Kidnap?” queried Hinkler.
“Seemed like it,” said Evans. “It was left vague.”
Bartlett looked around the room at the assembled men. “Isn’t this a little heavy?”
“They don’t seem to think so.”
“Where is it? What have we got to do?” said Marinetti, always the practical one.
“I don’t know yet,” confessed Evans. “I had to gather a group together, then report back.”
“And we get paid, even if we’re not used?” queried Jones, reverting to the financial details.
“In advance,” confirmed Evans
“Sure this is straight?” demanded Hinkler.
“Positive.”
“How?” demanded Bartlett at once.
“I know who it is.”
The seven men gazed at him, waiting.
“It’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Evans.
One by one they nodded, accepting the refusal. Evans felt a stir of satisfaction that they still trusted him as a commanding officer.
“What about materials?” said Marinetti.
“All being provided.”
“Until we know what it is, we won’t know what we want,” he pointed out objectively.
“It’ll be available, whatever we want. Anything.”
“How can you be sure?” said Sneider; the effort of concentration was obvious but he was achieving it.
“I’m sure,” said Evans.
“Opposition?” said Jones.
“Unknown, as yet.”
“It’s a lot of money for going around with our pants around our ankles,” judged Hinkler.
“No one’s going in bare-assed,” assured Evans. “There was a preliminary meeting and I was asked to assemble a force. Which I’ve done. Now I get back and we go on from there.”
“You think it’s Europe?” persisted Marinetti.
“I said I’m not sure,” said Evans. He would be offending their professionalism, he knew.
“Europe’s dangerous,” said Melvin, entering the discussion. “They’re too well organized here.”
“You get your money for coming,” said Evans. “And your expenses. If you don’t like it, when it’s set out, then you can back away.”
“Seems fair enough to me,” said Hinkler. Bartlett nodded in immediate agreement.
“Been a long flight,” said Jones. “I might as well hang around to see what the score is.”
“Any currency I want, wherever I want it?” queried Marinetti, cautious to the last.
“In advance,” assured Evans.
“Then I’m in.”
“Me too,” said Melvin.
They all looked at Sneider. “That leaves you,” said Evans.
Sneider smiled, a straight expression for the first time since he had entered the apartment. “Be a pity to break up a winning team,” he said.
Deaken was impatient to leave the yacht. The uncertainties and doubts of the previous evening had been washed away by his awareness that they had met Underberg’s demands and that he would soon be with Karen again. He was on deck before the tender was lowered from its davits, tapping his hand irritably against his leg as the boat was manoeuvred into the water and then reversed against the stepway. Deaken was waiting on the platform when it came alongside. There was a shout from the deck, and he waved up to one of the girls.
The tender was halfway across the harbour when he heard the Scheherazade helicopter returning. He hadn’t
