realized that it had left the yacht.
There was a tug of nervousness just before he landed, increasing as he climbed the harbour steps. It disappeared the moment he saw that the designated kiosk was empty. The day was close and muggy, and Deaken left the door open to make the most of what little air there was. He positioned the recorder and fixed the listening attachment, staring around him when he finished. It really was beautiful, he thought, properly noticing the harbour and Monaco rising in wedding-cake tiers behind for the first time. Spectacular in fact. Just the place to bring Karen. There would be cheap-enough hotels away from the front. That was all they would need, a clean, comfortable pension where he could comfort her and convince her that the nightmare was over and that she didn’t have to worry anymore. Just sleep and food and to lie in the sun; not even sex if she didn’t want it. Everything at her pace, as she dictated it.
Deaken had turned back inside the box and closed the door against the noise of the harbour when the telephone sounded. There was no nervousness when he lifted the receiver this time, nor forgetfulness in starting the recording.
“Everything’s resolved,” he announced, as soon as he heard Underberg’s voice.
“Tell me how,” said Underberg, the voice as patronizing as always.
He had once longed to pulp that arrogant, supercilious face, remembered Deaken. It seemed a juvenile reaction now; all that mattered was getting Karen back.
Succinctly Deaken identified the freighter and gave under Underberg’s detailed questioning, the itemized contents of its cargo. He set out its routing and the brief Madeira docking and insisted, in reply to the repeated question, “It’s already been turned back.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“What time?”
“Eight,” said Deaken. He should have known more positively. “About eight.”
“Good,” said Underberg. “Very good.”
“What about Karen? And the boy?”
“I’ll need better proof than this,” said Underberg. “And turning the boat around is only half of what I want.”
Deaken’s euphoria burst, like an overinflated balloon. “Only half?”
“You surely didn’t think we intended letting those arms go to waste, did you? There’s another destination for them.”
“Where?”
“All in good time,” said Underberg.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Deaken dully.
“It’ll take at least three days, maybe four, for the freighter to get back,” said Underberg. “We’ll make it another forty-eight hours.”
“No, wait!” said Deaken urgently. “How is she? How’s Karen?” As an afterthought, he added, “And the boy?”
“Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “We’re keeping our side of the bargain.”
“And we’re keeping ours,” said Deaken hurriedly.
“Then everything is going to work out fine, isn’t it?” Underberg replaced the receiver. He was at the window, binoculars in hand, when Deaken emerged from the kiosk. Underberg decided he believed the lawyer. Which meant Azziz and Grearson were deceiving the man, as he had expected them to do. He moved away from the window overlooking the harbour, impatient for the call from Levy.
The package had been delivered to the stateroom before the shore-bound tender drew alongside the harbour edge. It contained a list of twenty possible holiday farms, only eight with illustrations. The one at Rixheim was the fifth they came to; the large communal room was considered a feature and was prominently displayed, with two separate colour photographs in the brochure. Azziz and Grearson sat side by side, comparing them to the Polaroid picture showing Deaken’s wife and the boy. The sideboard was identical, even to the matching plates and kitchenware and the manner in which it was arranged. The fireplace with its intricate apparatus of cogs and chains was better shown in the brochure. The bench upon which the couple were sitting had been dragged from one side, they could see.
“For once he wasn’t foolish,” said Grearson.
“It was a good idea,” said the Arab. He added: “I’m glad we took the precautions we did.”
Immediately Grearson picked up a telephone and was connected at once to Paris. It was a brief conversation.
“The major, Evans, has made contact,” he said. “He’s got a unit ready.”
“Good,” said Azziz.
13
Karen was aware of his concern as soon as Levy came into her bedroom.
“What is it?” she said.
“The boy.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
She waited, wanting a small victory. After a moment he said, “Can you help?”
Because of the permanently closed shutters in her room she had grown accustomed to the darkness. As she followed the Israeli along the corridor she realized it was still only half light. The carefully made resolution about winding her watch had been forgotten and it had stopped at one o’clock; she didn’t know whether that had been day or night.
Two men were already in Azziz’s room. Greening was uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. Leiberwitz turned at their entry and said, “He’s shamming. There’s nothing wrong.”
Karen pushed past him. The boy stared up at her, dull-eyed but aware of what was going on around him. The bruising had developed so that his cheeks and lips were black, fading at the edge into a yellow colour, as if they had been treated with iodine. He was greased in perspiration, hair lank and sticking to his forehead. His bedding was damp from his body and the room was pungent with his smell; periodically, almost at timed intervals, he shuddered convulsively, as if he were cold. Karen reached out hesitantly, touching his wet forehead.
“He’s not shamming,” she said to Leiberwitz.
“Who asked you?” demanded the bearded man belligerently.
“He did,” she said, indicating Levy. What would she have done if it had been her child? A simple answer: get a doctor.
“We can’t leave him like this,” she said to Levy.
“It’s probably only flu.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No doctor,” he insisted. “You do something.”
“I don’t know what to do!” she protested. Illness repelled her, made her feel nervous and unclean. Her father had been killed outright in a traffic accident when she was ten, the injuries too severe for anyone to view the body, and by the time her mother became ill she had already left Pretoria and was in her second year at the London School of Economics. None of the family had realized how quick it would be; by the time she got back to South Africa, her mother was dead. It had been her younger sister who had coped with the blanket baths and the bedpans. Secretly-a secret she kept even from Richard because she was ashamed of it-she was glad she had got back too late.
“It’s only a fever.” Levy was adamant.
