“It’s never happened before.”
Deaken was concerned at the man’s curiosity. Carre had his local position to protect, people in authority to appease. His inquisitiveness could get the bloody cargo impounded. Quickly he said, “It’s an important shipment; it was thought best for me to be personally aboard for the last stage of the voyage.”
“You’ve the ongoing orders then?” said Carre.
Damn, thought Deaken. He said, “They’re being sent separately from Athens.”
“There is a change in routing?”
Damn, Deaken thought again. “No,” he said. “It remains according to the original contract.”
“I’ve been the agent for Levcos shipping for a number of years,” said Carre pompously.
“And they are most complimentary about your efficiency and ability,” improvised Deaken. “In this particular instance they’ve decided to invest us with the responsibility. It’s no reflection upon you. No reflection at all.”
Carre relaxed slightly. “I’ll need to know victualling and fuelling requirements,” he said.
“Maximum,” said Deaken. This man did not know what the cargo was nor its original destination so the indication of a long, uninterrupted return passage didn’t matter.
“I’ll put it in hand,” said Carre. “I don’t imagine you’ll want to be in port longer than necessary.”
“No,” agreed Deaken. “As quick a turnaround as possible.”
“What information should I give the customs authorities?” said the agent.
He’s pushing hard, thought Deaken. “It’ll be a bonded shipment, travelling in transit.”
Carre looked down to a duplicate of the manifest already fixed to a clipboard.
“Machine parts,” he read. He looked up. “Machine parts were important enough for you to be sent to accompany them?”
“Yes.”
Carree waited, appearing to expect Deaken to elaborate. When he didn’t, the agent said, “I’ll need to know where you’re staying, in case there’s any change in the arrival times.”
“The Royale.”
“There are far better hotels.” Carre frowned. “I could have recommended some.”
“I chose it by chance,” said Deaken. “I didn’t want to trouble you more than necessary. It’s quite adequate.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” He offered his card.
“No, really,” said Deaken, accepting the square of pasteboard. “I’m most grateful to you.” He rose, extending his hand. Carre stood and shook it.
“Anything,” assured the agent. “Just call.”
Had Deaken inquired from the airport, Carre would have suggested he stay at the Teranga Hotel, although after their meeting he would have considered it inconvenient. The agent allowed the lawyer ten minutes after leaving his office, standing at the window to watch him walk down the spur road back towards the waterfront. Then he dialled the number. Makimber was in his room and agreed immediately to a meeting.
The African was waiting in the reception area when Carre arrived, pulling him at once towards the far corner of the lounge, away from the entrance. Makimber sat forward, arms against his knees, head down, looking at the floor as Carre recounted his meeting with the lawyer, only occasionally halting him with a question.
“Did you get the impression that the destination had been changed?”
“None,” said Carre
The relayed message that morning from Angola about Deaken’s arrival had really made his cultivation of this man unnecessary, reflected Makimber. But he still didn’t consider it wasted: it provided confirmation and the knowledge of where the man was staying. It had been a sensible precaution, to come to Dakar. And to bring people with him, even if they were thugs. “The authority was definitely from the Eklon Corporation?”
Carre nodded. “As full and complete charterers of the ship. I suppose they’ve the right.”
Perhaps it had been a mistake to attempt independence at this stage, thought Makimber; at least the Angolan message indicated that the friendship was still intact. Azziz was a bastard, attempting to delay the shipment. Makimber supposed there had been a higher offer for what the Bellicose carried. He hoped the Arab would rot in hell for what he had tried to do. It was gratifying to be able to defeat him.
“It is a problem?” asked Carre”, gauging the other man’s concern.
“It could be.”
“I’m glad we became friends, if I’ve helped to resolve it,” said the Senegalese.
Makimber smiled. “I shall be properly grateful, believe me,” he said. “What time does the Bellicose arrive?”
“Five in the morning.”
“Maximum provisioning and fuelling?”
“That’s what he said.”
“He was alone?”
Carre shrugged. “I don’t know. He appeared to be.”
“If the Bellicose arrives as scheduled and the handling starts right away, what time could the ship sail?”
Carre turned down the corners of his mouth, making the calculation. “Around noon, I suppose.”
It was a long time, too long. But he would have to do it. Makimber took a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it across the table to the other man. Carre accepted it, feeling its thickness between his fingers. Knowing that the Senegalese could increase its value by a third again on black-market currency dealing, Makimber said, “I told you I would be properly grateful. There’s a thousand dollars in American currency.”
There was a moment of shocked surprise before Carre grinned in open excitement. ‘Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“There’s more,” said Makimber. He felt like a fisherman landing a catch.
“What must I do?”
“Tell me everything that happens, no matter how small or insignificant it seems.”
Carre nodded eagerly.
“And do what I say tomorrow, while the ship’s in port. I don’t want the captain becoming suspicious… thinking anything is unusual, in fact… until he sails.”
“What about Deaken?”
“He’s going to miss the ship,” said Makimber.
Andreas Levcos was a man who had spent his life transporting the unquestioned for the questionable and grown rich from his discretion. A portly, shiny man, with oiled hair which gleamed and a silk suit which shone too, from the light shafting in from the window, he showed neither surprise nor curiosity as Grearson outlined what they wanted done. Levcos wore sunglasses, even though they were indoors, not against the glare but simply because he always wore them.
“You want the man given a northerly course, but for the ship to continue southwards?” It was important to extract some logic from the frequent illogicality.
“The false positions must always come from the master.”
“What about sunrise and sunset?” said Levcos. “Surely he’ll realize what’s really happening?”
“Once he’s at sea he’ll be trapped: it doesn’t matter,” said Grearson.
“Doesn’t he work for you?”
“No,” said Grearson positively.
Levcos’s office was in Athens’s port of Piraeus. It overlooked the ferry terminals and from the window it was possible to see the hydrofoils scurrying to the Greek islands, skittering away like water insects not breaking the surface tension of a pond.
“What’s the true destination?”
From his briefcase Grearson took a copy of Makimber’s last cable. “Benguela,” he said. “The Bellicose is to
