19
Deaken was resigned to another long wait, but tonight there wasn’t the frustration of the previous days. He was in a position at last to influence things; and by this time tomorrow he would be doing exactly that, aboard the Bellicose, already at sea and already heading northwards. How long to get to Algiers? It would depend upon the weather, he supposed. Carre would have had a forecast for the next two or three days at least. Damn! Deaken looked at the antiquated clock behind the bar. Seven thirty. It probably wasn’t accurate but even so Carre wouldn’t be in his office now. It would have to wait until tomorrow; the Bellicose information would be more up to date anyway.
He watched two geckos on the wall near the clock converging upon an unsuspecting insect, with high- elbowed, sticklike legs. They pounced simultaneously, colliding with each other with annoyed, scratching sounds, and the insect escaped. Deaken was glad. The barman brought him a second pastis. The last, he decided. Something to eat and then bed. He wanted to be up before dawn, to be waiting on the quayside when the freighter came alongside. The hopeful whores were still encamped at the far end of the bar. The one for whom he had bought brandy smiled, an acknowledgement rather than a proposition, and Deaken smiled back. She was missing two teeth in the front, he saw. Three of the girls were negotiating with a couple of seamen and a third bespectacled man in a cheap, crumpled suit. Dockyard clerk, Deaken guessed. He looked back to the girls. Couldn’t be much of a living; certainly not enough to spend on dentistry. The unfulfilled smile came again, inquiringly this time and Deaken looked away, not wanting her to misunderstand.
From where he sat Deaken could see into the eating area, a bead-curtained annexe of harbour and dock people, all chewing stolidly. None of the bar girls had bothered with an expedition, so Deaken guessed they were all unresponsive regulars. He didn’t want to eat there, he decided. But where? There should be good fish in a place like this; something else Carre could have recommended. Deaken settled the bill and walked out through the reception area, pausing at the top of the steps, with the lower balcony to his left. A few of the tables were occupied, the occupants curiously ill defined in the dull illumination from the overhead skein of bulbs which trailed around the outer edge like decorations on a Christmas tree long after the celebrations were over. Deaken paused at the top of the steps, staring out towards the waterfront. Far away, at the very tip of the harbour curve, there was the yellow glow of nightwork and nearer the rusting freighters he had seen earlier, the heavy blackness of their superstructure picked out with an occasional, haphazard light. Deaken gazed around for a taxi; the perimeter road was quiet and dark, sleeping.
In the parked car on the opposite side of the road Makimber smiled and said, “No problem,” to the two men with him. There might have been if Deaken had remained in the hotel. The African hadn’t really worked out how to resolve it, apart from the luring the man away with some phoney message apparently from Carre. He was glad he hadn’t had to bother: he didn’t want to involve the Senegalese any more than he had to, although he’d decided the man should be sacrificed if necessary. As Deaken walked down the steps, the two men Makimber had positioned at separate tables deep in the gloom of the balcony waved for their bills, paid immediately and got up to follow.
Deaken had forgotten the heat of Africa, the wraparound, blanket warmth even at night. He felt the perspiration prick out on his skin and looked around forlornly again for a taxi. He went to his right, trying to orient himself. Sea to his left, city to his right, only the continuation of the dock area immediately ahead. The cathedral and the Pasteur Institute, he thought, that’s where the cafes and restaurants would be, nearer the centre of town.
There was a stepladder of lanes and alleys climbing from the docks to the top of the city. Deaken turned right again, sure of his direction now. This was the daytime part of the city, a place of warehouses and offices, with only the occasional surprise of a bar to break the deserted nighttime loneliness. The street lighting was careless: twice people were practically upon him before he detected their presence.
Makimber’s car nosed into the alley, two hundred yards behind. It was only using sidelights, so they couldn’t see the two men who had followed Deaken from the balcony of the Royale. Makimber knew they would be in place.
“I don’t want him killed unless there’s no other way,” said Makimber. It was a frequently repeated warning since his meeting with Carre. He supposed he should go the whole way with them to ensure they obeyed. But it was more important for him to remain in Dakar and ensure the freighter was safely on its way.
“We know,” said the man in the back seat.
“Make sure you remember,” Makimber said.
There was a snow line of white teeth in a smile, but the man said nothing. Makimber hoped too many people hadn’t acquired a taste for killing; it had been an isolated problem after Zimbabwe’s independence, he remembered.
At the end of the road, a long way off, Deaken could make out the brightness of the city. The light at the end of the tunnel, he thought, recalling the familiar phrase. The Vietnam promise of victory, parroted by the commanders in Saigon and the politicians in Washington. Vietnam had been the period of his most active radicalism, the breaking point with his family. He had told Karen it didn’t matter, being disowned by them, but it wasn’t true. It made him feel rootless, belonging nowhere. He felt the anger build up at the memory of South Africa. The convoluted logic was typical of the fascist bastards, employing terrorism to combat what they regarded as even worse terrorism; but he believed Underberg, that his father wasn’t involved. His father might be a Nationalist and support apartheid as well as embracing every concept and policy which was anathema to Deaken, but he wouldn’t have resorted to this. Deaken had known operations like this before-and represented people caught up in them- covert schemes dreamed up by the Bureau of State Security, renamed the Department of National Security after BOSS had earned the reputation of being as repressive as the security organizations of Russia and the South American banana republics. He wouldn’t let them get away with it. He would go along with everything they said now; he had no choice. But when he got Karen back he would expose the whole business. He was strong enough now to face the publicity, to put himself back in the limelight from which he had temporarily fled. Now the running was over. Before this ended, people would be fleeing from him.
Deaken was never fully to know what happened. His memory was simply of a flurry of sounds, not really distinguishable as running feet, a confused imagery of people-he didn’t know how many-and then a blinding, aching pain as he was struck repeatedly, first along the side of the head when he instinctively drew back and then somewhere at the base of his skull, causing a hurt that made him feel sick before almost immediate black unconsciousness. It was too deep for him to feel the last needless blow across his shoulders.
Makimber’s car was alongside when it happened. He saw the man pull up to bring the baton down for another crushing blow, and shouted for him to stop.
There was a hesitation and for a moment Makimber didn’t think the man was going to obey. “I said stop.”
The club was lowered reluctantly.
“Get him into the car,” said the African.
The man who had travelled with him in the rear got out to help the other two hump Deaken’s flopping body inside. Near the door sill they dropped him hard against the road and two of them giggled.
“Get him in!” hissed Makimber.
One went round the other side of the vehicle to lean across to pull Deaken from the other two. They were careless of bumping him against the car, stretching his body lengthwise across the floor in the back, over the transmission tunnel. They scrambled in after him, sitting with their feet resting on his back and legs. It had seemed a long time, but the car accelerated away down the gloomy road within two minutes of Deaken being clubbed down. Having reached the brighter part of town, the driver turned right, then right again, to disappear into the darkness of the waterfront. Makimber remained screwed around in his seat, alert for any pursuit: if he were to be detained and implicated in the assault, then everything would be ruined.
There were vehicles behind but none taking any particular interest in them. Makimber exhaled slowly, not wanting the others in the car to be aware of his concern. He was the bwana mkubwa, the big man; he was not supposed to be frightened.
They had been in the Senegalese capital for a week, with the opportunity to learn its basic layout, and the driver steered the car carefully into the delivery bay alongside one of the waterfront warehouses. It was a dark,
