“He won’t be easy,” said Grearson. “And the crew is larger than I imagined it would be.”
“Numbers aren’t a problem,” said Evans. “We can take care of ourselves.” He went over to the car. “There’s plenty of cover. Particularly down in the hold.”
“No worries then?”
Evans stopped with the driver’s door open and looked hard at the lawyer. “Mr Azziz will get his money’s worth,” he said.
The garden of the house curved in a gentle arc down to a high bank. Levy scrambled up and then leaned down to help Karen. He sat with his back against a fir and she leaned against him, head on his chest. Here they were shielded from the house and their elevation gave them a panoramic view out over the distant Durance River.
“It’s beautiful,” said Karen.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to stay here forever.”
He kissed the top of her head. His hand was around her waist and he shifted it slightly, moving it gently against her breast. She covered his hand with hers.
“Something should have happened and it hasn’t,” she said.
“What?” he said, not understanding.
“I’m late.”
Levy stopped moving his hand against her. “How late?”
“Two or three days” said Karen. “Which is unusual. I’m very regular.”
“It’s probably because of all that’s happened,” he said.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Levy moved her around so that he could see her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She stretched up to kiss him. “I’m not,” she said.
25
Deaken, who had rehearsed everything he had to do and was trying to rest in his window seat, stirred at the landing announcement, pushing aside the inadequate blanket to gaze out into the velvet African night.
Home-the home he hadn’t known for so long. And which had not wanted to know him. A different arrival from the last time, he thought, deep in reflection. It had been a week after his tenth victory in as many hearings, he remembered, this time before the Human Rights Court in Strasbourg. He had already been well known-too well known for the comfort of his family-but the Strasbourg decision had been against Britain over their treatment of detainees in Ulster and made him an international media figure. Reporters had flown to South Africa with him, even an American television crew for a documentary they later called “Spokesman for the Oppressed.” He had cooperated, not through the vanity of which his father subsequently accused him, but because he saw practical benefit from it. He had changed his opinion about many things but not about publicity. It was a useful weapon-the best-against governments or regimes or ruling parties or juntas that wanted something hidden. And could be again.
There was the sound of the undercarriage groaning down, a sparkle of the spread-out lights of Johannesburg once more and then the snatch of the landing. As the aircraft waited for direction towards the disembarkation finger, stewards and stewardesses made their final tour, offering immigration forms to holders of non-South African passports. Deaken refused, wondering what his status was. Not prohibited. If that had been the case, his passport would have been withdrawn. But certainly listed. Entered in the central indexes and computer banks and in the immigration records at ports and airports along with the subversives, the doubtfuls and those who should be detained or questioned or just refused entry. Underberg had been right in his threat that the Department of National Security would know the moment he tried to contact his father. Which made his plan all the more desperate but the only one that had a chance of keeping Karen alive.
Deaken squeezed into the disembarkation queue and funnelled out into the airport building, immediately alert for the signs. The line for South African nationals was long but moving more quickly than the others through the immigration checks. The officer at the desk was young and blond and fresh-faced, smiling and polite. When he reached him, Deaken thrust his passport across the desk and said, “My name is Richard Deaken.”
He indicated the large, loose-leafed book on his left and said, “You’ll find me listed in your check register. My father is Piet Deaken. I would like you to call a senior officer. It’s very urgent.”
The young face clouded and the immigration officer swallowed, a pleasant shift of duty suddenly a problem. The interest rippled from the attentive family immediately behind Deaken and travelled all down the line.
The man at the desk looked from Deaken to his picture, back again and then shuffled through the book alongside him. His finger stopped a third of the way down the page.
“I told you it would be there,” said Deaken. Despite his anxiety, he was curious what the listing read.
The officer waved the rest of the queue towards an adjacent desk, apologetically indicated the register and then Deaken to his suddenly overburdened colleague as he lifted the desk phone.
“It’s urgent,” repeated Deaken.
“I heard you,” said the young man officiously.
The conversation was brief, in mumbled Afrikaans, and Deaken wondered if the man speaking it believed he wouldn’t understand. But he quickly learned that his register listing was “subversive.” To the right of the arrival hall was what appeared to be an insubstantial, temporary wall made from plasterboard or some processed material. It was from here, through an unmarked door, that the senior immigration official appeared. He wore a darker uniform than the desk officer, with shoulder crowns of superior rank and a peaked cap firmly in place. He was a small, fat man, with pink cheeks and pudgy hands. With obvious irritation he looked at Deaken’s passport, then checked the register.
“What do you want?” he said at last.
“To speak with you. Privately,” said Deaken. Before the man could respond, the lawyer added, “It’s a matter of security.”
The pink face broke into a frown. “Come with me,” he said. Deaken followed, aware of the junior officer falling into step slightly behind him. Every face in the waiting queue was turned towards him.
The office appeared as temporary as its outer wall, furnished with only the basic necessities-desk, filing cabinet, two phones, and a picture of the Prime Minister. The officer in charge kept his hat on when he sat down. He didn’t invite Deaken to sit but he did so anyway.
“I want to contact my father,” he said. “Inform him that I am here on a matter of some urgency and that I want to see him immediately. Tonight. And that I want a senior official of the Department of National Security to be present.”
By the door the junior officer shuffled his feet. “Is that all?” said his superior, attempting sarcasm.
“You know who I am,” said Deaken. “Who my father is. Please do as I ask.”
“You talked about security,” said the man.
He was going to be obstructive, thought Deaken. He said, “It is. Of vital security. Far beyond the jurisdiction or control of this department.”
“That is for me to decide.”
“No,” said Deaken firmly. “It is for me. I want to see my father and an official from security… If you obstruct me or refuse to help, and expel me without the opportunity of seeing someone higher in authority, then this country is going to be involved in an incident of international proportions, as embarrassing as any that has happened in the past. And I shall ensure that your identity is fully disclosed as the officer who took it upon himself to interfere.” Deaken was aware how pompous he sounded but he marked the man as a bully who would respond most quickly to bullying.
The man glanced over at the junior officer, and Deaken knew he regretted now bringing him into the room. “1 don’t think you’re in a position to dictate what I shall and shall not do,” he said to Deaken.
The opening was ideal. “That’s for you to decide, of course,” agreed the lawyer. “Just make sure you don’t
