get it wrong.”
There was a burst of Afrikaans to the young man at the door, ordering Deaken to be taken to a detention room. “Thank you for doing what I ask,” said Deaken, also in Afrikaans.
The younger immigration man was unsure how to treat him now. He gestured for Deaken to precede him, but hurried to open the door for him. They walked smartly down a narrow corridor to a smaller office with no furniture except for a desk and a chair. The only light came from an overhead lamp, recessed flat into the ceiling. Deaken tried to remember how many annexes and cells he had visited just like this, to talk to beaten and bruised detainees. He gave up. There had been too many. He sat down at the table, feeling the undersize seat stop halfway along his thighs, as they always seemed to do, for maximum discomfort and disorientation. Nothing had changed, he thought.
“I’ve been away a long time,” he said to the young officer, who remained with his eyes fixed over Deaken’s head at some point upon the blank wall.
To the northeast, in the South African capital of Pretoria, Piet Deaken emerged from the premier’s private suite of offices in the government building, stopping for a moment in the corridor. He had suspected the reason for the summons after the late-night cabinet meeting. Hoped and prayed for it, after all the rumours and discreet approaches. But the confirmation still numbed him, the excitement making his legs feel weak. He put his hand out against the wall, a tall, angular man of muted greys, his white hair tightly clipped high against his scalp. He was going to be Minister of the Interior! One of the most important portfolios in the entire government; perhaps the most important, in a country with the internal misalignments that South Africa had. Which meant trust, absolute trust, not just from the other members of the cabinet and the party, but from the backers, the blurred-image businessmen and sponsors who had such power. More, even, than trust. Full acceptance by them. So the embarrassments of the past were forgotten, finally and properly determined to be neither his fault nor capable of correction. And there was a deeper meaning. It meant that Interior Minister needn’t be the only government office available to him. He could still get the premiership that had once been denied him because of Richard. Hannah would be pleased. And proud. His wife had waited a long time for this.
He heard the footsteps and pushed himself away from the wall, smiling as he recognized his private secretary. He wanted to break the news but knew he couldn’t, not before the official announcement the following day. Piet Deaken had nothing to learn about discretion.
“A telephone call,” said the man. “From the airport at Johannesburg. Your wife told them they could reach you here.”
When Deaken picked up the telephone in his office he felt his brief elation draining away; it was as if a hand had plunged deep into his stomach, a cold, cruel hand, and was wrenching at his innards.
“I do not have a son called Richard Deaken,” said the old man, rigid-voiced.
At the other end the immigration man winced at the pedantic disclaimer. “I called the security headquarters in Skinner Street when I couldn’t get you immediately. They’ve already got a deputy director on the way.”
So he couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t block it out, thought the older man.
“Sir?” said the official at the airport, uncertain at the silence.
“I’m still here,” said the politician. For how long? he wondered.
Around the pool there had been a lot of talk about Grearson and Carole knew from the girls who had been on the yacht before her arrival that he was always a flop, a grunting, mechanical man who had to be coaxed and praised and encouraged and with whom it was always over practically before it started. But Carole was superbly accomplished, completely concealing any reaction but the one he wanted.
“That was fantastic-you’re amazing,” she said.
“It’s always fantastic with you,” said Grearson, reassured that he had pleased her. He was breathing heavily.
“What’s happened to that man who was here?” she said. “Deaken?”
“He wasn’t necessary anymore,” said Grearson, who liked to boast to her.
“Is he coming back?”
“No.”
Carole had detected Deaken’s attraction to her even though he had done his best to conceal it. She wondered if he would have succumbed if there had been more time. She looked at the hump beside her in the darkness; it would have been a bloody sight more exciting than this had just been.
“I thought we were going to be cruising,” she complained. “We’ve been stuck here for days.”
“We’ll get away soon,” promised Grearson. “Just as soon as Mr Azziz’s son gets aboard.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“Only a day or two now.”
“Just the boy or will there be a bigger party?” she asked hopefully.
“Just us,” said Grearson. He kissed her clumsily. “You don’t want anybody else, do you?”
“You know the answer to that,” she said. Christ, how she wished it could soon be over.
26
Deaken hoped his father would be the first to arrive so that immediate pressure could be imposed upon the security service, but it didn’t happen that way and he knew he was going to have to be very cautious, to prevent any message getting through to Underberg in Monaco.
The security official was as short and squat as the senior immigration man, but it was a muscled body, not an overindulged one. He came stern-faced into the room, the immigration man behind him, stopping at the doorway to look Deaken over. He was in plain clothes, without any insignia of rank.
“You wanted to see me?” The accent was thickly Afrikaans.
“I wanted to see somebody from security.”
“My name is Swart.”
“You know my name. And who 1 am,” said Deaken.
“So what do you want?”
“So far I only know your name,” said Deaken.
The man reached inside his jacket pocket and showed Deaken his identification wallet. There was a photograph and the shield of the security service that Deaken remembered so well, imprinted above the name. The rank of colonel! Higher than he had expected; the man could be a deputy even. Certainly with sufficient authority to have contacted Underberg before coming here.
“Satisfied?” demanded Swart.
Deaken attacked at once. “You’ve got my wife. If anything happens to her, I guarantee it won’t just be the publicity. I’ll see that my father takes your whole fucking service apart!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Swart, amazed.
“I asked to see my father,” said Deaken. He realized gratefully that his voice didn’t show his anxiety.
“He’s coming,” said the fat man.
Swart lowered himself into the one chair.
“If it weren’t for who you are,” he said, “your record… and your father… you’d have been seen by one of the airport staff. As it is, I have driven all the way from Pretoria and I’m beginning to think I’ve wasted my time. I want to know now… right now… what you’re doing here. And not in gibberish. In words I can understand.”
The arrival of Deaken’s father saved him. There was movement from the doorway, and he looked up to see the tall, upright old man. Five years, he thought; nearer six. The final screaming row in the study of the Parkstown mansion, the accusations of disgracing the family, of being disowned, took on a Victorian, almost humorous, unreality. Except that it had been painfully real. Deaken smiled, wanting to reach out and touch his father, make now the apologies he had never been able to make before, but realized that would be as inappropriate as the smile. Piet Deaken came hesitantly into the room, looking not to his son but to the other men in the room for guidance. Swart stood up smartly, the demeanour of respect obvious, introducing himself and offering his hand. The old man took it with indifference, looking fully at his son for the first time. His appearance in the doorway had been misleading, Deaken decided. The initial impression had been that his father was upright and forceful as ever, but it
