simply a matter of getting Karen back.
The telephone sounded insistently. Swart lapsed into Afrikaans as soon as the caller identified himself, smiling at Deaken. As he replaced the receiver, he said, “Why is it that so often the most complex problem is really the most simple?”
“What’s happened?” said Deaken.
“One of the people I sent to Marseilles did the obvious thing as soon as he arrived there and checked the ships in port. There’s a Levcos-owned freighter named the Hydra Star, loaded and waiting sailing instructions.”
“So that’s how Azziz is going to do it!”
Swart held up his hand. “It looks promising,” he said. “But it could also be a coincidence-Levcos is a big company, with lots of ships. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“You don’t have to,” said Deaken.
Deaken made good time along the coast road and arrived in Marseilles before midday. He parked the car and approached the boulevard Notre Dame on foot, deciding against telephoning ahead in case Marcel Lerclerc checked either with Ortega or with Grearson direct. The confidence he had felt in the Nice hotel room had evaporated slightly during the drive. There was no certainty that Azziz would have obtained his End-User certificate through Portugal and Ortega again. And if he hadn’t, then the encounter with Lerclerc was going to be ridiculous; worse, it would be suspicious, practically guaranteeing that Lerclerc would check back and that Azziz would come to know about it. It was still worth the risk, though.
Outside the office of the arms dealer’s shipping agent Deaken hesitated, rehearsing his strategy in his head, and then pushed his way through the narrow door and along the cluttered, dirty passage. When he entered the office, Lerclerc looked up without recognition, his face as closed and suspicious as on their first encounter.
“I’ve come without an appointment-forgive me,” said Deaken. When the man didn’t move, Deaken added, “The last shipment, remember? Mr Azziz?”
The huge man heaved himself upwards, extending his hand. “Good to see you again, good to see you,” he said, overeffusive to compensate for his earlier reserve. Almost at once the smile faltered. “No problem this time, is there?”
Deaken pretended to cough, putting his hand to his face to cover any expression of satisfaction. “None at all,” he said. “I was passing on my way back to the yacht and it seemed like a good idea to call to see if everything was all right this end.”
“Pastis?”
“Thank you.”
With his back to Deaken, Lerclerc said, “1 told you last time things don’t go wrong here. The certificate has been accepted, as I advised Mr Grearson, and the export licence has been issued.” He turned back and gave Deaken his glass. They drank. “All we’re waiting for now is the sailing instructions from you,” said Lerclerc.
“It will be a day or two.” Having taken one chance, Deaken decided upon another. “There might be some additions. Could they be added onto the export agreement?”
Lerclerc made a doubtful rocking gesture with his hand. “Might be a chance of something small,” he said. “Nothing big.”
“There’s room though, isn’t there?”
“For a tank at least,” agreed Lerclerc.
“I’ve been away for almost a week,” said Deaken. “Have you sent on the bill of lading?”
Lerclerc nodded and then said, “Do you want to check the duplicate?”
It was going almost too well, thought Deaken exultantly. “To remind myself,” he accepted.
The other man took a folder from a filing cabinet and handed it to him. Beneath a copy of the latest manifest was a duplicate of the Bellicose shipment. They were identical.
“Everything okay?” said Lerclerc.
Deaken nodded. “I think I’ll advise against trying to add to the shipment.”
“It might be best.” The agent paused. “Having got the clearance, I don’t like the stuff hanging around on the docks too long.”
“We’ll move it very soon,” said Deaken. He decided he would be straining his luck if he hung around much longer. As he stood to leave, Lerclerc beamed and said, “Things seem to be very satisfactory all round.”
“Very,” said Deaken.
As he walked back along the boulevard Notre Dame he suddenly thought back to his initial visit, after the bargaining with Ortega in Lisbon. He had argued Ortega into a commission of 5 per cent. Which was the figure Lerclerc had stipulated when he had arrived within hours, a figure the agent couldn’t have learned from Lisbon because Lerclerc’s telephone hadn’t been working. So the Lisbon visit had been a setup, a ruse to get him out of the way, just as the attack in Dakar had been arranged to get him out of the way, permanently this time, after another fool’s errand. Only this time he wasn’t the fool.
Grearson snapped off the recording of that morning’s interchange from the quayside telephone and said, “He seems satisfied that the Bellicose is on its way back.”
Azziz nodded.
“And we’re going to get a picture showing that Tewfik is all right.” Grearson wanted to make sure his employer was in no doubt about his successful negotiation.
“I’m grateful to you,” said Azziz. “You’ve handled everything extremely well.”
Ashore, the patient South African search team reached the Bristol Hotel which had been given to Deaken as a backup contact point. From the head porter, whom they tipped 100 francs, Suslev was identified as the guest in the harbour-front room on the sixth floor. He was registered as R. Underberg. They omitted to make a note of the supposed passport number, which was a considerable mistake.
29
At one stage the intention had been for the conference to be chaired by the Prime Minister and to include responsible ministers from the cabinet, but it was finally decided to restrict it to service chiefs and their respective intelligence heads, for a fuller report to be compiled before positive and direct government involvement.
Muller conducted it, from a raised dais in the conference room of the Skinner Street building. Easels and blackboards were arranged behind him to accommodate the maps and photographs available; the centrepiece was a detailed chart of the west coast of Angola, Namibia and South Africa, marked with a model of a ship and a dotted line showing the progress of the Bellicose. Against the line, at timed and dated intervals, were positions obtained from the aerial reconnaissance. The last inscription was three hours earlier and the naval chief-of-staff, an admiral named Hertzog, said, “What’s the latest position?”
Muller looked instinctively at his watch. “As of half an hour ago, forty miles off Luanda.” He used a pointer, indicating the distances between timings. “From these we’ve been able to make an estimate of the speed: she seems to be making about eight knots.”
“Still heading south?” queried the army chief, Brigadier General Althorpe.
“Still heading south,” confirmed Muller.
“What’s the information from Namibia?” said Althorpe. He hesitated, looking at his own intelligence officer. “We’ve isolated reports but no indication of any concerted mobilization.”
“I ordered the highest priority the moment the risk seemed genuine,” said Muller. “There’s certainly indication of assembly at Tses, Gibeon and Maltahohe. A lot of movement farther north, in the Caprivi Strip, too.”
“We’re not limiting reconnaissance to the ocean,” said the Air Force chief, a man named Youngblood. “Within twenty-four hours I hope to have some definite information.”
After his meeting with Lerclerc, Deaken had itemized everything he could remember from the cargo manifest of the Bellicose. Muller had duplicated it and made a copy available to everyone in the room. Hertzog raised his sheet and said, “There’s too much here for any seaborne unloading; it’ll have to dock.”
“Benguela is the most obvious place, if she doesn’t turn east towards Luanda,” said Muller. “There’s Mocamedes, but that’s far too close to our border. I don’t think they’d risk it.”
Althorpe gestured towards the enlarged map. “There are thousands of inlets and bays.”
