“It could be purely criminal, without any political implications,” said Grearson. He was a lean, grey-haired man who wore rimless glasses which he was constantly adjusting, arranging them back and forth along the bridge of his long aquiline nose. He never wore anything but a business suit; today it was dark blue and waistcoated and seemed incongruous in the surroundings of the yacht. “Do we get him back ourselves?”
“We’ll need someone,” Azziz agreed.
“Who?”
“Professionals,” decided Azziz. “Soldiers. But not yet. Let’s see what they want. It might not be necessary.”
The internal telephone purred softly. Azziz listened, without talking, and then said to the lawyer, “They’re here.”
Led by Williams, the three men who had failed to prevent Tewfik Azziz’s kidnap came single file into the stateroom. The American was clearly nervous, the Bedouins terrified.
“Once more,” demanded Azziz. “What happened?” The voice was still quiet.
Williams started hurriedly but Azziz stopped him at once, ordering him to begin again; and this time neither Azziz nor Grearson interrupted. When Williams had finished Azziz told the Bedouins to recount their version in Arabic. It took longer, because of the two men’s fear and because they interrupted each other in the telling.
When they finished Azziz interrogated Williams and the Bedouins, to ensure the stories matched and that nothing had been missed.
“Eight men then?” he said.
“That I counted,” confirmed Williams. “There could have been more in charge of transport.”
Remembering Williams’s Green Beret service, Grearson said, “Any indication that they were military?”
Williams thought about the question. “Obviously it had been carefully planned, but I didn’t get a marked impression of drilling.”
“The medical gun is intriguing,” said Grearson. To Williams he said, “The three of you recovered almost simultaneously?”
Williams nodded agreement. “Within a moment or two of each other. About an hour.”
For Grearson’s benefit, Azziz said, “I’ve asked about any accent in the Arabic that was spoken. They say it could have been Palestinian or Jordanian: maybe even Iraqi.”
Grearson grimaced. “Too wide,” he said.
“No liberation group would have cause to do it,” said Azziz. “I’ve supported them, with both money and weanons.”
“I’m sorry,” said Williams. “Very sorry.”
Azziz looked steadily at the man for several moments. Then he said simply, “Yes.”
“I think we should inform the police,” said Grearson again.
“We’ll wait,” said Azziz.
“For how long?” asked the lawyer.
“As long as it takes,” said Azziz with Arab fatalism.
It was another five hours. The package had been delivered by hand to the harbour office at Monte Carlo and was brought back in the yacht’s tender, doing the evening mail run. Grearson saw that Azziz’s hands were quite steady as he slit it open. It was a coloured Polaroid picture of Tewfik Azziz and a woman neither of them recognized, sitting stiffly upright on a bench alongside what appeared to be a wide fireplace. A flash had been used in what must have been quite strong sunlight, so the picture was overexposed.
“Just a photograph?” queried Grearson.
Azziz turned it over. “A name,” he said. “Richard Deaken. With what appear to be some letters of qualifications.”
Grearson took the photograph. “It’s a lawyer’s degree,” he identified immediately. “Several, in fact.”
While Grearson was examining the picture, the Arab opened the second letter to arrive that night, scanning it briefly. “It’s the school report,” he said softly. “They’re confident of his getting into Cambridge.”
As he spoke Richard Deaken was disembarking at Nice airport from the evening flight from Geneva. Six hours had elapsed since the confrontation with Underberg and he still felt confused.
They had been identified to each other when the photograph was taken and separated immediately afterwards, both locked in separate bedrooms at either end of the house. In each a securing bar closed the outer shutters across the outside of the windows, which had been screwed down so that it was impossible to open them, even slightly. Into the frames, steel bars had bean newly fitted. A portable toilet was set in the comer of each room, and each had a washstand, with a flower-decorated bowl and matching pitcher. The wardrobes were empty, except for hangers.
When they were fetched for the evening meal, Karen was sitting on the very edge of the bed, staring towards the door. Azziz was asleep, so he was the last to enter the downstairs room. Only Levy sat down with them at the table.
Azziz stretched up to look into the tureen and said, “Is this meat kosher?”
“No,” said Levy.
“I want to be sure.”
“Don’t eat it if you don’t want to,” said the Israeli. “There’s plenty of cheese and fruit.”
He offered the dish to Karen. She had combed her hair and applied some fresh lipstick but her eyes were still red. She hesitated and then ladled a small amount onto her plate; it was lamb, flavoured with just the right amount of garlic. Levy helped himself and then pushed the tureen towards Azziz. The boy stared at a piece of meat he had manoeuvred onto his ladle, and then served himself.
The wine was local, in an unmarked bottle. Levy gestured towards Karen’s glass. She hesitated again and then nodded. Indicating a jug. Levy said to Azziz, “I assumed you’d want water.”
“Why is Mrs Deaken involved in this?” demanded Azziz.
“Her husband is necessary,” said Levy. He broke some bread from a stick.
“What’s happening to Richard?” she blurted.
“Nothing,” Levy said gently. “He’s working… doing a job, that’s all. He’s quite safe.”
Azziz put more of the stew onto his plate, then looked across the table at the man. “Is it new Jewish strategy to fight with women?”
Levy pushed aside his plate, cut a portion of goat’s cheese and then took an apple to eat with it. He looked down, concentrating upon peeling the fruit. “Our argument isn’t with you,” he said. “Nor with Arabs even, not directly.”
Azziz frowned and said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not necessary for you to,” said Levy.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” said Karen. She wished her voice had been stronger.
“No longer than we have to,” said Levy. “A few days I hope, that’s all.”
“And me?” asked Azziz.
“The same.”
After the meal there was coffee, freshly ground and as good as everything else. They remained at the table to drink it.
“Tomorrow there will be some books,” promised Levy. “And games. I’m getting a backgammon set.” He looked at Karen. “Do you play?”
“No,” she said.
“Pity.” Levy turned to the Arab. “You’ll be allowed out into the garden to exercise. Watched, of course. And not together.”
“One acting as hostage for the other?” seized the boy.
“Yes,” said Levy simply. “We don’t want to hurt you, either of you.”
“Unless absolutely necessary,” goaded Azziz.
“1 won’t argue with you,” said Levy. “There’s no purpose in it.”
He summoned Leiberwitz to escort Azziz back to his room. He took Karen himself. At the bedroom door he said, “I know you came away from Geneva with nothing. I don’t want you to be embarrassed-if there’s anything you need… anything personal, make a list and I’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you.”
