Deaken felt satisfied, physically to be doing something. Apart from the brief, thirty-minute excursion to the quay-side telephone, he had been aboard the yacht for two days, and until the helicopter lifted him off and whirled away, just off land, he hadn’t realized how claustrophobic he had found it.
Beneath him the coastline of the Riviera unrolled, as if on display for his benefit. It was early, just after six, and the Corniche was quiet, just an occasional car and once, near Antibes, what appeared to be an almost unmoving procession of three lorries, the large, trailer-drawing camions with chimneys just behind the cab spouting out black exhaust. The helicopter was low enough for him to make out the inscription on the sides; two road haulage, from different companies, and a chemical container. They seemed intrusive, like a blemish on a pretty face. Out to sea a tanker made its way eastward. Two yachts were moving in the same direction, both under sail, wakes zigzagged behind them as they tacked to catch the wind. It seemed early for such effort.
Through the headset Deaken heard the pilot pick up instructions from Marseilles flight control. Almost at once he took the machine farther out from the land and then swung it to starboard, bringing them in directly from the sea. Deaken had expected to be put down in a separate section but realized as the helicopter made its final descent that he was only a hundred yards from an airliner. A group of people stood waiting, shielding themselves from the machine’s downdraft. Deaken got out, ducking low, the rotor blades still clopping above his head. There was an airline representative, a customs official and an immigration officer. The deference was obvious. The formalities were cursory and within minutes Deaken was being led to the waiting aircraft. He was conscious of other passengers already aboard, staring through the windows at his arrival. The first officer was waiting at the top of the steps, leading him immediately into the first-class section with the invitation, once they had taken off, to join them at any time on the flight deck. As Deaken fastened his safety belt, the steward came alongside with the drinks trolley.
“I don’t drink at seven thirty in the morning,” refused Deaken.
“Anything you want, just call, Mr Deaken,” said the man.
They even knew his name, thought Deaken. So this was power. He wanted to despise it but couldn’t. He was flattered by it, he admitted to himself. Excited too. He ate a solicitously served breakfast and then, for politeness rather than because he wanted to, went onto the flight deck for the transit landing in Madrid. It enabled him to inquire about timing. They were on schedule, the captain told him: Lisbon arrival was 10:20.
They were ten minutes early and he was ushered off first. Deaken had travelled only with a briefcase, so there was no luggage reclaim delay and he went through customs unchecked. The arrangement with Azziz before Deaken had left the Scheherazade was to telephone Ortega’s office to learn the result of the Arab’s contact while he was en route. If Ortega was there, an appointment would have been arranged; if not, his secretary would pass on an alternative location. The response was quick when he dialled the number, the language conveniently moving into English when he identified himself. Mr Ortega was expecting him at eleven.
After the frustration of the previous forty-eight hours, it was proving remarkably easy, thought Deaken; almost too easy. He hoped it was not a bad omen.
He actually enjoyed the drive from the airport, locating the silver thread of the Tagus River looping out to the Atlantic as the taxi topped one of the enclosing hills of Lisbon. He had never been to the Portuguese capital. It had the slightly declining, faded atmosphere of a once great and important place shunted aside by circumstance, like a dowager of a lost fortune forced to wear the patched clothes of a previous age. Deaken liked it. He thought it was a nicely packaged, easily manageable city, with a lot of churches and black-shawled women, and statues of warriors on horseback looking into the distance for something to capture.
Ortega’s office was in an area of tightly packed streets, on the rua da Assunc, ao. After the opulence of the past two days. Deaken had expected it to be an impressive place, perhaps occupying an entire building, and to be at least as imposing as the smoked-glass, ground-floor suites which he hurried past every day on his way to the garret on the avenue Pictet de Rochemont in Geneva. It wasn’t. A second-floor warren of rooms was reached by a not particularly clean set of stairs, to a waiting area, a secretary’s annexe leading to Ortega’s sanctum at the end of a small corridor. The carpeting began here, dramatically improving in quality beyond Ortega’s door. There was a large desk, elaborately carved and brass inlaid, leather furniture, including a matching couch, and a side table supporting the model of a propeller-driven aircraft which Deaken couldn’t identify. One wall was occupied by a map of the world and another dominated by the photograph of a man in a grey lounge suit and a lapel full of medals.
Ortega stood but didn’t come forward to greet his visitor. The Portuguese was a small, dapper man; the white summer suit immaculate, the pink silk pocket handkerchief complementing the pink silk tie. He smiled when they shook hands and Deaken saw both the man’s eye-teeth were gold. It was a peculiar affectation-a rich vampire, thought Deaken.
“You’ll be with Grearson’s department?” said Ortega.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Deaken.
Ortega gestured Deaken to a chair in front of the desk and seated himself. Instead of increasing his stature, which Deaken guessed was the intention, the size of the desk made Ortega look more diminutive.
“There were no difficulties with the shipment leaving France?” Ortega raised an immaculate eyebrow.
“So I understand,” said Deaken. The man was presenting his references.
“Or at Madeira.”
Deaken concealed his lack of knowledge. “Sailed satisfactorily?”
“Five thirty this morning,” said Ortega. “As I knew it would; I’ve never had trouble there.”
“Mr Azziz is grateful; he asked me to tell you that.” He hadn’t but Deaken had never found flattery a drawback.
Ortega smiled his gold-tipped smile.
“It’s an important cargo,” he said, still bargaining.
“Aren’t they all?” said Deaken. For the first time he was on something like an even footing, although he hadn’t known about Madeira and wondered what else there was to learn.
“Africa’s a good market,” said Ortega. “More money available there than in South America and they’re prepared to spend it, for the right material.”
“My involvement usually begins after the deals have been struck,” lured Deaken. “And, as you said, I’m new.”
“Big enough for country agencies to get involved,” said Ortega, adopting the lecturer’s pose towards which Deaken had hoped he would move. “Great Britain is in there. France. So’s America. Russia is particularly active: once there’s a big sale, then there’s dependence for spares and ammunition and the purchaser becomes a client state.”
“With national agencies involved, it must make it all the more difficult for independents,” said Deaken.
“That’s where Azziz has the advantage over the rest of us,” said Ortega. “He’s independent but he’s understood to have Saudi Arabian backing, real or otherwise-he’s got the best of both worlds.”
And appears to enjoy it, thought Deaken. He wondered if Carole had slept with Azziz the previous night, and felt immediately irritated by himself. Why should it matter to him? “There should be no difficulty after Madeira,” he continued, still searching.
Ortega looked down at the papers in front of him again.
“Dakar by Saturday,” he said. The smile flashed again. “But then that’s nothing to do with me, is it?”
“As I said, Mr Azziz is extremely grateful.”
“Which is why you’re here.”
“A percentage was agreed, I believe?” said Deaken. Although there was no limit, he didn’t want to concede any more than he had to. Azziz had accused him of panic the previous day. Did Azziz’s opinion matter, any more than his bedmate? Why the hell couldn’t he dispel the inferiority complex?
“Two per cent for the risks involved!” said Ortega.
“You knew the risks before you entered the transaction.”
“There’s always time for reflection… reexamination,” said Ortega.
“I would have thought in your business… our business,” Deaken corrected, “that all the risks and examinations should be decided before commitment.”
“Conditions change.”
“They didn’t here: everything went exactly as planned.”
“Oh, no,” contradicted Ortega at once. “There were difficulties in Marseilles; people got greedy. I thought at one time the whole thing might get blocked.”
“Another two per cent,” offered Deaken. Six hundred thousand was a hell of a profit, whatever difficulties Ortega’s agent had encountered.
Ortega’s expression was smooth with apologetic refusal. ‘It’s an onward-going thing,” he said. “These people are in contact with each other, from port to port. By the time the Bellicose got to Madeira, the customs people knew the rate had gone up.”
“How much?”
“Five per cent.”
Two and a half million dollars for having his name on a piece of paper for four or five days. Bloody ridiculous. “Agreed,” said Deaken-the charade had gone on long enough. From his briefcase he took a signed but blank bankers’ order, made out against a holding account of a company named as Eklon and lodged in the Swiss Banking Corporation on Zurich’s Paradeplatz. He leaned forward against Ortega’s elaborate desk, hesitating before he filled it in.
“What currency?” He saw Ortega was fitting documents into an envelope.
“Swiss francs,” said the Portuguese arms dealer. “They’re always so sound.” He saw the lawyer pause and slid a calculator and computer printout of the rates, timed one hour before their meeting began, across the desk.
Deaken made the calculations and offered it to Ortega for agreement. Ortega nodded, but he didn’t smile. This was business. Deaken filled in the amount; it was an awful lot of gold teeth, he thought.
When he looked up Ortega was burning a taper beneath some wax, watching the blobs fall on the flap of the envelope. “What are you doing?”
“Sealing the documentation.”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” said Deaken.
“It’s all there, I assure you.”
Deaken retrieved the bank draft from the desk. “There can be no payment until I’m satisfied everything’s complete.” Deaken had no intention of getting all the way back to the Scheherazade to discover something was missing; there had been too much delay already.
“I’ve already spoken to Mr Azziz,” said Ortega. It sounded like a reprimand.
“Would you let a representative of yours pay over a million, sight unseen?”
“No.”
Ortega picked up an ornate paper knife, fashioned like a miniature two-edged sword, and picked away the still-plastic wax. He offered the envelope to Deaken. The lawyer opened the flap and took out four sheets of paper; two were pinned together. The manifest, Deaken realized. It was in French. Having had sufficient unoccupied time to learn the languages of Switzerland, Deaken read it easily, feeling a lawyer’s satisfaction at having tangible evidence to consider.
There were Russian as well as American rockets, Browning machine guns listed with the AK-47 and Armalite, and entry after entry setting out the amount and calibre of the ammunition. There were four gauges of mortar, shells as well as weapons, antipersonnel and antitank mines and five separate listings for shoulder-operated missiles which Deaken assumed were to resist helicopter assault-he remembered the South Africans were fond of using helicopters in the bush.
“Good shipment, isn’t it?” said Ortega.
Deaken thought it was an obscene remark. “Very good,” he said.
The second was the official bill of sale, from Ortega to Azziz, the purchase price precisely listed at 53,550,000 Swiss francs, the purchaser inscribed as Eklon Corporation. The third, also in French, was what Deaken assumed to be the End-User certificate; it seemed inadequate for all the trouble it had caused. He saw that it had been endorsed, from Ortega to Eklon.
“There’s no bill of lading,” said Deaken.
“What?”
“Documentary proof that the shipment is aboard the Bellicose. There should be one, from your agent in Marseilles.”
“I assure you everything is aboard,” said the Portuguese.
“It’s not for me to believe you or otherwise.” Deaken gestured with the papers in his hand. “These mean nothing without the bill of lading.” Thank God he’d insisted upon the envelope being opened.
“I can have it delivered to you when I receive it from France. Or you could return, to collect it personally.”
More delay, thought Deaken, maybe for days. “I can collect it,” he said. “I’m returning through Marseilles.”
“You’re very conscientious, Mr Deaken,” said Ortega.
“I regard it as basic caution.” Deaken leaned forward, setting the draft out in front of him. The alteration took seconds.
“What are you doing?”
“Redating the bank authorization,” said Deaken. “It’s drawable against tomorrow’s date, not today’s.”
Ortega’s face stiffened. “That’s offensive,” he said.
“No,” said Deaken. “That’s properly considering the risks.” He offered the payment. For several moments Ortega looked at it without moving, then reached forward to pick it up. The attitude, which had been patronizing, was now hostile. Deaken didn’t give a damn.
“I’ll need written authorization for your man in Marseilles. And his name and address,” said Deaken.
Ortega’s personal notepaper was held in a small brass rack to his left. He took a sheet and scribbled an impatient message, scrawling a signature beneath it. “I had intended suggesting lunch,” he said, in a tone indicating he was no longer going to.
“I need to get back to Marseilles as soon as possible,” said Deaken; the helicopter was scheduled to collect him from the incoming evening flight. He saw from the second envelope which Ortega gave him that the French agent was named Marcel Lerclerc and that the office was on the boulevard Notre Dame. “Thank you again,” he said, rising. Ortega remained seated.
“I’m sure you’ll do well with Azziz,” said the Portuguese.
“I hope to,” said Deaken heavily.
He was back at the airport by 12:30. He started his tour of the airlines at the TAP desk but it was not until he reached Iberia that he found a fast enough routing, a direct flight to Madrid in forty-five minutes, with an immediate transfer connection to an Air France service en route from New York. He reached Marseilles at 4:15.
The evening rush hour was beginning, so it was not until almost five that he reached Lerlerc’s office. The arms dealer’s agent was a saggy, bulging man with a closed, suspicious face. His attitude changed as soon as Deaken produced the written authorization.
“Has there been a difficulty?” There was the slightest accent; from his colouring, Deaken guessed he was Corsican rather than French.
“Difficulty?”
“When he telephoned from Paris, Mr Grearson said I was to send the bill of lading there.”
“Paris?”
“That’s where the order came from.”
“I know,” said Deaken. “You say Mr Grearson called from Paris?”
“Yesterday morning,” confirmed the man. “Quite early.” Lerclerc got heavily from his chair, bent with difficulty over a safe in the corner and took out the bill of lading. “It’s in order,” he said, still defensive.
Deaken carefully compared the manifest duplicate with the lading certificate. It took a long time because he was careful. He was conscious of Lerclerc shifting behind the desk. When he looked up Lerclerc said, “All correct?”
“Appears to be.”
Lerclerc visibly relaxed. “A little pastis?” he offered, seeming to think a celebration justified.
Deaken nodded and Lerclerc heaved himself out of his chair. As he poured, he said, “We enjoy doing business, even subsidiary business, with your organization.”
“So Mr Ortega made clear.” Deaken hesitated. “It’s a worthwhile intercession.”
Lerclerc looked up sharply as he returned with the drinks, still alert for criticism. “There’s never been a difficulty from this port, ever,” he said. “We’ve always earned our five per cent. I know where to go, who to see.”
Deaken accepted the water decanter and watched the liquid turn milky. “I’m sure you do,” he said soothingly.
“To continued business,” toasted Lerclerc.
Deaken drank. “So Mr Grearson wasn’t personally here yesterday?”
The other man seemed surprised at the repeated question. ‘No,” he said. “Should he have been?”
“I understood he was.”
Lerclerc shook his head. “Been with Azziz long?”
“Just started.”
“An impressive organization.”
From somewhere just beyond the office Deaken heard a clock strike and confirmed the time from his watch. “I’ve a pickup scheduled from the airport. I’m going to be late,” he said. “Can I use your telephone, to get a message to the pilot?”
Lerclerc grimaced apologetically. “Bloody telephone has been out of order since this morning,” he said. “I’ve had three promises of an engineer’s call.”
Deaken finished his drink in a heavy gulp. “Then I’ll have to leave immediately.”
He was forty-five minutes late getting back to Marseilles airport but the helicopter pilot was still waiting obediently. The departure formalities were as easy as they had been earlier in the day and he was airborne within thirty minutes. They left on the same flightpath, directly out over the sea. To Deaken’s right the sun was setting in a defiant burst of red and scarlet, half submerged in the distant sea.
There had already been notification from the communications room of the helicopter’s return and the two men stood at the expensive panoramic windows of the Scheherazade stateroom, gazing westwards in the half light, seeking the identification markings.
“What did you tell Ortega?” asked Grearson.
“That he was new to your staff; that I wanted to try him out. The agreed profit was to remain but I wanted Ortega’s assessment of how Deaken bargained up to it.”
The American lawyer frowned. “Didn’t he find that unusual?”
“I undertook to move the next difficult shipment through him,” said Azziz. He spotted the red and green lights of the helicopter. Almost at once they heard the wind-slapping sound and saw the black outline of the machine pass to port. They turned away from the window.
“I’m still unsure about Deaken being unsupervised,” said Grearson.
“Don’t be,” said the Arab dismissively. “He’s a fool. What about the second shipment?”
“Everything ready in two or three days.”
“Transport?”
“Chartered from Levcos again.”
“Anything from Makimber?”
“Not yet,” said Grearson. “You know it’s often not easy, establishing direct contact at once.”
The door opened and Deaken entered. Both men were struck by the new confidence, a bounce in the way he moved. Neither remembered hearing a knock at the door.
Deaken offered Azziz an envelope. “End-User certificate, manifest, official bill of lading and purchase receipt, in the sum of 53,550,000 Swiss francs from Ortega back to you.” Deaken realized that he sounded like a schoolboy presenting an end-of-term report to his father.
“You made a good bargain.”
“Thank you,” said Deaken. “So now there are no more problems? You can turn the Bellicose back?”
The Arab nodded.
Deaken looked at him expectantly. Azziz frowned and Deaken said, “Well, why don’t you?”
Azziz appeared momentarily surprised at the suggestion. “Of course,” he said, moving to the telephones.
Deaken waited until the Arab was sufficiently far away from them and said to Grearson, “I thought you would have brought the bill of lading back from Marseilles.”
Grearson looked at him intently. “Why should I have done that?”
“I thought you went there yesterday to see the shipping agent.”
“Paris,” corrected the American. “I wanted to find out about the original order. And what progress there was in trying to trace where they’re being held.”
Deaken allowed himself to be deflected. “Any news?” he said.
“Clearly we can’t let the people in Paris have the photograph to make their own comparison,” said Grearson.
“The helicopter is going up at first light tomorrow to bring back all the brochures and information they’ve managed to assemble on holiday farms.”
Azziz came back into the group. “We’re contacting Levcos through Athens,” he said. “The turn-about instructions will go from Piraeus.”
“So maybe the stuff from Paris will be superfluous,” said Deaken. “I thought Grearson went to Marseilles, not Paris,” he added. He was looking directly at Azziz as he spoke.
Azziz returned the look, his face expressionless. “Paris,” he said. “You must have misunderstood.”