Hinkier and Bartlett, who were the first Evans contacted because he knew they were in Rome and would be together, as they always were, arrived in Brussels on the morning flight, bringing Sneider with them. Sneider was drunk, at that lopsided, unprotesting stage of drunkenness. Evans shook hands with Hinkler and Bartlett; Sneider sniggered.
“Been like it for a week,” said Hinkler, who was wide-shouldered and blond and looked more Germanic than Sneider, whose parents were immigrants to Milwaukee. “When he hasn’t been drinking he’s been getting laid.”
“How long has he been out of Libya?” asked Evans.
“Fortnight,” said Bartlett.
“I guess he’s allowed,” said Evans.
“What is it?” said Bartlett.
“We’ll wait for the rest,” decided Evans.
Hinkler and Bartlett both looked very fit. Despite the drunkenness, Sneider was lean and hard, his face leathered brown from the three years he had spent in the Libyan training camps.
“Sure,” accepted Bartlett at once, accepting the soldier’s logic against unnecessary repetition. “Why don’t we get Sneider bedded down?”
Still smiling, Sneider allowed himself to be taken to the secondary bedroom in the rue des Alexiens apartment. They only bothered to unlace and remove his boots.
With the money he had been given for expenses, Evans had restocked the bar. He nodded towards it when they returned to the living room. Hinkler poured two brandies without asking Bartlett what he wanted. Evans took Scotch.
“How’s it been?” asked Evans. He knew Bartlett and Hinkler had quit Libya a year before him.
“Rough,” said Hinkler. “There was something going in Iran, training again, but it was a worse disaster than Gaddafi. Didn’t get paid for three months and they actually expected us to take notice of their damned religious crap. God keep me from religious revolutionaries.”
“We were thinking of San Salvador when you called,” said Bartlett. “Good contracts being offered.”
“Know anyone there?”
Bartlett shook his head. “Supposed to be some of our guys there, but we haven’t heard any names.”
“Where’s the recruitment?”
“Frankfurt,” said Hinkler.
“That’s where I found Marinetti,” said Evans.
“Is he in with us?” asked Bartlett.
Evans nodded. “He said he’d come.”
“Good,” said Hinkler.
Marinetti was the explosives expert. They had all expected to be captured by the Vietcong when a deep penetration into the Parrot’s Beak in Cambodia fouled up, in 1972, but Marinetti had covered their trail with booby traps and given them the hour they needed to be airlifted out.
“Anybody else?” said Bartlett.
“Hank Melvin,” said Evans. “And Nelson Jones.”
Hinkler and Bartlett nodded together. “Most of the old team,” remembered Hinkler.
“All but Rodgers and Ericson,” completed Bartlett.
Rodgers was still in Libya. Ericson was permanently in a vets’ hospital in Phoenix, both legs amputated at midthigh where he’d trodden on an antipersonnel mine in Da Nang, three months before Nixon’s peace with honour, and mentally unable even to use a wheelchair.
Melvin was the next to arrive. The Texan telephoned from the airport and reached the rue des Alexiens fifteen minutes ahead of Marinetti. The greetings with those already there were subdued, without any theatrical boisterousness, and Evans was glad; they were still a team, he thought gratefully. Melvin had travelled from Madrid where he was negotiating a contract in Mozambique; Marinetti confirmed that until Evans’s call, he was considering the San Salvador offer.
“It’s always goddam training,” said Melvin. “Never combat.”
Evans had always suspected that Melvin got pleasure out of fighting, but he had never let them down.
“They’d expected us to take our payment within the country in San Salvador,” protested Marinetti. “Can you imagine what a load of crap that would have been, toy-town paper only good for wiping your ass once you’re out of the country!”
Because he had had to come from America, Nelson Jones was the last to arrive. The extremely tall black man came quietly but with smooth assurance into the apartment, smiling and nodding in recognition of those already assembled. Without any pretension, he and Evans greeted each other with an open-palmed, slapping handshake.
“Hi,” said Jones generally. There was a comfortable response, a reaction to someone coming home. Jones was six foot six and completely bald.
“Why don’t we get Sneider up?” suggested Evans.
Hinkler and Bartlett accepted their responsibility, coming from the smaller bedroom within minutes with the third man. Sneider blinked, tried to focus, licked his dry lips, then shook his head. “Reunion,” he snorted. “Mother-fucking reunion.” He saw the drinks on the side table and moved towards them.
“No!” Evans spoke softly.
Sneider hesitated, then halted without looking around. “What?” he said.
“No.”
The man turned, angling his head to focus upon Evans. “I want a drink.”
“I said no.”
There was a sense of anticipation in the room, the feeling of spectators witnessing arm wrestling between two evenly matched men. Evans hadn’t wanted to put the other man into this position and moved to get him out of it. “We’re working,” he said. “It’s a job and we’re all here. It’s time for briefing.” It was an exaggeration but it allowed Sneider his escape. Another victory with honour, thought Evans; sometimes it was difficult for him to remember he didn’t have the inherent authority of the American military to back every command.
Sneider nodded, moving away from the drinks. “Good to be aboard,” he said.
Evans realized the man was still not completely sober. Because they were what they were-and because it was all he really knew about-Evans set out the financial details of the contract, intent upon their reaction. Even Sneider looked impressed.
“To do what?” asked Jones.
“Get somebody back,” said Evans.
“Kidnap?” queried Hinkler.
“Seemed like it,” said Evans. “It was left vague.”
Bartlett looked around the room at the assembled men. “Isn’t this a little heavy?”
“They don’t seem to think so.”
“Where is it? What have we got to do?” said Marinetti, always the practical one.
“I don’t know yet,” confessed Evans. “I had to gather a group together, then report back.”
“And we get paid, even if we’re not used?” queried Jones, reverting to the financial details.
“In advance,” confirmed Evans
“Sure this is straight?” demanded Hinkler.
“Positive.”
“How?” demanded Bartlett at once.
“I know who it is.”
The seven men gazed at him, waiting.
“It’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Evans.
One by one they nodded, accepting the refusal. Evans felt a stir of satisfaction that they still trusted him as a commanding officer.
“What about materials?” said Marinetti.
“All being provided.”
“Until we know what it is, we won’t know what we want,” he pointed out objectively.
“It’ll be available, whatever we want. Anything.”
“How can you be sure?” said Sneider; the effort of concentration was obvious but he was achieving it.
“I’m sure,” said Evans.
“Opposition?” said Jones.
“Unknown, as yet.”
“It’s a lot of money for going around with our pants around our ankles,” judged Hinkler.
“No one’s going in bare-assed,” assured Evans. “There was a preliminary meeting and I was asked to assemble a force. Which I’ve done. Now I get back and we go on from there.”
“You think it’s Europe?” persisted Marinetti.
“I said I’m not sure,” said Evans. He would be offending their professionalism, he knew.
“Europe’s dangerous,” said Melvin, entering the discussion. “They’re too well organized here.”
“You get your money for coming,” said Evans. “And your expenses. If you don’t like it, when it’s set out, then you can back away.”
“Seems fair enough to me,” said Hinkler. Bartlett nodded in immediate agreement.
“Been a long flight,” said Jones. “I might as well hang around to see what the score is.”
“Any currency I want, wherever I want it?” queried Marinetti, cautious to the last.
“In advance,” assured Evans.
“Then I’m in.”
“Me too,” said Melvin.
They all looked at Sneider. “That leaves you,” said Evans.
Sneider smiled, a straight expression for the first time since he had entered the apartment. “Be a pity to break up a winning team,” he said.
Deaken was impatient to leave the yacht. The uncertainties and doubts of the previous evening had been washed away by his awareness that they had met Underberg’s demands and that he would soon be with Karen again. He was on deck before the tender was lowered from its davits, tapping his hand irritably against his leg as the boat was manoeuvred into the water and then reversed against the stepway. Deaken was waiting on the platform when it came alongside. There was a shout from the deck, and he waved up to one of the girls.
The tender was halfway across the harbour when he heard the Scheherazade helicopter returning. He hadn’t realized that it had left the yacht.
There was a tug of nervousness just before he landed, increasing as he climbed the harbour steps. It disappeared the moment he saw that the designated kiosk was empty. The day was close and muggy, and Deaken left the door open to make the most of what little air there was. He positioned the recorder and fixed the listening attachment, staring around him when he finished. It really was beautiful, he thought, properly noticing the harbour and Monaco rising in wedding-cake tiers behind for the first time. Spectacular in fact. Just the place to bring Karen. There would be cheap-enough hotels away from the front. That was all they would need, a clean, comfortable pension where he could comfort her and convince her that the nightmare was over and that she didn’t have to worry anymore. Just sleep and food and to lie in the sun; not even sex if she didn’t want it. Everything at her pace, as she dictated it.
Deaken had turned back inside the box and closed the door against the noise of the harbour when the telephone sounded. There was no nervousness when he lifted the receiver this time, nor forgetfulness in starting the recording.
“Everything’s resolved,” he announced, as soon as he heard Underberg’s voice.
“Tell me how,” said Underberg, the voice as patronizing as always.
He had once longed to pulp that arrogant, supercilious face, remembered Deaken. It seemed a juvenile reaction now; all that mattered was getting Karen back.
Succinctly Deaken identified the freighter and gave under Underberg’s detailed questioning, the itemized contents of its cargo. He set out its routing and the brief Madeira docking and insisted, in reply to the repeated question, “It’s already been turned back.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“What time?”
“Eight,” said Deaken. He should have known more positively. “About eight.”
“Good,” said Underberg. “Very good.”
“What about Karen? And the boy?”
“I’ll need better proof than this,” said Underberg. “And turning the boat around is only half of what I want.”
Deaken’s euphoria burst, like an overinflated balloon. “Only half?”
“You surely didn’t think we intended letting those arms go to waste, did you? There’s another destination for them.”
“Where?”
“All in good time,” said Underberg.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Deaken dully.
“It’ll take at least three days, maybe four, for the freighter to get back,” said Underberg. “We’ll make it another forty-eight hours.”
“No, wait!” said Deaken urgently. “How is she? How’s Karen?” As an afterthought, he added, “And the boy?”
“Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “We’re keeping our side of the bargain.”
“And we’re keeping ours,” said Deaken hurriedly.
“Then everything is going to work out fine, isn’t it?” Underberg replaced the receiver. He was at the window, binoculars in hand, when Deaken emerged from the kiosk. Underberg decided he believed the lawyer. Which meant Azziz and Grearson were deceiving the man, as he had expected them to do. He moved away from the window overlooking the harbour, impatient for the call from Levy.
The package had been delivered to the stateroom before the shore-bound tender drew alongside the harbour edge. It contained a list of twenty possible holiday farms, only eight with illustrations. The one at Rixheim was the fifth they came to; the large communal room was considered a feature and was prominently displayed, with two separate colour photographs in the brochure. Azziz and Grearson sat side by side, comparing them to the Polaroid picture showing Deaken’s wife and the boy. The sideboard was identical, even to the matching plates and kitchenware and the manner in which it was arranged. The fireplace with its intricate apparatus of cogs and chains was better shown in the brochure. The bench upon which the couple were sitting had been dragged from one side, they could see.
“For once he wasn’t foolish,” said Grearson.
“It was a good idea,” said the Arab. He added: “I’m glad we took the precautions we did.”
Immediately Grearson picked up a telephone and was connected at once to Paris. It was a brief conversation.
“The major, Evans, has made contact,” he said. “He’s got a unit ready.”
“Good,” said Azziz.