“I want it, whatever it is. If you don’t give it to me I’ll have them strip you, in front of the woman. We’ll turn out your clothes and find it. And beat you.” She knew it wasn’t Levy’s voice; it was the man who’d tricked her from the Geneva apartment.
Breathing easier now, Karen raised her head, so that she could see the room again. Azziz was still confronting Levy defiantly but there wasn’t the initial stiffness in the way he held himself.
“What’s the point?” she said. Her voice wavered, uncertain.
Azziz thrust into his pocket, taking out the coin. Instead of giving it to the Israeli, he threw it on the ground. It clattered against the stone, and rolled away, describing diminishing circles until finally it settled on its side. For a moment Levy looked steadily at Azziz. Then he picked up the coin, studying the edge for the score marks which would confirm it was what Azziz had used. He went back to the Arab and said, “All right, everything else in your pockets out onto the table.”
Sullenly Azziz emptied his pockets.
“Now pull all the linings out,” said Levy.
Some of the watching men laughed as Azziz obeyed.
“Tonight you’ll sleep with your ankle handcuffed to the bed,” said Levy. Briefly he looked sideways at Karen. “She was right-there wasn’t any point. No point at all.”
“Pig,” said Azziz. His lips were already swelling, making it difficult for him to enunciate clearly.
“We told you that at the beginning,” said Levy. “You should have believed me “
Because it was essential to the operation the man called Rupert Underberg insisted upon a seafront room at the Bristol, with a balcony overlooking the harbour. It was here that he breakfasted off yoghurt and eggs and fruit: he couldn’t stand the continental crap. He looked beyond the squared basin, with its clutch of yachts, to where the Scheherazade rode at deep-water anchor. As he watched, the rotors of the helicopter suddenly began revolving and then the machine lifted, banked and flew off parallel with the coastline. Westwards, Underberg noted; he wondered how the occupants had entered without his being aware of it.
It must be wonderful to be rich enough to own yachts and helicopters, he thought, returning to his breakfast; to eat like this everyday. Would his wife enjoy it? He wished she was with him, so he could have given her a chance. He had wanted so much for it to be better, during his leave. She didn’t think he understood, but he did. He would make it up to her, very soon. In a month or two she would realize that it had all been worthwhile.
8
Deaken emerged from his cabin unable to remember the direction from which the steward had led him the previous night. He went to his right, at once aware of the wind chop of the helicopter take-off. He found a door out onto the deck in time to see it pick up the flight path along the coast. Towards France, he decided, staring directly towards the shore and establishing his directions. Monaco was displayed before him, in pinks and yellows and ochres. The sun was already strong, silvering the water, and he had to squint to pick out the palace, with its flag showing the Prince was in residence, and then the casino. Between him and the shore, yachts squatted at their moorings like nesting seabirds. Deaken strained, trying to locate the telephone kiosk he had to use, but it was too far, merging into an obscure whitish blur.
He heard voices and moved towards them, realizing when he got nearer that he was going to the stern of the vessel. He stopped at the rail, gazing down, isolating first the helicopter pad, with its white-ringed landing pattern. The pool was higher, on the next deck up. Three girls were in the water, giggling and laughing. A fourth was spread on her back, on a lounging chair. The three in the water were topless; the one sunbathing was completely naked.
“If you’re joining us you’d better change.”
The girl was barefoot, which was why he hadn’t heard her approach behind him. Her black hair was short, almost boyish. Her face was deeply tanned, without make-up. She had brown eyes, like Karen. She was wearing a bikini bottom and a diaphanous white gauze top, tied only at the neck; her nipples were dark and full.
“I’m Carole,” she said.
There was an accent but he couldn’t identify it.
“Deaken,” he said. “Richard Deaken.” He felt like a schoolboy caught peeping into the girls’ dormitory.
“When did you come aboard?”
“Last night.”
She nodded. “We knew there was a meeting.”
Part of the staff, thought Deaken-harem, in fact.
She smiled, conscious of his discomfort. “How long are you staying.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Coming down to the pool?”
He shook his head hurriedly. “I heard voices,” he said.
“We spend most of the day there, if you change your mind,” she said. The smile was professional. “We’d welcome the company.”
She walked to the companionway leading down to the pool deck with a fluid, hip-swaying sensuality.
Deaken hurried back into the interior of the ship through the door from which she had emerged, annoyed with himself for having been discovered by the girl, annoyed, even, with wasting his time ogling whores. Almost at once he recognized the alleyway along which Grearson had led him when they had boarded, and then the broad sweep down to the stateroom. At the wide double doors he hesitated, then knocked. Something was said on the other side which Deaken didn’t hear but he entered anyway. Azziz was standing as he had been the previous night. He was wearing a sports shirt and slacks.
“I’ve sent someone for you,” said the Arab.
“I lost my way,” said Deaken. “Where’s Grearson?”
“Marseilles,” said Azziz. “I decided a personal visit would be better than a telephone call.”
The helicopter, remembered Deaken. The door opened behind him. A bespectacled, dark-haired man began, “I’m afraid…” and then stopped when he saw Deaken.
“My personal secretary, Mitri,” introduced Azziz. “If you want anything while you’re here, ask him.”
The man nodded, but did not smile. He carried a leather writing case, with fittings on the outside to hold pens.
“Thank you,” said Deaken.
The Palestinian secretary looked inquiringly at Azziz, who shook his head. Mitri backed out, closing the door behind him.
“Will you hear from Grearson before I’ve got to go ashore?” asked Deaken.
“I hope so,” said Azziz. “If we don’t, you can say we’ve located the shipment… that we’ll do what they want.”
“They’ll want details.”
“So do I.”
“What does that mean?”
“I talked to Grearson before he left. We decided we were being too subservient.”
“We don’t have any choice.”
“I want contact with my son,” insisted Azziz. “I want to know he’s all right.”
“Cancel the shipment and you can have him back!”
“I can’t do that in a day,” said Azziz. “I don’t even own the arms at the moment.”
Deaken stared at the other man, feeling the stir of uncertainty. “You said the sale to Portugal was just a book transaction, a way round officialdom!”
“Contracts had to be drawn up, and money seen to be exchanged, for it to remain legal,” said Azziz. “It’s not a big problem, but it can’t be resolved in a day. Surely you see that?”
“How long?”
“Two or three days,” shrugged the man.
“Two or three days!” shouted Deaken. “My wife’s with those bastards.”
“So’s my son,” said Azziz quietly.
“Then get them out… get them both out.”
“I’m going to.”
Deaken accepted it was illogical to expect everything to be settled so quickly, but he hadn’t thought beyond today. “We daren’t take any chances,” he said.
“I don’t intend to. That’s why I want to speak to my son.”
Deaken looked at his watch; it was almost a quarter past eleven.
“I’ve ordered the tender in the water at eleven thirty,” said Azziz.