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Deaken turned to the telephones. “He must be there by now.”

“Over an hour ago,” agreed Azziz.

“Why hasn’t he called?”

“He’s got to trace the shipment. It wasn’t handled directly through Paris. They were just the vendors.”

“I know they’ll expect more,” said Deaken again.

“Less than twenty-four hours has elapsed,” said Azziz. “There can’t be more.”

Deaken remained looking at the telephones, willing one to sound.

“Here,” said Azziz.

Deaken turned to the Arab. Azziz was holding out a small, leatherette-covered box. “What’s that?”

“I want the conversation taped,” said Azziz. “I want to hear what’s said.”

“Underberg said I’d be watched, all the time.”

“This couldn’t be any danger to him.”

It was a sensible thing to do, thought Deaken. He reached out and accepted the recorder.

“Do you know how to use it?”

The lawyer nodded, turning it over in his hand and locating the suction-capped receiver to stick onto the telephone.

“You should be going,” said Azziz.

“It’s not half past yet,” said Deaken. Why hadn’t the bloody American rung?

“You shouldn’t be late.”

Deaken moved reluctantly towards the door.

“Don’t forget the contact,” said Azziz. “I’ll accept whatever conditions or arrangements they want, so long as I can speak to him.”

“I’ll ask,” promised Deaken. To speak to Karen as well, he decided. The hollow, disbelieving sound of her voice when she had spoken to him in the Geneva office echoed in his head.

Confident of at least part of the yacht, Deaken found his way easily out onto the deck. The tender was already drawn up at the bottom of the step way. He went down carefully, glancing back up towards the ship as he reached the platform. Two of the girls were looking over the rail from the pool deck; the sun was behind them, so he couldn’t see if either was the girl to whom he had spoken. One waved. Deaken got into the tender without responding.

From the balcony of the Bristol, Underberg focused the binoculars and saw the motorboat pull away from the side of the Scheherazade. He smiled and stepped back into the shade of his room.

In the stateroom of the yacht the telephone sounded at the time Azziz had arranged and he picked it up expectantly.

“Sailed nearly forty-eight hours ago,” reported Grearson. “Freighter is called the Bellicose, Liberian registration, owned by a Greek company called Levcos. General cargo to Madeira, then on with our shipment.” The line was extremely clear; it was Paris, not Marseilles.

“Any stated destination?”

“Sailing orders are to refuel at Dakar, then onwards for contact off Benguela. Deaken gone ashore?”

“Yes,” said Azziz. “When does the Bellicose get to Madeira?”

“Tonight. The weather’s good so it should be there on time.”

“Who’s the Portuguese in the middle?”

“Hernandez Ortega,” said the American. “We’ve dealt with him before. Good man.”

“Who’s the purchaser?”

“An import company called Okuru Shippers, with an address in the avenue Liburation, in Lobito.”

“How was the purchase made?”

“They came here, to the office in Paris.”

“Any names?”

“Makimber,” said the lawyer. “Edward Makimber.” The lawyer hesitated. “Do you want me to go to Lisbon, to see Ortega?’’

“No,” said Azziz at once. “What about the men we want?”

“Paris have got some names.”

“American or British?”

“American,” said Grearson. “Address for one is Brussels.

“I don’t want any Belgian Congo rubbish,” repeated Azziz.

“I know.”

“Check him, as you’re so close,” instructed Azziz. “And tell Paris to make a contact with this man Makimber. I want to see if there really is a deadline or whether they’d accept a delay.”

“Deaken said they’d thought of that.”

“Make the inquiry,” said Azziz. “And tell them to arrange a matching shipment. Do we have sufficient stock?”

“More than sufficient,” said Grearson.

“Fix it,” ordered Azziz.

“It would be an easy way out,” agreed Grearson.

“Not for some,” said Azziz, more to himself than to the other man.

It was 11:50 when Deaken jumped ashore, before waiting for the crew to tie up. He ran up the steps, looking anxiously towards the telephones. The one in use was not the one which had been identified by Underberg. Deaken hurried into the box, thrusting the door closed behind him. He put the recorder on the ledge and depressed the suction cap against the earpiece of the telephone, tugging it gently to make sure it was attached. Eleven fifty-five, he saw. He looked around. The quayside was crowded, with yachtsmen and sightseers and flower stalls and souvenir sellers. Near the harbour office an artist had erected an easel and was painting the yachts against the background of the palace. A group had formed behind the man. No one was obviously watching him, decided Deaken. But then they wouldn’t be obvious. Although he was ready for it, tensed even, Deaken still jumped when the telephone shrilled.

He snatched up the receiver, almost dropping it in his eagerness. “Yes?”

“You’re on time. Good,” said a voice he recognized as that of the man who had confronted him in Geneva the previous day.

Belatedly Deaken remembered the tape and jabbed the lever down. “How’s my wife… how’s Karen?”

“Perfectly well,” said Underberg. “Why the recorder?”

Deaken whirled around. There was no one in any of the other boxes. He turned in the opposite direction. He was overlooked by dozens of windows and at least three hotels; it was like being pinned out, ready for dissection, under some microscope. “We didn’t want any mistakes,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re being careful,” said Underberg. “What about the shipment?”

Deaken gripped his hands against the familiar patronizing voice. “Azziz has agreed,” said the lawyer.

“That’s good, that’s very good,” said Underberg. “Where is it?”

Deaken hesitated. “Being located,” he said.

Now the pause was from the other end. “That doesn’t sound very sensible, Mr Deaken.”

“It was sold through France,” said the lawyer desperately. “Shipment was arranged through Marseilles. Azziz has sent someone there this morning…” Remembering the Arab’s point, Deaken added, “We’ve only had a few hours.”

Again the man didn’t speak immediately. Then he said, “Don’t forget why you’re involved. Don’t forget what happens to your wife depends upon your seeing that everything goes the way we want it to.”

Deaken tugged at his collar, loosening his shirt. Sweat soaked him, running down his face and from beneath his arms, into the waistband of his trousers. He tried opening the door but the sound of the quayside was too loud so he closed it again. He could feel the sun burning through the glass. “I’m not forgetting anything,” he said. “You didn’t give us enough time.”

“You’ll have enough time,” said Underberg. “More than enough.”

“Azziz wants to speak to his son. And I want to speak to Karen. To make sure they’re all right,” blurted Deaken.

“We make the stipulations,” said Underberg.

“We’ll accept any conditions… whatever the arrangement. Let’s just speak to them. Hear their voices.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It must be possible.”

“I said it wasn’t.”

“What’s happened to them?” Deaken’s fear was immediate, his voice unsteady.

“I’ve told you, they’re all right, both of them,” said Underberg insistently. “There’s no way you can talk to them; it won’t work.”

“Azziz can make it work.”

“All he’s got to make work is the rerouting of the arms shipment. Make sure he does that.”

The response came at once to Deaken, but he paused, considering it. Then he said, “You’ve made that impossible.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Underberg.

“How can I ensure anybody is doing anything when I’m tied to these telephone calls. Give me some way to contact you.”