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.”
12
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.