“I am responsible for the safety of my ship,” he said.
“We understand that,” said Grearson. He put his hand on Evans’s shoulder and felt it tense. “These people are going simply to protect a cargo.”
“Where will I be sailing, after Algiers?”
“I don’t know,” said Grearson.
To Evans the Greek said, “I control this ship at all times.”
“Naturally,” said Evans.
“Nothing is to happen without prior consultation with me.”
“Of course.”
Papas studied the mercenary as if he doubted the quickness of the replies. Then he said, “Do you want to look over the ship?”
“Please,” said Evans, politely.
Papas took them down an inner stairway to the deck. The forward hold was still uncovered and Grearson and Evans stared down at the containers and crates.
“Could the ship’s derrick lift them out without the need for a heavier shore crane?” asked Grearson. Although there was no intention of parting with the weaponry, he had to be prepared for any question that might arise during their telephone contact.
“If necessary,” said Papas.
Evans was examining the decking, expertly assessing the cover available from the raised lip of the cargo hold and the other deck fittings.
“Just this hold?” queried Grearson.
“There’s a small overflow in number two hold,” said Papas. “Only about six tons.”
He led them back inside the freighter, towards the crew accommodations. The two cabins allocated for Evans’s men were small, normally only occupied by two people. “That’s all we’ve got,” said the Greek.
“That will be all right,” said Evans.
“How many crew do you carry?” said Grearson.
“Twenty-five,” said Papas. “Twenty-five good men.”
By a series of internal ladders and walkways, they got into both holds through the bulkhead doors, enabling Evans to inspect the cargo crates, and then returned to the bridge. Papas offered them drinks and again they refused. It was almost four o’clock when Grearson and Evans went back down the ladderway onto the quayside.
Evans paused, turning back to the Hydra Star; Papas was watching them from the bridge wing.
“He won’t be easy,” said Grearson. “And the crew is larger than I imagined it would be.”
“Numbers aren’t a problem,” said Evans. “We can take care of ourselves.” He went over to the car. “There’s plenty of cover. Particularly down in the hold.”
“No worries then?”
Evans stopped with the driver’s door open and looked hard at the lawyer. “Mr Azziz will get his money’s worth,” he said.
The garden of the house curved in a gentle arc down to a high bank. Levy scrambled up and then leaned down to help Karen. He sat with his back against a fir and she leaned against him, head on his chest. Here they were shielded from the house and their elevation gave them a panoramic view out over the distant Durance River.
“It’s beautiful,” said Karen.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to stay here forever.”
He kissed the top of her head. His hand was around her waist and he shifted it slightly, moving it gently against her breast. She covered his hand with hers.
“Something should have happened and it hasn’t,” she said.
“What?” he said, not understanding.
“I’m late.”
Levy stopped moving his hand against her. “How late?”
“Two or three days” said Karen. “Which is unusual. I’m very regular.”
“It’s probably because of all that’s happened,” he said.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Levy moved her around so that he could see her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She stretched up to kiss him. “I’m not,” she said.
25
Deaken, who had rehearsed everything he had to do and was trying to rest in his window seat, stirred at the landing announcement, pushing aside the inadequate blanket to gaze out into the velvet African night.
Home-the home he hadn’t known for so long. And which had not wanted to know him. A different arrival from the last time, he thought, deep in reflection. It had been a week after his tenth victory in as many hearings, he remembered, this time before the Human Rights Court in Strasbourg. He had already been well known-too well known for the comfort of his family-but the Strasbourg decision had been against Britain over their treatment of detainees in Ulster and made him an international media figure. Reporters had flown to South Africa with him, even an American television crew for a documentary they later called “Spokesman for the Oppressed.” He had cooperated, not through the vanity of which his father subsequently accused him, but because he saw practical benefit from it. He had changed his opinion about many things but not about publicity. It was a useful weapon-the best-against governments or regimes or ruling parties or juntas that wanted something hidden. And could be again.
There was the sound of the undercarriage groaning down, a sparkle of the spread-out lights of Johannesburg once more and then the snatch of the landing. As the aircraft waited for direction towards the disembarkation finger, stewards and stewardesses made their final tour, offering immigration forms to holders of non-South African passports. Deaken refused, wondering what his status was. Not prohibited. If that had been the case, his passport would have been withdrawn. But certainly listed. Entered in the central indexes and computer banks and in the immigration records at ports and airports along with the subversives, the doubtfuls and those who should be detained or questioned or just refused entry. Underberg had been right in his threat that the Department of National Security would know the moment he tried to contact his father. Which made his plan all the more desperate but the only one that had a chance of keeping Karen alive.
Deaken squeezed into the disembarkation queue and funnelled out into the airport building, immediately alert for the signs. The line for South African nationals was long but moving more quickly than the others through the immigration checks. The officer at the desk was young and blond and fresh-faced, smiling and polite. When he reached him, Deaken thrust his passport across the desk and said, “My name is Richard Deaken.”
He indicated the large, loose-leafed book on his left and said, “You’ll find me listed in your check register. My father is Piet Deaken. I would like you to call a senior officer. It’s very urgent.”
The young face clouded and the immigration officer swallowed, a pleasant shift of duty suddenly a problem. The interest rippled from the attentive family immediately behind Deaken and travelled all down the line.
The man at the desk looked from Deaken to his picture, back again and then shuffled through the book alongside him. His finger stopped a third of the way down the page.
“I told you it would be there,” said Deaken. Despite his anxiety, he was curious what the listing read.
The officer waved the rest of the queue towards an adjacent desk, apologetically indicated the register and then Deaken to his suddenly overburdened colleague as he lifted the desk phone.
“It’s urgent,” repeated Deaken.
“I heard you,” said the young man officiously.
The conversation was brief, in mumbled Afrikaans, and Deaken wondered if the man speaking it believed he wouldn’t understand. But he quickly learned that his register listing was “subversive.” To the right of the arrival hall was what appeared to be an insubstantial, temporary wall made from plasterboard or some processed material. It was from here, through an unmarked door, that the senior immigration official appeared. He wore a darker uniform than the desk officer, with shoulder crowns of superior rank and a peaked cap firmly in place. He was a small, fat man, with pink cheeks and pudgy hands. With obvious irritation he looked at Deaken’s passport, then checked the register.