It made sense of what had happened in Dakar. Azziz was the bwana mkubwa, the big man who had wanted to keep him off the Bellicose, so that he wouldn’t discover that a change of course was never intended for the freighter.
“I understand your reaction,” said Muller. “Of more concern to us is that whoever bought all the weaponry appears to be getting delivery as planned.”
“It has to be SWAPO surely?” said Deaken.
“That’s the obvious conclusion,” said Muller. “But there are still too many uncertainties about this business.”
He looked at Swart again. The man took from Muller’s desk two photographs and showed them to Deaken. “Do you recognize either of these two men?”
They were official pictures, both men staring directly and self-consciously at the camera. “No” said Deaken. “I’ve never seen either of them before.”
“I’m glad,” said Muller.
“Who are they?” said Deaken.
“Marius Underberg and Jan Underberg,” said the Director.
“So who’s the man I saw in Geneva?”
“Will you do something for us?” asked Muller.
“Of course,” said Deaken. As he spoke, he realized the final irony. He was cooperating, even seeking the assistance, of an organization which he had criticized and fought all his life. But there was no choice. “What do you want?” he said.
“For you to work with our artists. Identikit and photofit specialists, We need a picture of the man you met in Geneva.”
Two men were waiting in the office next door, one with paper pinned across an artist’s drawing board, the other standing at a table before assorted boxes. Deaken worked first with the photofit expert, picking his way through the containers holding every feature of the human face, from basic outline to warts, moles and strawberry birthmarks. Deaken worked with total concentration, occasionally closing his eyes mentally to picture again the smug, selfassured countenance that had confronted him over his cheap office desk in Switzerland. It took a long time and at the end he ached with the effort.
“It’s as good as I can get it,” he said.
“Then let me improve it,” said the artist.
While the photograph was being taken off the composite image, Deaken went over the photofit features with which he was not completely satisfied. He remained at the man’s shoulder while he worked, with fine-haired brushes and then an air brush, tinting and paring until at last Deaken was staring down at the man who called himself Underberg. The retouched version was photographed again and then the three of them went back to the Director’s office.
“Comparisons?” asked Muller.
“Begun from the original photofit,” said the man who had created it. “This version is put through a physiognomy computer.”
Deaken looked curiously between the intelligence director and his technicians. “So what happens now?” he said.
“More checking,” said Muller.
It took ten minutes. A third, white-coated man came in with a folder and handed it to Muller. The Director detached a snapshot-size photograph and handed it to Deaken. “Is this the man?” he said.
It was clearly a photograph that had been taken without the subject’s knowledge. It showed him striding down a wide highway, bordered by modern buildings, and from the number of blacks Deaken guessed it was somewhere in Africa.
“Who is he?” said Deaken.
“His name is Vladimir Suslev,” replied Muller.
Mitri brought the message from the radio room, padding respectfully into the stateroom and handing it to Azziz. The Arab read it, his face clouding. He studied it a second time to ensure that he had properly understood. Then he looked up to Grearson and said, “It’s from Levcos. They’ve had a signal from the Bellicose that Deaken didn’t board in Dakar.”
“What!”
“He apparently made contact with the agent there the day before the docking. But that was the last they saw of him.”
“So where the hell is he?”
“God knows.”
“What about the messages?”
“They’re being sent as arranged. They were never dependent upon Deaken’s presence anyway.”
“If he tries something on his own, he could ruin everything.” Grearson brought his fist down hard on the chair arm.
“Your people in Marseilles-Evans and the others-they know Deaken, don’t they?” asked Azziz.
“Sure,” said Grearson.
“If they see him, poking around the docks… doing anything… I want him killed.”
It was a long, frustrating discussion, with frequent cul-de-sacs from which none of them could find an exit. It had long since grown dark, and Pretoria was still and quiet. The Director’s office was littered with debris of long occupation, discarded coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches.
“Why should Vladimir Suslev, whom we know to have acted as a military adviser to Angola and again with SWAPO guerrillas in Namibia, represent himself as South African? Why should he kidnap a Saudi Arabian arms dealer’s son-and the wife of a South African of some notoriety-and stipulate the ransom to be the rerouting of an arms shipment for an organization which the Soviet Union supports against us?” demanded Muller.
It was the recurring question, the maypole around which they had all danced until the strings had become tangled.
“And what the hell is Azziz doing?” said Deaken.
“That at least we may be able to find out,” said Muller.
“I’ll have people with me?” said Deaken
Muller indicated Swart. “He’ll be in charge. There will be as many men as are needed. We’ll get your wife back.”
It took a couple of hours to make all the arrangements and assemble an immediate advance group to join Deaken and Swart. When the time came to leave, his father asked if he could drive him to the airport at Johannesburg.
“If the guerrillas are planning an offensive in July, the government have got a lot to thank you for.”
“Will you tell mother what happened?” said Deaken, unsure why it was so important for him to impress her.
“Of course,” said the older man. “As far as I’m allowed to.” He smiled ruefully.
“I’d like her to know.”
The man stretched across the car, putting his hand upon his son’s arm. “Come back,” he said.
“I will,” promised Deaken.
“And bring Karen.”
“Yes,” said Deaken after a pause. “I’ll bring Karen.”
28
Eight men flew from South Africa with Deaken and Swart, in two separate aircraft. Two more went directly to Paris to the South African embassy to collect the weapons that had been shipped over in the diplomatic bag to bypass customs interference. There were contingency plans for more men to follow if Swart decided it was necessary. The first priority was to locate the Russian and, even before the conference in Muller’s office had ended, everyone had recognized the problem facing them in Monte Carlo and the risk of Deaken’s accidental recognition. They chose Nice, taking a series of rooms in the Hotel Negresco; Swart’s suite overlooked the Promenade des Anglais, and it was here the group assembled early on the first morning.
Deaken sat beside Swart but took no part in the briefing, admiring the military precision with which the security man deployed his men, dispatching six to Monte Carlo but reserving two for Marseilles, the departure port of the Bellicose. Despite the speed with which they had left South Africa, Deaken saw Swart had managed to bring a family photograph with him: a woman, as small and stocky as her husband, and two children, a boy and a girl, both fair-haired, smiling into the camera from what appeared to be a picnic scene. It disclosed a personal side of a man whom Deaken had regarded as a hardened professional.
As the men filed from the room Swart said, “And now we wait.”
“And think,” added Deaken.
“About what?”
“The Lloyds reports give the speed of what’s supposed to be the Bellicose sailing back?”
“Yes.”