Remembering Williams’s Green Beret service, Grearson said, “Any indication that they were military?”
Williams thought about the question. “Obviously it had been carefully planned, but I didn’t get a marked impression of drilling.”
“The medical gun is intriguing,” said Grearson. To Williams he said, “The three of you recovered almost simultaneously?”
Williams nodded agreement. “Within a moment or two of each other. About an hour.”
For Grearson’s benefit, Azziz said, “I’ve asked about any accent in the Arabic that was spoken. They say it could have been Palestinian or Jordanian: maybe even Iraqi.”
Grearson grimaced. “Too wide,” he said.
“No liberation group would have cause to do it,” said Azziz. “I’ve supported them, with both money and weanons.”
“I’m sorry,” said Williams. “Very sorry.”
Azziz looked steadily at the man for several moments. Then he said simply, “Yes.”
“I think we should inform the police,” said Grearson again.
“We’ll wait,” said Azziz.
“For how long?” asked the lawyer.
“As long as it takes,” said Azziz with Arab fatalism.
It was another five hours. The package had been delivered by hand to the harbour office at Monte Carlo and was brought back in the yacht’s tender, doing the evening mail run. Grearson saw that Azziz’s hands were quite steady as he slit it open. It was a coloured Polaroid picture of Tewfik Azziz and a woman neither of them recognized, sitting stiffly upright on a bench alongside what appeared to be a wide fireplace. A flash had been used in what must have been quite strong sunlight, so the picture was overexposed.
“Just a photograph?” queried Grearson.
Azziz turned it over. “A name,” he said. “Richard Deaken. With what appear to be some letters of qualifications.”
Grearson took the photograph. “It’s a lawyer’s degree,” he identified immediately. “Several, in fact.”
While Grearson was examining the picture, the Arab opened the second letter to arrive that night, scanning it briefly. “It’s the school report,” he said softly. “They’re confident of his getting into Cambridge.”
As he spoke Richard Deaken was disembarking at Nice airport from the evening flight from Geneva. Six hours had elapsed since the confrontation with Underberg and he still felt confused.
They had been identified to each other when the photograph was taken and separated immediately afterwards, both locked in separate bedrooms at either end of the house. In each a securing bar closed the outer shutters across the outside of the windows, which had been screwed down so that it was impossible to open them, even slightly. Into the frames, steel bars had bean newly fitted. A portable toilet was set in the comer of each room, and each had a washstand, with a flower-decorated bowl and matching pitcher. The wardrobes were empty, except for hangers.
When they were fetched for the evening meal, Karen was sitting on the very edge of the bed, staring towards the door. Azziz was asleep, so he was the last to enter the downstairs room. Only Levy sat down with them at the table.
Azziz stretched up to look into the tureen and said, “Is this meat kosher?”
“No,” said Levy.
“I want to be sure.”
“Don’t eat it if you don’t want to,” said the Israeli. “There’s plenty of cheese and fruit.”
He offered the dish to Karen. She had combed her hair and applied some fresh lipstick but her eyes were still red. She hesitated and then ladled a small amount onto her plate; it was lamb, flavoured with just the right amount of garlic. Levy helped himself and then pushed the tureen towards Azziz. The boy stared at a piece of meat he had manoeuvred onto his ladle, and then served himself.
The wine was local, in an unmarked bottle. Levy gestured towards Karen’s glass. She hesitated again and then nodded. Indicating a jug. Levy said to Azziz, “I assumed you’d want water.”
“Why is Mrs Deaken involved in this?” demanded Azziz.
“Her husband is necessary,” said Levy. He broke some bread from a stick.
“What’s happening to Richard?” she blurted.
“Nothing,” Levy said gently. “He’s working… doing a job, that’s all. He’s quite safe.”
Azziz put more of the stew onto his plate, then looked across the table at the man. “Is it new Jewish strategy to fight with women?”
Levy pushed aside his plate, cut a portion of goat’s cheese and then took an apple to eat with it. He looked down, concentrating upon peeling the fruit. “Our argument isn’t with you,” he said. “Nor with Arabs even, not directly.”
Azziz frowned and said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not necessary for you to,” said Levy.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” said Karen. She wished her voice had been stronger.
“No longer than we have to,” said Levy. “A few days I hope, that’s all.”
“And me?” asked Azziz.
“The same.”
After the meal there was coffee, freshly ground and as good as everything else. They remained at the table to drink it.
“Tomorrow there will be some books,” promised Levy. “And games. I’m getting a backgammon set.” He looked at Karen. “Do you play?”
“No,” she said.
“Pity.” Levy turned to the Arab. “You’ll be allowed out into the garden to exercise. Watched, of course. And not together.”
“One acting as hostage for the other?” seized the boy.
“Yes,” said Levy simply. “We don’t want to hurt you, either of you.”
“Unless absolutely necessary,” goaded Azziz.
“1 won’t argue with you,” said Levy. “There’s no purpose in it.”
He summoned Leiberwitz to escort Azziz back to his room. He took Karen himself. At the bedroom door he said, “I know you came away from Geneva with nothing. I don’t want you to be embarrassed-if there’s anything you need… anything personal, make a list and I’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Even underwear,” he said. “I’ll get it myself.”
She thought he was more discomfited than she was.
“Don’t be afraid, about the men I mean,” he said. “You won’t be troubled.”
“Thank you,” she said again.
“I wanted you to know.”
“This isn’t what I expected,” she said.
“Nor me,” admitted the man.
5
The Scheherazade was arranged like a gaudy ornament on the skyline, lit brilliantly overall; there was even some form of underwater illumination so that the hull was visible along its entire length. Because of the lighting, Deaken had seen the tender cream away from the side of the vessel while he was still linked by radio telephone from the harbour master’s office to Adnan Azziz. Away from the yacht, it merged into the blackness of the intervening sea. Deaken became conscious of the telephone bank and hurried to it; the number he had been given earlier that day in Geneva was the second box from the left. He looked hard at it, then lifted the receiver. Nothing appeared wrong with it. He turned back towards the most obvious quay steps. Almost at once, the tender emerged from the darkness; there appeared to be a crew of three and a man in civilian clothes. As Deaken looked the man stood up and moved to the side of the vessel that was being brought against the harbour edge. Grey-haired, thin almost to the point of gauntness, official-looking, thought Deaken. He waved unthinkingly, self-consciously stopping the gesture half completed. There was no response from the tender. Two crewmen fended off, making no attempt to secure. The helmsman kept the boat expertly in place by reverse and forward thrusts of the engine.
“Deaken?” said the man in the suit.
“Yes.”
“Grearson. Mr Azziz’s attorney.”
Deaken stepped awkwardly into the boat. At once it moved away, putting him further off balance. Deaken held a side rail and offered his hand. Grearson looked as if it were holding something offensive.
In silence they travelled towards the Scheherazade. They were so close it seemed to dominate the skyline now. Deaken thought it looked more like a liner than a yacht. There was a stepped walkway, wider than stairs in normal houses, let down from the side, with a flat landing stage at the bottom, three feet above the lifting sea. The tender coasted perfectly alongside. Deaken followed the other lawyer out as awkwardly as he had boarded; as he climbed he saw the davit hawsers dangling ahead, ready to lift the tender. The winch had whined into operation by the time he gained the deck. Deaken looked around expectantly but, apart from the crew waiting to ease the tender into its cradle, it was deserted.