they left it and found themselves faced by three Somali workmen and a gimlet-eyed Frenchman. One crate was already open. “It purrs along like a Mercedes,” Duhamel concluded.
“Why not like a Citroën? Support French industries,” Claudel said. “Of course, if we didn’t, I’d choose a Jaguar.”
“Uses too much petrol. Expensive, my friend.”
The supervisor, eyes grimmer than ever at such a casual attitude on an occasion as serious as this, cleared his throat, said nothing, just pointed.
The top layer of the crate had been removed, a wooden shelf with typewriters in a neat row, each secure in its nest of Styrofoam. Typewriters definitely: their covers slit open showed carriages and keys. The crate’s second layer was deep. It held large-sized boxes, each marked with authentic-looking labels, even with printed directions for the use and care of calculators. The boxes had also been slit. Inside, covered by a light packing of Styrofoam bubbles, were thin plastic envelopes showing the glint of metal. Not calculators. Weapons. Handguns, grenades, ammunition.
In the third and fourth layers of the crate, now ripped open, no longer carefully slit, there were M-16 rifles, automatic pistols, and enough ammunition to kill and maim hundreds.
Duhamel’s face was white; the shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen. He spoke into his hand-size transceiver. To Claudel he said, “I’ll wait here with the superintendent until the guards and other workmen arrive. Take my car to the entrance. I’ll get a lift back.” He looked at the crate, his lips tight, his jaw set.
Claudel said nothing. Duhamel wouldn’t have heard him. He didn’t even notice Claudel leaving in his little Renault, heading for the gate where Alexandre’s taxi waited.
Trouble, thought Claudel, serious, deadly trouble... It was with an effort that he kept his talk with Alexandre, away from politics in Djibouti, even produced several small jokes, and spent fifteen minutes looking at white herons grouped on a grey shore.
He left the cab near the Café-Restaurant de l’Univers. “Tonight,” he told Alexandre, “I’ll need you. Yes, double fare after dark. Around nine thirty? And, Alexandre, be on time. Please. No later than nine forty. I have an important engagement.”
A meeting with a beautiful woman, Alexandre guessed. His smile was dazzling, a sudden burst of brilliant white.
“Wait for me until it’s over. Perhaps an hour, or a little more.”
So soon? wondered Alexandre. Europeans were strange. “There is no need to hurry. My brother will come to keep me company.”
And will be handsomely rewarded, too, thought Claudel. Well, it’s all on the expense account: insurance. Alexandre’s brother was a policeman. “But not in uniform,” he said quickly. No attracting of attention to a waiting taxi, thank you.
Alexandre looked disappointed. A police escort appealed to him, not only from the added status but also from safety. “Is it a quiet district where we wait?”
“Near the Old Arab’s house. Tell no one, Alexandre.”
“No one.” The Old Arab arranged many things, even meetings with beautiful women. A wife of a high official? But one did not talk about the Old Arab’s business. He did not like that. “I tell no one,” Alexandre said, this time with complete truth.
***
Claudel left l’Univers one minute before nine thirty. Its restaurant was beginning to function, its bar already crowded. Some able-bodied seamen, perhaps deciding that if they couldn’t have a night on the town, they’d have the drinks they liked among people who talked in recognisable languages, were mixing with the Italians and French and their amiable women. Other hot and bone-weary seamen were about to enter, groups from various ships docked at the port. Outside, the taxis were already in line. What was a couple of hours spent in waiting when a bumper harvest was in sight?
Alexandre was on time, parked discreetly away from the crowd. His brother, in
“Why not like a Citroën? Support French industries,” Claudel said. “Of course, if we didn’t, I’d choose a Jaguar.”
“Uses too much petrol. Expensive, my friend.”
The supervisor, eyes grimmer than ever at such a casual attitude on an occasion as serious as this, cleared his throat, said nothing, just pointed.
The top layer of the crate had been removed, a wooden shelf with typewriters in a neat row, each secure in its nest of Styrofoam. Typewriters definitely: their covers slit open showed carriages and keys. The crate’s second layer was deep. It held large-sized boxes, each marked with authentic-looking labels, even with printed directions for the use and care of calculators. The boxes had also been slit. Inside, covered by a light packing of Styrofoam bubbles, were thin plastic envelopes showing the glint of metal. Not calculators. Weapons. Handguns, grenades, ammunition.
In the third and fourth layers of the crate, now ripped open, no longer carefully slit, there were M-16 rifles, automatic pistols, and enough ammunition to kill and maim hundreds.
Duhamel’s face was white; the shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen. He spoke into his hand-size transceiver. To Claudel he said, “I’ll wait here with the superintendent until the guards and other workmen arrive. Take my car to the entrance. I’ll get a lift back.” He looked at the crate, his lips tight, his jaw set.
Claudel said nothing. Duhamel wouldn’t have heard him. He didn’t even notice Claudel leaving in his little Renault, heading for the gate where Alexandre’s taxi waited.
Trouble, thought Claudel, serious, deadly trouble... It was with an effort that he kept his talk with Alexandre, away from politics in Djibouti, even produced several small jokes, and spent fifteen minutes looking at white herons grouped on a grey shore.
He left the cab near the Café-Restaurant de l’Univers. “Tonight,” he told Alexandre, “I’ll need you. Yes, double fare after dark. Around nine thirty? And, Alexandre, be on time. Please. No later than nine forty. I have an important engagement.”
A meeting with a beautiful woman, Alexandre guessed. His smile was dazzling, a sudden burst of brilliant white.
“Wait for me until it’s over. Perhaps an hour, or a little more.”
So soon? wondered Alexandre. Europeans were strange. “There is no need to hurry. My brother will come to keep me company.”
And will be handsomely rewarded, too, thought Claudel. Well, it’s all on the expense account: insurance. Alexandre’s brother was a policeman. “But not in uniform,” he said quickly. No attracting of attention to a waiting taxi, thank you.
Alexandre looked disappointed. A police escort appealed to him, not only from the added status but also from safety. “Is it a quiet district where we wait?”
“Near the Old Arab’s house. Tell no one, Alexandre.”
“No one.” The Old Arab arranged many things, even meetings with beautiful women. A wife of a high official? But one did not talk about the Old Arab’s business. He did not like that. “I tell no one,” Alexandre said, this time with complete truth.
***
Claudel left l’Univers one minute before nine thirty. Its restaurant was beginning to function, its bar already crowded. Some able-bodied seamen, perhaps deciding that if they couldn’t have a night on the town, they’d have the drinks they liked among people who talked in recognisable languages, were mixing with the Italians and French and their amiable women. Other hot and bone-weary seamen were about to enter, groups from various ships docked at the port. Outside, the taxis were already in line. What was a couple of hours spent in waiting when a bumper harvest was in sight?
Alexandre was on time, parked discreetly away from the crowd. His brother, in
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