Rodriguez’ dark eyes sharpened. “What was his name?”
“No one seems to know.”
“Nonsense. All visitors to private rooms have their names noted, along with their times of arrival.” He moved over to the desk, spoke authoritatively, argued for at least two minutes while the reception clerk checked and rechecked his file, then came back to where Ferrier waited. Rodriguez was annoyed and puzzled. “There is no entry for that man. He passed through with a young visiting doctor called Medina, and it was assumed that they were colleagues, that the stranger had been called in for consultation.” He controlled his temper, shrugged his shoulders, excused the hospital with one final word. “Naturally,” he ended lamely.
“Naturally. But Medina doesn’t know him. He was only showing the man the way to Reid’s room.”
“Did Reid know him?”
“No. But his credentials seemed believable. He came from some business firm that Reid deals with—an urgent signature was all he wanted.”
“A strange thing,” Rodriguez said softly. Ferrier’s spine tightened, but he kept his face expressionless. “That man’s dress, I mean,” Rodriguez added. “He carried more than a briefcase when he arrived. There was also a book. And a noticeable bandage on his thumb. And a flower in his lapel. Did you notice those?”
Ferrier nodded.
“Did you see him when he left?”
“Only the back of his head. There was a crush in the corridor just then. The gong had sounded for visitors to move into the wards.”
“Then you didn’t see that he was still carrying the briefcase, but no book, flower, or bandage? But perhaps,” Rodriguez added thoughtfully, watching Ferrier’s eyes, “the need for that was over.”
Ferrier looked at Rodriguez sharply.
Rodriguez was enjoying himself. “Yes, that interested me, too. It looks as if he might have used these little additions for—well, for the purpose of identifying himself quite clearly to someone who was a stranger. It’s quite a common method in some circles. It makes sure of meeting the right man.”
Again he is prowling around Jeff, thought Ferrier, can’t he leave him alone? Jeff is dead; Rodriguez’ file on him is closed. And then he thought, But Jeff didn’t need to see that kind of identification; all he needed was one small silver pencil.
Rodriguez said softly, “I seem to have shocked you.”
I could cause Medina some real pain, Ferrier decided, if I were to open my mouth at this moment. So he kept it closed, tight. He nodded a goodbye, started toward the corridor, determined to find Medina and ask a few questions of his own. By God, he thought in rising anger, if my suspicions are right, if Medina actually did meet an assassin and bring him safely into Jeff’s room... But at whose suggestion? Was he simply being used by someone like Gene Lucas, that plausible liar? Someone who knew Medina’s vanities and weakness, and manipulated him skilfully? Medina could be just another Adam Reid, two of a kind, never realising what they were doing, never knowing how much blame they carried. Nature’s fools.
Ferrier turned the corner into the corridor, almost knocked over Medina. He had been talking to a grave-faced sister whose hands were clasped and her head slightly bowed as she listened, wordless, to Medina’s small lecture. He regained his balance, looked around sharply at Ferrier, calmed down as he saw who it was. “I was just about to leave. There is no more that can be done. Heart failure.” Then he went on lecturing the sister. She was, Ferrier noted as she raised her look at him sadly from under the sweeping brim of her white starched hat, the same one who had spoken with him last night and given him Reid’s requests. Medina was telling her, “It was a grave mistake to let him have any visitors, any excitement. That was my advice last night, and it was correct. Most unfortunate that—”
“And what about the visitor you brought him?” Ferrier asked.
“I?”
“Yes, you,” Ferrier said calmly. He was conscious that someone else had just turned the corner to stand behind him. Perhaps a doctor, another nurse; or Rodriguez?
“That was nothing, a signature; it aroused no excitement. A matter of a few minutes. Nothing.”
“So I am to blame?” Ferrier’s tone was almost conversational.
“No, no—you did not mean to endanger Señor Reid. It was simply unfortunate—”
“And you are quite sure it was heart failure?”
“We all are.” Medina was totally convinced, and perhaps glad that he could be so completely sure. No conscience at all, thought Ferrier, no misgivings, not one hint that he was puzzled or troubled or even sorry. He looked at Medina disbelievingly as the man went on talking. “They’ve taken the body into surgery now—an attempt to try to save him. The effort must be made, of course. But useless, I’m afraid. It was a quick, severe heart attack. We must face the cold fact that there is no miracle to be expected, not even here.”
The sister’s face tightened, but she kept her silence.
Ferrier said, “You told me that Jeff Reid was as strong as an ox. Your words. His last checkup—”
“Made by my uncle,” Medina said quickly. And that disposed of that.
Ferrier resisted the old American solution: one to the gut, one to the jaw. Crude, Europeans said. But it would have been extremely satisfying, right now. And he couldn’t even use a few jabs of well-aimed phrases—not the place, not the time. Phrases such as “Well, I’m glad you’ve recovered from your hysteria. What were you afraid of finding when you put on that performance in Reid’s room? A death from unnatural causes? Thumbmarks on a throat, or signs of an injection in an arm? How fortunate it was so natural, a heart attack, nothing to be explained, something we all accept.” But he resisted hard. He took a long, deep breath, let his eyes drift away from Medina’s. He could feel the man relax. No proof, thought Ferrier, all I have is suspicions. If I had got hold of that stranger and his briefcase, forced him back to the hospital for questioning—but I didn’t. He stared at the white starched wings floating in perfect balance over the sister’s grave face. “Can I be of some help?” he asked her. Or do I just leave? he wondered. He felt useless in every way.
“Yes,” she said, gave a small bow to Medina, and turned toward Reid’s room. “If you would come with me, Señor Ferrier?”
He nodded, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that it was Rodriguez who was standing patiently a little distance behind him. It was. Ferrier didn’t resist, this time. He said to Medina, “By the way, it may not be so difficult to find the name of the stranger you brought in here. Perhaps your friend Lucas can tell you who he is.”
Medina looked at him sharply. You could almost hear him calculating how much he could deny, how much he should admit.
“Gene Lucas,” Ferrier said quietly. The sister had stopped, looked around. Rodriguez, keeping tactfully apart, was studying the vaulted ceiling.
“An acquaintance—I scarcely know him.” Medina was recovering.
“Even so, you could always ask him who the man was.”
“But how would he know?” Medina was bewildered, a study in puzzled innocence.
“He knows the blue Fiat in which the man was driven away. He also knows the driver.” Ferrier nodded a definite goodbye, started along the corridor toward the waiting sister.
“Why should we worry about that man?” Medina called angrily after him. It was a good question, and a dangerous one. And a revealing one, too: everything I say will be reported to Lucas, thought Ferrier as he halted and weighed his answer carefully. But he was spared it. Rodriguez had moved forward, was answering for him.
Rodriguez said gently, “It is a matter of straightening out the records of the hospital. It is the least you could do, don’t you think? You did escort the man—”
“He was a stranger to me.”
“Dr. Medina, I saw you waiting outside the hospital.”
Ferrier walked on slowly. So Rodriguez had seen it all.
Medina was saying, “I wasn’t waiting. I was looking at the crowds. People interest me
.”
“My impression,” Rodriguez insisted, “was that you stepped forward when you saw him and—”
“Then your impression was wrong.” Medina’s anger carried clearly along the corridor.
The sister looked at Ferrier worriedly. “Dr. Medina is a difficult man,” she whispered. “He could cause us much trouble.”
“Not so much, now,” Ferrier reassured her. No one, but no one, told Captain Rodriguez that his impressions were wrong.
Rodriguez was saying, his tone satin-smooth, “In that case, I apologise. But first, let me identify myself, and then we can talk a little more.” The voice faded. Ferrier looked back along the corridor. Medina and Rodriguez were leaving. The shock of Rodriguez’ identification seemed to have silenced Medina temporarily. But he will soon get his second wind, thought Ferrier; he will stick to his story, and nothing can be proved otherwise. I was wrong about Medina. He isn’t one of Nature’s fools. He is a natural conspirator.
“Who is that man who speaks with Dr. Medina?” the sister asked.
He hesitated, wondering whether he should add to the load of her anxieties by mentioning police or State Security.
She took his silence as ignorance. “At least,” she said, “he seemed to be a friend of the hospital. I hope he can persuade Dr. Medina that there was no carelessness, no—”
“I’m sure he will.”
“A dreadful event. We are so sorry. So very sorry.” She halted at the open doorway of Reid’s room. “I thought you might take away the things you brought for Señor Reid. And there are some more of his possessions.” She looked at the empty bed. “Was I to blame?” she asked in real anguish.
“No.”
“But Dr. Medina seemed to believe—”
“No,” he said again, firmly. “He was afraid of being blamed himself. That was all.” And you were such an easy target, he thought, watching the honest anxious face with compassion.
She was shocked. With Ferrier. “But he is a doctor. Doctors don’t—”
“I know,” he said wearily. “They don’t. Most of them don’t.” Most of them don’t play politics, he added for himself. Nor do most priests, most ministers and teachers, and all the rest in dedicated professions. Most don’t. “I’ll gather together Jeff’s things,” he said, moving into the room. “What else can I do?” There must be a lot of formalities, he thought worriedly. And suddenly he felt drained of energy even at the idea of them.
“The hospital called your consul at once. He has notified Señor Reid’s lawyer, who will take charge. Señor Reid had arranged everything in advance.” She shook her head. “Did he foresee—did he have a weak heart?”
There had been no weakness about Jeff’s heart in any way, thought Ferrier. “He was a practical man. A foreigner in a strange land. And please, sister, stop blaming yourself. Or I’ll begin believing I’m to blame, too. But he wanted to see me. And I thought he was fine; a little weak, of course, but what else could you expect? Certainly nothing to worry about. I saw him eight years ago when he was in much worse shape. He was in the Air Force then, and he had crashed—” His voice dried up. He couldn’t go on. He began picking up the books and razor, jamming them into the green cloth bag.
“I shall get his other things,” the sister said, her voice and heels retreating into the corridor.
And pray for him, Ferrier thought; pray for all of us. That will give you some comfort.
* * *
Stop thinking about the past, Ferrier warned himself. The present has plenty of problems to be faced if you are ever going to see a future. He fitted the radio into the bag, dropped in the soap and toothbrushes, picked up the cassette player. It had long since finished the symphony and was now humming peacefully. He switched it off, added it to the collection. But the cassettes were missing. Had he already packed them? He searched in the bag. No; the cassettes were missing. And so, he realised, was the engagement pad with Reid’s careful notations and marked dates. The dictaphone was gone, too. Also the silver pencil. He was back in the present with a vengeance.
He left the empty room and its masses of red roses, found an assortment of sympathetic voices and a brown paper parcel waiting for him in the hall, came out into the low yellow rays of a setting sun. Most of the people had left, but the old men were still there, resting against their low wall. He hoisted the green bag over his shoulder, carried the parcel in his arm, and went searching for his car. A brown paper parcel, small and pathetic: some clothes, a watch and ring, a wallet, a key chain. He laid it carefully on the seat beside him, dumped the green bag on the floor. He sat for a full minute before he turned on the ignition, trying to control the hot rage that swept through him. Medina. And Lucas. Above all, Lucas. And there was some anger left over for a man called Martin who hadn’t got here in time.
Why the hell does our side always have to drag its feet? he wondered bitterly. Why are we so casual about things that matter, always depending on luck to pull us through? Why do we spend so much time and energy and money and have so damned little to show for it? Why do the best men have to die while a lot of self-satisfied bastards argue the toss? What’s smothering us in stupidity—carelessness, selfishness, or just that easy habit of taking everything for granted?
He started the car, let the engine turn over. The back of my hand to Martin. He and his outfit were the first to know about an emergency in Málaga. But it was the opposition who came, bright and brisk, sharp-eyed and foxy, with Plan One; failing that Plan Two; and no doubt Three, Four, to open the crack in any door. And what is our side left with? Me. I’m holding a lighter and information about the possible whereabouts of one Tomás Fuentes. And I have not a notion to whom I turn these over, or where or how. My only hope is that Martin will give just one tenth of the attention to me that Captain Rodriguez or Gene Lucas has paid, but with Martin’s average so far I don’t have much faith in that. Sure—all sentiment aside—poor old Jeff was probably not one of Martin’s most important agents; and I’m just one of Jeff’s friends who happened to get in the way. But whether an agent’s assignment is simple or complex, whether it’s routine stuff or dealing with highly sensitive problems, you listen to him when he gives you warning. He’s your man, out on point duty, your first line of defence. And that has an importance far beyond anything else. What use are the brains of government if they haven’t ears and eyes they can trust in far-off places? Decisions are only as good as the intelligence they are based on. And a capable and loyal agent isn’t so easily replaced. Señor Martin, you’ve just lost one... The back of my hand and the toe of my boot to you.
He released the brake, moved from neutral into first. All right, he told himself as he edged carefully along the street to plunge into the avenue’s thick traffic, you’re committed. You solve the problem your way, with a lot of help from old Jeff. He had made a big effort, back in that hospital room, to pass on a few tips. Just in case someone silenced him? Yes, all that talk about being helpless—that meant more than you realised at the time. Washington, that’s where you are going. There and back, all the way to Granada. These were the priorities: delivery of the lighter; Tomás Fuentes himself. Not a visit to Italy and then a pleasant week in England. Instead, four or five days of hectic travel and a search for a man called Richard O’Connor. No, not Richard: Robert. Robert O’Connor. And what’s the quickest way to find him?
He began turning over in his mind all the people he knew in Washington who might help him cut through the tangles of red tape to approach Langley—if that was where O’Connor worked. People who could be trusted to be discreet. That was the problem. There were four he crossed off his list as soon as he had named them: decent-enough guys but blabbermouths, never could resist proving their importance by casual leaks to their favourite newsman. A fifth was crossed off, too: he carried political weight, had plenty of influence, but he was a foxy character who loved to polish his TV image. That left Ferrier with two, who could be guaranteed to keep their mouths shut and avoid publicity. Which of these two w
ould be the quicker to act? Speed was needed as well as caution. The urgency worried Ferrier. That would be the biggest problem of all, and a complicated one, too. For a moment, he thought with regret of his own private plans, relatively simple compared with all this mess he had got into, now disappearing like a jet trail in the high blue sky, spreading fainter, thinner, into nothing. But again, it was a matter of priorities. If you couldn’t face them by the time you had reached the age of thirty-seven you were ready to be buried among the ruins. The sad discovery of the adult world was the permanent truth: you don’t always do what you want to do; you do what you must.
* * *
The Calle San Julian was peaceful, no one loitering near the gateway to Number Nine. So interest had dropped, Ferrier thought hopefully; the KGB—like Spanish Security—had perhaps deactivated its file on Jeff Reid. Dusk was approaching, thickening perceptibly. Soon the twilight would end, short-lasting, bringing sudden night. Concepción obviously thought it was too early to switch on the lights, but the dark house was uninviting. Sullen and sad, it was already retreating into the spreading shadows of trees and bushes. It gaped blankly at Ferrier—no welcome there—as he drove up the short stretch to its side yard and parked opposite the kitchen door. He picked up the bag and parcel, stepped out into the warmth of a still evening. So quiet, he thought everything was so quiet. The people in the next-door house must be away for the weekend; from over the high dividing wall, there was no sign of life, only the feeling of emptiness. And there were no voices from the kitchen, no radio, no laughter, as there had been last night. Had Concepción already heard the news? If she hadn’t, he had better tell her right away, get it over with. He walked to the kitchen door, the light crunch of gravel under his feet breaking the silence.
The door was unlocked. He pushed it open. The smell was hideous. He switched on a light, dropped Reid’s belongings on the nearest chair, made for the electric stove—a gleaming touch of modernity, like the giant refrigerator in a vaulted alcove—where a pot hissed venomously. Its liquid had boiled away, leaving a black mass of unrecognisable objects encrusted on its bottom. He pulled out his handkerchief, yanked the pot away from the burner, dropped it on the tiled floor. There was nothing to spill anyway. He turned off the burner, looked around the kitchen uncertainly.
Message From Malaga Page 18
