And sometimes a young dog can outsmart the old, O’Connor thought. “Did you examine his watch, too?” he asked sarcastically.
“I did. One of those wafer-thin fashions, quite uninteresting.”
“You’re a nimble-fingered son of a—”
“No compliments, thank you. We’ll get on very well without them. No reason why we shouldn’t have an amicable arrangement between us for the rest of our tour. It is much pleasanter, that way. Improves the quality of information. You agree?” O’Connor nodded, put the contents of his pockets back in place, fastened his cuff links, strapped on his watch. “Let’s get this place straightened up.”
“That won’t take long. First, let us have a clear understanding about my journey.”
“Oh, yes—those final requests, as you called them. They are final ones? No afterthoughts when you are in Madrid?”
“I know exactly what I need. No direct transportation to Switzerland. Munich will be far enough. And the plane will be a private one, and not American-owned. You will furnish me with a passport, papers, adequate travel money, a car, two suitcases with clothes—all West German. You will do that?”
“It can be managed.” And then to draw any possible attention away from that careful phrase, O’Connor added, “I just hope your German is good enough.”
“It’s fluent. I worked in West Berlin for two years.”
So, thought O’Connor, he will probably head for a German-speaking area of Switzerland. That could be his ultimate hideout. “Between 1957 and ’59?” he asked.
Fuentes looked at him. “What made you think I was in West Berlin then?”
“Oh, just a couple of clever assassinations. Unexplained heart attacks, weren’t they? Rebet. And Bandera. Two important anti-communists wiped out neatly.”
“Not so neatly as we had hoped. You learned about it.”
Yes, thought O’Connor, through a defector... But he decided that would be a tactless reminder. “Don’t be long in there,” he told Fuentes, now carrying the miniature coil of wire in modest triumph toward the bedroom. “Want any help?”
“I can manage. I don’t need much time. We can start having our first real talk in ten minutes. A general survey. We’ll leave the particulars until I get that typewriter. Oh, by the way—the typewritten report will be quite lengthy, depending on the way you treat me, of course. I’ll hand it over to you once we arrive at the Munich airport and I step off the plane.”
O’Connor began to laugh. “You really know how to milk a bargain down to the last drop. And what’s to stop us taking that report when we damn well want it?”
“You know the answer to that, and it is no joke. How many defectors would apply to the Americans for help if they heard I had been badly treated? Such news gets around. And without defectors and high-placed informants, where would you be? Groping in the dark. Fumbling your way through a maze of guesses and suppositions. Why, you wouldn’t even have known the cause of Rebet’s and Bandera’s deaths if their executioner hadn’t developed a misplaced conscience and come running to you!”
The bedroom door closed firmly. O’Connor glared at it, then turned away. Oh well, he thought grimly, let’s keep Fuentes happy; let’s allow him the last word. This time.
18
Interesting, Ferrier had thought. Disconcerting, too. He only managed two thirds of the distance before he was forced to drop into a walk. He tried to keep his pace brisk, his breathing controlled. Even so, the last pull up the final slope—it seemed steeper than any other part of this strange progress through the long white tunnel—was a sudden assault on every part of his body. Breathing became irregular, taking a gasp of air where he could find it; but saliva scalded his throat and chest; there were tremors in tightened thigh muscles, and enough thumpings through his head to start up last night’s pain all over again. He reached the first of the two doors at the top of the ascent, pulled it open, bolted it behind him with some difficulty; but whether that was from an over-tense hand forcing too hard or his rising excitement, he wasn’t sure. He leaned against it for almost a minute while he steadied himself. Then he walked at a normal rate, feeling more in command of his body, to the last door. I managed it, he was thinking, I managed it, and in better time than I expected when I was two thirds up that tunnel.
He eased the door only slightly open, stood there for interminable moments, listening for any sound of footsteps or voices in the hall. Nothing, except the beat of his heart pumping steadily. Quickly, he pulled the panel wide, stepped through, locked it securely. As he adjusted the scroll of carved wood to hide the small keyhole, he heard a voice in the big room just around the curve of the semi-circular hall. He froze instinctively. Tavita’s voice, speaking a torrent of Spanish. Then silence. Again speaking. Silence. Speaking. She’s on the telephone, he thought, and walked into the room.
Tavita’s eyebrows went up as she turned to see who it was. “So soon?” Then she covered the receiver with one hand. “And where is your friend? Has he already left?”
“He will see you later.” Ferrier handed over the key with a kiss for her outstretched hand. “With our thanks. And admiration.” Tavita’s annoyance disappeared. He added, “Will you have dinner with me tonight? I’ll collect you around ten o’clock.”
“It will all be over by then?”
“Hope so.” He had already started back towards the hall.
“Ian—wait!” She spoke quickly into the telephone. “Call me back later. I think I can arrange an interview at ten o’clock this evening.” She dropped the receiver, came running after him. These people,” she said in mock disgust—actually, she was pleased by their attention—“they are so eager to talk with me. They say they have a date-line.”
“Deadline.” He had reached the front door, opened it cautiously.
“Oh!” The expression on her face told him she didn’t care for that word so much. “We’ll have dinner here tonight. Come at eleven and chase those interviewers away.” She stamped her foot to draw his attention to what she was saying. He was now looking up the driveway, studying the front gate.
“I’ll come at ten and keep an eye on them.” The road outside seemed empty. He tried to guess what to expect there. Surveillance of some kind?
“You hurry too much,” she told him laughingly. “You look like a Red Indian—a blond Red Indian.” Then quickly serious again, she caught his arm as he stepped into the driveway, gestured toward the garage. “Take my car—the big or the small, whichever you need. They are yours.”
A small one? He had already thought of the car he had seen her use in Málaga, and discarded the idea: too noticeable, too imposing, too much Tavita. It would have drawn everyone’s attention in the parking space outside the Palace. “The keys?”
“In the cars, of course. Where else?”
He was already at the garage door before she had finished the question. He swung it open, saw a compact Simca coloured the usual light cream. It was ready to go, too, with the keys just as she had said. He waved his thanks, accelerated and got neatly up the hill of the driveway, nosed cautiously out of the gate.
Yes, two men were walking along the road, measuring their distance perhaps, for they turned to retrace their steps. Keeping watch over the house? He put on speed and passed them just as they were realising a car had come shooting out of the gateway. He had averted his head, but he managed a glimpse of their faces in his rear-view mirror as they swung round to stare at the car’s number. He hadn’t seen them before. Could be anyone, he thought as his suspicions subsided: just two nondescript types in quiet grey suits, taking a stroll through the neighbourhood while the wives and kids were at church.
The road was otherwise deserted. He risked breaking local regulations about speed limits, bounced along merrily for about four hundred yards, then slowed down as he reached the parked cars massed in front of the hotel. He eased the Simca into a modest position beside an overwhelming Rolls. As he switched off the ignition, pocketed the keys, he was remembering Tavita�
�s Ian—wait!” and his own stifled groan. So you waited, wasted three minutes, and gained at least ten. And regained your breath and recovered your normal colour.
* * *
Ferrier walked smartly into the hotel, past the little shop at its entrance where lace fans and worked leather and Toledo letter openers and fringed shawls and postcards and wood carvings were drawing the usual crowd of visitors, and headed straight for the bar. It was a pleasant room with plenty of daylight—windows opening on to a long narrow terrace. He glanced around the tables. Only two of them occupied. At one, there was a broad-shouldered man with a tanned face, strong features, a handsome head of dark hair, an elegant suit in the sharpest French style that contrasted with his equally French, slightly tired, slightly bored expression. He looked as if he had spent an interesting Saturday in bed and was wondering what to do with Sunday noon. And at the other table, her back turned to the Frenchman—possibly as a mild rebuff to any possible ideas now forming inside his mind—there was a girl. A most attractive girl. Amanda Ames. She knew exactly what to do on a late Sunday morning. She was putting in time sipping coffee, writing postcards, and paying no attention to anybody. Ferrier averted his eyes quickly, walked straight ahead to the wide doors on to the terrace. This was not the moment for any delay, however attractive. And Ben Waterman had better be there, he thought worriedly.
He was. Ferrier’s tension relaxed. Ben was sitting at one of the long row of tables on the narrow terrace—all terraces in this part of Granada seemed to be narrow, with nothing below them except a steep plunge of cliff—and he was enjoying the sun. He was almost alone; the other tables were empty except for a couple of young Spaniards in neat dark suits. His face was tilted up, his eyes closed, his light fuzz of hair ruffled with the breeze, his spread of newspapers anchored by heavy ashtrays and quite forgotten. There was a bottle of light Spanish beer in front of him, half emptied, and a glass that was full. I could use some of that, thought Ferrier. He touched Waterman lightly on the shoulder. “Wake up, Ben. Help needed.” He sat down, lifted the glass, had a long drink. “D’you mind?” he asked as Waterman’s eyes opened and focused.
Waterman said peevishly, with the usual annoyance at having been wakened from a beautiful cat nap in the sun, “Hey—order your own.”
“No time. I need Max. Would you get him?”
“What’s this—some kind of emergency?” Waterman came fully awake. “Action at last, eh?”
Ferrier became aware that the two young Spaniards had fallen quite silent. So he shook his head and said, “Nothing like that. Just another conference I guess. Where do I find him?”
“He’s in the bar.”
“The Frenchman?” Ferrier finished the glass, poured some more beer carefully. So that was Max, on whom so much depended.
Waterman was smiling broadly. “From Montpelier, Vermont. Do you want me to tell him you’re here? But why—”
“Yes. Tell him. And keep your voice down.” Ferrier glanced at the two Spaniards seven tables away.
“No need to worry about them. They’re Max’s watchdogs.”
“Did they scare away everyone else?” The loneliness of the terrace was a surprise.
Waterman lumbered to his feet, gathered his papers. “Sunday begins at one o’clock for the in crowd.” Then as a waiter came out, he said breezily, “Well, I’ll just tidy up and meet you later.” He moved away, took charge of the waiter, too, steering him back inside the bar with a nothing-needed-here explanation. At the doorway, he almost collided with Max, who had seemingly decided to stroll out and have a look at the view from the terrace. Apologies, of course. And a small aside slipped in by Waterman: “That’s Ferrier. Wants to talk with you.”
Max nodded briefly, and stepped on to the terrace.
Waterman hesitated. But he hadn’t been invited, and he could think of no reasonable excuse to join them outside. Between them, they’ve driven me away from the pleasantest front porch in Granada, he thought with annoyance. What has Ian got to say to Max, anyway?
* * *
Ian Ferrier was saying exactly what O’Connor wanted said. He only added one thing. “Look out for tricks.” He didn’t have to add Tomás Fuentes’ name.
“That’s my business,” Max said. He had a quiet, incisive voice. An incisive man, Ferrier thought. He watched him rise, light a cigarette as he rested his elbows on the terrace wall, look intently at the steep plunge below him. The bedroom eyes, the bored manner were gone. “Give us five minutes. Take off then. I know where your car is parked. I’ll be ready to follow.” He glanced along the terrace, caught the attention of the two young men, nodded slightly, and left. They decided to leave, too.
Ferrier finished his beer, let the young men pass his table. They walked like Spaniards, dressed like Spaniards, were arguing politely about Garcia Lorca and his poetry, but Ferrier wondered what part of the States they were from. Southern California, New Mexico, or just good old plain Nebraska? He’d never learn, of course; but it made interesting speculation. Who’d place him as Montana? Then he rose, too—he was ahead of time, but he wanted to get in place and not risk any delay—left a tip, and braced himself for his walk through the bar. Amanda Ames... It was too much to hope that she’d be still so engrossed in her postcards that she wouldn’t look up. And she’s the most attractive piece I’ve seen in years, he admitted now. Except Tavita. But Tavita is something quite apart from any other women I’ve ever known. Possibly too much for one man to handle. Is that why she has never married? And who the hell are you to speculate about the reasons why people don’t choose to marry? You’ve always found plenty of good ones for yourself.
He stepped into the bar. There were now about eight people at various tables. But no Amanda. So that problem was solved.
The lobby was more crowded, yet cathedral-like in its restraint. Outside the expensive souvenir shop, he saw Ben Waterman. To his amazement, Waterman stopped him.
“Hello, hello,” he said, as if he hadn’t left Ferrier only a few minutes ago. “Just choosing a fan for Alice. The black or the white, what do you think?” He had his hand on Ferrier’s arm, pulled him over to look at the window display, stood close.
“For God’s sake—” Ferrier began in a low, intense voice. His annoyance changed to shock as he glanced inside the little shop. He’d recognise anywhere that smooth dark-brown hair plastered over a neat round head: Jeff’s visitor, Jeff’s killer. He was buying a guidebook, spreading out its folded map for approval.
“I know, I know,” Waterman said just as quietly. “I’m helping a lady in distress. She slipped this to me so that I could slip it to you.” Waterman did just that, inserting a postcard neatly into Ferrier’s pocket. Then he released the arm, eased away from Ferrier’s side to a more normal stance. “She’s the pretty girl in the bar. The extra-pretty girl. Don’t tell me you’ve stopped noticing,” he added with a laugh, then raised his voice to normal. “All right. It’s the black lace. And if Alice doesn’t like it, I can blame it on you.” He moved into the shop.
Ferrier turned quickly away from its window—the man inside, too busy examining the map, hadn’t noticed him. Or had he, and the guide-book was only a disguise? Ferrier searched for a cigarette, felt Amanda’s card in his pocket. What the hell was she up to? But thoughts about her were quickly driven out of his head by a second shock. Two men had just entered the hotel, passing him without a second glance. They stopped to ask directions from the white-gloved pages who were on duty near the potted palms, then headed for the bar. They noticed me, Ferrier thought, but they have an appointment to keep. For half past twelve? His glance at his watch told him he had ninety seconds to reach his car.
Ferrier moved quickly out of the hotel, pausing only to light his cigarette and look around him. He was brooding about those two men: one black-haired and overweight, a round fat face set in a nervous smile, the pessimist who carried both a gun and a knife, the other dark-haired, too, but small and thin, with a stream of commands backed up by a long-nosed revo
lver—equally aimed last night at Ferrier. And where was the third of that trio? The tall blond man, powerful shoulders, arm upraised as he stepped out from the shadowed doorway into Jeff’s living-room? As long as I carry this bump on the back of my head, thought Ferrier, I’m not likely to forget him. Only, I didn’t see his face. I’ll need him grouped beside his two comrades to make sure it’s the same guy. And there’s one that could be a likely candidate—good God, it’s the same big bruiser who blocked my view of Jeff’s door in the crowded hospital corridor. The man had been standing near a dark-blue Fiat, talking with a friend. As soon as he had glimpsed Ferrier, he turned his back. Too obvious, Ferrier decided. What was the friend like?
Ferrier was curious enough to make a small detour to reach his rented car, which was parked not far from the hotel door—one advantage of getting here bright and early. He had a quick side look at the friend. His depression increased. It was the man who had trailed Amanda and him to the beach, the man who had driven Jeff’s murderer safely away from the hospital. So they were gathering here, a bunch of vultures. Meeting whom? For they weren’t following him, that was sure. The big fellow and his friend had started to saunter to the hotel’s entrance. So they were all here, all of them, Ferrier kept thinking. We were supposed to be so damned smart that we slipped out of Málaga unnoticed, came into Granada quietly and carefully—and they are all here. And to add to the irony of the situation, as the two men reached the hotel, Max came strolling out.
Ferrier stepped into his car, the ignition keys ready. Twenty seconds to spare, but he might as well start up the engine and begin to move. It wouldn’t start. He tried again. Again. Again. Just an asthmatic wheeze that kept protesting, louder and louder, across the wide plaza. So that’s why they weren’t following me—didn’t have to—what did they do to this damned thing? They had heard it, for the big man and his friend had turned at the hotel doorway to watch. Max had heard it, too. He had been about to get into a car that had already drawn out of its parking space. He stopped, seemingly giving his driver some directions; his back was to the hotel, his face looking in Ferrier’s direction.
Message From Malaga Page 30
