Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “Oh, no,” she said again, but this time it was in protest, not disbelief. “And all my reports—he would pass on to Washington only what he wanted them to see. Careful selection. Nothing damaging about Lucas—nothing valuable. No wonder my reports got such little response. No wonder I seemed so—so ineffectual. Oh, God—what do I do now?” Her hand tightened on Ferrier’s, holding it close to her waist. And then something caught her interest in the patio. “That’s odd. They have scarcely talked, and now Martin is moving away. All the trouble they’ve taken, the risk—oh no, not for two minutes of talk. They could have telephoned for only that.”

  “He isn’t moving too far away. He seems to—” Ferrier broke off. He was perplexed, uncertain, as he saw a third man approaching. It was Ben Waterman.

  Amanda had caught sight of Waterman, too. “There’s your friend—the one who delivered my postcard to you.”

  Ferrier had found the explanation. With a smile, he said, “He knows Martin. He has either followed him up here—that’s the kind of wild thing Ben might do, just for the hell of it—or he came to admire the roses and caught sight of Martin.” In either case, this should give Martin a jolt. “Let’s see how Martin handles this,” Ferrier said, his smile spreading. “Yes, very skilful. He has put ten feet between himself and Lucas. They don’t even know each other any longer.”

  Then Ferrier’s amusement ended abruptly. Ben Waterman had passed Martin without one glance. Ben Waterman had joined Lucas. Together, they began walking slowly along the stretch of rose bed, stopped now and again, walking, stopping, walking, and always talking, talking easily and quietly and intently. Martin followed at a discreet distance, keeping a watchful eye on everyone around them.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Amanda asked almost in a whisper, drawing back instinctively as Martin’s eyes were suddenly raised to the gallery.

  Ferrier didn’t speak. She looked at him. His face was tense, his lips tight. He has had a worse blow than even I had she thought; this has hit him hard. She asked no more questions, just kept her hand on his. The pressure of his arm around her waist was almost unbearable.

  Ferrier took a deep breath. “Ben Waterman.”

  “He’s the important one. He arrived exactly on time. Half past four. Martin made sure that he’d meet the right man, quickly, without any doubts. Yes, that was it—Martin vouched for Lucas.”

  “I’ve known him for years,” Ferrier said dully, still watching Ben Waterman, now half hidden by a screen of water. “And I never knew him at all.”

  “He could be working for us,” she tried. “He could have been sent here to do the job I’ve done so—so badly,” she added bitterly. But she didn’t really believe it: this man Waterman was giving the orders. Of that, she was sure.

  Ferrier got a grip on his thoughts. “Let’s move out of here. I’ve got to get back to the hotel. There’s a man I must see. At once.” O’Connor... How much had O’Connor told Waterman about the Fuentes escape? About the journey to Seville with Max? Perhaps Fuentes had never reached there. “Come on,” he urged.

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone, and no argument about that. Look, Amanda—there is nothing more you can do. It’s over. Done. Finished.” And my job, now, is to get you safely down through these gardens to the main road. “Come on,” he repeated, his voice sharp with worry.

  “I must see if anyone else joins them—get a photograph—”

  “And report to whom? Martin?” he asked brutally. But she came out of her shock, recovered some of her senses.

  She looked at him helplessly. “I—I—” She shrugged her shoulders as if she had just fully realised how lost she was. But she did not move.

  “Face it, Amanda. The job’s over. And you are in danger. If you are found near this patio, it won’t be only this assignment that’s ended for you. For God’s sake, don’t you know the danger you’re in?”

  And so are you, she thought. I’ve put you in this danger. But the job’s not over. Not yet. And you won’t leave without me. What do I do, what do I do?

  “There is one man you can report to, and he is at the hotel,” Ferrier said in desperation. “He is leaving for Washington. This evening.” And that got results.

  “The man you must see?” She didn’t wait for his reply. She began walking quickly, past the honeymoon couple who were wandering around hand in hand, past a group of schoolgirls twittering excitedly under the careful gaze of a nun, past the young men who circled around them, past the attendant pacing his beat, and led Ferrier through the little maze of bare dark rooms and passages that brought them out on the upper slope of the Generalife’s hill.

  He let her choose the way down. She knew these paths better than he did. The pace was fast. By himself, he might have taken a longer route through the complication of terraces and Moorish architecture. The chief problem, now, was time. But they lost none. (He had stopped worrying about being discovered by one of Lucas’ men patrolling these gardens. It was more likely, he decided, that the smaller fry had been kept well away from the patio: Martin would not want any of them to be able to identity him. Nor would Ben Waterman.)

  “Congratulations,” he said as he saw that their quick detour was bringing them back into the mix of people outside the patio’s entrance gates. “When we leave the underpass. I’ll draw ahead. Keep well behind me. I’ll signal you if I see anyone. That stretch of road down to the parking area is too open for my taste.” It was just the kind of place that Lucas might have posted one of his agents.

  She glanced at the patio gates as he steered her wide of them. The crowd around them was bigger than ever. “Conditions are perfect,” she murmured. “Too bad about that photograph.”

  “We’ll do without it,” he said sharply.

  “Waterman talking with Lucas, Martin just ten feet away—wouldn’t that be something?” she asked lightly.

  “Let’s not even joke about it,” he told her. “Don’t press our luck, Amanda.” At least, he thought, her confidence is returning. Up on that gallery, six minutes ago—less—she had been a shaken girl. “I’ll get to the car first, bring it to meet you at the foot of that road. Then you hop in. No strain. Right?” They entered the underpass. “Right?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. “We’ll keep separate. I’ll scout ahead. If everything is okay, I’ll be at the foot of the road with the car. Got that?” And if everything isn’t okay, I’ll get back to her, grab her by the wrist, and we’ll lose ourselves among those terraces.

  She nodded. “But I don’t think we should risk being seen getting into the same car. I’ll take a taxi. Much safer.”

  He halted, looked at her. “Safer for whom?” Was she worrying about him? He nearly laughed outright.

  “For both of us. Lucas knows we are spending the afternoon together. We’ll be less noticeable if we are separate.”

  True enough. But he didn’t like it. “There may be no cabs.”

  “Then you’ll just have to pick me up as you said. But we really shouldn’t arrive at the hotel together.”

  “We have a perfectly good cover story for that.”

  “Not any more. We never could have visited the Albaicin, gypsies and all, in this short time. No—you had to leave after lunch—business appointment, friends to meet, something like that. And I took a taxi and went sightseeing.”

  He glanced at his watch. A quarter of five. Better than he had hoped, much better. But not good enough for the Albaicin alibi. She was right about that.

  “I’ll see you at the hotel,” she told him. “My room number is 403. I’ll stay there until I hear from you.”

  “We’ll be watching for you. And if I don’t call you before six—if I get delayed somehow—go straight to Room 307. His name is Smith.”

  “Take care, Ian,” she said quickly. “You are my one hope.” She laughed, a little unsteadily. Then suddenly she reached up and kissed his cheek. “And thank you.”

  He caught her into his arms, held her as
if he would never let go, looking into those blue eyes. He kissed her lips. Then he was out into the bright sunlight, following the visitors who were leaving, making his way against the current of new arrivals.

  The smile lingered on her face as she watched him go. He merged with the stream of foot traffic, and she stepped out of the underpass, keeping her head down, her hands deep in her coat pockets. She felt the mini-camera. Too bad, she thought again. I was so close to some really corroborative evidence. Martin could not have talked his way out of that.

  The smile had gone from her face. Yes, conditions were perfect. In this crowd, she was only one of hundreds. And even if she couldn’t get the three men into one photograph, she might get them separately as they left the patio. Same background, same clouds, same light showing the same time of day, same shadows, same film... Yes, that would be one piece of evidence that no one, not even the expert liars, could contradict. She quickened her pace. If she didn’t get down to that group of taxis, Ian would come up here after her. Cursing and swearing, but coming up definitely. He was probably watching her, now, as she came to the foot of the road.

  She saw the white Simca pull out as she got into a taxi. “Just a minute,” she told the driver. She watched the Simca cruise past, Ian looked at her, making sure she was safe. It put on speed. Near her, a touring bus stopped and poured out a batch of crumpled people. This is my chance, she thought, this is it. Quickly, she handed the man a large tip, said, “Sorry, I have changed my mind.” She was out and away before he could shrug his shoulders.

  She slipped into the crowd of tourists and was lost from sight.

  21

  Ferrier did not stop to phone O’Connor from the hotel porter’s desk. He made directly for Room 307, not even bothering to take the elevator to the second floor and walk the third flight. There was no need for that now. Ben Waterman knew exactly where O’Connor was to be found.

  Ferrier knocked quietly. “Coming,” a voice called from the room. He waited impatiently, studied the giant brass ashtray lying flat on the floor near him with its smooth fresh sand impressed by a large coat of arms. Along the vast stretch of hotel corridor there were many bright ashtrays and a uniformed boy at work on his knees, emptying the few cigarette butts, changing the sand, polishing the brass until it gleamed, adding fresh sand, smoothing it arena-flat, and at last carefully pressing it with the imposing seal.

  The door opened. One of the young men he had seen sitting on the terrace that morning looked at him enquiringly, and relaxed. “Good,” he said. “Glad to see you.” Then he glanced out, following the direction of Ferrier’s eyes, nodded. “Yes, he’s been busy all afternoon.”

  “Regular staff or special substitute?” Ferrier asked as he stepped inside.

  “Well—he’s older than most of the emptiers and polishers. And he has been keeping a careful eye on this room. Much good it has done him. We’ve been taking it easy.”

  Have you? wondered Ferrier. He nodded over to O’Connor and two younger men—strangers to him—who were all on their feet, heads turned to face the door. Their jackets had been thrown aside, their shirt sleeves rolled up, ties slackened, collars loosened. The two strangers had just finished closing a fair-sized attaché case, stood beside it protectively. A sender-receiver? Ferrier glanced away from it, looked at the room. It seemed perfectly normal, with the usual nineteenth-century furnishings, faded pinks and creams, brass bedsteads, and all. But the writing table had been drawn up close to the French windows that gave out on their own balcony, and the connecting door to another bedroom was unblocked and half open. O’Connor moved over to the dressing-table, began pouring drinks for everyone. He was looking remarkably happy. “And where have you been?” he asked genially. It hadn’t worried him too much, obviously. Then he looked curiously at Ferrier as he offered a glass of Scotch. “Have this. You look pretty hot and thirsty. In fact, you look damned worried. What’s the trouble?”

  Ferrier took the glass, added more ice, juggled it around as he looked at the two strangers over by the attaché case. “Are these Martin’s men?” he asked quietly.

  “No. They work with Max.”

  “Absolutely guaranteed?” Ferrier looked at the other young man. Yes, his companion on the balcony that morning had left with Max. He was possibly okay.

  Three pairs of eyes fixed on him angrily. O’Connor’s were perplexed. “Absolutely. That’s Sam who let you in. You’ve seen him before, haven’t you?”

  “No connection with Martin at all?”

  “None.” O’Connor was emphatic, and cold.

  “Do they know who he is?”

  “We have discussed him a little.” O’Connor sounded vague. “We are working as a close team. In the circumstances, there’s a need to know—”

  “Good. I can talk then. There’s something you all very much need to know,” Ferrier took a swallow of cool liquid, didn’t even taste it. “Martin is in Granada.”

  “Is he now?” O’Connor said. He was surprised, but not alarmed. “Well as long as he stays out of our hair—”

  “He’s working for the opposition.”

  O’Connor froze. “Do you know what you are saying?” he asked much too quietly.

  “I know that I saw Martin meet Gene Lucas—by appointment—in the Patio de la Alberca—up at the Generalife.”

  “How do you know it was a definite appointment? Martin could have been trying a smart move with an enemy agent.”

  “Amanda Ames heard the appointment being made early this morning in Málaga. She intercepted a phone call to Lucas.”

  “Amanda Ames?” This was Sam, half-amused, half-pitying. “Didn’t you know she came up to Granada with two of Lucas’ men? If you are looking for someone who may be playing around with the opposition, you couldn’t do better than start with her.”

  “That,” Ferrier snapped at him, “is what you are meant to think. She came up here on Martin’s orders. If there’s any suspicion about a security break in his network, he can shift the blame on to her. He has laid all the groundwork for that, hasn’t he? And if any information about Fuentes gets to the opposition, then Martin will say that she lunched with me today and made me talk too much.”

  “Did you?” O’Connor asked.

  “I lunched with her. But I didn’t talk about Fuentes.”

  “Was she curious about him?”

  “She had heard his name in these intercepts early this morning in Málaga.”

  “And she never reported this to Martin today—after all, he did send her here, didn’t he?”

  “He hasn’t been in touch with her. He left her sitting in the cold. She didn’t even know he was in Granada.” Ferrier drew a long, deep breath. “I tell you, I saw him. I saw him identify Lucas clearly to a third man who had also come to that meeting at the Generalife. And that man was Ben Waterman.” Ferrier could feel a wall of ice forming around him, right here in this warm room. “Ben Waterman,” he repeated defiantly.

  The four faces stared at him.

  Sam glanced at O’Connor. Then he said to Ferrier, “I don’t get the picture, frankly. That patio where they met is the one with the pools? Just below—”

  “You know damned well it isn’t,” Ferrier said. “Roses and a special irrigation system. Amanda and I stood slightly back on that gallery, looked down on them without being seen ourselves. The fountain sprays didn’t hide them from where we were standing.”

  “How did this meeting take place?” O’Connor asked slowly, watching Sam’s face. Ferrier had been accurate, no doubt about that.

  “First, Lucas came into the patio. Walked around for some minutes. Next, Martin appeared and talked with Lucas—briefly. Then he saw Waterman approaching, and he retreated a short distance, stood there, waited. Waterman passed him as close as this—” Ferrier took a step right up to O’Connor—“but they didn’t even look at each other. And then Waterman stopped beside Lucas. They began walking, talking. They were still talking when we left. Martin walked, too, kept his distance behin
d them.”

  The details had made some kind of impression. The four men looked at each other, then back at Ferrier.

  Ferrier said, “Waterman arrived exactly at half past four. That was the specific time Amanda had heard in Málaga. She told me about that before we saw them meeting.” He shot a hard glance at Sam. “I didn’t quite believe her just then, didn’t know what to think. But she was right about all the details. Half past four and Waterman was there. She thinks he is the important one.”

  There was a long deep silence. “Ben would be flattered,” O’Connor said. “I expect him here at six. He has been sleeping off too big a lunch. Sam—would you just check his room?” That’s something at least, Ferrier thought. He tried another drink, but found his hand was trembling. He placed the glass carefully on a table, sat down on the nearest chair.

  “And,” added O’Connor, addressing one of the others, “he hasn’t seen you, has he, Burt? Why don’t you get down to the front door and watch who returns to the hotel in the next half hour?” He looked at the remaining young man. “Al—I can’t think what the hell to give you to do, but wander out, will you? Perhaps you should keep an eye on the Ames girl.” He turned to Ferrier, who had slumped in the chair and put a hand wearily up over his eyes as if he were trying to blot out the whole Generalife scene. “Ian,” O’Connor said, “what’s her room number?”

  Ferrier’s hand dropped slowly. He roused himself. “Room 403. But she won’t be back yet. We returned separately to the hotel. She took a taxi. She said it was safer.” Then he burst out, “I wish we hadn’t. I wish she were here talking with you people. She could give you—”

  O’Connor said, “It was certainly safer. For you. She was right about that.”

  “For me?” Ferrier looked at him indignantly.

  O’Connor said to Al and Burt, “Okay. Phone if there is anything urgent. Otherwise I’ll see you around six.” They nodded, gave one last searching look in Ferrier’s direction, went out through the communicating door in the next bedroom, taking the attaché case with them. O’Connor waited until the outside door to the next room was also safely closed. He picked up Ferrier’s drink. “Let me freshen this for you.”