Message From Malaga

by Helen Macinnes

  “Safer for me?” Ferrier was back at that question, and angry.

  “Look—if that girl has told you the truth, she is in a decidedly tricky position. Right up on the high wire. Anyone who tries to share her act is also sharing the danger. Fortunately for you—come on, take this drink; you need it—fortunately, this is a crisis moment. And it passes. By tomorrow, if only we play our cards right, Tomás Fuentes will have been only a rumour. A big exciting rumour that petered out. Nothing to it, man. We’ll leave tonight, looking disgruntled and depressed: another of those false leads. And the opposition—oh, they’ll search for a few more days, put out more alerts, but they’ll leave, too, equally disgruntled. Rumours happen all the time, and they are mostly false alarms.”

  “They’ll leave with a broad smile all over their faces.”

  “But we have got Fuentes. And we have hidden that fact. And we’ll keep on hiding it as long as we want it hidden.” O’Connor’s voice had been cold and hard. Then he looked at Ferrier, who was sceptical and depressed, said more easily, “Let me give you the good word. We’ve been in touch with Max, loud and clear. The first stage is accomplished. Just half an hour ago, Fuentes was leaving for Washington.”

  Ferrier forgot everything else. “But not from Madrid. There wasn’t time enough for that.” He rose, went over to the French windows, looked out on the balcony. This room was high up, and made higher by the drop beneath the hotel to a lower stretch of ground. It faced roughly south-southwest, judging by the sun. He came back to his chair. O’Connor was watching him, had already guessed what was behind this interest in the view outside. “Loud and clear?” Madrid was due north. Reception would have been more difficult. “The message came from somewhere to the south?”

  “That’s right,” O’Connor said. “A little to the west, actually. From the Cádiz area.” He was suddenly in excellent humour.

  From Rota? “You had him taken straight to our naval base there? And what does Fuentes say to that?”

  “He is peacefully asleep.”

  “He isn’t going to Switzerland?”

  “If he wants to go—yes.” O’Connor’s thoughts travelled briefly to Jeff Reid’s lighter. It might be a powerful mind-changer. “After he has talked with us, of course,” he added discreetly.

  “How much co-operation will you get when he wakes up in Washington screaming double cross?”

  O’Connor looked pained. “Don’t tell me you are feeling sympathy for that son of a bitch? Do you know what he pulled on me? A gun. Complete with silencer. I didn’t even have time to take your parting advice.”

  “He actually drew on you? Backing up more demands?”

  O’Connor nodded. “You know, there was a very awkward moment when I realised he would have killed me, taken my papers, walked right out of that door into the courtyard—if only he had been closer to my height and weight and had more of my face structure. Yes, there he was, pointing that pistol at me, calculating what kind of chance he would have.”

  “But not all power comes out of the barrel of a gun,” Ferrier reminded him. He looked at O’Connor speculatively. “Sometimes it comes from a hidden ace. Such as Fuentes’ own words, in his own voice, recorded by Jeff Reid’s lighter?”

  O’Connor only looked bland. “By the way, the lighter is safe. Thought you ought to know that. A relief, isn’t it? Yes, Mike arrived in Washington without any trouble.”

  But Ferrier hadn’t finished with Fuentes. “Why beat your brains out trying to make the rumour theory work? Why not let Waterman and his friends realise you’ve got Fuentes, and out of their reach?”

  “Three reasons,” O’Connor said crisply. “One: Fuentes is not safely out of their reach at this stage, if they know where to look for him. Two: we’d have no chance of any cooperation from Fuentes if he knew we hadn’t covered his tracks as we promised. You know what he’d scream then? That we kidnapped him, took him by force, against his will. He’d blame us to clear himself. And three: Tavita’s own safety.”

  “Three valid reasons,” Ferrier said slowly. “Kidnapping charges? That’s pretty steep. But it’s pure Fuentes. He’d never have any chance of a comeback among his own people if they didn’t think he had been victimised. They’d make good propaganda mileage out of that, too.” Then Ferrier smiled. “When do you play your ace?”

  “Only if we must. And I hope it won’t be necessary.”

  “That’s one time he won’t be able to come up with any excuse, any explanation. No charges, no more demands. A reformed character.” Ferrier added bitterly, “I say he isn’t worth saving.”

  “Our country is worth saving,” O’Connor said quietly.

  “In spite of its Ben Watermans and Martins. God, what a hell of a mess some people create for themselves. Why? Why?”

  “I’ll start asking that when I’m quite sure in my own mind what they are.” O’Connor paused. “I think we should remember that Ben Waterman was responsible for getting Mike safely to the Málaga airport last night. Ben didn’t run any interference, try any tricks. Sure, I know Ben hadn’t any idea that Mike was going on to Washington, or that he was carrying that lighter on him. No one knew that. Not even you. I know, too, that he might have been just building up our trust in him. As you’d probably say in your present mood, it was all a part of the old confidence game. But we ought—”

  “Dammit, I’ve got every right to my present mood.”

  “I understand fully,” O’Connor said. “But isn’t it possible that your interpretation of the scene in the patio was a little coloured by the Ames girl? She may be—”

  “I saw him.”

  “Were you close enough to be sure it was Ben and not some quick-change artist imitating him? Remember Fuentes and his skill? That’s possible, you know, it’s quite—”

  “Possible,” Ferrier interrupted sharply, “but not true.” His voice was harsh. “Look, do you think I enjoy saying it was Ben?”

  “No, no. Please—” O’Connor looked at him unhappily.

  Ferrier insisted, “I saw him. He was wearing a dark-blue suit, tightly cut, Spanish-style.”

  “If so, it’s the first time he has worn it.” O’Connor sighed, frowned. “Ian, mistakes can be made. But if you didn’t make one—” there was a long pause, a deeper frown—“you can be sure that neither Martin nor Waterman is going to get away with it. Be sure of that,” he added grimly.

  “How would you handle the problem?”

  “Not here. We couldn’t deal with it here. It takes time, for one thing, to verify all the facts, make sure the suspicions are justified, trace all the leads we discover.”

  “So we play along with them, now, as if nothing had happened?” Ferrier didn’t stomach the idea, and he showed it clearly.

  “We wouldn’t give them any valuable information, of course. But one thing is vitally important: we must not arouse their fears. We don’t want them secretly skipping out for asylum in Moscow. So take it easy, Ian. Don’t probe, don’t test them. Don’t—don’t anything. Got that?”

  “Martin will be the easier for me to handle. I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me. But Waterman...” Yes, that was another matter altogether. I’ll have to stop remembering him as a friend; I’ll have to keep thinking of him as a Soviet agent. What is his role? Martin is a double agent, obviously. But Waterman? Just a highly trained man who had been skilfully directed into sensitive spots? No, he must be more than that. What’s his specialty? Propaganda, disinformation, or simple espionage? Or is he a future contact for the Marxist underground in America? He speaks of making a close study of their newspapers—that could be his future cover. Or is he connected in some way with Department Thirteen? Why else is he involved in tracking down Fuentes?

  O’Connor came out of his own long silence, said angrily, “We are way ahead of ourselves. Nothing is proved. Nothing is certain. Nothing.” There was a definite pause while he got his control back. “By the way,” he said, forging into a pleasanter subject, “you must have made good time u
p that tunnel. You did a first-rate job. We are all grateful. I was a little worried that Tavita might delay you. She’s a powerful delayer, that woman. All the feminine tricks and hesitations.”

  Ferrier was worried, unhappy, restless. He rose, searched for a cigarette. “No delay,” he said abruptly. “She was on the telephone when I arrived. Some journalist wanted to interview her this evening. Big deal. Except—Gene Lucas is setting up a fake interview with Tavita. It’s his excuse for entering the house.”

  “How did you learn that?” And O’Connor did not like it.

  “From Amanda. And unless you start believing her, the opposition is not going to leave Granada disgruntled. They are going to leave with some hard information. Sure, they won’t find Fuentes at Tavita’s. But they’ll question her.”

  “They most certainly will.”

  “She may deny everything. She doesn’t scare easily.”

  “That,” said O’Connor, “will depend on how they ask their questions. And don’t think that these boys will hold back just because she is famous, popular, a woman who would make page one on any Spanish newspaper. When is that interview?”

  “I didn’t have time to ask Amanda.” And that was a bad slip on my part, thought Ferrier. “But—” he thought back to Tavita’s final remarks on the telephone—“Tavita said she probably could arrange an interview for ten tonight.”

  O’Connor threw up his hands. “Which gives them a pretty good tip that she expects Fuentes to be gone by then. She might as well have said the all clear sounded at ten.” He rose, paced slowly to the window, smoothed his hair with one hand, and let his mind grope for a possibility. “They’ll step in earlier, try to get Fuentes before we can move him from Tavita’s house. Yes, that’s how they may well be planning it. They’ll arrive any time between now and eight o’clock. Certainly before nine. They’ll figure that we’ll be on the scene as soon as it is dark enough.” As indeed we would have if Fuentes had really been hidden at Tavita’s place. That was exactly what I was planning this morning when Ben Waterman drove me around on that scouting expedition. Ben Waterman... Oh, for God’s sake, surely not. O’Connor swung round and glared at Ferrier. If any other outsider had brought me that story, O’Connor thought, I’d have laughed him out of the room. But Ferrier is no fool—that’s the damnable part. “Look, you’d better get around right away, see Tavita. Tell her that the safest thing for everyone, herself included, is to keep saying that Fuentes was only a rumour. Just that. Nothing more.”

  “What if I got her away—took her out for a drink, kept her out all evening? They’d search the house, and then leave.”

  “And come back tomorrow to question her. They won’t leave without hearing her story. I think you’d better tell her there is some real danger—” O’Connor stopped, listened, went quickly over to the door, let Sam inside.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sam seemed a little more subdued than usual. He avoided O’Connor’s eyes. “I’ve been searching the bar, the terrace, the public rooms, the shops. Waterman wasn’t in his own room.”

  O’Connor stared at him, his lips tightening. He glanced irritably at the telephone, which had chosen this moment to start ringing.

  “The bed wasn’t even slept on. The maid had turned it down for his siesta. But not one dent, not one wrinkle. Virgin-pure. His grey suit was hanging under his bathrobe in the closet.” Sam looked over at Ferrier, gave him a nod. “Boy,” he said softly, “did you call it!”

  O’Connor was too busy answering the telephone to make any comment of his own. “...He did, did he? What colour of suit?... All right. Stay on the job, Burt. Tell Al to keep a sharp watch for the Ames girl. Let me know as soon as she arrives.” He put down the receiver slowly. He said, “Waterman has just returned to the hotel in a taxi. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit.” Then he sat down, kept his eyes fixed on the wrinkled rug at his feet. “Well,” he said at last, “we listen to Ferrier. We’ve been warned. And if we can’t act on that, we shouldn’t be in this business.” He paused. “We’ll deal with Waterman. And Martin. I’ll make sure of that,” he added softly. He raised his head, looked at Sam. “For the next few hours, we just follow the plan. No change. And play it easy—no jokes, no bright remarks.”

  “From me?” Sam was all innocence. Then he turned serious. “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.” And then one last crack, “Won’t even mention Kim Philby.”

  “If you do, I’ll send you back to Max with your guts hanging out.”

  “Pure Hieronymus Bosch,” said Sam cheerfully. He noticed Ferrier’s quick glance. “Another aficionado?” he asked with interest. “Have you seen—”

  “Keep that for later,” O’Connor said. “We have plenty of other problems to solve.”

  “Don’t we always? And thank God a double agent is seldom one of them. Martin is the first I’ve met. I’ve heard of them—there isn’t an intelligence agency that doesn’t get infiltrated. But Martin’s a first for me.” He sobered, watching the deep depression settling on O’Connor’s face. “Look at it this way, Bob. You’ve completed a successful mission—”

  “Not yet.”

  I know that, thought Sam. He went on determinedly, “And as an extra bonus, you’ve flushed out a double agent. Waterman, too.”

  “Ferrier did that.”

  Ferrier said, “No, Amanda.” And where was she? He had been delaying as long as possible, watching that telephone, hoping it would ring with Al’s report that she had just stepped into the lobby. But he had to get over to Tavita’s place. He began moving to the door. “Any further instructions—”

  “Damn his miserable soul to everlasting hell,” O’Connor burst out, rose violently to his feet. “A thousand honest men—doing a job that has to be done, doing it well—risking everything, sometimes their freedom, even their lives—a thousand of them and more. And one Martin comes along to smear them with his filth. One traitor, and a thousand are—” O’Connor broke off, fought for control.

  “I always thought the Romans crucified the wrong man. It should have been Judas,” Sam said thoughtfully.

  O’Connor took a long, deep breath, became aware that Ferrier had stopped half-way to the door, was rooted there by his outburst. “Instructions?” O’Connor asked, picking out the word he had heard distantly in his surge of anger.

  “Instructions for Tavita,” Ferrier said. And I needn’t worry that Martin—or Waterman—is going to get away with it. No, I can stop worrying about that.

  O’Connor was back to normal. He said briskly, “Perhaps you should call her first. Tell her to lock up, tight. Not to let anyone enter her house until you arrive. I’ve got the damnedest feeling that they are all ready to move in.”

  Because Waterman had come back to the hotel, was probably on his way up here to keep them talking, keep them stuck in this room? Ferrier decided he would rather not face Waterman at all. He didn’t trust himself to play it quite so smoothly as O’Connor had suggested. “I’ll make the call from my room.”

  “No need. The security of this place has been shot to hell. Just word your message carefully, that’s all. And I’d like to know what she says. If necessary, I’ll talk with her, too.”

  Security shot to hell... Yes, thought Ferrier, everything keeps coming back to Waterman. I can’t stop thinking about him, wondering what started him on the traitor’s road. He made a good haul, here. Max, and Sam, and some of the other agents that Max brought in. And Mike last night in Málaga. Yes, he has learned names and faces, clobbered their security. Good God, I’m talking about Ben Waterman—can I really be talking about Ben? Ben Waterman?

  “I’ll get that number for you,” O’Connor said. “Finish your drink.”

  It was engaged.

  O’Connor’s language was getting worse by the second. Sam was grave, Ferrier gaunt with worry. And this was when Ben Waterman arrived.

  “Well, well,” he said cheerfully, “you look the picture of gloom. I could hear you out in the hall, Bob.” He looked at O’Connor enquiringly. He
was flushed, perhaps from hurrying, perhaps from the afternoon sun. And if he had been asked, he could have said he had had a very good sleep, thank you. He had changed his suit. He was back to his usual grey. “Who is your target?”

  “Everything and everyone and mostly myself,” O’Connor said vehemently.

  And how do I call Tavita? Ferrier wondered.

  “Frustrations,” O’Connor went on. “Whoever said this was the simplest way to make a living?”

  Waterman walked over to the window, looked out. “Well—you get a view like this one. And all expenses paid. Travel and meet the world.” He turned back. “What you needed this afternoon was a good deep sleep. All those late nights and early-morning rising. Why don’t you have a nap before dinner? Which reminds me—are we having dinner here, or are we stopping somewhere on the road to Seville?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Connor said, and he was perfectly honest about that. “Possibly we’ll be leaving soon—at least I will. No point in hanging around for nothing. Max will probably decide to stay for a day or so. He’s pretty mad—”

  “Where is that big beef-eater, anyway? I thought we’d have seen him glowering at us from behind a menu at lunchtime. Or has he given up food for the duration, like you, Bob? You’ll be in trouble if you don’t eat and sleep more. Never pays.”

  “Max has been seeing his friends,” O’Connor said cryptically.

  “Some of these mysterious characters who sit over café tables?” Then Waterman became serious as he noted O’Connor’s worried frown. He said sympathetically, “Have they been giving him bad news?”

  “No news at all,” O’Connor snapped. “And that’s bad.”

  “No lead about this Tomás Fuentes?”

  O’Connor shook his head. “Just rumours, and all conflicting. The same as in Málaga. The same as in Washington. Who has been feeding us a dish of tripe?”

  “Oh, come on, Bob—it can’t be as bad as that.”