She waved her arm at the dark that surrounded us and said, “It’s since independence. The electricity company is apparently still owned by Spain. Sometimes there’s juice, sometimes there isn’t.” She pointed at the restaurant, which was ablaze with lights. “Pepe has his own generator. He is a very smart man.”
We stepped into the amber glow and Pepe was there at the door to receive us. He kissed Maria’s hand and shook mine like I was the new best friend he’d been waiting for all his life. He was a clever man and a master of his trade. We chose a table on the terrace under the jasmine and while it was being prepared, we went to the bar for a cocktail.
Maria was like a particularly bright, aromatic flower, and wherever she went people were drawn to her like bees and butterflies, buzzing and flapping around her. With a wink, or an easy joke, she greeted them all. She seemed to know, recognize and remember everybody and had that knack of retaining every little detail, like she’d been really interested back when you told her. It made people feel they were special to her. My own theory was that Pete Strickland had sought her out as a confidante because he’d planned to scam her, but even if that were true, I could believe he’d found some kind of refuge in her too. She made you feel that way—special.
Eventually we made it to the bar and I ordered two dry Martinis as she slid onto a stool next to me. While we were waiting for the drinks, she indicated over her shoulder with her head. She had a strange expression on her face that I couldn’t make out, like she was mad and trying not to show it. I followed the line of her nod and saw a man in his fifties. He was short, overfed and balding with a pencil mustache. He was wearing the uniform of the Guardia Civil. From what I could make out, he had the rank of colonel. He was sitting at a round table with a group of foreigners, most of whom seemed to be English, but I could make out some German and Danish voices too.
She said, “Local colonel of the guardia. Since independence, he’s become a very powerful man.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know if you realize it, but the new Tejero regime declared martial law as soon as they won the referendum, and all licenses, all permits—everything in the area—has to go through the local Commander of the Guardia Civil. So, Fermin”—she said the name like it was an over-ripe cheese—“has become a power broker, a very influential man. As you can imagine, the land between Malaga and Almeria is at a premium because it may contain oil. So all the Brits, Danes and Krauts who have money to invest are falling over themselves to seduce him and get a permit to buy and exploit land in the South and East.”
I nodded and watched Fermin, the Commander of the local Guardia Civil, and wondered if he’d be useful to me. I said, “He must be becoming a wealthy man right now.”
“If you mean he must be cleaning up on the bribes, you are probably right.”
I watched her face a moment then said, “What’s your issue with him?”
She held my eye a moment before answering. “My issue? Only that when my parents died and he knew I was living in my house alone, he proposed I should be his mistress. When I turned him down, he threatened to make life very difficult for me. Since Andalusia’s declaration of independence, he has been to my house twice looking for me, brandishing his new-found power.”
“What happened?”
“Rosalia fobbed him off, said I wasn’t in. But it’s only a matter of time before we have a showdown.”
I didn’t say anything for a minute. I had a hot pellet of anger in my gut that I was trying to control. Finally, I asked her, “Do you know anybody else there?”
She glanced over at the table, beamed and waved, and a guy I took to be Danish waved back. She said, “Yes, that’s Mogens. He runs one of the largest real estate agencies around here. They used to sell very profitably to the Scandinavian market. Now they are in chaos, like everybody else.”
Our table was ready and as she climbed down from her stool I said, “Introduce me to Mogens as we go by. Suddenly I want to buy real estate in Andalusia.”
She stared at me. “Seriously? I would really rather not get talking to the colonel…”
“Trust me. It’ll be okay.”
As we moved toward the terrace, she caught Mogen’s eye and maneuvered me toward the large table where Colonel Fermin was holding court. The colonel watched her approach with eyes like little black eyelets. Mogens stood and came to greet her. He took her hands in his and kissed them. “Maria, you have to tell me your secret. How do you manage to get younger and more beautiful every day?”
She grinned on one side of her face and said, “No, you can’t sell my house and flattery won’t help you.” He laughed then she turned to introduce me. “Mogens, I want you to meet Liam. For some reason only he can fathom, he’s interested in buying property here.”
Mogens looked at me with keen interest. I smiled in a way you might describe as affable and held out my hand. He took it and shook it slowly. “Liam,” he said, “you are either very long-sighted or completely insane.”
I shook his hand back and said, “They told me you were the man to see in either of those cases.” We laughed urbanely like men of the world and I could see past his shoulder that Colonel Fermin was watching us. So I added, “For a person with money to invest and the right connections, there are real opportunities for wealth here right now, Mogens.”
Mogens tried to hide it, but I could see his eyes spinning like a fruit machine where the only symbols are dollar signs. He squeezed my hand again and said, “Come and see me tomorrow. We’ll talk. I’m sure we can work something out.”
I told him I thought so too then Maria and I went out to the terrace to eat under the waxing moon and the jasmine tree. Way over the mountaintops to the north, the horizon was lighting up with steady, rhythmic flashes of what might have been summer lightning, only it wasn’t moving and there was no thunder. As the waiters poured our wine and the dishes came and went, everybody seemed very careful not to mention the approaching storm on the northern horizon, which, after three hours, had not lessened or moved. At about midnight, a guardia on a motorbike arrived and went in to speak to the colonel. Two minutes later, he left in a hurry.
Finally, when we were sitting over our cognacs, Colonel Fermin’s party strolled out of the door, laughing and back slapping. A couple of them were puffing on big cigars. They paused as a group to glance at the blue-white flashes on the horizon. Colonel Fermin had a word with Mogens and the party stepped out toward the parking lot. Colonel Fermin turned and strolled over to our table. He stood considering Maria for a moment while he smoked. Finally, he said, “I have come to see you a couple of times, Maria. It seems you are never in when I call.”
She met his eye and didn’t blink. “Rosalia told me, Colonel. I was out.”
He nodded a few times. “I hope next time I call, you will be more hospitable. These are dangerous times. It is important to have the right friends on your side.”
She was cool. Her gaze didn’t waver, but she didn’t answer either. After a moment, he turned to me.
“Is it Mr. Murdoch?”
I smiled at him but I kept all the warmth for myself. “You know it is, Colonel.”
“I must tell you that we are under attack. Spain has initiated an assault on Despeña Perros in the North. We will repulse them, of course, but I urge you to go home and stay put. There will be a curfew.” Then he made a big thing of examining the ash on his cigar. “But before I go, Mr. Murdoch, el señor Mogens tells me you are interested in”—he looked around him at his shadowy, disintegrating world and gestured like a chef offering a particularly sumptuous banquet—“in our little part of the world?”
I took out a Camel and lit it while he smiled a smile you could deep-fry potatoes in. I said, “Yeah, it fascinates me. Trouble is, it’s hard to find a good guide, somebody who can tell you everything you need to know.” I gave a small shrug and a smile to go with it. “As you said, Colonel, in these troubled times, it’s very important to have the right friends on your side.”
He nodded and his little black eyes said he didn’t know whether to gut me there and then or take my money first. Finally, he must have made up his mind because he said, “Tomorrow you don’t go to see Mogens. Tomorrow you come and see me in Competa. Maria will tell you where is my office. Twelve o’clock. Entendido?”
I told him I understood and he strutted off with his gaggle of friends, into the dark. When they’d gone, I noticed Maria laughing silently and watching me. I raised an eyebrow at her. She said, “How long have you been here?”
I smiled. “Twelve hours.” I shrugged and showed her my teeth. “It’s the heat. It slows me down.” Then I hesitated. “Does he worry you? What he might do?”
She shrugged. “I’m tougher than I look, Liam. I can handle him.”
“I hope you’re right.” I meant it.
After that I forgot about everything except Maria’s laughing eyes under the jasmine and the orange blossom, until the moon, with a knowing smirk, sank into the dark horizon and we went back, she to her bed and I to IKEA land. There, as I drifted toward smiling sleep, I told myself—all dames are trouble and Liam Murdoch does not do romance. Liam does not do comfortable long-term. Liam does not do… But by that time, I was dreaming.
* * * *
But Colonel Fermin did not wait for me to go and find him in Competa. The next morning at half past ten his Jeep ground to a halt on the driveway while we were having late coffee on the terrace. I watched him strut down and hammer on the door. He didn’t look like a happy man. Maria’s spherical maid opened the door to him. There was some Latin rattling and, after a moment, he was shown out to the terrace. Maria started to offer him coffee, but he cut her short.
“Señora, I am not here on a social call. I am here to collect Señor Murdoch. There is a curfew and you must no go out without a permit. Entendido, Señora?”
Maria raised an eyebrow that could have solved global warming and said, “I understand, Colonel.”
His little black eyes got blacker and he turned to me, “Vamos!”
Once you start taking orders from small men with moustaches and uniforms, it never stops, so I reached into my pocket and took out a new pack of Camels. I peeled it real slow, pulled one out and offered it to him. He just watched me without saying anything. I poked it in my mouth and lit it. As I let the smoke out through my teeth, I said, “Am I under arrest, Colonel?”
He took a moment, sighed then shook his head. “No, Señor Murdoch. Not under arrest. But please come with me, and bring your passport.”
I went upstairs and collected it from my IKEA bedroom. Then I followed him out to the Jeep. We climbed in the back and he barked something at his driver. As we wheeled and headed out north toward La Maroma, I asked him, “What’s this about, Colonel?”
He stared straight ahead, pursing and unpursing his lips, like he was kissing an invisible woman. Every time he pursed them, I saw the bristles of his pencil mustache tickle the hairs from his nose. People don’t realize the thousand and one ways they can undermine their own authority. Finally, he said, “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Murdoch. Maybe you are a speculator or maybe you are a problem. You are very curious and you are asking many questions.” He shrugged and pulled down the corners of his mouth. “So I want to show you something. And maybe then we know if you are a friend or if you are working for the Spanish government.”
I burst out laughing and he looked at me like I was the shit on the chewing gum on the sole of his boot. I said, “You think I’m a Spanish spy?”
He didn’t answer and we climbed a dirt track high into the hills. The heat was growing and oppressive. The deeper we wound up, around escarpments and gullies into the sierra, the louder the cicadas grew, and soon the heat became a physical thing that leaned down out of the sky. We climbed for maybe half an hour among dry, twisted oaks, carobs and olives straggling up through scorched yellow straw toward a sky that had been sapped of all its blue and was now ash-white. Eventually we came to a dry stone wall with a gate in it. The driver jumped down and as he ran to open the gate, I saw a wooden sign in the wall that read Abbey of Thelema.
We followed the track over an esplanade, through dehydrated straw and dehydrated gray earth to a large house that sat perched, like an eyrie, overlooking the valleys and foothills of La Maroma. Way down there I could make out Çalares and Maria’s small house just outside the village.
The abbey was unusual. It seemed to be made of four rotundas, each with a conical, red-tiled roof, dominated by a larger, central tower with a similar roof, giving the weird impression of a jumble of red Chinese hats sitting on a collection of five white funnels. It was surrounded by a terracotta paved, balustraded terrace that overlooked the valley. The house and the terrace were encircled by tall, dark cypress trees. In the midst of these, a topiary archway had been cut. It led in to a long, shaded avenue of poplars. At the end, I could just make out what seemed to be a clearing in a circle of giant oak trees, and I had a momentary, weird sensation that it was some kind of living temple.
We pulled up at the paved veranda and the colonel jumped down from the Jeep. Nobody came out to meet us, and apart from the sighing of the trees and the sawing of the cicadas, the silence was like a physical stillness in the dust. I climbed down and the colonel waved me to follow him.
We crossed the terracotta terrace and he hammered on the huge oak door. I had a cold prickling sensation on the back of my neck. The door was elaborately carved with serpents, goats and Baphomet pentagrams. There were no prizes for guessing we were in the territory of the Brotherhood. What was disturbing was how much weight the Brotherhood of the Goat obviously pulled with the colonel. After a short wait there was a loud rattle of locks. A young soldier in uniform pulled open the door, then stood back to let us in. Inside it was cool and dark. The floor was tiled black, and the concave walls were painted with wild, erotic frescos I could barely make out in the dimness. We crossed the room to a heavy door in the far wall. The colonel pushed it open and I followed him down three flights of curving stone steps to another door where he again hammered and we waited. I said, “What is this place?”
He looked at me but he didn’t answer. Then the door opened and we stepped in. The room was high-ceilinged and about forty to fifty feet square. The floor was dirt and the walls were partly hewn stone and partly concrete. There was a small table in the middle of the room and a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs. But what really caught my eye was a guy who had been tied to a set of mattress springs up against the far wall. There was a set of jump leads on the floor by the springs. The kid was stripped naked and he was badly bruised. He was staring at us, and I have never seen so much terror in anybody’s eyes. I figured he was maybe twenty. Six months ago he’d still been at school and Mom had been cooking his meals.
I looked at the colonel. I knew there was no compassion in there, so I wasn’t going to ask for any. I said, “What did he do, steal your lollipop?”
He didn’t look at me. He was staring at the kid. The kid was sobbing and muttering something. You didn’t need to understand the words. Colonel Fermin said, “He was captured with a Spanish patrol in Despeñaperros last night during the attack. We have been interrogating him. He knows nothing of importance and, what little he did know, we have extracted from him and corroborated with his companions.”
I waited, watching. The colonel’s face was changing and there was a kind of inhuman smile insinuating itself into his eyes. I was beginning to feel sick. I said, “So why don’t you cut him loose and give him a break? You got what you wanted.”
Now he looked at me, and I saw his eyes making little darting movements as they examined my face. “Not everything I wanted.” He seemed to say it to my chin, then shifted to my eyes and added, “He still has a use for me, Señor Murdoch. He can still teach us something. In particular, he can teach you something.”
The kid was watching him as he pulled his .45 automatic from his hip holster. He began to sob and beg and the colonel stepped over to
his side. He placed the muzzle of the gun against the side of the kid’s head and the kid tried to pull away, but he had no room, no give on his bonds. All I understood was that he was crying and repeating, “No, por favor, no.”
The colonel looked at me and said, “Look into my eyes, Señor Murdoch. Do you see any compassion? Any humanity or weakness?”
Like I said, once you start taking orders from men with pencil mustaches and jackboots, it gets to be a drag. So instead of looking at his eyes, I looked at the pack of Camels I was pulling out of my pocket, like it was the most interesting thing I had ever seen. I extracted a cigarette and poked it in my mouth. Then I lit it. I figured I’d bought the kid at least thirty more seconds of life. Finally, I said, “You don’t need to do this. I get it. You’re a badass. I need to watch my step. Now you can send the kid back to his mother.”
“Are you looking into my eyes, Mr. Murdoch?”
I stepped right in. The question made me look into his eyes without thinking. The moment I did, he pulled the trigger and the kid’s head exploded. The noise in the enclosed room was shocking. The kid sagged and there was a wet, slapping sound as his brains hit the wall and the floor. I told myself his suffering was over. And, in those bizarre thoughts we have in extreme moments, I wondered what his mother was doing right then. It was midday. She was probably shopping at the local market. I sucked on my cigarette and looked back at the colonel. He was holstering his pistol. I said, “Was there anything else, Colonel?”
He put his head on one side. He almost looked hurt. “This is not enough for you? You need a more graphic demonstration?”
“I told you. I get it. You’re a very hard man and you have no compassion. I understand. There are people like you. That isn’t news. I am not surprised or shocked. It’s how the machine works. It’s how politics is done. It’s how power is acquired and retained. It’s how empires are made. It’s how history gets made.” I sucked on the cigarette and let the smoke out through my nose. He watched me. Then I added, “So, now tell me what you brought me here to tell me. If I’m a spy—or you think I might be one—you’ll cause me a world of pain then you’ll kill me. But you don’t want to or you would have done it by now. So, what’s on your mind? What do you think I can do for you?”
A Love to Kill For Page 10
